57. Chapter 49
Dashiell
Grandma Novak doesn’t forget a promise, and when she hears that I’m going to see Kenny dance at Lo Scandalo, she insists that it’s time for me to take her.
I have a strict rule when I drive Grandma anywhere: I drive, and she doesn’t get to say shit about my directions.
That never stops her.
“Left here,” she says, pointing the wrong direction down a one-way street.
“Grandma. That’s a one-way street.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
I go past it and turn left at the next street, then bat her hand aside when she tries to light a cigarette. “No smoking in my car!”
She huffs. “You’re boring sometimes. You know that, right?”
“I’m taking you out, aren’t I? That’s pretty fun.”
“I guess.” She tugs at her dress. “How do my tits look in this thing?”
“Jesus, Grandma. Don’t ask me that,” I plead.
“What? You’re gay.” She twists the rearview mirror toward her before I can stop her, checks her lipstick, and forgets to fix the mirror. “Well?”
I sigh. “They look great, Grandma. Absolutely show-stopping. Now, can we talk about literally anything else?”
“Sure. What happened to that mafia guy you were dating?”
“Okay, anything but your tits and my love life.”
She crosses her arms. “Again, boring.”
When we get to Lo Scandalo at nine, the line already wraps around the block.
Unfortunately, Grandma doesn’t “do” lines. Instead, she marches straight up to the bouncer and announces that she’s a senior citizen and can’t stand this long in her high-heeled shoes because of her bunions, and we need to get inside immediately.
The bouncer squints at her. “Are you a new queen?”
Grandma squints right back. “You can call me Your Majesty, if you’d like.”
I take her arm. “He means drag queen, Grandma.” I turn to the bouncer. “Sorry about her. She’s not a drag queen. She’s just old.”
He smiles at us. “You can go in.”
Inside, the room is dimly lit with red lights. It’s like I remember it from the only other time I was here—with Lorenzo. Music thumps low under the noise of the crowd, and the air smells of whiskey and cologne.
I scan the room, checking the faces. I’m not looking for Kenny, not yet. I’m looking for Lorenzo.
I carefully check each table and don’t see him. Good. I let my shoulders drop half an inch.
Then I see Pepe.
Lorenzo’s best friend is stationed near the far wall, a drink in his hands, laughing and talking to another handsome man about his age.
He hasn’t seen me, and I don’t intend to let him.
I look away fast, grab Grandma’s elbow, and steer her toward a table on the opposite side of the stage.
“Not so fast, young man!” she snaps.
“Sorry,” I say as we settle into our table. “Just saw someone I didn’t want to talk to.”
Instantly, she’s intrigued. “Ooh. Your ex? Should I fight him?”
“You’re the third person who’s threatened to beat up my mafia ex-boyfriend in two days.”
“Good. He can’t take all three of us.”
“Grandma, please. No fighting.”
“Fine, fine.” She lets it go, mostly because a handsome waiter arrives, wearing a jockstrap and a bowtie and nothing else. “Well, hello you,” Grandma says, drinking him in with her eyes. “I’ll have a mai-tai. And your number, if you’re interested.”
He chuckles. “I’m gay, ma’am.”
“I know that, silly. It’s not for me. It’s for my grandson, here!”
“Grandma!” I shriek.
The waiter eyes me appreciatively. “Hi. I’m Franco.”
“This is Dashiell. He’s twenty-two, he’s a firefighter, I’m pretty sure he’s a bottom, and he was recently heartbroken so, you know, he’s looking for a rebound.”
“Grandma!”
Franco laughs. “What can I get you, Dashiell?”
“Just water,” I mumble, my cheeks burning.
He winks at me and then goes off to put in our order. I can’t help but notice that he really is beautiful—especially his gorgeous ass.
For some reason, I still feel bad thinking about another man being attractive. I have no reason to feel guilty. Apparently Lorenzo and I were never real enough for me to worry about exclusivity.
“Just water? You’re no fun,” Grandma pouts.
“And you’re too much fun.”
Just as Franco returns with our drinks, the lights on the stage shift, turning from red, to blue, to gold.
The music changes, dropping into something with a heavier beat.
The emcee’s voice comes from the speakers, announcing the headlining dancer: You know him, you love him, you may have jerked off to him! Kenny Cassidy!
Grandma sits up straighter, letting out a cheer. “Go Kenny!” she screams. Several heads turn in our direction.
He steps out from behind the curtain, the gold lights striking him.
The room hushes. Kenny is wearing a black cop costume of cheap, shiny fabric, the shirt buttoned tight across his chest, the pants doing nothing to hide the impressive bulge at the front, or the tight curve of his ass.
