Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
Blake
Ethan moved through The Firehouse with a clipboard, studying the space with an appraising eye.
Blake’s heart sank every time Ethan paused to examine something in more detail: the scratched-up rail on the bar, the dent in the wall by the dance floor.
Ethan was chewing the end of his pen and taking notes. A lot of notes.
Blake loved Ethan’s studious look, but this was agonizing.
He’d sold Ethan on his vision for the club, the fun part – the spangly costumes and the showstopping performances.
But this was where the rubber met the road; this was the building that was going to house his dream.
It was an old building, and Virgil had been lax in maintaining it.
Was it too far gone to be salvaged? Would the renovation cost too much?
What if Ethan changed his mind, now that he knew what a mess the place was? If he bailed now, Blake wouldn’t blame him. But the thought of building this dream without Ethan made his chest tighten.
“Right?” Ethan asked.
Shit. Blake had completely missed Ethan’s question. He lifted his baseball cap to cool his scalp and readjusted it, pulling it low on his forehead. “I’m sorry. What?”
Ethan patted the end of the runway. It was in terrible condition, covered in scuffs and chipped paint. The reflective tape along its edge was peeling and missing in places.
“This is the part of the stage you want to tear down?” He traced his pen along a crack in the plywood base.
“Yep. We won’t need a runway for the new club.”
“Good,” Ethan said, jotting down a few notes. “Because this has seen better days.”
Virgil strolled into the main club from the back hallway carrying one of his vintage beanbag ashtrays, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth.
A folder stuffed with paper was jammed under one arm.
His reading glasses, which were usually kept out of sight in his office, were hooked in the neckline of his T-shirt.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, guys. Have a seat.” He plopped his ashtray on the table and settled into his chair with a groan. After taking a drag off his cigarette, he wedged it into the ashtray’s metal holder and reached across the table to shake Ethan’s hand.
Ethan rose from his seat and shook Virgil’s hand. “I’m Ethan Whet. Nice meeting you, Mr. Glass.”
“Virgil, please.” He slid the folder to Ethan. “This should be everything you asked to see.”
Ethan paged through the folder, looking over the papers before passing them to Blake.
All the pages had titles, such as Profit and Loss and Sale of Club Assets, but each page was just columns of words and numbers.
Blake tried to follow along, but by the time the third piece of paper was passed to him, his eyes were glazing over.
Ethan was asking about specific numbers and taking detailed notes. Meanwhile, Blake nodded along like a bobblehead, trying to conceal how lost he was.
After what seemed like an hour, Ethan closed the folder and put down his pen. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. These sales figures are not as robust as I’d hoped.”
“Can you translate that into himbo?” Blake asked.
“You’re not a himbo.” Ethan gave Blake a playful kick under the table. “The club is operating in the black, but barely. One bad month could wipe it out.”
Virgil lit a fresh cigarette, took a drag, and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
“There was a time when you could just hang up a rainbow flag and serve stiff drinks and the guys would show up. The hookup apps and online porn have changed everything. I’m barely keeping the doors open now. ”
“Weekends do well,” Ethan said. “I’d expect that for a nightclub.
Most weeknights, you’re running at a loss, except on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
” Ethan used his pen to point out the pattern he’d found in Virgil’s spreadsheet.
“There’s a consistent spike in cover charges and bar sales on those nights. ”
“We run shows on those nights, too.”
“The shows still pull in crowds during the week?”
“It’s the money from the strip shows that’s been keeping me afloat.”
Pieces were starting to fall into place for Blake. “So, if we’re planning on having shows most nights during the week, we could turn a profit?”
Virgil leaned back in his chair and puffed on his cigarette.
“Planning shows and events takes a lot of coordination and time, especially if you’re bringing in outside acts.
I don’t have a booker or a manager. I’m a one-man operation.
I don’t have the energy to change my whole business model.
But if you’re up for the challenge… maybe. ”
“Be honest.” Blake wrung his hands. “Do you think my club has a chance?”
