Page 32 of Courageous Hearts

“Okay over there?” Dee asks, brows raised. She barely glances at me before pouring vodka into the three glasses lined up in front of her, following it up with cranberry juice.

“Fine,” I say, shaking myself loose and drying my hand off on the white towel tucked into my back pocket.

Gertie’s is busy tonight. The three-customers-deep-at-all-times kind of busy. I haven’t stopped moving since the doors opened at four.

Normally, I’d love the chaotic energy. But tonight, my mind is elsewhere, and it’s affecting me. A spilled drink here, a wrong order there. I need to get it together before I mess up badly enough for Missa to notice.

I’m mixing a couple pomegranate martinis when a familiar accent reaches my ears. My head pops up, and I nearly fumble the cocktail shaker as I set eyes on Bo.

“Hey,” I say, my smile too wide as I attempt to cover my blunder.

Bo looks at me oddly, brows furrowed a bit and head tilted. Their face is made up for their performance tonight, but they’re still wearing the casual outfit they arrived in earlier, as if they paused midway through getting ready. “Could I get a water?” they repeat.

“Of course,” I reply, chuckling a little at how close this feels to our first official meeting.

I slide a water Bo’s way, and they drink up.

“Thanks,” they say, giving me a smile that warms my chest. It’s that shy smile. The one that’s a little soft, as if sharing a secret.

It makes me feel fond, and I wonder if maybe I’m mistaking affection for attraction. As I told Grant, it wouldn’t bother me finding out I’m part of the LGBTQ+ community, but maybe that’s not what this is.

I like Bo. I do.

But do I like them?

“Have a good performance,” I tell Bo.

They give me a little nod before disappearing into the crowd. My eyes follow them until they turn into the back hall.

The next half hour passes in a flash, and when a flicker of lights announces the start of the show, the sound in the bar dampens in anticipation. I can feel it in the air, that thick, heady excitement.

A spotlight hits the stage, and I smile as Bridget comes sauntering out, doing her rendition of “Sway.” My mom loves this song. It’s one she’d dance along to in the living room with Dad, her leading him around the well-loved area rug because he couldn’t dance nearly as well as she could. But they’d both have big smiles on their faces, moving gently together, my mom singing along to Dean Martin’s greatest hits on vinyl.

I miss my dad. He was always there, in those early memories, alongside my mom. And even though he passed away eleven years ago, it still surprises me sometimes to enter my mom’s house and find her dancing alone.

But the good memories overshadow the sad. And it’s easy to pick those to focus on instead—my parents’ happy faces and the soft scuff of house slippers across the carpet. Dinner as a family and reading with my dad before bed. The love that was always present in our home.

It’s what I want for myself. Even though I haven’t found it yet, I want the sort of connection my parents had. I want someone I can build a future with.

With each new song that starts tonight, I look up at the stage, anxious to set eyes on Bo and make sense of what I’m feeling. It’s not until nearly halfway through showtime that they appear up on that stage. And when they do, the sharpness of my inhale makes me nearly dizzy.

The lights are dim. The room quiet save for the sound of wheels on wood as tall metal props are rolled front and center into a row, each rectangular with vertical bars like a prison cell. A performer stops behind each one, six in total, and one of them is Bo. It hits me, moments before the stage lights slowly illuminate the group and the music begins, which number they’re about to perform.

“Cell Block Tango” from Chicago.

Excitement fizzles in my gut, and I don’t even bother to work on drink orders, instead focusing on the spectacle on stage. There’s plenty to look at up there, but as those first rhythmic, tapping notes fill the room, my eyes track to Bo.

And I can not look away.

Like the rest of the performers on stage, Bo is dressed in all black. And very little of it. Their legs are bare apart from garters sitting snug against their thighs, neither scrap of fabric connected to any stockings. Fingerless, fishnet gloves cover Bo’s entire arms, up to their shoulders. Their shorts, if you could even call them that, are molded to their body, a half-inch inseam at most. I’m positive if they turned around, I’d see some ass cheek. And to top it all off, a black corset, tied together with laces, fits lovingly around Bo’s frame.

My cock more than twitches.

Bo and the rest of the performers start off the number, dancing and singing in well-rehearsed choreography, and it’s phenomenal. They’re all fantastic, and I can tell, with a quick visual sweep of the room, I’m not the only one who thinks so. The crowd is enamored.

The song is uptempo but angry, each “prison mate” singing about their alleged crime. And when it’s Bo’s turn in the spotlight, playing the part of “Six,” I let myself look. Really look. For the first time, I drink them in without reservation. Without averting my gaze. Without rationalizing away my curiosity.

I look with an open mind.

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