Such a Dance (12 page)

Lane watched Eddie while he paced the room. He sat on the bed, figuring he’d wait out Eddie’s fit, that he’d make a move when Eddie calmed down.

The cause of Eddie’s distress was becoming increasingly clear as he ranted and paced. Lane wished he could do something, but he wasn’t sure of the best way to go about it. Would he piss Eddie off? Would he offer comfort? Did Eddie want Lane’s comfort?

“You’re worried about losing your job,” Lane ventured.

Eddie stopped pacing and stared at Lane. “Well, of course! Lane, this is my whole life. Do you know how long I’ve been dancing? Performing? I spent years getting to this place, and now I might lose it all because Blanchard has decided Marian is his muse. It’s like I’m not even there. It’s like . . .”

And here was where Eddie finally lost it. His whole face crumpled. Lane worried briefly that he might cry, but instead, he rubbed his face and sat on the bed.

“It might be nothing,” Lane said, putting his arms around Eddie. “Maybe Marian’s song will bring more attention to your act. You guys really are the best part of the Doozies. Everyone knows that. Your producer can’t fire you. He’d lose half his audience.”

Eddie leaned into Lane. “I know, I know.” He sighed. “I’m probably being irrational, but I can’t help but think I’m being pushed out.”

“You can cross that bridge when you get to it. No sense worrying yourself, especially since there’s not much you can do about it now.”

Eddie took a deep breath. “You’re right, of course.”

“I am sometimes.”

“Well, thank you for letting me lose my mind.”

“Anytime.”

They were quiet together for a long time, just leaning against each other, Lane’s arms wrapped around Eddie. Lane leaned his cheek against Eddie’s hair. He liked the way Eddie smelled, the way Eddie’s body felt against his. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry you’re going through all this,” he said softly.

“I’m overreacting,” Eddie said, burrowing his face into Lane’s neck. “You’re right, it’s probably going to be fine.”

“You want someone to lean on, someone to talk to about this, you can come to me. You want not to talk, if you want me to just make you forget, I can do that, too.”

“Thank you.”

Something warm spread through Lane’s chest. It wasn’t just that he was aroused, that he wanted Eddie, but he also wanted to make Eddie feel better, he wanted to hold Eddie, and he cared about what happened. He wondered briefly how that had happened, but then he realized that it had probably been that way all along.

And then he really wanted to kiss Eddie. And he wasn’t willing to take no for an answer this time.

He eased away from Eddie slightly. He held Eddie’s face in his hands, while Eddie’s hands moved to his waist. Their eyes met and something intangible passed between them. So Lane moved in. Their faces were so close, and he looked at Eddie’s eyes one more time to get permission. When Eddie didn’t move away, Lane lunged forward and pressed his lips against Eddie’s.

Eddie hardly reacted at first, so Lane moved in deeper, using his tongue to open Eddie’s mouth, and then sucking Eddie’s lower lip between his teeth. Eddie let out a strangled mumble but then seemed to relax, opening his mouth, kissing Lane. They got lost together as everything around them faded. It was just the two of them, their lips sliding together, a slow congress, a sweet meeting. It was better than Lane imagined, more intimate, more arousing, closer, warmer.

Eddie pulled away slightly, but kept on kissing Lane’s face, nipping at his jaw. Lane sighed as Eddie’s hands moved to his body and started loosening his clothes. Lane gave in to him, letting him touch anywhere he wanted. Eddie’s fingers dug into Lane’s flesh as he pulled off items of clothing. Lane gave it all back, pulling at Eddie’s shirt, undoing buttons, moving his shirt off his shoulders.

And then everything was urgent. Fabric tore, buttons popped, and articles of clothing were tossed on the floor. Soon enough, they were naked, pressed together on the bed, all hands and fingers, arms and legs tangled, smooth skin, rough skin, hair, nails.

Lane moved to kiss Eddie again, but was refused this time, Eddie turning his face away. Lane rolled his eyes, but kissed Eddie’s face, hoping to coax him back. He touched Eddie everywhere, sliding his hands over his skin, touching and feeling and getting lost in Eddie’s flesh.

