4. Aspen #3
My performance would be the real test. I just hoped it didn’t put a dent in our already strained relationship if I didn’t get the reaction from him that I was hoping for.
No amount of faking in the world would be able to hide my disappointment, and I doubted we’d be able to keep putting off the discussion we’d been avoiding for years.
Alright.
No thinking about that now.
One last wig adjustment and I headed for the wing, trying to peek between shoulders and wigs to catch a glimpse of the audience, but there were too many ladies in front of me, all of them performing before I was, so no way was I getting through.
I’d just have to be surprised then.
God damn, I hated waiting.
Why the fuck did Christian give everyone ten minutes to perform whatever kind of drag act they wanted?
Okay, so I had fifteen and I could fill it, but it was a whole seventy-five minutes away and he hadn’t even finished making the opening announcements yet.
Impatient as fuck, that’s what I was tonight. Still, there were some amazing performances. Green Goddess Supreme rocked her vines like a snake charmer, having finally achieved the perfect thickness that the ropes moved the way she wanted them to now, instead of tripping her up.
Martika Margarita did a whole-ass ventriloquist act, with audience participation and tiny peens she hurled into the crowd whenever anyone let a one-liner fly that was a total zinger.
The best part was that her drag costume wasn’t a suit like a classic ventriloquist might wear.
She was dressed as the doll, the doll was dressed as the ventriloquist, and she got the audience rolling when she produced a smaller doll from beneath her skirts, dressed like a psychiatrist.
It was brilliant and the touch she truly needed to elevate her act. I hoped Christian would consider slipping her in the finale slot at one of the upcoming shows. Her comedic timing was on point and she had a knack for drafting fresh skits, usually inspired by what was going on in the city.
Tonight was no different, as she ripped into the droves of people carting giant coolers and big-ass umbrellas tied to the top of their cars, several of whom had apparently honked at her while she’d been trying to cross the street.
“That traffic light had the word ‘WALK’ lit up as bright and solid as you please. It hadn’t even started flashing yet and those motherfuckers were honking at me like they wanted me to run for my life. So, you know what I did?”
“No. What!” the audience hollered back.
“I sashayed my ass the rest of the way across like I was walking a runway instead of a crosswalk, even added a few turns and poses for the super-aggressive honkers, ya know. I always make sure those fools get the whole show when they’re dealing with me.”
She kept the crowd in stitches from start to finish before relinquishing the stage to Ginger, who did Cher, from “I Got You Babe” to “Yours Until Tomorrow.”
I didn’t know how they’d done it, but when I took the stage, Parker and Aspen were at a table front and center, and they weren’t alone.
Murry and Raleigh each sat on one side of Phoenix, so they must have taken over as his bodyguards tonight and likely fussed over him the same way I had.
Dorian sat between Parker and Raleigh since his pet had a fear of getting lost in crowds.
When I danced tonight, it was for them, and I made sure their table was the target of every shred of clothing I discarded too. Parker, cad that he was, sniffed my skirt like it was fucking underwear.
Phoenix’s eyes widened when he saw what I had under my schoolgirl outfit.
That catsuit hugged my body, but his gaze kept darting to the whip secured to my hip.
When he licked his lips and leaned closer, I made a mental note to ask if he’d like a taste of it one day.
Once he’d healed from his incident with the blow dryer.
Strutting across that stage was always a powerful feeling, but tonight, there was extra flash and swagger with every step.
I rocked that song, cracking the whip on several of the long notes, and saw a shudder tear through Phoenix’s body when I did it while our gazes were locked. His head tipped back, eyes too heavy-lidded to see if they rolled, but I’d love to get an up-close and personal view someday.
At the end of “Broken Doll,” I lay sprawled on the table, my head dangling over the edge, limbs splayed at awkward, exhausted angles, mascara smudged, and wig askew, gazing up at Phoenix and Parker as they peered down at me.
Then Phoenix leaned in, slow at first, hesitant, like he was waiting for me to deny him the opportunity to kiss me.
As if.
I welcomed the press of his lips and parted mine, inviting him to deepen it until he groaned.
I tasted dragon fruit on his lips and knew exactly what cocktail he’d been sipping all night.
There was no mistaking the heat in his gaze, nor Parker’s when he claimed my lips as soon as Phoenix was done.
By then the applause was deafening, and all I wanted was to get home and see what the rest of the weekend had in store for us.