“Yo’ mama,” I commented back. “Ain’t been out to West Hollywood much, huh?”
If they weren’t so dangerous, I would’ve laughed at the impotent expressions on their otherwise hardened faces. Rather than enter The Pink Lion, one of the hottest gay clubs in Cali from what my friends had told me, one of my chaperones went for his cell. He probably wanted to call for further instructions.
“They got me,” I said to the doorman, quickly entering. I figured they wouldn’t dare create too much of a scene in front of everybody.
“Uh... they’re at the right place?” the doorman asked as the two Mexicans in suits broke out into a shoving match and started cursing in Spanish.
“Yeah, they’re just having a lovers’ spat,” I lied as he watched the two of them argue. I didn’t speak more than a few words of Spanish, but I assumed they were fretting about catching cooties or something if they followed me inside.
I took in the European-themed interior, bathed in red lights, and observed the couples on the dance floor and the onlookers on the second-floor balcony. If I weren’t so stressed, a pretty brotha like me could do some damage in here. It took all my might not to try to blend into the crowd and escape out another exit; but I was unarmed and alone, so I knew my chances of a successful escape were slim to none. When his men came rushing in, I was standing there waiting on them, acting nonchalant and playing my part in this fucked-up shit.
“This shit ain’t cool, homeboy,” our driver said, looking like he wanted to swing on me just for making him come inside.
“Relax. This ain’t prison, like you’re used to, muchacho. Nobody’s going up in your ass without your permission. And looking like you, you’d have a hard time anyway,” I taunted, so glad I could make them uncomfortable for a change.
“Alejandro said to let you do your thing, but I say we ain’t staying for long.”
“Soon as I find a little playmate for the night, we out. Meanwhile, you guys need to relax while I go get me a drink.”
They motioned for me to go ahead, taking strategic positions, with their backs to the walls, so as to keep me in their direct lines of sight at all times.
“Ciroc and cran. Two of ‘em,” I requested of the bartender over Usher’s “DJ Got Us Fallin’in Love” mixed in with some Swedish House Mafia dance track.
As my drinks were brought to me, I saw a face that didn’t belong. Not because he wasn’t attractive, but because I knew him from New York. Italian boys always caught my eye. It took me a moment to recognize him, but when I did, I took my two drinks, which were originally both for me, and made my way to where he sat.
“Here,” I said as I bumped his arm. “I bought this one for you.”
When he noticed it was me, his eyes lit up. We’d chatted from time to time but never hooked up. Now that I was a dead man walking, I thoroughly regretted it.
“Oh my God! Rio!” he yelled over the music. “What are you doing here?”
“Just visiting. You know how I do. If there’s a party...,” I joked, maintaining pretense. “And you?”
“Business,” he said with a sigh as he gladly took my drink, giving up on his attempts to get the bartender’s attention. “But I had to slip away. Mix in a little pleasure.” I knew what he meant by “slip away.” From our talks back in New York, I recalled that he was leading a double life, even though we never got too deep into what he did or from whom he hid his true sexual orientation.
“Well, cheers,” I said, clinking glasses with him. For the life of me, I still couldn’t remember my friend’s name, but I continued to smile. It was welcome company, no doubt.
My two shadows grimaced at my flirting, choosing to look away in disdain as long as they knew I wasn’t going anywhere.
“How long you in L.A.?” he asked just as I remembered his name—Martino. At least that was what he’d told me.