Eddie moaned. Their cocks thrust together, and Lane’s hips seemed to move by their own power, pumping and pressing against Eddie, needing that friction. Eddie’s hands pressed into his back, holding him close, and the crescendo began in Lane, warmth spreading through his body, tingles over his skin. Then Eddie’s fingers found their way along the crack of Lane’s ass. “I want . . .” Eddie whispered. “. . . to be inside you.”

“Yes,” said Lane.

In an instant, Lane found himself on his back. He spread his legs for Eddie and felt Eddie’s cock pressing against him, and his body seemed to keen and yearn toward Eddie, everything in him screaming to be closer to Eddie, and then suddenly, Eddie was gone.

Lane’s arms felt empty, his body cold, and he was surprised that being parted was such a shock to his system. He propped himself up on his elbows and watched Eddie lope across the room. He picked up a tub of Vaseline from the vanity table in the corner, and then walked back, a smile on his face.

Well, the smile was nice to see. It had been a real rarity lately. Lane opened his arms. “Come here. I want you.”

Eddie dipped his head, but not before Lane saw him smile again. He walked over to the bed and fell into Lane’s arms, and Lane wrapped himself around Eddie tightly. Eddie wriggled a hand between them and started to prepare Lane, sliding his fingers across Lane’s entrance and gently probing. Lane widened his legs, wanting Eddie close to him, inside him, more than anything, wanting to grasp onto that closeness that had been growing between them. Eddie slipped a finger inside Lane and Lane groaned, not minding the invasion, wanting it. Eddie’s Vaseline-covered fingers were slick and he was careful, stopping to ask if what he was doing was okay, slowly stretching and opening up Lane.

Then, when Lane couldn’t take gentle and careful anymore, he said, “Now, Eddie. Please.”

It happened so quickly, Lane almost didn’t believe it, but suddenly, Eddie was poised to enter him. Lane pulled his legs up to his chest and felt Eddie’s cock pressing gently against his opening. Lane shifted his hips to show Eddie he wanted it. Eddie pressed forward, holding his breath, then letting it go on a moan.

“You feel so good,” Eddie murmured, thrusting inside slowly. “So good, baby.”

Lane put his hands on Eddie’s lower back to encourage him forward, because Eddie was filling him up and touching all the right places, finding that spot inside Lane that sent lightning flashes everywhere. Lane’s cock was trapped between their stomachs, and all the texture and friction was driving him wild, making him sweat and tingle, and he wanted Eddie to keep pushing inside, to move, to thrust, to keep hitting that magic spot.

Eddie did. Eddie moved, at first at a steady pace and then erratically. For Lane, everything was feeling and sensation and it was overwhelming. He smelled Eddie, he was tangled up with him, and it pushed and pulled at Lane until he couldn’t see or speak, couldn’t do anything but feel. He looked at Eddie and their eyes met, and the look on Eddie’s face was ecstatic. Eddie’s cock rubbed against that spot inside Lane, and his hairy stomach pressed against Lane’s cock, Lane felt himself topple right over, the orgasm reaching all corners of his body as he came between them.

Eddie hissed and sighed and moaned and kept on thrusting until he, too, seemed to get lost. He closed his eyes and shuddered and Lane held him as he rocked and came, and then they collapsed together on the bed, sweaty and sticky and satisfied.

Lane regained the capacity for rational thought a short time later, but found he liked being wrapped up in Eddie, comfortable in the bed. Eddie sighed so deeply his chest vibrated against Lane’s.

“I’ve never . . . had an arrangement like this before,” Eddie said.

“Do you like it?”

“I . . . yes. Very much.”

“Good,” said Lane. “I do, too. Let’s keep it going, shall we?”

Eddie laid his head on Lane’s chest and circled his arms around Lane’s waist. It was a little awkward, but Lane felt warm and cared for, and that was what mattered. Eddie took a few deep breaths and then said so softly Lane barely heard, “Yes. I think I’ll keep you.”

