“Big Easy is fine. I appreciate it.” Colt nudged him, grinned slow and easy. “What you want, stud?”
“Dry martini, Alan. Extra olives.”
“Could set my watch by you.”
“Throw him on my tab, okay?”
“Done. Give me a sec.” Alan got to work.
“Stud, huh?” He slid his fingers up the side of Colt’s neck, loving how Colt just gravitated into his hand. Always. Every time.
“Yessir.” God, that smile was electric.
“Big Easy and your martini.”
“Thanks, Alan.”
“Hey! Kyle!” Joey was waving him over.
“My people are calling. Come on, baby.” He made a straight line for Joey and six other dancers all crowded around a table. Two more seats appeared, and he and Colt squeezed in.
“The opening number was smooth tonight, huh?” Mora said, tapping his hand.
“I have very few notes on anything, to be honest. Everybody did a great job. That middle section, the tempo change? I would never know how difficult that switchover is if I hadn’t choreographed it myself. You guys made it look easy. Right, Colt? That tempo change right in the middle of the first number?”
“It looked like y’all meant it to be like it was. Just like.”
Kyle didn’t miss the way Mora stared at Colt, and she wasn’t the only one. “Uh. Thanks,” she said and exchanged a look with Tweak.
“Exactly,” Kyle agreed, breaking the awkward silence. “Totally smooth.”
“What about the little jazz section in the carnival piece?” Joey asked, and about three people jumped on that one at the same time.
Kyle reached down and took Colt’s hand under the table, giving it a squeeze.
Colt winked at him, leaned back, and drank his beer.
* * *
Lord havemercy.He listened with half an ear to the dancers chatting and gnawing on the bones of their performance. So different from a night of jamming, but what he did wasn’t so much about his body. They spent hours playing and drinking and playing and drinking.
These folks left all themselves on the stage with sweat and blood.
Thought about shit a lot too.
Him, he played and hoped it worked.
He sipped his third beer. Of course, folks here thought more than his type, he reckoned.
His type. Shit.
Kyle’s people had looked at him like he was a piece of dog shit, hadn’t they? Bless their hearts. He forced himself not to roll his eyes, because someone’d think it was meant for them, but damn. Uppity folks that thought their shit didn’t stink were everywhere, and, fuck, but they hated it when some poor motherfucker like him pointed out they needed some Lysol in their lives.
Maybe shot up their asses.
Oh, wouldn’t that be fun as all get-out?
A can of Lysol, a lighter, and a hose.