Page 15 of The Cowboy's Cabaret

That kind of mental anguish makes for tortured foreplay and all the guilt for crossing an invisible boundary with myself. Good to know even in my depressed state, my body craves Dahlia’s softness.

As if she knows I’m rereading our messages, a text comes through with a corny motivational poster—a cat hanging from a tree branch. I snort reading the text: hang in there.

Dahlia

Today sucked mega dick, hope yours was better

Wesley

Can’t say it was. You okay?

Dahlia

Yeah, same shit is all. Are you busy?

I’m not and my heart skips at her question.

Wesley

No, I’m lying down.

Dahlia

Any chance you want to talk on the phone? Or we don’t have to talk? I don’t really want to be alone right now and Daphne is working.

Kindred hearts and all, I guess.

Wesley

Of course, call whenever you’re ready.

My phone instantly starts ringing and Dahlia’s tired voice fills the line.

“Figured I’d see if you wanted to hang out. Over the phone.” She gives a small chuckle.

“Anything for you, Dahlia. What’s on your mind?”

She starts to tell me about the chaos of her day at school, tripping and almost eating shit down the stairs of her building,and how she’s worried for the future. I hang on every word and if my cell phone was a landline, I’d be twirling the cord around my fingers like a teenaged girl in a bad sitcom. We stay on the phone, each doing our own thing—her working on her thesis outline and me drawing.

Tonight, I’m drawing two hands holding in a variety of poses, trying to capture the intimacy of their connection. We stay on the phone well into the night and I only hang up when her soft snores come through the phone.

ELEVEN

all gas, no brakes

Dahlia

The next weekflies by thanks to my back-to-back sets at the club on Saturday and Sunday night. When I wasn’t strutting the stage as Dahlia Damsel, I was locking in for classes and nose down in research.

Much to Daphne’s displeasure, she’s working, so Wes and I are flying solo to the gig tonight. I look in the mirror and fluff my hair once more before I grab my wallet to head downstairs. I’m dressed in one of my tried and true outfits—big pants, little shirt. Today’s little shirt features a goose holding a knife and my big pants are green cargo material with some dangly, silver chains. Paired with my beat up converse and bitchy sunglasses, I’m traipsing down the stairs when Wes’ bearded grin meets my eye line. “Not a whole lot of security in propping this door open, huh?”

I brush past him with a laugh. “It’s NYC baby. I gotta get the full effect of city living.”

The car ride is about an hour and a half south of Brooklyn to Kings, New Jersey. I offered to split the drive with Wes since he drove the hour to pick me up, but he told me to enjoy the ride.

“I take my passenger princess duties very seriously, so I will live and die by our playlist and snack selections.” Locating the perfect playlist is an art, one I excel at. Satisfied with the soundtrack of the trip, I lean back to take in the view. His truck is blacked out with matching black interior—very goth cowboy of him. And sadly for me, hot as hell.

“I thank you kindly for your dedication to the cause. We can stop somewhere to pick up a few morsels when I gas up our majestic carriage.” He’s trying so hard to keep a straight face, playing into this silly character with me.