.doesnt stay in Vegas
Benji
June
“Take that fucking ring off, or I’ll cut off your whole fucking finger and stuff it up your arse,” Baz says, stopping in the middle of laying us all off to glare at me.
He’s Australian. He doesn’t mean it. About the ring. He definitely means the show’s closing, and we’re all fired.
The guys in the dressing room all turn to look at me, but they’ve heard this one before. Clay, his locker closest to mine, shakes his head like he does every time Baz starts up.
“A married man isn’t the fantasy,” Baz continues, oddly passionate about the topic, “and if you want to make some money while you still can here, that fucking ring has to come off before your fucking clothes do.”
Baz glares at me as I twist the wedding band on my finger, but his eyes move on, and he returns to his speech about how great we’ve all been. Or something. Since I’m about to be unemployed, I’m not listening. I love dancing, but I’m not sure I want to do this anymore.
It was great when I first came to Vegas and landed a spot at Wet.
The all-male revue is closer to a male strip club than some of the bigger productions in Vegas, with a more intimate venue and more audience interaction.
Still, all the guys here are incredibly talented dancers.
It’s hard work, but the crazy nights and easy hook-ups were a lot more exciting than my life in Chicago had been.
But then I kept bumping into a pretty law student at a café. We hit it off, and I spent a few nights at her place. One morning, when I asked about taking her out, she said, “Benji, you’re sweet, but I can’t date you.”
It hurt, but I was twenty-two, so I moved on. Got into a situationship with a bartender, but he was all, “I want a good time, not a boyfriend.”
Somewhere around hearing, “You didn’t think this was real, did you?” for the second time, I realized what was happening.
I’m the fantasy. People want me for one dance, one wild night, or maybe a weekend of fucking Magic Mike in Vegas before going on with their lives and dating an accountant or a teacher. Like all I am is a six-pack and an impressive dick—a good time and never more.
Now that I know that’s how people see me, it sucks.
Gina—my wife—could see that I have more to give. She didn’t look at me and see a job or a fantasy. She saw me. That’s why taking this ring off is so hard, why the guys accuse me of sulking over my wife most nights.
No one is giving me shit tonight. The show is closing, and now that Baz is done talking, everyone grumbles about having to audition or take on more private bookings to make ends meet.
My wife left without waking me. That’s what always gets me to take the ring off my finger.
She said she could see a future with me, but maybe she couldn’t.
Or maybe I need to tell myself that so I can do my job.
It’s hard to dance for someone else when I’m thinking of wheat blonde curls, a dusting of freckles, and mossy green eyes.
I set the ring on the shelf in my locker, next to my phone and wallet. Her driver’s license is tucked in there, next to mine. Gina Carlson, from Havenwood, Minnesota. I’m not really sure how I ended up with her ID, but I can’t bring myself to mail it back.
She’s only on one social media platform and hasn’t posted anything in a few years. Not that she posted a lot before that. There were no selfies, just a few photos someone else took of her holding up various fish with that gorgeous wide smile. Pretty pictures of lakes and forests. The odd campfire.
She didn’t want to hook up with me. She wanted someone to talk to, someone to laugh with. She leaned against me or nudged me with her elbow, her touches intimate but without expectation. She didn’t want me until she started to know me, and by then, I wanted her.
The way she kissed me, after the whole “you may now kiss the bride” thing…I felt sparks. All the sparks. Every kind. Not just lust.
When I sat on the end of that cheesy bed and pulled her onto my lap, her fingers stayed on my face. Feathery light. Not uncertain but full of wonder. Cautious. Careful. It was the hottest night of my life, and we didn’t have sex. Didn’t even make out.
I need to think about something else. The cock pocket in my briefs is already snug, and boners aren’t welcome on stage.
Our audience is mostly cishet women here for the fantasy, so we don’t get fully naked.
Catering to the female gaze or whatever Clay says.
He says other things about role reversals and power dynamics within traditional gender roles, but he went to a private school.
Ivy League college, too, if the rumors are true.
Whatever. No boners on stage.
Semis are fine, though.
So I can think about Gina a little bit. Maybe losing my job is a sign from the universe telling me to find my wife and see if she felt that magic.
I tousle my hair, and I’m ready to go on stage. My persona is the boy next door, meaning I can be myself. I’d wanted a different one when I first started, but nothing fit. I couldn’t pull off the slightly dangerous edge some of the other guys adopted or the smooth motherfucker thing Clay does.