Several guys hoot, already throwing money at the stage.
The bass drops, Kenny rolls his shoulders back, and undoes the top button of his shirt.
“Ooh,” Grandma says.
“Grandma! He’s basically family.”
“What? Can’t I appreciate art?”
I just shake my head and go back to watching my best friend. I’ve seen him practice this so many times in the mirror, but it’s completely different watching it onstage.
He’s mesmerizing.
Kenny works the stage like it belongs fully to him. Tonight, I suppose, it does.
He opens the second button on his shirt, then the third.
He drags it out, teasing the crowd with a glimpse of smooth, muscled chest. Then a hint of shoulder, the sharp cut of his V-line.
By the time his shirt is fully off, twirled once over his head and then flung into the wings, someone at the table next to us actually moans.
I know this routine has cost him literal blood, sweat, and tears, but none of that tormented training shows now. Now, everything is perfectly controlled, filthy, wild, and deeply sensual. His movements are precise, cutting perfectly in time with the music.
When he rips his pants off, revealing the leather jockstrap he wears beneath, the crowd goes wild. Dollar bills rain on him, and he shoves them into his underwear without missing a beat, and then dances close to the edge of the stage, letting patrons slip him their tips.
My chest goes warm and tight with pride. This is my best friend, and I am so proud of him.
Kenny has big dreams, impressive dreams, and he is reaching for them now.
He hasn’t had an easy life, and there’s a reason it’s my grandma in the audience supporting him, a reason his own parents haven’t spoken to him in years.
But he has taken that pain of his past and built something beautiful, powerful, unapologetically sensual.
And I couldn’t be prouder.
“He’s so good!” Grandma Novak says, fanning herself with a cocktail napkin.
“He’s the best out there.”
Kenny leaps for the pole in the last third of the set. By now, he’s in just the jockstrap and a pair of intense leather boots, and the crowd fully belongs to him. He spins and whirls around the pole like a kinky gay wizard, grinning the whole time, full of unabashed joy.
God, I love him.
I’m—inspired by him.
If he can build something this good, this beautiful, out of the wreckage of his adolescence, then maybe I’m not as stuck as I feel that I am. Maybe there’s a version of my life where I can be as unbothered as him.
Finally, he finishes to a round of raucous applause, his jockstrap practically falling off, it’s so full of dollar bills. He grips his bulge dramatically, winks at the audience, then turns to give us one last shake of his beautiful ass.
“That’s my baby!!” Grandma Novak shrieks, jumping up and down and clapping her hands.
I join her, whooping and hollering. “Go Kenny!” I scream. “Love you!!”
He sees us, grins, and makes the heart sign with his fingers. I love you too, he mouths.
Then he disappears backstage.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing Grandma’s hand. “Let’s go say hi to him!”
We work our way to the wings, where another bouncer stops us. “Performers only.”
Grandma folds her arms imperiously. “I’m the new drag queen, young man.”
The bouncer, a massive guy with biceps the size of my thighs, breaks into a grin. “No shit! Your makeup is on point. You really look like an old hag!”
Grandma blows him a kiss. “That’s the best compliment ever, sugar. This is my personal assistant…Jean-Claude. Please let us in.”
“Of course, baby,” the bouncer says, and Grandma actually blushes.
We slip into the wings. “Grandma, that was incredible,” I whisper, laughing. “But—careful! They might actually put you onstage.”
“Maybe that’s what I want!” she says with a conspiratorial grin.
Backstage, there are several dancers in various stages of semi-nudity, their bodies gleaming with sweat and baby oil. The air smells of hairspray, musk, and maybe some poppers.
Kenny is standing by a mirror, picking dollar bills out of his jockstrap and counting them. He sees us in the mirror and nearly shrieks in joy.
“That was amazing!” Grandma says, tottering over to him and throwing her arms around him, not caring that he’s basically naked.
“Thank you, Mrs. Novak,” he says, squeezing her tightly and resting his chin on her head.
“Now cover up!” she says. “Your ass is hanging out.”
“Hey, my ass just made me two thousand dollars,” he says, holding up a wad of cash.
I pull him in for a tight hug. “I’m so proud of you. You’re absolutely magnificent, you know that, right?”
He kisses my cheek. “Thanks, baby.” He reaches for a silk robe and pulls it on. “But I’m exhausted now. Want to hit up the bar and get some water?”
“We should do shots!” Grandma cries.
Before either of us can tell her that maybe it’s a bad idea for her to do shots of tequila in a club, there’s a loud commotion from inside the club.
And then, unmistakably, a voice rises above the din, screaming one terrible word: “FIRE!”