“Crazy Blues”

J
immy Blanchard sent a stagehand to fetch Eddie, so Eddie dutifully appeared in Jimmy’s office a few minutes later. “Did you want to see me, sir? Because I’ve also got some ideas for—”

Jimmy stood as Eddie walked into the room. He remained standing as Eddie approached the spare chair, leaving Eddie to wonder if he should sit or not.

“I’ll be brief,” Jimmy said. “You were spotted at the Marigold.”

Eddie opted to sit in the chair, seeing as how his knees were about to give out. “I don’t know what you’re—”

“I don’t care whether it was you or not. Rumor in the theater is that you’re a goddamn faggot dancing pansy, and we all know rumor carries more weight than the truth.”

“Jimmy, I—”

“Here’s the situation. Marian is the crown jewel of this whole production. You are only still here because she insists that you stay, and far be it from me to deprive that girl of what she wants. But she doesn’t have the final word. I do. So I’m putting you on notice. You do anything to embarrass this production—if you flub a number or if you are seen within a block of that club—that’s it. You got that?”

“Yes, boss, I—”

“Good. We’re finished here.”

Eddie walked back to his dressing room in a daze. It felt a little futile to rehash his movements for the last few weeks, wondering when he’d been spotted. He did anyway. He’d known it was a possibility for one of the stagehands from the James Theater to have seen him at the Marigold, but he’d been banking on the threat of mutual incrimination to keep him safe, and besides, he hadn’t recalled seeing anyone he knew at the club. On the other hand, there were so many times that he’d let his guard down, that he’d stopped being careful, and probably there were a dozen opportunities for him to have been seen. He had to be more careful if he was going to keep his job. Thus he resolved not to go back to the Marigold.

Then he thought: Lane.

He walked into his dressing room and thought about what was more important: Lane or his job. He figured it was only a matter of time before he’d have to choose. He reasoned also that he’d been working toward this dream of performing for two decades, but he’d only known Lane for a few months. If he kept this job, there would be other men.

Of course, none of them would be Lane.

He chastised himself for imagining this relationship with Lane was more than what it was. He’d begun to fancy that they might have some kind of partnership, something more sophisticated than a simple arrangement, but he saw the folly in that now. He took a few moments to mourn the loss of those late nights dancing at the Marigold. But he knew it would take more than a few moments to mourn Lane.

His heart ached as he got ready for that night’s show. Maybe he could see Lane without going to the Marigold. That seemed like a good idea until he figured that it was also only a matter of time until some stagehand saw them out and put two and two together. No, better to sever all ties, to stick to the theater and what he’d wanted his whole life than to let himself succumb to the fantasy of a man in his life as great as Lane. There was no way that would ever work.

But, God, he would miss Lane so much.

 

Lane didn’t know what to do with the fact that Officer Al Hardy was standing in the kitchen of the Marigold.

He ran a finger over the ridge of folded bills in his pocket. He hated to part with this much money, but he knew he had enough to keep Hardy from raiding for at least a little while longer.

Hardy looked around. “You serve a lot of food here?”

He sounded so skeptical that Lane decided honesty was the best approach. “No. Most of the appliances don’t work.”

“So what sort of establishment is this?”

“A social one.” Lane tried to remember exactly how much cash was in his pocket. “A place to come to hear music.”

Hardy raised an eyebrow. “I don’t like what you’re doing here, Carillo. I get reports about men dancing and cavorting together.”

“Dancing is not illegal.”

Hardy took a step toward Lane. “Lewd behavior in public is.”

“Nothing lewd happens here. I have rules. Everyone here keeps their clothes on.”

“Right.” Hardy kept walking forward until he stood within a foot of Lane. “So let’s discuss that man in a dress who guards your front door.”

Lane rubbed his forehead. He’d sweet-talked Hardy into looking the other way during shipments at other clubs in the neighborhood at which he’d worked, but he worried now Hardy wouldn’t be able to see past the nature of this club. He reminded himself that this was always the risk. Still, maybe money would be the deciding factor.

Hardy was already uncomfortably close, but Lane leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Etta is harmless. We’re all law-abiding citizens here.”

