Authors: Lance Zarimba
Vacation Therapy (33 page)
But if it wasn't Cha-Cha, then who? Tom? He wanted to start a new married life outside of the porn business. Would he kill to escape? If he wanted to stay in the business, he'd want to hide his secret about not being gay, but if he was moving on, why bother?
Sean was in the position to lose a lot when Tom quit. If he lost his biggest star, he would lose a lot of his revenue, and Sean didn't seem willing to work that hard to find a replacement. Sean didn't seem to work very hard on anything, so I bet Tom fell into his lap, and when Tom's popularity skyrocketed, Sean made big bucks without any advice or work on his part.
What was really strange was how Sean was able to represent both Tom and Logan. Wasn't that like playing both ends of the spectrum? I couldn't believe that Sean had the brains to diversify in his representation for both literature and male erotica. Would he be able to kill someone?
But Logan could come up with something. I had read all of his books, and he had killed a lot of people in some very ingenious ways in them. He could be pretty desperate at this point. If his publisher was threatening to drop him from their line-up, and his “secret” was made public, he could be pushed to kill. We'd seen the letter from Sean, his agent—he needed to do something to boost his sales, and staging a murder at Club Fred that resembled the ones in his book could give him the publicity he needed. And it could have the added advantage of killing the person who could drag him out of the closet.
My head was beginning to hurt. Were my nerves starting to act up from this stupid talent show or were we really in danger? I rubbed my eyes and forehead. Who else was there?
David and David? What did we really know about them? They kept to themselves. But was that by choice or did people run away from their presence? Chubby David seemed nice, but Skinny David, whoa. He was a head case. Pushy, loud, rude, opinionated, and he never shut up. How could someone go on and on about nothing at all? How could Skinny David find out anything to blackmail someone with if he never stopped talking?
Sergio's voice continued to echo from the bathroom. “You do have the routine down, don't you? I know, I ran through all those steps pretty fast, but if you get lost, just follow me. I'm sure..."
I shook my head.
Their file had said that they were having financial hardships, so why would they come on vacation? Could they even afford it? Unless they were making money here, but doing what? Taking things in or out of the country? Ancient artifacts? Drugs? Could Skinny David's annoying personality be a cover for a smuggling ring through their store? Was that reason enough to kill?
And speaking about money, Mike's Club Fred wasn't operating in the black. This week had been plagued with one problem after another. Could Mike be sabotaging his business—planning for bankruptcy—with this trip and killing off a few problems along the way?
And I couldn't forget about Gary. He was a letch. He could have been bleeding Mike dry. Maybe that's why Club Fred was going bankrupt. And what about John? He was a pretty boy model and the Club Fred icon. Could he have been thinking of moving on? Asking for a cut of the profits? But they were dead, so they couldn't be the villains. Mike didn't seem too broken up about their deaths, but he sure seemed friendly with Cha-Cha, allowing her to MC the talent show.
And that brought us full circle.
"Earth to Taylor. Earth to Taylor.” Sergio said, tapping my arm.
I started and looked at him.
"Welcome back. I see what I've been saying has been
so important
to you.” He rested his hands on his hips. “I think we should get to the stage and round everyone up for one last pep talk before the talent show,” Sergio said. “I'm glad it's before we eat, because if I ate anything before the show, I'd probably throw up on stage. I'm sure that would win us first prize. Are you listening to me?” He stamped his foot on the floor. “Taylor, I'm talking to you."
"What?” I said, jarred out of the thoughts that had been racing around and around in my head.
Mike's voice boomed through the speakers. “Let me introduce our next act. She flew all the way to Club Fred from Minneapolis, Minnesota."
"On her broom, no doubt,” Sergio said, as he turned around and smiled at us.
"The amazing, the talented, the one and the only..."
"Thank goodness there's only one,” Sergio said.
"Cha-Cha!” Mike announced.
The driving beat of the opening bars of Tina Turner's “The Best” floated through the air. Cha-Cha stepped out onto the stage in her full glory, with a blond highlighted Tina Turner wig. Her hair stood up in all directions. A slinky black dress draped across her body. The silky fabric shone and reflected black, blue, and silver in the spotlight with every move she made. Her long, tan legs clad in black stiletto heels emerged from the front slits of her dress.
