Page 13 of Notorious

When I return from the sticky, dark, but functional bathroom, a guy in booty shorts and a hot pink fishnet shirt is hovering over Johnny, who looks a bit uncomfortable. My blood heats with possessiveness that I shouldn’t feel about a man I just met, until I realize the guy’s asking for an autograph. Johnny signs a napkin with a polite smile as I sidle up beside him, and he immediately tugs me close.

“Thanks, Velvet!” the guy coos. “You’re my favorite.”

The fan takes off, and I ask, “How often do you get recognized?”

“In LA? Not that much, unless I’m in WeHo or Silver Lake. In a place like this? I’d bet more than 90 percent of them know who I am.”

And sure enough, the dancer must’ve spread the news, because five minutes later, there’s a line of people wanting to take photos with Velvet the Cowboy.

“Want to go to another bar?” I ask, after he poses for the tenth photo.

He nods. “Sorry ’bout this.”

“No worries.” I kiss his cheek. Then I halt. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. Is kissing part of your no-no list while drunk?”

Johnny gazes intently at me. “Kissing ain’t on the naughty list. I just don’t wanna do more while in-tox-i-cated.” He says the word slowly like he’s mulling it over.

I swallow hard, staring at his lips. Wondering what they would feel like on my skin. Wishing I could make the first move. “Good to know.”

He slowly looks me up and down, checking me out as much as I’m checking him out. I hold my breath.

Finally, he nods. “Let’s go.”

“Come on.” I get up from the booth and offer my palm, which he takes.

We set out together into the increasingly chilly night, and Johnny keeps his arm around my shoulders as we walk down the crowded downtown thoroughfare. People separate around us so we don’t have to break apart.

Johnny’s cowboy hat shields me from the wind as he cuddles his cheek against the top of my head, and I get a whiff of his delicious scent—like cloves and orange. Spicy and sweet.

This man. He’s real. He’s not just on my screen.

And he’s with me. No one else. I pull my shoulders back and puff out my chest. “Where’d ya get the name Velvet?” I ask.

“Joel McCrea movie from the 1950s. It was the name of the bad guy in the movie, but I thought it was cool.”

“It’s so cool,” I gush. “You have the coolest name. I’ve always thought it was special. I’ve always thought you were special.”

The alcohol is making me blabber way more than I usually do. I’m not hating it, though—the freedom to say whatever the hell I mean for once.

After we stop at a sidewalk bar for two more shots each, the night starts getting very, very fuzzy.

I’m aware of lights—the kind on a dance floor. Strobe lights. Pink and yellow and blue and purple. I like Johnny’s face in all of them, but when the clear white light is on him, he looks rugged and handsome, and I think about the way he gazes at men when he fucks them, and I wish that could be me. Lights from phones and people taking selfies with Velvet. I might be in some of them.

The soft fabric of his jacket against my cheek when we dance to a slow song. His rough hand in mine. The way I slip on ice from a discarded drink and he holds me up so I don’t fall.

Bitter alcohol. I’m not even sure what I’m drinking anymore. Only that it keeps me going.

The odors of cologne, cigarettes, spilled drinks, vomit, and weed. The vapes smell sweet. But plenty of people still smoke weed the old-fashioned way, and at some point, someone hands me a blunt. I don’t often indulge, but I take a hit, and it burns down my throat. Johnny does, too, and I’m mesmerized by the way his meaty chest expands as he inhales.

He blows out a plume of smoke and passes me back the blunt, and between us, we finish it off.

The night was already muzzy, but now it’s tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. I’m not out of control, I tell myself. But the world doesn’t look quite the same way that I’m used to, and I’m pretty sure I’m wrong about still being in control.

I’m holding Johnny’s hand, and I like the way it looks and feels in mine. Since he’s an actor, I’d have figured his hands would be soft, but they aren’t at all. He has calluses. Maybe from working out? Because you don’t get muscles like he has naturally.

Or do you? Maybe real cowboys do it roping cows or whatever.

“Are you a real cowboy?” I ask.

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