Safeword (35 page)

Queers

Chapter 1

DUFF’S NERVES jangled as he stepped out of the August heat weighing down the L.A. smog cloud and into the cool, dim interior of a bar, the sign outside proclaiming it
Queers
. The logo was decked out in the same style as that bar show from the ‘80s Duff remembered his parents watching, though the neon was dark. He briefly wondered if they’d gotten permission for the association.

“We don’t open for a few more hours, hon,” a scary looking girl called from within the center of the circular island bar in the middle of a giant room where she stocked glasses into an overhanging wooden rack.

The entire place was sleek and modern but somehow held onto a coziness Duff wouldn’t have expected from the look of the outside. The tables were black, lacquered to a high gloss, and the chairs, also black, looked like art rather than furniture. Wall sconces, turned bright for the staff as they prepared for open, left eerie, sharp shadows on the walls. Between the bar and the tables was a small dance floor, and running the entire length of the back wall was the biggest stage Duff had ever seen in a club, with not one or two grand pianos, but three clustered in a circle. Of all the venues he’d frequented looking for gigs, never had he been so impressed by the class of a place. It wasn’t stuffy, however, where the only music promised to be muted classical pieces kept at low volume while the clientele discussed the stock market or their trust funds.
Queers
was a dichotomy of tasteful and fun, stylish and comfortable, with just the right amount of sass to make it trendy. The pianos were pristine instead of the beat up, well-loved instruments he was accustomed to, but considering the rest of the décor, that was unsurprising. What didn’t quite fit in was the girl behind the bar, looking more appropriate for a leather club than a dueling piano bar. Perhaps it was her influence that gave
Queers
its snap, as if it was classily thumbing its nose at pretension.

This never gets easier,
he thought, approaching the bartender, his back ramrod straight as he faked confidence in an effort to convince both himself and her. While the bartender was scary with her kohl dark eyes, black lipstick, nose ring, and wild black hair that reminded him of Bellatrix Lestrange from
Harry Potter
, her expression was matter-of-fact, not irritated.

“I’m here to see Brad,” he replied. “I called earlier about the audition? I’m Duff.”

“Okay, just a sec,” she said, reaching up with two glasses in each hand and stretching to place them in the glass racks. The hem of her blood red lacy tank rode up on one side and he caught a glimpse of a simple though elegant vine tattoo scrawling up her pale flank.

“Ooh, nice ink,” he said, forgetting himself for a moment and moving closer for a better look. “Where’d you get it?”

“Old girlfriend.” She gave a vague wave, but he caught the corner of her mouth turning up. “You’re too pretty to be into tattoos. How old are you, anyway? Seventeen with a fake ID and fresh from Kansas?”

He sighed, looking down at the shiny bar surface, tracing the carving that circled the edge. “Yeah, just got off my mother’s tit and I thought I’d see what it’s like outside the sandbox.” He tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice, knowing if he pissed her off she could twirl one finger and send him out the door. But as desperate as he was to avoid scampering back home to Illinois with the failed L.A. dream his parents were convinced was his future, he’d fielded that question at every audition and was tired of explaining he was, in fact, twenty-seven. No one ever believed him anyway.

To his surprise, the girl laughed, a deep, throaty sound that bellowed through the empty room. He looked up sharply and smiled, meeting her twinkling gaze.

“Oh, I like you. Buff, was it?” She reached across the bar, offering her hand, her short nails unsurprisingly painted black. He shook with her firmly, noting a silver ring that twined gracefully over her long middle finger and up the back of her hand.

“Duff. And you are?” he asked, emboldened.

“Moonshine.”

I knew it’d be something like that.

She came out from the island and made no secret of looking him up and down. “Oh yes, but you are a pretty twink, aren’t you?” The heels of her knee-high boots clicked sharply against the lacquered floor as she made a full circle around him. His skin flushed as he withstood her scrutiny. Working in L.A. in any performance capacity practically came with an obligatory eye-fuck, and he had learned to endure. Returning to his twelve o’clock, she put a hand on her hip and tapped her lips with a finger, eyes narrowed at him.

