11. All Gas, No Brakes
ELEVEN
all gas, no brakes
Dahlia
The next week flies by thanks to my back-to-back sets at the club on Saturday and Sunday night. When I wasn’t strutting the stage as Dahlia Damsel, I was locking in for classes and nose down in research.
Much to Daphne’s displeasure, she’s working, so Wes and I are flying solo to the gig tonight.
I look in the mirror and fluff my hair once more before I grab my wallet to head downstairs.
I’m dressed in one of my tried and true outfits—big pants, little shirt.
Today’s little shirt features a goose holding a knife and my big pants are green cargo material with some dangly, silver chains.
Paired with my beat up converse and bitchy sunglasses, I’m traipsing down the stairs when Wes’ bearded grin meets my eye line.
“Not a whole lot of security in propping this door open, huh?”
I brush past him with a laugh. “It’s NYC baby. I gotta get the full effect of city living.”
The car ride is about an hour and a half south of Brooklyn to Kings, New Jersey. I offered to split the drive with Wes since he drove the hour to pick me up, but he told me to enjoy the ride.
“I take my passenger princess duties very seriously, so I will live and die by our playlist and snack selections.” Locating the perfect playlist is an art, one I excel at.
Satisfied with the soundtrack of the trip, I lean back to take in the view.
His truck is blacked out with matching black interior—very goth cowboy of him. And sadly for me, hot as hell.
“I thank you kindly for your dedication to the cause. We can stop somewhere to pick up a few morsels when I gas up our majestic carriage.” He’s trying so hard to keep a straight face, playing into this silly character with me.
“I shall also request Ye Old cheeseburgers to follow our merriment this eve,” I try in my best regal voice.
“As you wish, Princess.” I ignore the butterflies threatening to take flight at the pet name and turn toward the window, grinning as the cityscape flies by.
Finally, we’re pulling into a gas station and I’m ready to burst. No sooner is the truck in park and I’m throwing the door open, sprinting to the bathroom.
I hear Wes’ chuckle as he says he’ll meet me in the store.
The bathroom is beyond sketchy and I’m not fully convinced there wasn’t a glory hole near the sink.
Glory hole bathroom behind me, I head to the snack aisle, ready to grub.
I’m filling my arms with sour worms and BBQ chips, when I feel someone behind me.
When I turn, I crane my neck to see Wes’ heated gaze.
Fuck, he’s so much taller than me. He reaches around me to grab a second bag of gummy worms.
His warm breath caresses my ear as he whispers, “I don’t share.”
He strolls to the counter, completely unaffected while I scurry behind him in a stupor. I’m pulling my wallet out to pay, when he plucks my snacks from my hands and pays before I can protest.
“I can pay! You don’t have to do that.” He opens the door to leave and gestures out. “I know you can, but I like to take care of my friends.”
The rest of the car ride passes by with belly laughter and two rounds of the license plate game.
We fall into comfortable silence as we park and walk to the venue.
The place is buzzing with energy and being with Wes feels like I have a guard dog with me.
He may look intense, but in reality, Wes is a major sweetheart.
My mind walks off with the idea of this feeling all the time, what it’d be like to have that strong presence belong to you.
I’m more distracted than I realize, because Wes is nudging me with a quirked eyebrow. I nudge him back and smile, not wanting to open my mouth and accidentally share my feelings aloud. Wes looks good tonight. He’s dressed in black flannel and some worn jeans and Vans.
“Another fun shirt, I see?” He nods at my top.
“I figured a goose with a knife would send a message, I’m not to be fucked with.”
“Not to be fucked with, indeed.”
Sinning Saints ends up being a fun show with an insane crowd.
People are launching themselves in every direction and we’re all smashing into each other like a snow globe being shaken up.
Wes is a pretty good buffer between me and the human windmills doing their thing and we’re both wearing face splitting smiles.
Following the show, Wes makes good on his promise for Ye Old burgers and we stop to eat in a dimly lit parking lot. It’s late as hell now and I know we’re both tired.
“So, what exactly do you do on the farm?” I’m curious what it’s like. Growing up in Florida is like being at your weird cousin’s house, except their air conditioning is spitting fire and everything sucks. Chronic swamp ass and alligators aside, I didn’t spend time on any legitimate farms.
Wes swallows down a bite of cheeseburger. “A little of everything, I suppose. Jasper’s the foreman, so he supervises anything and everything. I’m his right hand—he says and I do. It’s not a bad gig.” He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t.
“Not a bad gig, but…” I trail off.
“But, I don’t know if I wanna work this for the rest of my life. I don’t think it matters though. I won’t leave Jasper to do it on his own.” Wes stares out the windshield.
Not wanting to pry too much, I nod my head in understanding and steal a fry. We eat our parking lot dinner and a contentment falls over me as I experience a rare moment without worry. After we’re both good and full, we start the drive back to Brooklyn.
“So, Miss Dahlia Damsel, how did you find yourself doing burlesque?” Wes breaks the silence, looking across the cab to me.