My phone vibrates as I close my locker, and while most of the guys are making their way toward the stage, I grab my phone in case it’s Gina.
The text isn’t from my wife. It’s from the guy whose couch I’ve been sleeping on the last few months.
Some guys showed up looking for you, said you had something that belonged to their friend—forced their way in and trashed the place. I overheard them talking about a ring. They know where you work—be careful.
Alejandro
Gina’s engagement ring? Shit.
We were at a cantina, somewhere around pitcher number three—peach margaritas, I think—eating churros and being goofy when a woman with angry tears in her eyes stomped over and slapped a ring down on the table.
Her fiancé was a cheating asshole, and she was leaving him.
She thought we could have it since we were so obviously in love.
She didn’t care what we did with it—told us to pawn it if we wanted to—and she stormed out before either of us could react.
I left my name and number at the bar if she changed her mind.
Giving it to Gina happened hours later, on a drunken whim.
Can these people find Gina? I don’t want the people who trashed Alejandro’s apartment to find her. But no, I paid the bill at the cantina. Her ID is in my backpack, along with the wedding certificate. She should be safe.
“Benji!” Baz sticks his head into the dressing room and snaps at me. “Get your ass on stage.”
I toss my phone into my locker and make it on stage in time.
But Alejandro’s warning comes back to me. These guys know where I work. They might be on their way. They might be here already. I’m pretty safe on stage. Even backstage, there are too many witnesses. But when I leave…
Get through the show. I can worry about the trouble I’m in later. So I do. And I almost forget.
I’m down in the audience, on my way to a woman with a bride-to-be sash because it’s an even day—on the odd-numbered days, I pick a man—and I freeze. A couple of big guys in dark suits are standing by the bar. They look like the mafia.
Wait. What does that even mean? They look like they could’ve walked off the set of The Godfather? Maybe? Wouldn’t that describe most men in suits, though?
The bride-to-be runs smack into my chest, launched at me by her friends. Right. I have a job to do. Those guys can’t touch me during the show, so I sweep her into my arms and retreat to the stage. When I look again, they’re gone.
The bride-to-be gets her moment on stage—which is mostly a lap dance and miming humping her while she laughs and tries to hide her face.
Concentrating and keeping my body loose is hard.
If this weren’t the end of Wet, I’d hear about it from Baz later.
But the bride-to-be is happy by the time I help her offstage.
Eventually, the lights dim for the finale. It’s the reason this show is called Wet. Halfway through the song, water buckets down on us while we dance.
Once this song ends, I need to get to my locker, grab my ring and the rest of my stuff, and get out of here.
They know where you live.
Right. Fuck. Okay. New plan.
I don’t have a fucking plan.
There’s a loud, deep pop, like a car engine backfiring or a bottle rocket going off. Something shatters. Another pop.
Someone screams, and all hell breaks loose.
I don’t think. No one else does, either. The audience is ducking, rushing for the exits. I’m off the stage, running toward the dressing room. My hands shake as I swing my locker open, slide the ring on my finger, and sweep my phone and wallet into my open bag.
“Benji, take this.” Clay tosses a duffle bag at me. I catch it with an oomph.
“The fuck you got in here?” It’s surprisingly heavy.
He hands me a second one, taking three for himself. “Follow me.”
Okay. He has a plan. He might have robbed a bank or something, but maybe that shows he’s good at making plans. That Ivy League education paid off.
The dressing room is filling up with people who couldn’t get out the doors. There’s another shot somewhere, but it doesn’t sound close. Clay leads the way to the back parking lot, and we run out into the night.
A motorcycle takes off—Aiden’s, maybe—turning right onto the street, but otherwise, we’re alone in the dark. It’s creepy.
“Holy shit,” I say abruptly, everything catching up all at once. “Was that a gun? Someone was shooting in there? What—?”
“Yes,” Clay says, his voice tight with feigned patience, opening the trunk of his car and dropping his bags in. “Those were gunshots.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and take a gulp of air. “We have to go back, what if—”
Clay takes the bags from me, stuffing them in the trunk. “You a doctor?”
“Sometimes?” It’s not the most popular costume, but tear-away scrubs are comfortable.
Clay slams the trunk and stares at me.
“What?” I ask.