"In her wildest dreams,” Sergio said under his breath as he rolled his eyes. He adjusted the holster and gun that rode low on his narrow hips.
I leaned forward, inspecting Sergio's costume. It looked a little loose on him, but it appeared to be a real uniform. I wondered if he had found it in the costume closet, and I hoped the gun was just a toy. The thought of a weapon in Sergio's hands made me cringe. At least it wasn't the machete.
"I'll call to you, when I need you...” Tina's sultry voice began to sing as Cha-Cha removed the microphone from the stand and started her performance.
I had seen the real Tina Turner in concert at the Fargodome, and Cha-Cha copied her every move to perfection.
Sergio turned his back to the stage and said in his commando voice. “Line up men."
Everyone rushed and stood at attention in full costume. We watched Cha-Cha dance as Sergio walked up and down our line. He adjusted here and primped there, making sure real life matched the vision for our act in his mind.
"Remember, keep in time with the music and make sure your arm movements are sharp and crisp. No wimpy, wispy, weak-wristed movements. We're men, right?” he instructed over the blaring music.
A weak round of yeahs greeted him.
"What was that?” he demanded.
"Yes, drill sergeant, sir,” I said, loud and firmly.
Sergio nodded. “Good.” He turned around and looked on stage. “Live your dream now honey, because you don't stand a chance, not even on
RuPaul's Drag Race
."
"At least she didn't do Diana Ross,” I said.
"She can't do Tina Turner either,” Sergio replied. “Maybe she should've picked
The Acid Queen
. That's more her style. Simply the best. Ha."
Skinny David said, “At least it wasn't
Proud Mary
.” He paused for a second and started to laugh. “Do you get it? Proud Mary?” He continued to laugh as the others chuckled nervously with him.
"No one calls anyone ‘Mary’ anymore,” Sergio whispered to me and rolled his eyes.
I looked around the back stage area. A full-length mirror stood off to the side. My reflection stared back at me, but I didn't recognize myself. The yellow hard hat rode low on my head, while the mirrored sunglasses covered my eyes and most of my face. The white T-shirt clung to my body, even more tightly after Sergio had folded and tucked it into my underwear, before I could protest.
A hammer, a screwdriver, and a tape measure hung from my utility belt, which rode low on my hips. No wonder carpenters always revealed butt crack with all this weight pulling their pants down. I tugged my loose jeans up, higher on my hips. Quickly, I looked around to make sure Sergio still had his back to me. If I had left them where he had adjusted them, they'd have fallen off in the middle of our act. Maybe that was Sergio's plan.
"You're the best...” Tina's voice faded as Cha-Cha bowed forward, leaning over her high heels and spreading her arms out to the side. Whoops and hollers rose from the crowd as thunderous applause reverberated through the night air.
Mike reached over and retrieved the microphone. He stepped back and waited as Cha-Cha took her final bow. He clapped his hands together, around the microphone, and slowly made his way to the center of the stage. “How was that?” he asked.
Cha-Cha stepped back and disappeared behind the back curtain.
The main curtain fell, and Mike remained out in front to work the crowd.
"Places,” Sergio said, and pushed Cha-Cha out of the way. Frantically, he pointed to our starting positions.
"All the way from Greenwich Village,” Mike shouted into the microphone. “Help me give them a Club Fred welcome... The Village People."
"Break a leg,” Cha-Cha sneered.
"Break your neck,” Sergio replied.
Cha-Cha stomped her foot down, hard. Her slender heel skidded across the rain slicked stage floor. The impact propelled her shoe off of her foot. Her bare toes emerged as the pump sailed across the back stage and disappeared into a darkened corner. As she stepped forward, she revealed her tan foot to me. Then the same image flashed in my mind, reminding me of something I had seen before. But when? Where?
But before I could recall it, the curtain started to rise. The spotlights swept the floor and the stage lights dimmed, shrouding us in shadows.
Cha-Cha shrieked in rage and raced after her shoe.