Hardy surprised the hell out of Lane by grabbing his tie. “What you are, Carillo, is filthy. I know what really goes on here.” He yanked on the tie, pulling Lane forward until their bodies met. Lane tried to pull back, but Hardy more persistently pressed his hips against Lane’s. Lane gasped.

Hardy was hard.

He let go of Lane’s tie, dropping it like it had caught fire. Lane took a step back, trying to quickly regain his composure. As gracefully as he could, he palmed the cash from his pocket.

“I think perhaps we understand each other,” Lane said. He held out a hand. “It was great to see you again, Officer.”

Hardy shook Lane’s hand and took the money. “Likewise. I want to believe you’re a good man, Carillo.” He glanced at the bills in his hand before shoving them in his pocket. “You’ve always known your way around the business.”

“Thank you.”

“Stay out of trouble. I better not find out you’re bootlegging.”

When Hardy left, Lane retreated to his office. He lit a cigarette and fretted about the situation he now found himself in. This meeting had been . . . revealing. Hardy’s particular agenda was clear now to Lane, but Lane worried there wasn’t a way out of this one besides to continue to pay the man off. Hardy was perhaps bitter or angry about his lot in life; he was a type Lane had met before, a man who might take out his aggressions on those living the life he felt he couldn’t have. It took a particular sort of self-loathing to behave the way Hardy did. And that put Lane in a precarious position.

He considered breaking into his personal reserve of whiskey, but thought better of it. He needed something more powerful to calm his nerves. Like sex.

He thought of Eddie, which sometimes also made him think of Scott. The harder he fell for Eddie, the more guilt he felt over what happened to Scott. Lane sat at his desk and conjured up his memories, thinking fondly of his early days in New York with Scott at his side. He’d been deliriously in love, or thought he’d been, anyway, and he’d happily pledged his life to Scott. Scott had declared his love right back, and everything seemed too amazing to be true. Which, of course, it was. The image of Scott’s bloated body being pulled from the river flashed back into his head.

He bent forward and rested his forehead against his desk. There were days he still missed Scott, missed how he smelled, missed his laugh, missed the way they could talk about anything for hours, missed how Scott had felt in his arms. He worried that his involvement with Eddie was a betrayal of Scott, but Scott was gone. Scott had forfeited the right to influence Lane’s life the day he jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge.

Lane sat up suddenly, surprised by that last thought. It was Scott who’d given up, Scott who’d left, Scott who’d jumped. Lane had persevered without him. Now Scott was nowhere but Eddie was mere blocks away. It was Eddie who played on his mind during idle time, Eddie he’d held in the night most recently, Eddie who was slowly stealing his heart.

It occurred to him that he hadn’t seen Eddie in a few days, which struck him as odd given that Eddie had spent nearly every night of the previous week at the Marigold.

And once that thought had popped into his head, Lane made the decision to head over to the theater that night. As the evening wore on, the idea seemed increasingly appealing, though it was also tinged with anxiety that something had happened.

He fretted that he didn’t know Eddie well enough to tell what could have happened. Maybe Eddie had gotten hurt. Maybe something had gone wrong at the theater. Maybe he’d met someone else. He’d said he wanted to give them a chance, but what if...

It was a slow night, so Lane didn’t feel guilty about ducking out of the club early. He walked over to the James Theater and leaned against the lamppost at which he often waited for Eddie. He pulled his hat low so that the brim hid his eyes and watched the various performers leave the theater. He recognized a few of the chorines who snuck out the back way that night, and then he saw Marian France leave the theater on the arm of an older gentleman. He wondered for a brief moment if Eddie had already left, but then, finally, the stage door opened and Eddie emerged.

Lane cleared his throat.

Eddie looked up. He took off his hat and pushed his hair out of his face. “Lane,” he whispered.

“Haven’t seen you in a few days.”

“Yeah, I . . .” Eddie shook his head and stepped toward Lane. “I can’t talk to you here.” He lowered his voice and added, “Meet me at my room in ten minutes.”

