CHAPTER EIGHT

 

If he thought the music outside the club was loud, what greeted him as he entered felt like it was splitting his skull, and it grew louder the further into the building he walked. The bass beats thumped hard in his chest and the high notes whirred in his head.

Lights from one side of the room bounced off shiny Christmas decorations with the beat of the music, which was anything but festive. Already, he felt his head starting to ache.

God, he was getting old. Ten . . . fifteen years ago, he would have loved nothing more than going clubbing and to concerts. A few beers and some great bumping tunes would get him dancing and flirting with women.

He had to put all that away when he met Leah. She had a quiet but playful personality; she didn't like the loud stuff. And when Zoë was born, they both learned to enjoy the peace and quiet when they could finally get her to sleep. And he'd got used to the dull drone of street noise in his place above Wong's. Maybe too used to it.

Jack needn't have worried about attracting attention in the Majestic. He found himself walking past what looked like a gang of gay bikers. If anything, he felt over-dressed for the party, as many of the men wore little more than a leather jacket and heavy biker boots. Matching skinny black leather thongs just barely concealed their religion.

One man wore leather pants and matching jacket, similar to his own riding leathers. A black bandana with traditional paisley designs was wrapped snuggly over his head. He quickly looked away when he noticed Jack was looking at him.

One man stood taller than the group around him, though not as tall as Jack himself. He stepped away from his man-harem and stopped Jack in his tracks. The man didn't disguise his obvious critique of what he probably considered fresh meat. He looked Jack up and down, his gaze lingering on Jack's crotch before casting him a look of approval. Jack felt his spine stiffen under the scrutiny.

This guy was every bit the cliché gay biker Jack had ever seen pictures of—a look inspired by Glenn Hughes from the Village People. A dark, penetrating gaze shot out from beneath a small leather crush cap. His dark hair was short-cut with long sideburns, and a thick horseshoe mustache framed his mouth. His open silver-studded black leather jacket revealed the kind of hairy chest Jack didn't think anyone had seen since the 1970s—the hair was thick and spread across his whole chest and abdomen.

Thick biker-style chains looped around his neck and torso in a sort of bondage getup. A similar chain looped from his belt to his back pocket where it was probably attached to his wallet.

A quick glance further down revealed the man wore a similar style black thong as his friends, but his was studded and worn under black leather chaps that were similarly studded like a halo around the man's junk.

Absolutely no advertising here, Jack sarcastically thought. An outfit like this was designed for one thing and one thing only. Here's my cock; you know what to do.

Leaning in close, the man gazed intently into Jack's eyes. "I'm Rod," he said just over the music, emphasizing his name so there was no misunderstanding the double meaning. His voice was deeper than Jack expected.

"Good to know," was all Jack said, trying to move around the man, but he was blocked again. It was only a moment of scrutiny between them, but Jack felt if he didn't keep moving, it might give Rod the impression he was interested in a hook-up. He was not. He gave the man an abrupt nod and pushed past him.

It took all of Jack's will not to punch the guy in the face when he felt a hand grasp his ass. "Goddamn nice ass," Rod said over Jack's shoulder, deepening his voice. "What time does it open?"

With cautious purpose, Jack grabbed the man's wrist and spun it in a control hold, pulling Rod closer. Jack stared him in the eye for a moment then told him in no uncertain terms, "Sorry, Rod." Jack similarly emphasized the name. "It's closed for business." He pushed the man back against his friends and continued walking.

From behind, Rod shouted over the music, "If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

Chuckling under his breath, he said, "You'll be waiting, Princess."

Normally, Jack's height gave him a slight advantage over shorter people, but the ridiculously high heels worn by most of the club's patrons made him feel short, and in a way, a bit intimidated.

He needed to find Franklin but didn't see a way around the people in front of him. Going through them was the next best plan. "Pardon me, ladies," he said, motioning to a vague location past the group.

In unison, several heavily mascaraed gazes turned his way. "Well, of course, Sugar," one woman dressed in a dark blue evening gown said. The group made a narrow path between them, each giving him the once-over as he passed.

On the other side, Jack inhaled deeply through his nose, both clearing his sinuses from the onslaught of perfume and trying to calm his racing heart. He gazed back from the direction he'd come. The woman in blue gave a wink and blew him a kiss. The phrase fish out of water hit Jack hard.

He kept walking. The sooner he found Franklin, the sooner he could get him on video, and the sooner he could get the hell out of the place.

Jack didn't have anything against the lifestyles of these men. It just wasn't his lifestyle. He felt like an intruder, and somewhat of a voyeur, in what should be a private place for people with alternative lifestyles. He didn't belong here. That alone made him nervous.

Near the stage, Jack's attention was drawn to two women having an argument. He moved in that direction as he circled the club and realized one of them was Franklin. He missed the start of the conversation, but by the time he was within earshot, it was obvious Franklin was not happy.

Jack could hardly believe his eyes when he neared the argument. The woman Franklin argued with—Jack pegged her as around five foot seven or eight—was so beautiful, he couldn't believe she was a man. Even with her obvious Adam's apple, she looked like she could have stepped off the big screen of a classic '50s film. Her short platinum blonde hair, floor-length pink satin dress, matching pink elbow-length gloves, and diamonds around her neck and wrists made her look every bit of the Marilyn Monroe she emulated.

Even her voice shouted I'm a woman as he . . . she . . . chastised Franklin. "How many times do I have to tell you, Carol, you can't go backstage?"

