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“You are trading me for Terrence. That’s enough of a reason to be melancholy.”
She’s teasing, but her warm embrace has my throat tightening. I can’t see her face, but her body shakes and she sniffles against my chest. Rita’s a tough lady so seeing her emotions get the best of her makes me even more grateful that I’ve had someone like her in my life.
We finally pull apart, both of us overwhelmed by the moment.
Rita shakes her head and laughs, wiping her tears. “You better get going.”
“Yeah.” I sniff and nod, moving toward the door.
“And Griffin?” My hand catches the door frame on my way out so I can turn back to see Rita. “Try to have fun out there tonight.”
I nod, then hustle back to the locker room to put the card away.
Five minutes later, the curtain lifts on our opening number. The theater is dark, the audience cast out by the blinding stage lights, but I can still hear them. The women, and men, that are paying my bills, Sophie’s college tuition, and keeping my aspirations for a different life alive. When the music starts, a loud thumping bass that pulses like a sexual climax, my body takes over. The dance moves I’ve rehearsed and performed a thousand times. I don’t have to think about them anymore. My shirt comes off and the hours in the gym are immediately recognized by the crowd of screaming females donning sashes and tiaras, and sipping on their overpriced cocktails. My hips roll and thrust suggestively, one hand snakes down my bare chest, eliciting catcalls. I’ve learned over the years I can look past them, not seeing anyone in particular, yet look like I’m giving them each a personal caress with my eyes. It’s a learned skill. One that Chad taught me. His ability to be aloof, just out of anyone’s reach, is a honed skill. One that has served me well over the years. Not making any personal connections, in the audience or elsewhere, that was a life lesson courtesy of my parents.
* * *
Seventy-five minutes later, I’m half-naked and soaking wet. The final number behind us, we have forty-five minutes until we do it all over again. I grab a water bottle and protein bar off the snack table backstage. Rita insists we refuel between performances so we don’t get a muscle cramp while dancing. It’s happened a few times to guys over the years.
“Killer show, boys.” Ken slings an arm over my shoulder. He’s soaking wet and panting. “We were more on beat with you at the point tonight. Any chance we can convince you to stay?”
Rita’s lips twitch before her eyes find mine. I give a shake of my head.
She gives me a small smile before she moves toward the door and addresses the group. “Dry off and make sure those wet clothes get into the laundry hamper. I’m not your maid.”
“Thanks, man.” I pat Ken on the chest before I slip out of his hold. “It was nice to go out on top tonight.”
On my way to the locker room, I twist open the cap on my water and chug the whole thing down. The locker room is always calmer after the first performance. Less talking and messing around. We’ve gotten a workout in now and need to rebuild our energy for the second show. Out of respect for the late show crowd, we strip down and shower, so we’re fresh as daisies. Sounds bizarre, but one time a woman I was giving a lap dance shoved her nose in my armpit. People are fucking weird.
“Don’t the ladies know you have to come to the late show if you want to party after? That woman in the red dress was fine as hell, but I can’t make commitments at eight thirty,” Dallas says. “The night is too young.”
Once I’ve toweled off and dressed, I head for the stairs. I’m on the roof in two minutes, with the door propped open so I can get back in. The first few times I came up here I was nervous I would get stuck out here like the guy inHangover. Von, the theater’s custodian, found me up here once and gave me a key, just in case.
Even with the sun set, the ninety-degree day hasn’t lessened much. It’s got to be eighty degrees still, and I’m going to be sweating if I stay out too long, but I needed to get away from the group. I pull my phone out and call Sophie.
“Hey.” She’s breathless and there’s shuffling in the background.
“Hey, how’s packing going?” I ask.
She groans. “I’m sitting on my suitcase to make it close.”
“It’s two weeks, not two years.”
“I know, but I want to be prepared for every occasion.”
“The occasion is your final practicum and project presentation. Have you been studying for that?”
“Yes, Griffin. I’m an adult, I’ve got it under control.”
This is the part I hate most about our situation. We’re eight years apart, but sometimes it feels like twenty. I’d loved to have been the fun-loving big bro that snuck her into bars or covered for her when she was late for curfew, but instead I’ve had to be Grouchy Griffin, as she used to call me in high school, enforcing curfew and thwarting her dating efforts. Not because she was a troublemaker, the opposite in fact, but because I was terrified, and still am, that something might happen to her.
“And I can’t study every minute of every day. Most of my exams are practical and I could only do a mock presentation in the mirror a certain number of times before I started to feel like a deranged person. I already have my final event board complete and I have one budget to edit.”
I think about the hard work Sophie has put into her Hospitality and Event Planning degree. How having her graduate will take a small weight off my back and finally allow me to focus on something other than dancing to provide for us.
She continues. “And it’s my last few weeks of college. Now that I know I’m going to graduate, I’m allowed to have some fun, right?”
“Fine. But not too much fun. You need to stay focused on graduating.”
