As the rainbow disco ball he admired on the poster and at the memorial whirred to life above them, Ricky felt weightless, warm, and unfortunately, dizzy. All the strangers around him looked as different as the colors, but eyed Fantabulous!’ new manager with the same uncertainty. Ian Hornsby’s mistress now runs his ex’s business. Jake’s bar. Their bar. The community’s sanctuary. Sure, they trusted Kitty. She was part of their community. They even welcomed Ian back. He’s a TV star. Tommy Glock! Good for the community. But give Jacob Monk’s legacy to a Filipino gigolo who says he’s a chef in Palm Springs? Only a multi-millionaire would risk failure.
The opening barrage of Tori Amos’ Professional Widow blared. After pleasing their resident diva and the management by sitting still while he was introduced, the natives were restless. Sure, they got a taste of Tyler AKA Chance, but this crowd didn’t wait since New Year’s Eve to party for appetizers. They wanted the main course pronto. Men, women, and queens gyrated around him while he froze on the spot. He impressed them with his singing, not so hard with Ian’s awful voice beside him. Someone who managed a gay bar should be able to dance. He couldn’t even tap to the rhythm. “Get out of the way, honey,” someone warned. “Nice Air Jordan 5s!” another said. “At least Will Smith spins around and raps.” “Roadkill!” many yelled.
A high-energy dance track Gonna Make You Sweat by C+C Music Factory, swamped seamlessly. He at least wheezed to it. He hoped Ian spotted him stuck at the same place the spotlight was. It seemed like an hour ago. His paralysis meant he couldn’t peek at his Mickey Mouse watch.
“Ricky?” Tyler tilted his head and looked into his probably vacant eyes.
“Don’t laugh,” he said, “I was afraid of bumping into folks. Literally.”
“It’s kinda cute.” He put his arms around him and led him out of danger. “You shouldn’t get worked up. Everyone’s complementing our new catwalk.”
“The salesman called it a modular platform.” He chuckled. Tyler worked it like a pro. Even as he helped Ricky cross the dancefloor, customers offered him bills. “I’m sorry for interrupting your business.” He sniffed a soapy, woodsy, clean scent coming from Tyler’s perspiring body. At $25.00, Drakkar Noir was the only thing Ricky could afford when he was 21. The manly scent fit Tyler–Ty. So much for his promise to Ian not to let his guard down.
“Where’s Mr. Hornsby?” He asked.
“I don’t know. Where are we?” Ricky had been staring at his shoes the whole time. The only thing they’d give a thumbs up to, until Ty told him about his platforms. He looked up. “Oh, the bar.”
Behind it was another friendly face. Kitty had gone back to her more practical, hot-pink dress and tiara. All wrapped up in a spotless white apron. She raised her eyebrows, spotting them arm in arm. “What happened?” She poured him a drink. “It’s Scotch. You look like you need to warm up. Preferably not with the help.” She shook her head at Ty. “Yes, it’s Macallan. $40.00. The expensive stuff. Don’t blame me. Mr. Hornsby requested it.”
Whatever marbles he’d regained vamoosed. Ricky couldn’t breathe. “Ian’s drinking?”
“No,” she interrupted before he passed out. “It’s for some guy who was hanging around outside during Jake’s memorial.”
“I’m going back out there.” Tyler forced a smile.
“Thanks for your help.” His chin quivered. As Tyler walked to the gallery, he glimpsed his uncovered back again. He’d been mistaken. Every tattoo but an OOL one. He might not have Ian’s Glock instincts, but Ricky was a good judge of character. He’d spent countless hours with Jake’s chosen family to make tonight happen. Including a morning to get to know Tori, the quirkiest one of them. She named their fax machine “Denzel” for starters. He never felt threatened. They looked out for each other. They looked out for him. “Ian bought a drink for a protester?” He bravely gulped down the whiskey.
“He seemed the nicest of the monsters. Too hot to be straight, so I didn’t file a complaint. Speaking of too hot.” Her gaze darted to the dance floor. Piranhas circled Ty so that only his thrilled face was visible. “I realize how tough things have been. For you and Ian. I’m sorry I piled onto your problems. Since I’m still employed.”
“I told him I found it and read it. He forgave me. Didn’t make a big deal. That’s why I thought he was drinking again. Jumped to conclusions.”
“Thank you.” She picked up the Rocks glass she’d served his drink, neat, in. Her still voluminous but less towering mane was the same color and curly like Ernesto’s. Her silver tiara with three crown points reminded you who was still queen. But her eyes, her best feature, had a rare kindness lost in their culture war-O.J. world.
“You can thank me by teaching me to mix drinks.” He stepped behind the bar. “I can cook. Hopefully, I can mix cocktails.”
She winked. “I see a lot of potential in you, Ricky Luna, but we’ll start by restocking our garnishes.” She handed him a chopping board and knife, then pointed to the sink behind them.
“Finally, something I know.”
“Gotta go entertain the troops. Yell for Ty-boy if needed.” She touched his shoulder, turning over her apron. “Don’t you want to check up on Ian and his new buddy?”
“Tommy Glock can take care of himself.” He put on the apron. “Thank God.”
“Ian’s in danger.” A sleepy but friendly voice petrified Ricky again. It was Sebastian Crowe. Still very tall but minus his usual effortless cool. He wore the same well-worn suit from the memorial, but with a black tank top and black denims. The thick glasses were gone too. His hazel brown eyes didn’t blink. “He’s on the patio with Treat Dobbs from Only One Love.”
“I think he’s the nice man who let us through during the memorial.” He concentrated on slicing a lemon. “Ian just wants to thank him.”
“That nice man founded a hate group because he hates himself for being queer.”
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