Tough Love (35 page)

Steve caught both her hands, bowed his head and kissed her knuckles reverently. “
Eres fuerte, mi reina.
”

Caramela shut her eyes. “If you make me cry, I’ll ruin my makeup.”

His slow smile filled her belly with heat. “Save your tears for me,
cariño
.”

She laughed, but even as she did, she felt the same anchor that held Chenco begin to tether her too. She kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear. “
Soy fuerte.
”

For you, my king,
she added silently.
I am strong for you.

He led her out of the dressing room to the wings of the stage. Ethan was the only one remaining, the others having gone out to the audience to claim their seats. Her opening act was just finishing up—a magician who from the crowd’s reaction was a known favorite. Ethan smiled at her as she approached, holding out his arms and taking her hands as he looked her up and down.

“Caramela. Enchanting as always.” He pulled her alongside him and nodded out to the crowd, which they could barely see between the panels of a side curtain. “Caryle did her work well—a full house.”

It was indeed full, much more so than Caramela had expected. “Why did they all come to see some hick drag queen from southern Texas?”

“Caryle is an amazing promoter, and I have a reputation for only hosting quality acts. If you’re on my stage, you must be good.”

Caramela would have taken a deep breath to steady herself, but the silver sequin dress she wore required some pretty serious Spanx, especially after a month of Randy’s cooking. “I’ll do my best to live up to your reputation.”

“I have no doubts, my dear. None at all. You’ll conquer Vegas, then the world.” Kissing her hand, he gave her a wink. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my seat so I can properly enjoy the show.”

Ethan left. Caramela kept her knees flexed, rotated her shoulders and mentally mapped out her opening routine, which she’d done a thousand times, almost fifty times on this stage alone.

Steve put his hand on her shoulder. She shut her eyes, absorbing his strength.

The lights went down, the manager gave her a nod and she began.

It was, in so many ways, the same show she’d always done and yet it was entirely different. For one, it wasn’t just a few numbers—she did a full hour of performing, with one break while backup dancers allowed her a moment’s reprieve and an extensive costume change. That was the first distinct difference—she had dancers behind her. Not just Booker, the sly show-stealer, but six strapping young men who made Booker’s body and dancing skills look rather paltry. Caramela had come to know and respect each one of her dancers over the last few weeks’ rehearsals, and having them onstage with her now was nothing but an honor.

She opened with “Starting Over”, which felt good on so many levels—the title sent a positive internal message, but the song itself had a magical, floaty quality while still carrying enough energy to give the show a club vibe. The applause at the end of her number lifted her up, and the banter she’d planned between the first and second songs came easily, so she riffed a little, adding some flirts for strangers and plenty of nods to her family in the front row.

Steve was there now too, her papi standing guard. She blew him a kiss and swung into the next song. So
many
songs—they began to bleed together, dances, lip syncs, breaks to flirt. It was odd to not walk the perimeter and take tips. Ethan had been firm, insisting it wasn’t how he ran things. The audience tonight came for free, because all first-time acts were set up this way at Herod’s, but Ethan said he had no intention of letting them leave without gambling much more than her show fee away.

It was wonderful, she decided, to not have to work her
cojones
for cash, to simply pour herself into the music, the dancing, the audience. The difference between wheedling money out of them and simply serving them, thanking them for making her night so special, was profound, and she decided then and there she never wanted another tip, no matter how much Heide would be appalled.

When she went into Steve’s arms at the break, she was breathless, vibrating with energy and smiling so wide she thought she’d crack her face.

The second half was entirely non-Lopez songs. This had been Sam’s suggestion, to help Caramela not be simply a Lopez impersonator. He’d helped pick the songs as well—Kelly Rowland’s “Commander”, Nelly Furtado’s “
No Hay Igual
”, and as a special surprise, Kylie Minogue’s “Aphrodite” for Sam. It didn’t quite fit, but apparently the room was full of fans because not only did they love the song, they cheered at the way Caramela’s backup dancers came out in full-on replicas of costumes from the Australian diva’s most recent tour.

When the riotous applause died down, she made the transition into the finale, Nicole Scherzinger’s “
Puakenikeni
”, complete with a braided wig, a skimpy cowgirl outfit and plastic six-shooters. When Caramela struck a pose and the lights went down, the theater went wild.

She savored the roar, the sweet rush that rolled from the theater and over her body. She closed her eyes, drank it in deep.

Then she ran offstage, let her assistants change her clothes and hair. As the rising siren signaling the beginning of “Papi” rang across the stage, she grabbed her microphone, strode out in her five-inch red heels and threw herself into the song with every ounce of everything she had. She reached into the bottom of her soul and pulled out a little bit more because she was
that
happy.

Baila para tú Papi.

He watched her as she danced. He was there in the wings when she came away, and she went into his arms, kissing him. She didn’t care what about her makeup she wrecked now.

She’d done it. She’d come to Las Vegas, put on a dress and made a thousand people weep with joy. All because of Steve. The others had helped, had made the space, but it had been
he
who held her up, and she would never forget it.

When she came up for air, he smiled at her, his secret, wicked smile just for her and for Chenco. He stroked her face. “Are you ready to hit the town,
mi reina
?”

Caramela kissed his nose. “Yes, Papi. Let me change my clothes and take a quick shower, and I’m all yours.”

“Why change? You’re fine as you are.”

Caramela almost forgot to breathe. “Papi—” she began, but that was all she could manage.

His smile deepened, full of trouble and promise. “Ethan has a limousine waiting. The others are already inside.” He patted her on her padded bottom. “Get what you need, and let’s go.”

“But I can’t—I don’t pass, not good enough to go out,” she whispered.

This time he put his thumb on her bottom lip, pressing his fingernail into it as he held her chin. “Get what you need, Caramela.”

