Page 2 of Courageous Hearts

“Oh, yeah,” she says, a big grin on her face as she pours liquor with a flourish. “This place is special.”

I can see that.

Dee slaps my arm before grabbing her finished cocktails and moving off down the bar. I get back into the swing of things, ignoring the phone buzzing in my pocket—most likely my brother Grant checking in—and it isn’t long before the overhead lights flicker twice. A hush falls over the crowd, and glancing at the clock behind the bar, I realize this must be showtime.

The spotlights over the stage are still set low, but most everyone is looking that way in anticipation. The air is crackling again, like electricity. Like the moment before a summer storm unleashes a torrent of rain. I’m mixing a Manhattan as the first musical notes pierce the air, subtle and soft, and I recognize the song instantly.

My mom adores show tunes. Always has. I have fond memories from when I was a kid of her dancing with my dad in the living room, moving slowly along to the music from her old record player. Or swaying to the radio in the kitchen while she cooked. I’m thirty now, and I moved out a long time ago, but those memories have always stuck with me.

I can recall a whole month when I was nine where my mom was obsessed with Liza Minnelli. This song in particular played on repeat every waking hour. “Maybe This Time.” It seems fitting that this would be my first introduction to a show at Gertie’s because when you think of cabaret, this is it. This is Cabaret.

I have a smile on my face as the song starts out, but to say I’m surprised by the voice that accompanies it would be an understatement.

Looking up from the drinks I was pouring, I seek out the source of those vocals, and it doesn’t take me long to find it. My gaze snags center stage, where a man is stepping through the velvet curtains. He’s wearing sheer black tights over long, leanly toned legs, black shorts that end mid-thigh, a striped black-and-white blouse with long sleeves and suspenders over top, and a shiny black hat that’s hanging down over half of his face. The style of the outfit reads somewhat feminine, and yet that body is all masculine: tall, squared shoulders but lean frame, flat chest, slim hips.

And that voice… That voice is low, a little husky as he sings about getting lucky. The curtains flutter closed behind him as he moves to the center of the stage like a cat on the prowl, each rolling step intentional, each glance of his hand over his hip or along the brim of his hat pure showmanship. I can’t look away. Can’t tear my eyes off that performer as he sings about being a winner instead of a loser for once, his long legs bracing wide, his very being synced with the music, as if he feels it, body and soul. The top of his face is hidden because of his tipped hat, but his lips are painted a dark red, and they’re like a beacon of color in his otherwise black-and-white ensemble.

As the music starts to swell, the notes spilling from those crimson lips become almost angry, as do his movements. He’s a warrior gearing up for battle, and I watch, utterly rapt as he croons about the odds being in his favor. He spins, one foot kicking out behind him, heel coming up off the floor, and as the music crescendos, so does he. Each note strengthens as he approaches the final refrain, until he’s all but belting the song’s namesake.

And then, in perfect choreography, the music ceases, and he flings his hat aside. In two immeasurable beats, dark hair cascades free, blue irises flash, and he throws his hands wide, foot stomping the stage.

It’s two beats. Just a moment. Just a stomp.

Yet I feel it in my chest, the thump of that foot against floorboard. And I lose my fucking breath.

The music kicks back on as I refill my lungs on a gasp, and with a determined flourish, the performer all but shouts the final lyrics, hand in a fist, voice strong. That maybe this time, he’ll win.

The lights cut out as soon as the music does, and the entire room erupts in applause. My body breaks out into goosebumps, heart beating a fast staccato inside my chest, as the cacophony of the bar returns like thunder after the storm.

Another song begins not a moment later, but try as I might, I can hardly focus on the two tickets I pulled from the printer. My thoughts are stuck cycling over that unexpected performance. The woman up on stage is doing a number from The Producers, and it’s good, but it’s nowhere near the level of what came before. And I can’t figure out what it was. What unnameable quality made it so…charged.

I’d never fully understood my mom’s obsession with show tunes before, even though I always had a soft spot for her love of music, but I think I get it now. That performance was… I don’t even know. It was…

“What was that?” I mutter to myself.

Dee nudges my shoulder, eyes twinkling when I look her way. “That,” she says with a proud lift of her chin, “was Bo.”

Chapter 2

Bo

“Hey, Bo. Good show tonight.”

My gaze swings Bridget’s way, and I head in her direction as the door to the dressing room closes behind me. My coworker is seated in front of the large vanity mirrors, leaving a mess of ivory foundation and black mascara on the makeup removing wipe in her hand.

“Thanks, Bridge,” I say, plunking down onto a stool next to her. “You, too.”

Bridget gives me a wide smile, and I set to work removing my own makeup. The red of my lipstick is stark against the white cloth.

“Did you see the new bartender?” Bridget questions, bouncing her blonde eyebrows at me in the mirror.

“No. Why?” I ask, drying my face with a washcloth.

“He’s gorge,” she answers.

“Yeah?”

Bridget, like everyone else here at Gertie’s, is aware I’m attracted to masc individuals. But based on the way Bridget is practically swooning in her seat, I’m guessing her comment was sprouted from her own interest in the guy, not a hint for my sake.

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