Page 9 of 7 Miles High
It’s as if there’s a string attached from my ear to my genitals and it’s lifting. A dirty mind’s a wonderful thing. Especially in a woman.
This electricity between us could power the city.
* * *
Coco Bongo is jumping. Luckily the hotel manager told us about the VIP tickets. We skipped the out-of-control lines with our prepaid admission. It’s so fucking loud in here conversations are nearly impossible. We’ve scored seats high on the top tier above the revelers.
Looks like there’s a thousand people partying. No, maybe two thousand. This space is cavernous. The huge screen showing iconic movie clips grabs our attention. The blaring music makes us move.
A large center stage showcases one act after another. I don’t know where to look first.
Since arriving we’ve seen appearances by Beetlejuice, Michael Jackson, and Queen impersonators. As they’re lip-syncing, the lyrics appear on screen. Everyone sings along.
Right now male acrobats in gold nut huggers are flying spread eagle through the air, while on stage scantily dressed women dance under them. Something for everyone.
Matt’s in the spirit. No surprise. He and Maggie are clapping to the beat of the music, drunk off their asses. A minute ago, I saw him squeezing her ass. She liked it by the smile he got. Elliott and Holly are attempting a conversation against all odds.
My brother, in an encouraging scene, is behind Elizabeth with his hands on her waist. They sway together to the sounds while she waves a long pink balloon.
I’m not sure how I’d describe this place. It’s big. I’d start there. It’s not a dance club. But the crowd’s wild and moving to the music. We’re dancing in our seats.
The energy has built to a fevered pitch as the night has progressed. Soap bubbles, balloons and confetti, all props for the drunken mob, of which most of us are included. I’ve kept a lid on it. Don’t want to be passed out when I could be fucking her.
An ear-shattering siren’s wail pulls everyone’s attention.
“Follow the leader!” The emcee with a top hat calls to the mob, “Let’s conga!”
The first notes of “Conga”by Gloria Estefan and the Miami Sound Machine blare, and the crowd goes crazy wild. Without hesitation, lines form on every tier.
As our friends find their places in the dance, I take ahold of Natalie and bring her close. I’m going to have to yell in her ear and hope for the best.
“Let’s get out of here! They’ll never know we’re gone.”
Arms wrap around my waist. Our lips are a breath away. She locks eyes with me, and the corners of her mouth turn up.
“This first,” she says, coming in for a kiss.
I know one thing for sure. Every other kiss I’ve had was wrong.
