Page 89 of Love By a Landslide

Lucy put down her fork and looked seriously at her best friend. The person who had supported her as she limped—literally and figuratively—through the last two months. He had been her foundation, keeping her from sinking in on herself, and provided harsh truths and comforting hugs in equal measure.

“Todd,” she began, reaching beside her to grip his hand. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

He beamed and Lucy thought she spied a glimmer of a tear brimming in his eye. But he cleared his throat and threaded his fingers with hers.

“It’s settled, then. Be at The Tackle Boxx at ten o’clock sharp. I need the three of you front and center for my newestperformance. I’m quaking in my favorite eight-inch boots and will feel much better with all of you gazing lovingly upon me.”

Lucy giggled. “I could never imagine you nervous, especially in drag.”

“This number is outside of my usual. I’m taking a big risk,” he stated then smiled in his typical mischievous way. “But the payoff will beenormous.”

Lydia leaned in, keeping her voice low. “Give us a hint—”

“No spoilers,” he cut in. “Say you’ll be there?”

All three women agreed, deciding to meet up at Lucy’s at eight to get ready. Later that evening, Lydia and Kylie descended on Lucy’s apartment, insisting they pick out what she should wear. Begrudgingly, she’d donned the little forest green dress they selected but drew the line at having her makeup applied by either of them. After taking a few minutes to line her eyes and apply mascara, she snatched a tinted lip gloss and shooed the others out the door.

Chapter forty-three

Lucy

“We have a reservation for three.”

“Name?” asked the hostess with curves for days, a wickedly long blonde wig, and eyelashes so thick that Lucy didn’t know how anyone could keep their eyes open under the weight of them.

“Lucy O’Malley,” she chirped back with a broad smile. Kylie looped her arm around her friend’s elbow while Lydia stood behind, reapplying a layer of deep plum-colored lipstick. “Dirty O’Feelya put us on the list.”

At the mention of her fellow queen, the hostess clapped her hands together. “Lucy! Yes, we are so happy to have you tonight. Right this way, ladies.”

Winding through pockets of attendees and the noisy bustle of a Saturday night, the three women were led to a small round table right up against the stage. Lucy had never sat this close at any of Dirty O’Feelya’s performances, and she was excited to finally have the opportunity.

Inside the nightclub, Lucy tugged at the hem of her too-short dress as she lowered into her chair. “Your server will be by in a minute to take your drink order,” the hostess informed the table. Then turned and winked at Lucy. “Enjoy, sweetie.”

Fifteen minutes later, drinks in hand, Lydia raised her glass. “To an impromptu thirtieth birthday redo. Sorry we missed outon the real one.” She paused and thought for a moment before continuing. “Actually, I’m not that sorry since it sounded like an absolute shitshow. So here’s to replacing shitty memories with far superior new ones.”

Lucy clinked her tumbler against her friends’ glasses, smiling in agreement. This visit to The Tackle Boxx was already ten times better than the last, and she hadn’t even taken a sip of her J. P. Trodden yet. The smooth bourbon warmed a silky trail down her throat into her belly as hints of brown sugar and banana bread lingered on her tongue.Perfection.

The lights dimmed around the audience as a voluptuous queen in a body-skimming black pageant gown strolled onto the stage. Her bright smile matched the glittering stones woven into her intricately coiffed up-do. “Good evening, kiddies! Welcome to our Midsummer Saturday celebration. We are halfway through this lovely season, and every year we like to put on a real razzle-dazzle of a production to showcase what we love most about summer: the bright, sunshiny days; Bomb Pops as far as the eyes can see; and, most importantly . . . air conditioning.”

Laughter and applause sounded in agreement.

“My name is Goldie du Jour, and I’ll be your lovely hostess for this evening. Sit back, relax, and enjoy as we take you through a spectacular dedicated to all things love and Mother Nature. Let’s dive in, shall we? Put your hands together for the vulgar, the filthy, the one and only Dirty O’Feelya debuting herprotégé, Buster O’Feelya.”

Protégé?

No wonder her friend had been desperate to have Lucy there for support. It was a huge deal to bring a new queen into the family. Dirty O’Feelya tended to perform alone—and did an incredible job of it—and this would be a big step in expanding the O’Feelya name.

“Did you know about this?” Lucy leaned over and whispered loudly to her friends.

Lydia shrugged noncommittally while Kylie, trying futilely to stifle a grin, refused to make eye contact. Prickly anticipation scuttled its way up Lucy’s neck. Something was up. Her friends had been acting weird all night.

Spotlights trained twin glowing circles upstage as a few bars of a familiar retro hit built through the venue. Lucy grinned as she recognized her favorite song: “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” by Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. From the left, a man stepped out on stage, turning and lip-synching to the audience with the opening lyrics, “Listen, baby!”

Her jaw hit the table as she took in the sight. The tall drink of water was dressed head to toe in green, teal, and blue tones: from the sparkling emerald combat boots and a pair of scandalously tight blue jeans, to the shimmering vest on top that emphasized tanned, muscular arms. A black and gray-toned mountain range tattoo sprawled across his left clavicle, shoulder, and bicep. Lucy’s fingers itched at the memory of tracing the lines and shading, exploring the ink with just as much awe as she’d explored the canvas. In addition to the garish coating of green glitter, his facial hair was different, thicker, like he’d allowed the stubble to grow into a well-groomed beard during the two months they’d been apart. His eyes, on the other hand, were the exact same. A searing swirl of living amber trained on her through the bright lights, making her squirm in her seat and grip the glass of bourbon.

Jonathan.

Tammi Terrell’s melodic voice piped over the speakers, and Dirty O’Feelya, dressed in a gown of matching colors, strode out next to Buster, placing a steadying hand on her pupil’s shoulder. The duo performed the lip-synch as they progressed toward the audience.

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