He pulls out a jacket that’s straight from Goodwill.
“Is that a Member’s Only Jacket?” I hold it against my chest. “So what are you, the last Member?”
“Shallow Hal,” he says absently, not looking away from the array of horrific shirts he’s flipping through to offer the movie reference. “Throwing soft balls this morning, are we?”
I haven’t movie stumped him in a long time. Must try harder.
He pulls out a small drawer beneath a row of watches to reveal a disgusting display of fake lip hair.
“You have a mustache collection?” I cackle through the hand covering my mouth. “That’s just weird.”
“My life is weird.” He turns to me, the expression on his face so earnest you’d think this was a matter of national security. “OK. Here’s the first option. I usually save this for special occasions. It’s the handle bar moustache.”
“That thing is not leaving the house with me.”
“See? I knew you would say that.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did, so I have a back-up.” He points to a row of thin moustaches.
“And here we have the Creeper Collection, ladies and gents,” I say, disgusted by the little hairy squiggles.
“Is that a no?” His face actually falls.
“Resounding no!”
“What about this one?” He points to an obscenely thick row of hair.
“It’s the size of a pregnant caterpillar.”
“It’s the Magnum P.I. What I like to call full lip coverage. No one ever recognizes me behind this thing.”
“That one will do, I guess. Let’s just go so we won’t miss the first acts.”
“Wait.” He gives me an I’m-loving-this grin and gestures back toward the array of lip toupees. “You have to choose yours.”
“Mine?” My mouth drops open. “I’m not wearing a moustache.”
“Come on. Get in the spirit. It’s like Halloween, but better.”
“Is there candy?”
“No.”
“Then it’s not better.”
“I think going full guy will guarantee that no one recognizes you.” He grabs me by the hips and does a little shake, his voice cajoling me. “It’ll be fun.”
Those sound like famous last words to me, but to be with Rhyson after so long, even in this ridiculous get up will be worth it.
DAMN, THESE GUYS ARE GOOD. THE band, Kilimanjaro, lives up to all of Marlon’s hype. And then some. I especially like the bass player. That’s one instrument I consider myself only adequate on, so I envy guys who can make it speak the way this one does. The bass has a soul, a musical undercurrent that, though subtle, anchors everything else. And the bass player is the soul of this band.
“What do you think?” I turn to study Kai, whose eyes haven’t left the stage since Kilimanjaro came on.
“They’re fantastic.” She turns to me, her eyes wide and a huge grin on her face. “The bass player’s sick, right?”
I nod, distracted by the peculiar and entrancing picture she makes. Sarita bought her some boy jeans, which fit okay, but I still can’t stop staring at her ass. The bulky, hooded sweatshirt does a good job of disguising her breasts, but that face . . . The delicate bones and striking lines, even under the baseball cap, with all her hair hidden, would still stop me in my tracks. Those full, pouty lips look completely kissable under the thin moustache I finally convinced her to wear.
I can’t believe she did this—came out in public like this with me. If I wasn’t convinced there is only one girl in the world for me before, this did it.
“Rhys?” She frowns and pokes my chest. “I said they’re fantastic. Are you listening?”
“Oh, yeah.” I force my attention back to the subject at hand. “Think I should sign ‘em?”
“Like yesterday.” She returns her eyes to the stage. “Before someone else snatches them up.”
“Yeah. I was feeling that, too.”
“They’re almost done with the set. Should we try to see them? Like get backstage?”
“Nah.” I grab her fingers, locking them with mine. It feels so good to hold her hand in public again, even if everyone does assume we’re just two gay guys in love, taking in the show. “I’ll have my people call their people.”
“You think they have people?”
“They’re booked for a festival this size. Believe me, they have people. They may be unsigned, but they’re not unorganized. Somebody’s running things.”
“So I guess now you have Prodigy’s second act.”
I push down my irritation. She should have been Prodigy’s second act. She would have been if John Malcolm hadn’t interfered.
“What exactly is your deal with Malcolm? And for how long?” I try to look harmless. “If you don’t mind me asking, of course.”
“I do mind you asking because we said we wouldn’t talk about any of that today.” She steps close enough for me to smell her mother’s soap. “If you’re not talking to the band, you have to feed me.”
I keep thinking about all the weight she’s lost.