“Um,” he almost stammered. He was used to this, but she was a
bartender
so what did it matter how he looked to her? She wasn’t Brad. Still, only knowing her name, he couldn’t be sure she wasn’t a manager, or even part owner of the club whose audition call he’d been drawn to answer if only because of the bar’s name. Tired, he wanted to see Brad and get home to a tub of mocha almond fudge ice cream and some Adam Lambert YouTube vids. Clearing his throat, he cocked a hip in the way his best friend, Garrett, said made him look bitchy, though now he hoped it conveyed confidence. “You keep looking at me like that, I’m going to have to charge you by the hour.”

Her gaze snapped to his face. “What’s twenty get me?” she challenged.

She’s totally toying with me,
he realized, but oddly, he wasn’t threatened. Maybe he was too tired to get his hackles up after days of pounding the pavement looking for another gig. Maybe it was the twinkle in her eye. Maybe it was how blatant she was, so he felt obliged to be bold in return. He winked.

“Sweets, you’re already up to fifty.”

With wide, mock-innocent eyes, she nodded and approached him, linking her arm through his and pulling him toward the back of the club.

“I like that. Don’t sell yourself short, hot stuff. I suspect if I liked guys, and you liked girls, we’d have quite the tumultuous love affair that would end in tears, shattered knick-knacks thrown in a fit of rage and betrayal, and a domestic disturbance call. I bet you’re a minx in bed. And on the floor, and the kitchen counter.”

Duff couldn’t hold the laughter in, though it came out as more of a bark. He shook his head in amusement and embarrassment. He wasn’t surprised she’d guessed his sexuality, considering he couldn’t see a straight guy answering a call for a bar called
Queers
, but for her to be so blunt about it and accepting at the same time was out of his normal experience. He’d become accustomed to either being ignored or outright bullied when people found out. He wasn’t butch, nor was he a big nelly bottom. Most people never guessed without him saying something. As with anything in life, some people were cool with it, some weren’t. His family, while eventually coming around, had taken it badly at first, and he had only just started speaking to his brother again after years of silence.

When they reached the hallway that led to the bathrooms, she stopped outside a third door, turning him to face her, a hand on each of his biceps.

“Pep talk time. Don’t be afraid of Brad. He’s a fantastic guy, a lot of fun if you get to know him, and he’s nowhere near as sour as he seems at first. He’s very loyal, but you have to earn it. First thing’s first, though. Don’t pull with him what you just did with me. I’m the gatekeeper for the auditions, and I get the joy of testing the applicants. You have a sense of humor and while I did irritate you, you kept it in check. You took a joke, and flirted with a leathery, dried up, scary lesbo despite being gayer than a pink polo shirt and loafers without socks. You passed with flying colors.”

His mouth fell open, partially in surprise, partially to defend his masculinity, because
loafers with no socks? Ew
. That wasn’t gay, that was insulting. Obviously, he knew it was a test, but wow, she’d seen a lot from a few moments of banter. He snapped his jaw shut as she went on.

“Brad won’t even notice, though. He’s the talent; I’m the personality. We both own the bar, and he reminds me it’s a business while I remind him it’s supposed to be fun. And Jesus, your sweet face, those wide, blue eyes and blond-tipped spikes are making me say far more than I normally would.” She spoke rapidly, and he had to concentrate to keep up with her energy. “Bottom line, we’re a business, and we’ve even helped some of our acts go on to bigger and better things. That’s more Brad’s line of work, and he can answer any twinkle-toes questions you have about superstardom. Your looks will get you fans. Your talent, if you have any, will keep them. So go in there, talk to Brad for a bit, ignore his sourpuss expression, and then come out here and knock his fucking socks off. Because I haven’t had a pet project in a while, and I want to keep you.”

Blinking at her in surprise when she finally decided to take a breath, Duff said with a straight face, “Not to go all Erin Brockovich on you, but if that was a pep talk, you suck at it. I’m more nervous now than when I walked in.”
Why am I a project?

She gave her throaty laugh once again, and rapped sharply on the door. As she walked away, she patted his ass, leaving him off guard yet again and openmouthed when her partner called for Duff to come in.

He did, and his gaze locked on the most beautiful face he’d ever seen.

Blond hair cut short above a face made for TV with a pair of hazel-green eyes that shimmered like a tropical ocean. Duff couldn’t help but stare. The youthful features were a mix of rugged and sculpted, but instead of looking like incongruous body parts, they flowed together to stunning effect, sending a tingle across Duff’s scalp. Upon closer inspection, Duff put him at a couple years older than himself. When the guy leaned back in his desk chair and raised a brow, Duff’s trance broke and he shut the door.

