Page 48 of Marisol Acts the Part
Even without padding, the cut and style of the jumpsuitperfectly accentuate Kevin’s figure, making his legs look like they go on for miles. The color pops and flawlessly complements the copper undertones of his skin. Plus, if it’s already dazzling like a disco ball in the horrible dressing room fluorescent lighting, I can only imagine what it’ll be like on stage.
I leap out of my seat, unable to contain my excitement as I gesture for him to give me a full twirl so I can confirm what I already knew: this is the perfect choice. “If Jerome doesn’t crown you on the spot, I’ll replace his coffee creamer with sour cream.”
The hesitation Kevin had when he stepped out of the dressing room melts away, his laugh deep and loud and his smile brighter than the sun. Seeing someone feel comfortable in their own skin because you brought out the beauty they’ve had in them the entire time is the best part of any makeover. That glow gets me every time.
“Don’t try to pay for this. It’s on me,” I insist as Kevin does another once-over in the mirror. His smile fades as he whips around to protest, but I hold up a finger before he can argue with me. “Think of it as a thank-you gift for my favorite cousin.”
Slowly, his smile blossoms again. Instead of showing his appreciation with words, he pulls me into a hug that says it for him. I can’t help but sniffle as I hug him back as tightly as I can. It feels really damn good to have a friend in this city, a place that once felt so unfamiliar and terrifying. But it feels even better to know that person is family.
My phone buzzes while Kevin changes back into his street clothes. New texts from Jamila.
I’d love to
warning you now tho in case any dancing is involved: I’m a terrible dancer
I don’t bother to hide my smile, lingering a beat too long on the text before tucking my phone away. Kevin stands in the doorway to the dressing room, eyebrow quirked as he watches my cheeks flush, but doesn’t tease or call me out again. My smile while reading the text stays in place as we check out, and as we grab dinner at a sushi place down the block, and as a couple of overeager fans ask for photos and hit me with dozens of questions about Miles. Even as we take the subway home because Kevin insists it’s part of the New York experience. The grin on my face lasts until I’m finally in bed for the night, Bruiser curled up beside me, staring at the ceiling and dreaming about spending another night with Jamila.
Chapter 17
Blazin’ Saddles is, surprisingly, not country-themed. While there are a handful of posters of steamy cowboy kisses, the overall vibe is giving more disco than Wild West. Probably on account of the seven—yes, seven—disco balls over the dance floor. There’s even a mega disco ball in the private lounge, a balcony alcove with a perfect view of the main stage.
The club is in full swing by the time Jamila and I arrive, even though it’s early by New York standards. Our escort—a queen in a hot pink corset and matching tutu—whisks us through the club and up to the VIP lounge I decided to splurge on. For privacy, even though I’m in full incognito mode tonight, to be safe. Both so I don’t get spotted by any potential fans, or Dad and Jerome. I made sure to give Jamila a thorough tutorial on how to stay undercover without compromising on fashion or aesthetics. While I normally wouldn’t choose to wear an all-black ensemble, it’s a necessary evil on a night like tonight.
Thankfully, Jamila’s only watching and learning tonight. Her social following has quickly climbed into the low five digits ever since the cast announcement, but she should enjoy these last few months of being able to live somewhat under the radar. Once the show airs, privacy will be a thing of thepast.
I tug on the end of my pin-straight black wig as we weave through the crowd toward the staircase leading to the lounge. It’s locked in place with plenty of wig glue, but sweat broke out along my brow the second we stepped into the club. Obviously, I used a sweatproof glue, but the thought of my next paparazzi scandal being me with a crooked wig makes me shudder.
Jamila hovers close behind me, lightly gripping my arm as our escort effortlessly leads us up the stairs in six-inch heels. I watch in awe as bodies twist around each other in the packed club below us, queens and bartenders and patrons weaving around the tightly packed space without spilling a single drop of their drinks like it’s a choreographed dance.
The roped-off balcony is much smaller than the floor below, but certainly not empty. Most of the black leather booths are occupied by the time we arrive—several high-profile drag queens in one corner, and a former pop star turned Oscar-winning actress in the other. The exact types of people who won’t acknowledge our presence, so long as we don’t acknowledge theirs.
“Can I get you dolls anything?” our escort—Kitty—asks, eyeing the large black Xs on our hands. Jamila doesn’t drink and neither do I, so we don’t bother trying to convince Kitty to slip us something.
“Just two lemonades, please,” I reply, grateful that Jamila and I planned our order on the way here.
Moments after Kitty sets down our drinks, I spot Dad lingering at the edge of the stage.
“That’s my dad.”
My breath hitches, and I attempt to hide behind Jamila, even though he probably can’t see me from the stage and has no reason to suspect that I might be here. He looks like he walked straight out of work, a tomato-shaped pincushion strapped to his arm and a tape measure wrapped around his neck like a designer scarf. He disappears almost as quickly as he appeared, stepping back behind the curtain with a huff. Jamila attempts to hide her giggle behind her hand when I finally emerge from where I was attempting to hide.
“It must be supercool having a dad who’s a costume designer,” she says after I breathe a sigh of relief. Even with her leaning in while she speaks, it’s tough to hear her over the music. Not that I mind the “Single Ladies” meets “thank u, next” mashup playing, but it does make having a conversation a pain in the ass.
“I guess so,” I reply with a shrug.
In theory, itissupercool. While I definitely don’t have any more space in my wardrobe, I wouldn’t mind snagging a few custom pieces from Dad’s collection. Like one of the dresses he designed for Jerome tonight—a seventies-inspired lavender flower-print minidress. It’s refreshing to be around someone who appreciates the fine details of fashion the same way I do, even if I don’t get to explore it as much these days, thanks to my on-set uniform. Alas, that doesn’t change the fact that we’ve been living together for weeks and I feel as distant as ever from him.
“Are you two close?” Jamila asks, hitting right on the topic I was hoping to avoid.
I shift uncomfortably. Not because of the closeness or the way my eardrums are starting to throb, but because I’m not sure how to answer. Whether to tell her the long-winded story behind my existence. That before I came here, Dad felt more like a name in my phone than adad.That part of the reason I was terrified of coming here was because it meant spending time with someone I wasn’t sure would like me, even though they helped bring me into the world. A drag show on a Saturday night is not the ideal place to delve into my daddy issues.
“I don’t really—”
I’m saved from having to finish my vague answer by Kitty stepping up to the mic at the center of the stage.
“Welcome, ladies and gays, to Blazin’ Saddles!” The crowd gives her a roar of applause, several people pushing up to the lip of the stage. “Are you ready to get this competition started?”
This time, the crowd’s response is loud enough to make the floor vibrate beneath our feet. Jamila gives an impressive whistle by sticking two fingers in her mouth—I’ll need to ask her how she does that later.
