Exactly 4:00 PM! Happy Hour! Ricky wiggled his watch. He didn’t need Mickey Mouse to tell him to start panicking. With Markus at the entrance, Kitty at the bar, and temps he’d hired to lend a hand for their sixth day after reopening. Six days! He still felt light-headed that they’d pulled it off with an amateur like him in charge. As a longtime waiter, customer service was a skill. Resolving conflicts with the staff? Sure, Kitty smiled at him, but at the same time snarled with her eyes. Was her white lace and black leather French maid outfit some sort of protest? As if her Vampira wig and makeup with crimson lips and fan-like eyelashes didn’t compel him to keep his distance.
Rozalla’s Everybody’s Free, their theme song, always opened Fantabulous! As he stumbled out to the sun-drenched patio, it dawned on him. No Ty today. The day he wanted to beat Ian at his own game. He’d do his own snooping, too. He stared down at his hand as if more than sixty seconds had passed. What was Ian up to on the other side of LA? He caught his breath. He didn’t want to care.
“Life is like a box of chocolates,” said someone with a sleepy but flirtatious voice.
“I was hoping you’d show up.” Ricky’s tummy sank, and for good reason.
His favorite Fantabulous! regular and long-lost friend, Sebastian Crowe, was here. Not that Ricky knew many regulars, but not seeing him for four days made him long-lost. He turned around and eagerly shook his hand anyway. Seb was quiet. The wide grin on his sharply elegant face said everything. His messy, shoulder-length black hair looked greasy and heavy. Not Kitty Darling heavy but extra heavy. He wore a simple black t-shirt with Levi’s 501 jeans, stained by age, unlike Devon Grossman’s Valentine’s date clothes. Unlike Seb’s smile, his own wavered, remembering Ernesto’s last words. Ian and Ricky didn’t have a monopoly on the day or happiness. It was his first instinct to spill the beans to Kitty about how last night self-destructed. Was that enough to fix them? He held his breath.
“I’m sorry I worried you for nothing,” Seb said.
“I’m sorry I blamed you for everything.”
“Back to friends?”
“I could use one right now,” Ricky replied, voice cracking.
“Yeah.” He chuckled. “Miss Kitty Darling is staring daggers at you. Not Ian. How much did I miss?”
“I’ll steal us a bottle of tequila if you save us a table.” He made the sign of the cross. “If I don’t return, Kitty caught me.”
“Just water for me, my friend.”
Ricky did a double-take as he walked inside. Through the cigarette smoke, he squinted. Their quiet happy hour with a few loyal regulars, like Seb, who dropped by, became entirely something else. Not that the queer thirty-somethings at the bar minded as they feasted their eyes on new blood packing the dancefloor and lining up at the door. He winked at Markus, who checked both bodies and ID as faces got younger and younger while Come to My Window by Melissa Etheridge played coyly. Not exactly their usual dance music, but pining enough for a gay bar.
“Sleeping with the enemy?” Kitty’s nostrils flared as she filled his order. Then slow, deep breaths. “If Seb can forgive you for calling him an opportunist, I suppose Ernie can forgive you for calling him a loser.”
“I never called you a–”
“Later, mahal.” Kitty waved a sleek black fingernail at him. “As you can see, we’re very busy.” She handed him a brown tray with a shot of tequila and a bottle of water. Two napkins.
Instantly, their patio was jam-packed too. Some folks carried their drinks while they chatted. Not as noisy as inside. Just tight. He found Seb smoking Benson & Hedges in a lonely corner of the deck. It was a vice his family had, including his mama, but for monetary reasons, Ricky passed over. Ian said he smoked before his first rehab stint, but felt guilty craving anything after. “One bottled water. You should’ve ordered anything you wanted. This was practically your idea.”
“Water’s fine. Cigarette? It’s the only pleasure I allow myself.” He tapped the brown box.
He waved no. “You’re an alcoholic like Ian?” His throat burned. “I understand.”
He gave him a knowing look. “I’m something else. That’s a story for another day. Where’s your richer half?”
“In Glendale.” He sweated.
“I’m not surprised. It’s what Tommy Glock was awesome at. His instincts.”
“Ian has blurred reality and TV for as long as I’ve known him. My hair should have prematurely grayed like my papa’s.”
“I was the one overreacting at your reopening.” His chin trembled. “I hadn’t seen Treat since he became unrecognizable. Treat Dobbs used to be a decent guy until his lover died. They were like you and Ian are now. Open.”
“Yeah.” He rolled his eyes. Ian was open when forced to or beaten to the punch. At least he didn’t disappear in Glendale without notifying his unofficial next of kin, Ricky, or pet police detective, Bee. He trembled at his boyfriend still unaccounted for. 5:00 PM. One more hour before the latter sent in the cavalry. Probably another lie. “His Glock instincts are a convenient excuse to put himself in danger.” He turned away from Seb, gulped his sweet, peppery tequila. His brain tingled.
“You don’t need to hide when you drink.” He blushed.
“I don’t usually drink. This is a work night after all. I haven’t seen Ian since he left the house this morning. We live in another fancy house. This time in the historic Venice Canals.”
“Too bad I’m not working on a story, my friend. All it took was one shot of Jose Cuervo. You gush more than Kitty.”
He leaned closer to Seb. His eyes were so brown, so pretty. “You and Tyler Truman seem pretty tight. Kitty called you one of Ty-boy’s regulars?”
“He’s not a drug dealer for the Abbots, Ricky. As I said, Jake wouldn’t allow it. He’d be gone. I shouldn’t have overreacted.”
“What’s Tyler to you then?” He pestered. Seb licked his lips. “Oh.”
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