A smirk brightened Virgil’s face. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I wasn’t always a grumpy old man.
I was a good-looking kid like you once. I had plenty of energy, and a dream of creating a space where men could meet, have fun together, and maybe fall in love.
But you have something I didn’t have – talent.
If I could make a go of it, you can, too. ”
Hearing that from a man who was both a friend and a father figure soothed some of Blake’s anxiety. Even if he was just saying it to be nice, it felt like the torch was being passed.
“Are you thinking of changing the name of the club?” Virgil asked. “I know ‘The Firehouse’ was an inspired choice.”
“I don’t know,” Blake said. “Should I? I still see it as The Firehouse.”
Ethan turned over the paper on his clipboard. “But it’ll be a new club, and a new chapter for you. A smart rebrand gets people curious again. Could attract a new audience.” He wrote New Name at the top of the paper. “Any ideas?”
“Well, the other name I considered was ‘The Cockloft.’ Yours for the taking if you want it,” Virgil said.
Ethan and Blake said “No” at the same time, which drew a chuckle out of Virgil.
“Inferno?” Blake said.
Ethan wrote it on the list. “Maybe, but I have a feeling that’s the name of at least a hundred other gay clubs.”
“Backdraft?” Blake said, quieter this time.
“Not bad.” Ethan chewed the end of his pen. “I’ve been giving it some thought, too. How about Siren?”
Blake laughed. “Because it’s part of a fire truck? We could call the club Ladder. Or Wheel.”
“Hear me out,” Ethan said, laughing along with Blake. “Siren brings to mind the red-light district, you know, grit, sexuality, a little mystery. And Sirens were the creatures who lured sailors with their songs.”
Blake nodded slowly. Everything Ethan was describing captured the spirit of his club. “Siren,” he said, testing its sound.
“I say go with that one.” Virgil tamped out his cigarette and stood, supporting his lower back with his hand.
“I have to go pick up a liquor order before the club opens.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Blake.
“Oh yeah, you’ll need to get a liquor license.
While I’m gone you can look around as much as you want, but maybe not upstairs – it’s a mess up there. ”
As soon as the door closed behind Virgil, Ethan grinned, mischief sparkling in his eyes. “We’re totally going upstairs, right?”
Blake took Ethan down the back hallway, pointing out Virgil’s office and the dressing room before they climbed the stairs to the second floor. With his clipboard by his side, Ethan scanned the cardboard jungle that was the second-floor common area.
“This is a big space,” Ethan said.
Blake indicated a door to his left. “Over here is the dormitory where I want to move the dressing room.”
Ethan peeked in. “Moving the dressing room up here is a great idea. It would free up rehearsal space.” He scribbled some notes on his clipboard. “There’s another one like this on the other side?”
“Yeah.” Blake led Ethan through a narrow passage between stacks of aging cardboard boxes.
The other door was almost completely blocked, but Blake squeezed behind one of the cardboard towers and pushed his weight against it until it creaked open on rusty hinges.
He flipped the light switch and a single dim bulb flickered to life.
A few iron frame bunks had been pushed into the far corner, but other than that the room was empty.
Ethan tapped on Blake’s shoulder. “Is there a room back there?”
“Where?” Blake wiggled out from the narrow space near the dormitory.
Ethan pointed to a strip of wood that was barely visible above a wall of boxes. “That looks like the top of a door frame. Here, help me move some of these.”
After a few minutes of shuffling around crumbling cardboard boxes, they’d uncovered another closed door, covered with a thick layer of dust and cobwebs.
“It’s like a secret room,” Ethan said, running his finger through the dust. “Did you know this was here?”
“I had no idea.” Blake looked at the boxes they’d moved. “These are all labeled 2001 so I doubt anyone’s been back here in years.”
“Ooh, exciting.” Ethan paused with his hand on the doorknob. “I wonder if it’s locked.” He turned the knob, and grinned when the door opened a crack. “I call dibs on any treasure,” he said, before flinging the door open.
“Wow.”
The room was a kitchen – and a time capsule from the 1960s.