“Hi, I called about the audition,” he said, proud his voice carried no hesitation.

“I’m Brad. You’re Duff?” The guy offered his hand with a pleasant smile, and Duff moved to shake it before sitting in the chair.
Friendly enough. Maybe Moonshine was just trying to see if I could handle the pressure.

“I am.”

“Why should I hire you?” Brad asked matter-of-factly.

Maybe not.

Duff swallowed. “Because I’m talented, I can keep an audience engaged, I like performing, and I’m good at it.” Pulling out his resume and headshot, he passed them over, his hand only shaking slightly. “I’m experienced in front of both small and large crowds, relatively speaking, and several gigs have taught me how to keep a room full of drunks from getting out of hand. They’re less likely to fight if I’m the one causing all the drama.” He snapped his jaw shut to stop the nervous ramble.

“I’ve got hundreds like you who want the same position. Convince me.” Brad wasn’t rude, just business-like. This was his time, his bar, and Duff knew the score: for each gig available, there really were hundreds trying to land them.

Duff perched on the edge of his chair, wishing he’d worn jeans a smidge less tight, a button-up shirt that didn’t hug his torso quite as much. Brad had given him a cursory appraisal when he’d stepped in, but the impassive look told Duff nothing of the man’s opinion. Leaving his apartment amid Garrett’s encouragement that he looked hot, Duff had felt confident he presented the whole package. He knew he was good looking, had always been told his face was meant for modeling, but his true passion was music. Still, that stare, that… blankness on Brad’s face siphoned his self-assurance.

“It’s a conversation with the crowd, sir.” Inwardly, he cringed at the ‘sir’ but didn’t stop to apologize or stammer. “People pay money to see someone play for them, and they expect something out of it. It’s more than a few notes and lyrics. It has to capture their attention, and to do that, I have to give them context. The best context is a connection from me to the crowd. I want them to like not just the music, but me specifically performing it. To like me, they have to get a sense of acquaintance, have a stake in my performance. So, I extend to the audience a piece of myself, polished though it may be, and in return, I ask them to offer their opinion on what they’re seeing, hopefully positive.”

Brad had been nodding, but as Duff finished his little speech, the man turned and focused his attention on his computer and started typing. Duff faltered, feeling he’d already lost Brad’s interest. Brad waved for him to continue but didn’t look away from the screen.

“I can convince you best if I show you what I mean.” He looked around for a nameplate to learn Brad’s last name so he could call him Mr. Whatever instead of ‘sir’, which was too formal, and ‘Brad’ seemed too presumptuous, but he didn’t see one.

Brad said nothing for a few moments, eyes scanning his computer. Duff waited patiently, but inside, his hope was fading. Another bust, it seemed.

“I have a few minutes before the next audition arrives, so come on.” Brad stood and moved to the door, holding it open for Duff to precede him. “Show me.”

They trooped to the main bar area, and Moonshine gave him a thumbs-up from across the room as she pulled overturned chairs from tabletops and situated them, wiping surfaces with a cloth. Brad indicated Duff should take the stage as he moved to sit in the front row of tables. Duff, wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans, took a seat at one of the pianos. The lights were all wrong, not hot and pointed at him, and the house lights were up so Moonshine and the rest of the crew could work. He tried not to let that throw him. The obvious shake of his hand as he fumbled with the microphone switch made him laugh, and his voice rang through the sound system with a whine of feedback.

“Yeah, baby, work it!” Moonshine hollered, her voice startling in the quiet. Duff couldn’t help the smile despite noticing Brad’s utter lack of reaction.

He quickly ran through a double octave scale to limber his fingers, and then began to play. Given that
Queers
was a dueling piano club, he began with what he knew to be popular requests, like “Piano Man” by Billy Joel and “American Pie” by Don McLean. Moving along to more contemporary songs, he belted out “Fever” by Adam Lambert, threw in some Lady GaGa, and then went into heavier music by Muse and Shinedown. He didn’t play the songs in their entirety since he knew Brad had limited time, so he displayed his extensive song repertoire and vocal range. He exhibited his mash-up skills with My Darkest Days’ “Porn Star Dancin’” melded with Poison’s “Talk Dirty to Me,” which got Moonshine whooping and dancing. He immersed himself in it, standing while he played and shaking his tail just as he would if every seat in the club were filled.