Page 47 of Angel

I’m wondering how long I’ll have to wait for the show to get started when the house lights dim and the stage lights up. The music switches to something upbeat and electronic, almost like a game show of some kind. The people around me start shouting and cheering, adding to the noise.

Then the rainbow velvet curtains rise, and a drag queen struts out onto the stage. She’s tall and shapely, with her curves on full display in a bright blue bodysuit. The shiny material hugs her thighs, her waist, her arms, and plunges down her front to reveal ample cleavage. Her orange boots give her a few extra inches of height and extend all the way up past her knees. Giant lightning bolt earrings dangle from her ears, and her elaborate hairstyle looks like a halo around her head.

I’ve seen drag queens before—of course I have. But I’ve never seen one in person. She’s stunning and I have to remind myself to pick my jaw up off the floor.

“My darlings!” she drawls in an weird accent, like she’s from Brooklyn, but trying to pretend she’s English. “Welcome, welcome to The Bronzed Rail, where we all like to get railed.” She turns sideways and sticks out her bum.

The audience bursts into another round of shouts and catcalls.

“My name is Anna Conda and I will be your host tonight. Strap in, boys, because you are in for a show!”

I watch the people around me go wild. They’re having so much fun. They’re so immersed in the moment. There’s an energy coursing through the place that builds with every passing minute. Slowly, it tugs at the nerves that have me wound so tight. As they loosen, I find myself breathing a little easier, relaxing against the wall rather than trying to disappear into it. My lips curve into a smile and the fluttering in my tummy settles into a comfortable warmth.

The first few acts are cool. A lip-syncing drag queen duo, a burlesque dancer, and a group number.

As the group takes their bows, someone next to me shouts to his friend, “Rhys Rawlings should be up next!”

I immediately straighten, anticipation spiking as my heart thunders in my chest. Rhys. He’s next. He’s almost here.

I pull out my phone, only now realizing that I didn’t text Rhys to tell him I’m here. I do it now, shooting him a quick message. I have no idea whether he’ll see it. He’s probably already behind the curtain, ready to come on stage.

Anna Conda introduces Rhys and I swear the audience goes berserk. Louder than ever, everyone’s on their feet, clapping and shouting and stomping. It’s almost like Rhys is the headliner, like he’s the one they’ve all come to see.

The whole place goes dark, except for one circle of light directed onto the rainbow curtains. They rise, revealing Rhys, perfectly framed in the spotlight. He’s magnificent. Beyond magnificent.

He’s wearing a shimmering gold outfit that’s barely more than a few strips of fabric strategically wrapped around his body. What is there blends so well with his skin tone that it almost looks like he’s naked. Naked and glowing.

The leg openings are cut high enough to reveal his hip bones, and the fabric is pulled so tight around his crotch that the outline of his dick is visible. There’s a cutout on the left side, a large triangle that crosses from his left hip all the way to his right, leaving most of his stomach bare. Then a narrow piece of fabric stretches from his right hip up toward his left shoulder. At his sternum, the fabric splits into two, one for each shoulder, leaving both his nipples on display.

His gold boots look like weapons. There’s a good four inches under his toes and an extra three in the dangerously pointy heels. The boots extend all the way up his calves, to his knees. He’s dyed his hair blond and it falls in waves around his shoulders. Even his makeup is golden, heavy enough across his eyes that it looks like a mask.

He looks like a superhero. A shimmering, scantily clad, pole-dancing superhero. Beware of his heels.

Rhys takes a step forward, kicking his heel up behind him in an exaggerated motion. His hips and shoulders twist with the movement. The expression on his face is pure sex, pure sin, everything I shouldn’t want and yet I’ve never wanted anything more.

He looks to his right, making eye contact with people in the audience. His lips curl up in a seductive invitation as his gaze sweeps across the room.

He looks straight past me and my heart plummets to my feet. It doesn’t mean anything, obviously. It’s probably hard for him to see anything with the bright lights shining in his face like that. Besides, I’m all the way at the back of the room, tucked into a corner. It would be difficult to find me, even without the lights.

But then his gaze snaps back. It zeroes in on me. My breath catches in my chest and my feet itch to carry me forward. I pull my hand from my pocket instead, and give him a little wave.

Rhys’s smile widens, gaze still locked on me, and it feels like this whole place just got ten degrees hotter.

When he reaches the pole, he grasps it with one hand and pauses. Then my brain shuts down. There’s no thinking, no understanding, no trying to figure out why I’m responding the way I am or what it could mean. I just soak in Rhys’s performance. The way he tilts his head to show off his long neck. The way his long legs sweep through the air. The positions he contorts himself into while hanging from the pole. The way his body undulates when he’s sprawled on the floor.

He’s captivating. Mesmerizing. It’s impossible to take my eyes off him—I wouldn’t want to, even if I could.

The back of his golden outfit is practically nonexistent. The fabric disappears between his butt cheeks, and when he bends over, I’m reminded of our video, when I was taking him from behind. My dick has been stirring since the moment Rhys stepped on stage, but now it’s growing steadily plumper at the memory of how those glutes felt in my hands.

When he’s climbing the pole, all the little muscles in his back flex and stand out in sharp relief. His thighs look carved from stone and his forearms sculpted by a master artist.

He’s so freaking strong. So amazingly talented. Every move is breathtaking. Every pose staggering.

When the music fades and Rhys stands to take his bow, his gaze drifts to me. I’m not back in that little corner anymore, I realize. I’ve made my way between the tables so I’m nearly at the stage. If I reach out my arm, I could probably touch him.

He blows me a kiss and something bright and beautiful, happy and bubbly bursts open inside me. It’s cracking me open, struggling to be set free, and I’m powerless to resist.

What has Rhys done to me? What kind of spell has he cast over me? I don’t feel like myself anymore. Something’s changing inside me and I can’t stop it. I don’t recognize the person I’m becoming.

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