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I manage to fill my lungs with enough air to blow out the candles and everyone cheers.
In a daze, I raise my glass and swallow back the entire contents. The group disperses to start breaking down the show, but Jess grabs my arm.
She must see the shock on my face.
“Are you freaking out? It’s not crazy that everyone loved it. We knew they would. Now it’s official.” Her smile drops when she sees my non-reaction. “What’s wrong?”
I hand her my phone, the screen still lit with Alec and Brecken’s beaming faces.
Her eyes widen as she reads the caption. “Oh, fuck.”
I reach for the champagne bottle she’s holding, and begin to chug it.
CHAPTER2
Griffin
“What do they put in this shit?” Reggie scrubs at his cheek with a makeup wipe. “Permanent marker?”
“It’s a good thing it’s not on your dick, then.” Dallas laughs from where he’s lacing up his boots.
“I’d take lipstick any day over the rash Kenny boy got from the last fan girl he slept with.” Reggie grins, still scrubbing his red-stained cheek.
“It was an allergic reaction to the metal of her tongue ring,” Ken pipes up from where he’s buttoning his vest across the room.
“Fuck. That’s messed up.” Dallas chuckles. “Was it good at least? I’ve heard a tongue ring on your dick is fucking out of this world.”
“Yeah, it was fucking cool until I broke out in hives.” Ken laughs like it was no big deal his dick swelled up for hours and I had to take him to the hospital.
“Better make sure her mouth is pure platinum before you dive in next time, bro.” Dallas claps Ken on the shoulder before jogging over to the vanity to check his hair.
“Yo, Griffin.” He catches my eyes in the mirror. “You going to get ready or what?”
I drop my feet off the stool I’ve propped them up on and stand to move toward my locker. Even with the changes in routines and various costumes over the years, I could get ready in my sleep. Whether it be my solo teacher routine, the rough riders trio I perform with Dallas and Mike, or the group closing number with trench coats and umbrellas, Rainin’ Men—it’s the signature performance that our revue is known for. Five years ago, our choreographer, Rita, introduced the element of rain on stage. She had watchedFlashdancea few too many times, and wanted to emulate the water bucket scene, except with rain constantly pouring down on us for nearly three minutes of the routine.
That first week we learned the routine, we had guys falling left and right. Romeo, who’s now retired, shattered his tailbone, and Dax hurt his shoulder when he wiped out on the wet floor. It was made clear that if you couldn’t dance the routine with the water safely, then this job wasn’t cut out for you. While some of the guys dance because they like the attention, most of us are on the revue for the money, so I quickly worked to engineer a slip-proof sole that gives better traction that could fit onto our dance shoes and outfitted all the guys’ shoes with it.
“Griffin doesn’t have to primp like you clowns. He’s naturally good-looking.” Mike raises his chin to give me a kissy face and a wink.
All I can do is grin and shake my head at him. “Thanks, man. I always appreciate the compliments.”
“Naturally good-looking andstraight, Mike.” Dallas smirks.
“I don’t know.” Mike grabs his trench coat from his locker and slides his muscular arms into it. “I haven’t seen him take any girls home like the rest of you fools, so I’m still thinking there’s a chance.”
Before I can respond, Dallas stands up from the mirror. “That’s because Griffin is too good for the fan girls.”
He’s right. Aside from Mike, who is gay, but gets his fair share of hookups from men that frequent our shows, I’m the only one of our crew that hasn’t taken home a woman from a show. It’s a rule of mine. A rule I put in place when I started dancing with the Rainin’ Men male revue eight years ago. At that time, there was a girl in my life that took precedence over any biological urge I had—my sister, Sophie.
I pull off my t-shirt, ignore Mike’s whistle and start the act of getting dressed for the group’s opening number. Tear-away pants, an easy-open vest, Velcro bowtie and shirt cuffs.
For a lot of the guys, dancing is an extension of their social life. A way to start their night, before indulging in alcohol and women, or men, Mike’s preference. They dance, hit The Strip to party, then nurse their hangover until they do it all over again the next night. I’ve never been a partier. Not bragging, because there were plenty of times in my early twenties that I wanted to be a normal guy with no responsibility to anyone but myself, but where my parents had failed us, I refused to fail Sophie.
When I’m in wardrobe for work, I become someone else. An alternate persona. The charming flirt that entertains the audience during every show isn’t real. He’s the façade that I developed to give them what they’re here for—fantasy, escape, a good time.
A Saturday night in Vegas doesn’t mean much because every night in Vegas is someone’s birthday, girls’ night out, or bachelorette party, but still, weekend audiences have an added intensity.
We perform Tuesday through Saturday nights with double feature shows on Friday and Saturday for three-month stints, and get two weeks off between productions. I’m ready for a break.