Faded and scuffed linoleum with a large diamond pattern covered the floor.
All the cabinets had been painted white, and several of their doors hung open, revealing empty shelves.
Although the stove was white, the refrigerator was ice-blue and rounded at the top.
Thick, dusty cobwebs hung from the ceiling.
Ethan crossed the room to the sink and turned on the tap, grimacing at the rust-colored water that sputtered into the basin. “Oof. The plumbing needs some attention, and we’ll have to see if the appliances work. But having a kitchen on-site opens up some options.”
Blake crossed his arms and leaned against the doorframe. He scanned the newly discovered room, another stark reminder that the building hadn’t been properly renovated for decades.
“It’s a big project, isn’t it?”
“Eh, a good scrub-down and a fresh coat of paint will go a long way.”
“I don’t mean the kitchen,” Blake said softly.
“I know.” Ethan joined Blake by the door and leaned against the wall, facing the room. “The building has potential, but it needs a lot of work. Some structural, some cosmetic.”
“I’m getting overwhelmed,” Blake admitted.
“We don’t have to do it all at once. One step at a time, yeah?”
Blake nodded, staring at the floor.
In the common room behind them, a floorboard creaked.
Ethan pushed away from the wall and peeked behind Blake. “Is someone out there? I thought we were alone.”
“I think it might be the ghost,” Blake whispered.
“A ghost?!” Ethan’s eyes widened, and a broad grin lit up his face. “Have you seen it?”
“No.” Blake shivered at the thought of coming face-to-face with a terrifying apparition. “But sometimes I hear footsteps up here and feel like I’m being watched.”
Ethan bounced on his heels. “That’s so cool!”
“Is it?” Blake squeaked, his throat tight. He shivered as a draft of cool air tickled his skin, causing the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up.
“As a horror writer, experiencing an actual haunting would be a dream come true!” Ethan slipped past Blake into the common room. “Hello?”
“Don’t call it!” Blake whispered, bracing himself in case the thing answered.
Ethan turned back to Blake and gripped his biceps. “I love that our club might be haunted.”
Blake’s mouth wobbled into a smile. Our club. Not your project, or your club. Ours.
The last couple days, he’d been allowing himself to dream a little bigger, now that he and Ethan were opening the club together. With Ethan by his side, he’d be strong enough to face anything. Even a ghost.
A loud thunk in the common room startled Blake, causing him to jump back, his heart racing.
Fuck that ghost.
“Are you ready to head downstairs?” Blake asked.
“Can we slide down the pole?”
“Sure.” Blake hurried through the common room to the slide pole bay, using his hand to shield his eyes from any potential paranormal activity. “I’ll go first to show you how it’s done.”
Blake took hold of the pole with both hands.
He swung his right leg around the pole, so that it nestled in the crook of his knee.
“Control your speed by squeezing the pole between your legs. Don’t use your hands to slow down – only to keep you upright.
” He wrapped his other leg around the pole and clung to it like a koala hugging a tree branch.
“Remember to bend your knees when you land. Loosen your grip and go!”
Blake’s stomach swooped as he rocketed down the pole, letting out a loud whoop when he reached the bottom.
Smiling from ear to ear, he waved up at Ethan, who was peering over the edge of the floor.
“Here comes my clipboard,” Ethan called out.
Blake stepped back, and Ethan’s clipboard clattered to the floor. He quickly picked it up and stepped away from the pole.
“All clear. Come on down!”
Moments later, Ethan appeared, slowly sliding down the pole, clinging tightly, his denim squeaking on the metal.
Near the bottom of the pole, he lowered his legs and braced himself on the floor. “That was fun.” He brushed off his hoodie and pants. “Did you know the wing stages and the runway are shaped like––”
“A cock and balls? Yep.”
“It’s giving me ideas.” Ethan cupped Blake’s bulge. “How long do we have before anyone shows up?”
“Long enough.” Blake scooped Ethan up and carried him to the couch in the dressing room, kissing him as his cock stiffened in his jeans.