Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [74]
Because I have literally no shame whatsoever, I changed clothes in the backseat. No one stopped to watch, which was not quite insulting and, technically, should be considered a mark in the win column. Then again, I was only changing into a skirt and swapping out shoes, so I guess I wasn’t exactly putting on a show.
When I emerged from the vehicle I looked a little more like I belonged in the neighborhood, or at least I hoped so. If nothing else, I appeared young enough that—it was to be fervently prayed—I didn’t look like a middle-aged swinger looking for a third.
And God, it was still early. I had five or six hours to kill before it’d be worth my time to stroll over to the diner. So it was a real good thing I have a secret soft spot for disco. I roamed from club to club, watching show after show, and pickup after pickup in bar after bar.
I only treated myself to one glass of wine, so I stayed plenty sober throughout the evening, even for me. And in that last hour before the end of Rose’s shift, I wended to the Poppycock Review in order to hang out as a patron and—in all honesty—make sure my new lead didn’t magically disappear in a poof of glitter and a hearty snap of her fingers. I didn’t like being put off until later, and I didn’t intend to be stood up.
By the time I returned, the Review was jumping and jam-packed.
Pre-menopausal Madonna chirped aggressively from every speaker, and the press of bodies was close, salty-smelling, and frankly delicious—so very delicious that I wondered if this was such a good idea after all. For the previous chunk of the evening I’d been crashing in bars and keeping to the edges of the social scenery as a matter of personal sanity, but this was invigorating and fun, if cramped. I hadn’t been out dancing in longer than I could remember (since disco was popular the first time around? Maybe), and although I wasn’t dressed as appropriately as I would’ve preferred, I couldn’t keep my body from moving, bouncing, lunging along with the crowd as I made my way back to the stage area.
It wasn’t really a stage, exactly. It was just a swath of the dance floor that was being forcibly cleared for the night’s grand finale. A small dyke herded swaying, bopping dancers off to the edges, underneath the balcony overhangs and up the stairs so they could dangle off the banisters and lean over the rails. Those below were splashed periodically with beer, Long Island iced tea, or other contents from drunkenly handled pitchers up above. I picked the driest spot I could reach without hurting anyone and braced myself against a support pillar to watch the proceedings—hoping they’d include Sister Rose. If she came out to perform, I’d know she hadn’t flown the coop while I was out.
I’m not sure why I was so confident she hadn’t taken off, except that she seemed to know something about me—and by extension, perhaps about her baby sister’s condition before she vanished. If I’d played my cards right, Rose would be dying to know what I knew, just like I was dying to know what she knew. Maybe we’d both come out of it disappointed, or maybe we wouldn’t.
But my desire to see Rose perform wasn’t disappointed. She was announced as the next girl up, and all the late-night, drunk-as-hell partiers retreated the last few feet out of the performance area from respect or fear. I stayed where I was, except that I took a half step back, up onto a short, low pedestal against which the pillar was set. It gave me about three inches of height I wouldn’t otherwise have, and that, coupled with my obscenely tall shoes, let me see pretty much everything.
“Everything” consisted at first of “not much.” The lights dimmed, and then changed color before exploding afresh into vibrant shades of gold, blue, and scarlet. From the DJ booth a swift, naughty beat began to blare, and with it came a deeply fey voice that announced, “Ladies, and gentlemen, and everyone in between … we’re saving the best for last here at the Poppycock Review, and you know what that means,