The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as a cold shiver ran down my spine. Instead of trying to remember the image, my mind screamed, “What the hell did you get yourself into this time?"
My heart throbbed in time with the intro as
YMCA
started to play.
The curtain rose as the spotlights circled the stage. The backlights slowly intensified, their heat burning the chilling effect of my nerves off my spine. The horns blasted their song and the spotlights stopped. One spotlight trained directly on me and focused its beam into my face. I was blinded. I stood there, frozen, as the music continued to grow and swell.
"On three,” Sergio hissed. He swiveled his right leg out to the side as he snapped his fingers in time with each blast of the horns. “One... two... three."
"Young man...” burst out of the speakers, and the six of us stepped forward, following Sergio's lead. Each time “young man” was sung, we took another step forward and swung our hips back and forth.
Despite the hard hat being pulled down low on my head, the mirrored sunglasses did little to decrease the intensity of the blinding light. I shifted slightly to the left, using Sergio to block the glare and enabling me to better follow his lead. I stayed one beat behind each of his movements.
Quickly, the first chorus started, and our arms flew into action, spelling out the letters in the air. My eyes strained to see the crowd through the blinding lights. I thought I saw a wave of arms from the audience, flailing around in time with ours. My heart throbbed louder than the backbeat of the song.
The utility belt and tools slapped my hips with each gyration of my pelvis. I couldn't believe I was doing this. Disco of all things. Was it fear or was my body really able to complete these motions? Maybe I was fooling myself and this wasn't going as well as I thought, and maybe I was making a complete ass out of myself.
But, what else was new?
I didn't have time to worry about it. The next stanza of the song started, and we were off again.
Time fused with light and sound. The stage vibrated with energy and the thunderous disco beat.
As the final chorus repeated, the six of us split into two groups. Our arms were still flapping in time, spelling out letters, as we backed away from the audience and away from each other. Logan, Sergio, and I headed to the left, while Tom and the two Davids veered right. The sides of the stage loomed closer. We were almost done. The crowd roared with applause as the curtain hit the floor.
I exhaled.
We were done. It was over. We survived.
Or so I thought.
Sergio turned to face Logan and me, a huge smile forming on his face. “You guys did it.” Then his smile died, and he stopped.
Logan and I turned to see what had happened.
Cha-Cha stood behind us, rocking her foot on a stiletto heel, tapping her toe on the stage.
Mike's voice boomed from the speakers. “Was that something or what? Here at Club Fred, we spare no expense to bring you the best in live entertainment."
I was torn. I wanted to correct Mike and tell him he wasn't paying me anything at all, but Cha-Cha's stance meant business.
Mike continued, “For our next act, put your hands together to welcome The Bondage Boys!"
The crowd screamed and clapped as “Ahhhhhhh, Love to love you, baby...” moaned from the speakers in Donna Summer's sultry voice. The curtain rose, and the back of the stage moved forward, blocking our view of stage right. The floor moved forward. Two shrouded shapes stood center stage as the spotlights blazed to life. They pulled back their monk hoods, and the pierced guys from our Club Fred check-in emerged, standing face to face, staring at each other.
The magnetic boys’ shrouds slowly dropped to the floor with a zip of silky fabric across their skin. Underneath were bands of black leather crisscrossing their bodies, strategically covering private parts, but exposing almost everything else. Pierced flesh with rings, loops, and bar bells protruded from everywhere and everything. And I mean everything. Form-fitting leather jockstraps revealed silver rings protruding from slits in the pouches.
I didn't want to know where those rings were attached.
The scent of watermelon assaulted my nose again. I pulled my gaze from the horrific sight on stage, and turned my attention to Sergio and Cha-Cha.
"What is your problem?” Sergio demanded.
"Whatever do you mean?” Cha-Cha batted her long eyelashes.
"You know damn well what I mean. You've been a royal bitch ever since I met you."
Another wave of watermelon hit me, followed by the image of that long, tan leg and foot. This time, it was sitting next to mine.
"I saw him first, and you took him away from me,” she shrieked at Sergio, but her eyes bore into me.
Logan backed away from us, trying to avoid the tirade.