“It’s not all that interesting. I was in a dance program when I was younger. My home life changed and the classes got too expensive for my grandma to afford. Eventually, I couldn’t go anymore.
I knew I liked to move my body and since you can dance anywhere, I started doing my own thing, dancing whenever I could. During my sophomore year of college, Daphne and I were invited to a Halloween burlesque show at Cunting Season. It was horror themed—imagine sexy Michael Myers in a strip tease.”
I remember that night so fondly, Daphne and I dressed as sexy mimes. It was so funny miming at people all night, though I’m sure the bartender was ready to kick us out after our fifth pantomime requesting shots.
“There was a flyer in the bathroom for burlesque open auditions. I signed up in my drunken state for shits and giggles. When the audition came, I danced and they offered me a few performances to see how I fit in their lineup.”
“I gotta say, it’s a pretty bad ass job.” He grins. “Do you ever get stage fright? Being on display is one thing, but being on stage and taking your clothes off feels like another level.” I appreciate his curiosity, because it is a bad ass job, one I love very much.
“In the beginning, I was genuinely scared out of my mind and regretting signing up. Daphne knows me better than myself sometimes, and she wouldn’t let me back down.
She knew if I chickened out, I’d regret it more and gave me the pep talk of a lifetime.
There was a promise of moving to Finland if I bombed on stage. ”
“Thank fuck you didn’t bomb, huh?” I move to punch Wes in the shoulder, but he covers my fist with his hand to stop me.
My breath hitches, hopefully he doesn’t hear.
I’ve noticed Wes is quite a touchy person, not that I mind.
It’s just every contact we have sends a tingle through me, and I’d quite like this misguided tingle to fuck off.
“I kid, I kid. I wouldn’t have met you if you moved to Finland though!”
“Maybe Finland wouldn’t be so bad. I bet I would look adorable in Helsinki.
” I pull back my fist and cross my arms. Briefly, Wes’ eyes dart down to my chest and then back to the road.
“But yeah, the first show went well, second and third went better. After I proved myself, they offered me a more permanent spot in their rotation. The tips are good, the hours work well for school, and it’s fun.
I love getting all dressed up to get undressed.
I feel really comfortable at the club and dancing is a huge stress reliever for me. ”
After he badgers me to see pictures, I relent, showing him the early iterations of Dahlia Damsel when we pull up to a stoplight. I don’t miss the way his eyes trace my form on the screen, heat rising in my cheeks and I look away.
He loudly proclaims his stage name as “Wet Wes,” the moistest man on this side of the Hudson. I’ve done enough laughing tonight to last me a lifetime, and the warm feeling settling in my chest comforts my scared heart.
We’re nearing the city, the tall glowing buildings coming into view, when I realize I spent a lot of the ride talking about me. “Wes, you let me yap so much of this car ride. I feel like I hardly learned anything about you.”
“I’m not all that interesting. What burning questions do you have for me? Fire away.” I can’t help but wonder if his lack of self-talk is purposeful, but I toss him an easy question anyway.
“Alright, Cowboy, what do you do for fun? After a long day of yeehaw-ing, how do you unwind?” Obviously, I have to poke fun at him a little.
“Not much. I listen to music or watch TV. I’m boring in my old age.”
“Okay, Grandpa. You’re what, three years older than me? Give me a break.” I decide to push a bit more, I want to know everything about the man currently taking up an annoying residence in my head. “What else? Hobbies?”
Wes runs his hand over his beard thoughtfully. “I dabble. In the arts. Um, I sketch or draw stuff sometimes.”
My interest is piqued at his sheepish reply, it’s not that strange of a hobby. We’re pulling up to my apartment before I know it and he idles near the curb.
“I’d love to see sometime, you’ll have to send me some pictures.”
“Maybe. You could come by the farm one day and I’ll show you in person.”
My eyes light up at his words. “I’d love to. I want to see all the horses. I bet it’s so pretty there.”
“Definitely, Dahlia. I’d like that a lot.” His face twists in an uncomfortable way, contradicting his offer to show me his art. Ever the gentleman, he rounds the truck to open my door.
“I had a lot of fun tonight, thanks for coming along. Some big shows coming up soon. Maybe we can try to get tickets for the Birds of Prey tour?” he asks, leaning against his truck.
I love how he wants to keep hanging out and doing shows. Whether this bodes well for my festering crush remains to be seen. We agree to look at the tickets soon and say our goodbyes.
I run through the mental list of reasons to protect myself from love and a relationship.
The glaring fear of emotional devastation if we break up is another reason to stay platonic.
Yet, the twinge of hope for more is a thread I’m desperate to pull.
He’s a good guy, truly, and a great friend.
Especially so, because he sends me the car selfie we took earlier, with a message to text him when I’m safely in the apartment.
When I get up to my apartment, his truck is still downstairs and I shoot him a text to let him know I’m behind locked doors and wish him sweet dreams. Only then does he pull away from the curb and drive away, maybe taking my heart along with him too.