Page 7 of Triple Play

“Sure,” he says finally. “Another drink sounds good. I’m buying.”

Getting ready for work takes approximately an hour between my hair and makeup. Leaving takes about ten minutes. I tip out the DJ and bartenders and house mom and security guys, some of whom wink and whistle at me until I tell them to cut it out. I change back into the sneakers and sweatsuit I wore for my drive. With my makeup wiped off and my hair up in a ponytail, I’m no longer Melody but Shira, who’s tired and wants to go home.

I shove my stuff into my wheeled duffel and roll down the hallway to the club’s back entrance. Of course, the light by the parking lot door is busted again. Of course it’s a moonless night. Of course the flashlight on my phone only illuminates so much.

The employee area of the parking lot is a mess: it needed to be repaved about five winters ago. Potholes pit its asphalt surface. No way my rolling bag will make it across without twisting out of my hands.

I check the hallway—and get a glance of a dark figure, lurking like he doesn’t want to be seen. “Whoever’s there, get the fuck out,” I call.

No one answers. The shadow recedes. Typical. Guys who lurk around to harass dancers are almost universally cowards. I could yell for security to walk me to my car. Or see if John’s still around and ask for an escort across the lot. As if we just could get in my car and drive away from everything. As if things could be that simple.

No, I’ve been on my own for six years. I’ll be fine. So I shoulder my bag and start walking.

PART TWO

Boston

CHAPTER ONE

Felix

February

“Sir, I understand you’re inconvenienced,” the gate agent says to the man standing two people in front of me in line. “This delay is disruptive to many customers’ travel plans and we very much apologize for having to reschedule.”

The man—who was sitting three barstools down from me at the airport bar, putting away gin with an enthusiasm that I usually reserve for Gatorade—blusters an objection. “I have an important meeting,” he says, as if that will change the weather currently scrolling across the display monitors adorning the terminal. Snow. A late-winter line of it bearing down on the entire northeast.

The gate agent’s red-lipped smile goes a little more fixed. “Sir, I understand?—”

“Don’t understand,” he barks. “Fix it.”

I can’t just stand there any longer, not when the guy takes a sucking inhale like he’s really gonna let her have it. There’s a certain type of guy who enjoys being a jerk to service workers—and a subset of them who really like being jerks to women. This guy’s wearing a suit like we all need to know he’s important.

He’s also sputtering with rage as if that will change the fact that our flight to Florida has just been scrubbed.

No one else steps up to intervene. A few other passengers are staring at their phones like they’re afraid that Suit’s temper will turn toward them. More are muttering annoyedly about the weather and the possibility of booking another flight.

With any luck, I’ll get to the front of this line before all the seats are gone. My job isn’t more important than anyone else’s here, but I really do need to get to Florida.

“Now,” Suit snaps, for good measure, and the gate agent’s customer-service mask slips briefly as her eyes widen.

“Buddy,” I call to him, “we’re all trying to get somewhere. Stop giving her a hard time.”

The man swings around. His face is blotched red. His hands tighten by his sides like he’s ready to scrap in his polished black shoes. Until he sees me. I might be a little bigger than he is. He’s built like a gym bro, but I’m built like a first basemen-slash-designated hitter: six-four with twenty extra pounds of weight I spent the offseason packing on.

His fists curl like he might try to fight me anyway. Guys’ll try that too. I guess they figure the bigger they are, the harder they fall. That’s an expression better left to trees—I’ve felled trees and it’s harder work than you might think. At least the gate agent’s shoulders sag in relief…for all of five seconds. Then she casts a look around the seating area and goes ashen.

I don’t want to turn my back on Suit-with-MMA-Delusions, so I crane my neck to see what’s up. Great, people have their phones out like they’re anticipating a fight.

Another airline employee already has a beige courtesy phone cradled between her ear and neck. She’s whispering something I only catch pieces of. “Security…”

So this got out of hand quickly.

Suit studies me, then his eyebrows shoot up in recognition. “Aren’t you Felix Paquette?”

Well, that was probably inevitable in Boston. Say what you will about the city, they do love their baseball. “Yeah.”

“Wow, man, you look”—I wait for the inevitable bigger in person—“like shit.”

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