"What do I have to do to get up there? I want to perform." Franklin was adamant. He didn't appear to be taking no for an answer.

Marilyn crossed her arms under her bountiful breasts and stood her ground. A crease formed between her otherwise stunning eyes. "I don't know how many times I have to tell you; you're not getting backstage. You are not going to perform here."

Franklin's height was emphasized when he leaned in, practically bending over Marilyn like a vulture, his face full of rage. He'd made little effort to change his voice from his manly one. "I don't deserve this. I'm as good as every other girl here. I deserve the right to compete as much as anyone else."

Marilyn stopped Franklin from pushing past with a hand on his chest. "I own this club, don't forget, and I decide who performs. I said no. I saw your audition, Carol. You're not good enough. The women performing here are some of the best around the world. You," she paused, giving Franklin the once-over, "are not. And besides, we're halfway through the competition and not allowing new entries."

"You bitch. Put me on the stage and let the audience decide if I should be in the competition or not."

Marilyn shook her pretty head. "It's not going to happen. Don't make this harder than it has to be."

When Franklin tried pushing past, Marilyn let out a shriek that was barely audible over the music and shouting people in the crowded room. Without thinking, Jack stepped in and pushed Franklin off her.

"You heard the lady. No means no."

Franklin spun on Jack, narrowing his . . . her . . . gaze.

Jack forced himself to remember that when in drag or dressing as a woman, the pronouns were she and her, and she wanted to be called by her female name.

"Go back to your butch boys and leave us ladies alone." Carol made it sound like it was the girls against the boys in the place.

Jack kept his gaze on Carol. It seemed to Jack's untrained eye that Carol was trying to look like his . . . her . . . wife but failing miserably.

Jack grunted with confusion. When a married man decided to dress as a woman, how was the wife addressed? His wife, her wife, the wife . . .

Without diverting his gaze, Jack asked Marilyn, "Would you like me to show this lady the door?"

Carol's gaze darted between Jack and Marilyn and back again.

"I think she can find her own way out. But make no mistake, Carol, I'm not changing my mind. Another outburst like this and I'll bar you from the Majestic, and not just for the competition."

Carol growled before throwing up her arms in frustration and stomped off. She looked every bit of a man who hadn't learned to walk in high heels as she moved. When Jack was sure Carol was no longer a threat, he turned back to Marilyn.

"You okay?"

Nodding, she said, "Thanks for your help. I don't know what I'm going to do with that girl."

"You could bar her, as you suggested. Problem solved."

Marilyn glanced toward the door then back at Jack. "I could, but there are so few places for people like us. Even in San Francisco. She's confused and hasn't found herself yet. She's a duck out of water who's easily frustrated when she doesn't get her way. She thinks her privilege will open doors that she hasn't earned yet."

Jack jolted at the word privilege. Did Marilyn know who Carol really was? "What do you mean by privilege? Do you know who she really is?"

Marilyn shook her head. "No, I don't know her outside of the club, but I've seen her car. Anyone who can afford a ride like that has to have money. Money equals privilege in this city."

He releasing a slow breath then asked, "What doors are you talking about?"

Marilyn gestured with her arms and hands as she spoke, "It's not really doors, so to speak, but being accepted in the community. One doesn't just put on a frock, slap on some makeup, throw on a wig and call themselves a woman. It doesn't happen overnight. It's a process. Like puberty. One has to learn how to be a woman—how to dress, how to wear makeup, how to comport oneself. It takes practice—trial and error—before getting it right. So right that it becomes second nature. She isn't there yet."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Sounded like Franklin was still evident in the Carol he tried being—the successful businessman with a reputation of not taking no for an answer.

"You're new here." It wasn't a question. "What brings you to the Majestic? Certainly not for the ambience."

Jack chuckled. "I was looking for someone." He bit his tongue the moment he said it.

Marilyn laughed. "Aren't we all." She took him by the elbow before he could step away. He needed to follow Franklin . . . Carol. Damn it! "Come with me."

"I probably should go," he said as she led him to the bar where several young men raced back and forth serving drinks—all of them in nothing more than black short-shorts and black shoes of some sort. Jack couldn't tell in the shadows along the floor. Immediately, one of them trotted over.

"Whatever this strapping young man is drinking is on me." She leaned in close to Jack, brushing her breasts against him. "Really, on me, if you're interested. I must reward my knight in shining armor." Jack felt himself blush but hoped the club's lighting didn't show it. She let out a sweet laugh. "Cat got your tongue?"

"Well . . . umm . . . You see—"

Marilyn put a long-nail-tipped finger to his lips. "Wait here. I'll be right back." To the bartender, "Anything he wants."

With that, Marilyn dashed away toward the stage, then disappeared through the backstage door she'd been protecting from Franklin.

"What'll you have?"

"An exit stage left," Jack muttered.

"Never heard of it. Tell me what's in it and I'll keep them coming."

Jack waved away his comment. Franklin was gone by now and there was no telling where he was going. Home, Jack hoped. He gazed in the direction Marilyn had disappeared just as the house lights went down.

A moment later, she appeared on stage and launched into her rendition of Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend. Cliché. She mouthed the words, but her act appeared to mimic the original Marilyn's. Her boytoys wore what seemed to be the club's uniform—tight black short-shorts—as they carried her across the stage.

"Never mind. You have any aged whiskey?"

The bartender nodded. "Jameson do?" Jack nodded. "Coming right up. Rocks or straight up?"

"Very much straight. Thanks."