He was gone before Lane could ask what was going on. He finished his cigarette, keeping an eye on street traffic. He cooked up a few theories for what Eddie was up to as he walked and only became more puzzled as he made his way down the block. Did Eddie have another lover who might have caught them? Why the need for secrecy?

When he got to Eddie’s room, he hesitated before knocking. When Eddie opened the door, he whispered, “Is anyone else in the hall? Did anyone see you come in here?”

“No one’s here. I don’t think anyone saw me.”

Eddie nodded and then grabbed the front of Lane’s shirt and hauled him into the room.

“What’s going on?” Lane asked.

Eddie frowned. He pulled off his hat and jacket. “I can’t come to the Marigold anymore. Someone saw me there and told my boss. If I’m seen there again, I’ll get fired.”

Lane gasped. That was not at all what he’d expected. “Shit. He can’t do that, can he?”

“He told me as much four days ago.”

Lane walked over to the bed and sat down. “Well, all right. We’ll all miss you there, me most especially, but I’ll still see you, right?”

“I don’t know. I can’t risk getting caught again, at least not for a while. I don’t
want
to stop seeing you, but I don’t know if—”

The end of Eddie’s sentence was muffled against Lane’s chest as Lane pulled him into a tight hug. Eddie let out a shaky breath and put his arms around Lane. He mumbled Lane’s name a few times before resting his head on Lane’s shoulder.

“God,” Eddie said. “I don’t know what to do. I’ve worked so hard. I can’t lose this job. I was just going to . . . but then I saw you outside the theater and . . . I can’t lose you, too.”

Lane’s breath got caught in his throat. They really were a pair, weren’t they? He stroked Eddie’s hair. “I understand about your job. We’ll figure something out.” Not in a million years would Lane let Eddie push him away. Not when Eddie held him this tightly, needed him this badly. They could still be together while Eddie danced at the Doozies. Lane knew all about discretion. “We’ll find a way.”

“But what if—”

Lane kept stroking Eddie’s hair. “I don’t know how, but we’ll do this.”

Eddie pulled away slightly and looked up at Lane. “My whole life, the stage was all I ever wanted. To sing and dance for people. Blanchard has been out for me for a long time, I think. He and Marian are an item, so he has no use for me. Marian is my friend and would stick her neck out for me, but Blanchard really only needs an excuse.” Eddie’s eyes looked wild, wide and staring unfocused, and he kept shaking his head. “If it gets out that I . . . that we . . . well, I’ll never work again.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Broadway is full of homosexual men, but no one wants to talk about it. And Marian, the act, that was propelling me to the top. I didn’t expect for us to keep the act up forever, but I need this job, at least until the end of the season.” Eddie sighed. “I
need
this. I can’t let Blanchard take it away.”

Lane held Eddie close, tried to comfort him by stroking his back, his arms. “You won’t lose the job. You can’t. You’re Eddie Cotton.”

“I don’t know what I’ll do if he fires me. I’m nothing without the act. Nothing.”

“Eddie, come on, how can you say that? If he fires you, well, he’s a damn fool, but you’ll figure something out. You’ll get another job. You can change your act, refine it, audition for a better producer. Hell, you could dance for Ziegfeld and become even better than you are now. I have faith in you.”

“It’s nice that one of us does.”

 

Eddie sometimes thought that going out in public required more acting than being on stage.

Marian called it “an appearance.” They’d been doing this since they’d created their act together; mostly it involved being seen at whichever club was the bee’s knees that week. The point was to see and be seen, to remind people of what they represented, to do their couple act but out in the wild. So, on a warm spring night, at Marian’s urging, they walked into the 300 Club, Texas Guinan’s late-night hotspot. Eddie had to grease the palm of the bouncer, since apparently just knowing the speakeasy’s password didn’t guarantee admittance anymore.

“This place has gotten swanky,” Marian commented as they did a lap around the room.

It had, that was true. Texas Guinan herself held court at a table toward the middle. Eddie had met her once, years before, and doubted he held the sort of clout that could keep her attention. She prided herself on catering to the rich and famous, neither of which really described Eddie, despite his best efforts.