She kissed him so hard she drew blood. When she lifted her head, she was shaking.
Oh, he sees me. He sees every inch of me.
“I’ll be a few minutes,” she said, hurrying down the hall to her dressing room. “I have to fix my face, and I really, really fucking have to pee.”

It took Caramela ten minutes to decide she’d been born for luxurious limousine rides down the Las Vegas Strip.

Her boys celebrated her as if she were Lopez herself, as if she’d just finished a concert and now would go out on the town. Champagne flowed inside the limo, all their eyes shining as they congratulated her over and over, recounting favorite moments of the performance, passing on reactions they’d heard from the casino floor after the show. Steve had taken her out via the front door, and she’d been so rushed by fans, casino security had to step in and help her into the limo Ethan had arranged for her. By the time she got to the car, she was breathless—not from fear but from excitement and a sense that oh yes, she’d had this coming, she was
owed
this kind of response.

The limo itself was incredibly swank—it was the new kind, half Hummer/party bus and looked like a rap daddy had tricked out the inside. Neon piping outlined the ceiling, offset by recessed lighting and spotlights over the shallow side bar. Sam saw to the music, which was Lopez heavy, but when Kylie came on, Sam beamed at her and thanked her for the song, which was as good as the real thing, he said.

When they got caught in slow traffic on the Strip, Randy opened the moonroof and stood with her as they toasted the town.

They went everywhere—bars, casino lounges, exclusive clubs—Caramela quickly lost track of where they were and had been and simply let herself flow. At first she hung back, needing to hold on to Steve as they entered a new place, but she soon stopped hesitating. He was always there, always at her elbow, glaring at anyone who dared look at Caramela with anything other than a worshipful eye. She did glean a lot of looks, but they were not, to her surprise, ever negative. Wide eyes, yes, and lots of whispering behind hands, but to her delight they treated her as if she were a star, not a boy in a dress.

“They think you’re JLo,” Sam told her as they entered the dance floor. They were at Krave, the real one Randy had mentioned in South Padre.

“I don’t look like JLo,” Caramela argued back, though she was secretly thrilled.

“You do, though.” Sam indicated her with a sweep of his hand. “It’s not just your hair and makeup. You hold yourself the same way a star does, and you look close, so people fill in the blanks. They want JLo to be partying in Vegas. It’s a great story. You set it up, and they finish the job.”

That was what Heide had always said about drag—it wasn’t simply the performer’s fantasy. A man in a dress, a woman in a beard with a pair of socks down her trousers—convincing impersonation allowed everyone a space to be free. She had felt that before, but never quite like this. Never this loud.

What had changed? Was it Las Vegas? Was it the magic of the show going so well? Whatever it was, it felt as if pieces of Caramela’s soul were sliding into place, Chenco and queen merging in fuller harmony than they ever had.

Caramela watched a pair of tourists whisper to each other, and then, cautiously, one of them came up and asked for her autograph.

“I’m not—” she began, but Sam cut her off.

“She doesn’t have a pen. Do you?”

The cute blond twink with spiky hair fished wildly in his pocket. “I’ll get one.” He turned to Caramela, worshipful. “I saw you at Herod’s. You were
amazing
. I’m switching my plane ticket and staying an extra day so I can see your next show.”

“
Amazing
,” the man’s partner said, touching her arm, then pulling away as if embarrassed he had dared.

Caramela felt dizzy. She didn’t know what to say. Thankfully Ethan appeared with a pen, and as she signed programs—her program, advertising her show—Ethan put his hand on the small of her back and spoke to her admirers, asking them how they’d liked the show, where they were staying, handing out complimentary drink tickets to his bar. When the boys went away, they made it about ten feet before they began to melt down and grip each other’s arms as if they couldn’t believe what they’d done.

Caramela definitely knew the feeling. She’d just never been on this end of the exchange.

Ethan deftly took his pen from her hand and replaced it into his vest pocket. “Well done, my lady.”

“I still can’t believe this is happening,” she confessed.

“Yes. I remember this part. If I might make a suggestion? Don’t waste too much time wondering if it’s real. Enjoy the ride. It won’t take you anywhere unpleasant. You have my personal guarantee. In the meantime—” He turned to her, catching her hand and making a slight and formal bow. “May I have this dance?”

She laughed and took his hand. “Absolutely.” Even so, she glanced over her shoulder, collecting Steve’s nod of permission before she let Ethan lead her out to the floor.

Ethan, it turned out, was an amazing dancer—he didn’t simply writhe against her but led her into something that made them seem like they were performers on
Dancing with the Stars
. He held her in a sturdy frame, tipping her back and running his hand down her cleavage before spinning her out again. Though he smiled at her, he was nothing but cool, and she let herself acknowledge that, had things been different, he’d have made an excellent papi. He seemed to think so too, and for the span of three songs, they indulged in the fantasy of what might have been, playing against their audience and their own pleasure. It was another unexpected thrill in a night so full of delights she had to breathe them in to make room for herself. Their fellow dancers made space for them, and a circle formed so people could watch. It was a scene right out of the movies and Caramela’s deepest imagination.

Taking Ethan’s advice, she let go of her self-consciousness and her fears, and allowed herself to fly.

Randy took a turn with her too—he was raunchy where his husband had been elegant, grinding against her ass and palming her crotch until she laughed and swatted him away. Sam came to dance also, and she found herself in the middle of a very pretty boy-sandwich. It was pure, honey-sweet heaven.

Steve danced with her as well, but he pulled her off to the side, into the dark, holding her close and whispering naughty things into her ear. He was so naughty, in fact, that eventually she had to point out erections hurt a great deal in compression panties, and ruined the line of her dress.

His only reply was a wicked grin and a lascivious tongue in her ear.