Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
The odd combination tickled Connelly’s curiosity. From one table to another, the guy bounced, nodding his head and shooting that weird grin. Then he strutted to the bar with a swagger that said he knew exactly what he was doing. Behind the bar, the stranger picked up a serving tray and started gathering drinks.
Okay, he was a server. End of mystery.
The bartender set the two drinks Connelly had ordered on the bar. “That’ll be twenty-one fifty.”
Eyes still on the shirtless guy, Connelly handed over the money. Just as he was about to head back to Raoul, he caught something odd. Smiley stood with his back toward the bartender as he stuck his hand under the shelf at the back of the bar. His smile was gone when he looked over his shoulder. Whatever he’d grabbed was now hidden in his fist. He lifted the tray loaded with drinks and walked right past Connelly on his way to the first table.
It was barely hidden by his fingers, a small baggie filled with white powder. Immediately, Connelly’s instincts kicked in.
Drugs.
No wonder the guy was acting so shifty.
Which meant his birthday party was over before it had even begun. He headed back to his partner, ready to tell him all about what he saw, when the music changed and the lights began to dim.
“Tonight is your lucky night, queens,” the DJ announced over the speakers. “The Sassy Boyz will do two shows tonight and every night from now on.” Cheers followed the news as everyone in the place applauded. “Now, without further ado, put your hands together for the hottest show in NYC. Give it up for the Sassy Boyz!”
* * *
Z closed the zipper on his black Madame Deluxe ankle boot and smoothed the fancy fishnets over his calf. Lirim ran a shaky hand through his wispy locks and Z wondered if his friend was high. And if he was, what could Z do about it?
Nothing.
He resumed getting ready for their performance. This was the first night they’d be doing an extra show and he couldn’t afford to be distracted. The new routine was sensual as hell and he needed all his concentration to remember the intricate steps. If he worked it just right there was a chance he could hook a few new tricks and earn enough cash to buy a frozen burrito from the corner store on the way home.
As if summoned by the thought, his stomach growled. Luckily, the club music was loud enough that the boys didn’t notice. They were chatting like always, absorbed in applying makeup and pulling on their own costumes. Good thing. He didn’t want to lie and he couldn’t explain why he hadn’t eaten anything but a few cold Pop-Tarts that morning.
A smoke would help but he only had five Blacks left and didn’t want to waste them. He’d just swipe a bag of pretzels from Terry between dances so he didn’t faint from hunger.
How pathetic.
Tomorrow, he’d have cash in his pocket. He’d stay until closing and work every last guy in the place if he had to.
Being this broke reminded him far too much of those years after he’d finally left his aunt and uncle’s miserable house. Struggling every single day just to survive. Digging through trash so he wouldn’t starve and sleeping in cardboard boxes. On the streets alone and doing all kinds of shit to survive. He was still thankful for Sal. He’d made a point to leave take-out dinners outside for Z and the other kids in the neighborhood. Some days, those foam boxes contained the only food Z had to eat—some days they were all he had to live for.
A shudder ran through him, but he covered it up by pulling the leather harness over his shoulders. It had a high collar and was open to showcase his pronounced collarbones. The cross-hatched front exposed his nipples and buckled around his pecs so his ripped abs stood out even more. He’d combined it with the skintight shorts, lacy stockings and boots.
Sometimes he wondered if his obsession with black was because of his upbringing. According to the Grand Rabbi, black was the color of severity and was meant to symbolize the seriousness of life and the fear of heaven. Z liked to twist the shit out of that idea in his own way.
He crossed to the mirror and applied his purple lipstick. So, maybe he hadn’t completely lost that emo-goth-kid after all. Sometimes you had to embrace the darkness. As he looked at his reflection in the mirror, he remembered all those times he’d sat on his mother’s lap as she brushed his hair. She’d always loved his hair. She said it was his greatest asset.
Z agreed. Which was why he hadn’t cut it since his upsherin, a ceremonial first haircut at the age of three. If his mother had adhered to her religion, it would have marked the start of his formal education. He was still glad she eventually enrolled him in public school.