Whistleblower ✓

29 | karaoke queens

Parking was a nightmare, naturally. We eventually settled for a spot along the narrow sidewalk bordering a soccer pitch almost five blocks from the restaurant. The field was a sharp neon green—turf, probably—and corralled by high chain-linked fences coated in black rubber.

We climbed out of the car.

Out on the field, a pair of teenage boys were passing a ball around.

"Patea con el pie izquierdo, cobarde," one shouted to the other.

I snorted. Bodie glanced at me sideways.

Ryan ducked his head to read the meter and announced that it was two hours max.

"Someone can come back out and top it up later," Olivia said, already inching down the sidewalk. "Let's just go, I don't want Dulce to get there before us."

Ryan jammed in a handful of quarters, and then we were off.

I glanced over my shoulder before we turned the corner.

Something about the sight of Fogarty's Tesla parked against the curb spurred in me the sudden and violent urge to march back up to it and smash my fist down on the hood.

But I didn't, of course.

It would've shattered every frail little bone in my hand.

The four of us were hardly up the front steps and inside the front doors before a waiter in a solid black uniform greeted Olivia with a crushing hug and an exclamation that he hadn't seen her in for-ev-er.

While they caught up, I scanned the restaurant.

The square terracotta tiles on the floor were polished to a glossy shine. Painted ceramic plates and sombreros were hung on the textured walls, alongside a collection of framed and autographed photos of performers in drag—towering wigs, false eyelashes, sequined mini dresses, lipsticked smiles and fierce pouts.

Brightly colored papel picado banners were strung from the ceiling above us. They swayed and fluttered in the air conditioning.

Our waiter led us through the main dining area, down a narrow hall lined with bathroom doors, and into a mostly empty back room dominated by a low stage with a projector screen and an elaborate speaker system. It was darker than the main dining area; the windows were shuttered up and fake candles flickering on the tables.

I knew we were close to the kitchens because the scent of roasting chiles and jalapeños made my mouth and eyes water.

Olivia chose a booth on the far side of the room from the stage. She and I slid onto the padded bench against the wall while the boys took the distressed wooden chairs. As Bodie scooted forward, his knee knocked mine under the table. I pretended to be suddenly very intrigued by—and legally allowed to purchase something from—the drinks menu.

"The frozen margaritas here are really good," Olivia whispered. "Although the last time I had one I blacked out. Actually, all the drinks here are strong. The sangria might be fun. They do it by the pitcher, if we're all in the mood to get shit-faced."

Boy, did that sound tempting.

Something about Bodie St. James in artificial candlelight made me want to chug alcoholic beverages.

The football team had been practicing in the afternoons recently, and it showed—the hair on top of his head was kissed the color of whiskey and his face was developing a tan, beneath the traces of sunburn. He looked like he shaved a few hours ago, too. I wondered if his skin felt as smooth as it looked.

It was a small blessing when the fresh guacamole and tortilla chips arrived, giving me something to occupy my thoughts (and hands) with that wasn't Bodie's jawline. All conversation at the table died as we shoveled God's chosen condiment into our mouths. Even Olivia relented and put down her extensive prep notes and indulged.