The Frame-Up (The Golden Arrow #1)(56)

The girls at my table yell and wave money in the air even as the music comes out over the loudspeaker for L’s number. She’s slow stepping, sashaying, and generally shaking what God—and foam padding—gave her to a cabaret-paced “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”

The crowd cheers as she makes her way slowly down the stage, mimicking bawdy versions of most of the lyrics. She pantomimes money, bends over a little, and snaps up like someone spanked her, much to the delight of the front row. L actually sings, which is unusual at a drag show, her voice smoky and seductive.

I holler with the rest of the girls as L stops with a drumbeat, waggles her hips, and pouts. It’s a genius routine. At one point Latifah wanders over to us and puts her sequined top hat on my head while she leans on the cane and addresses Nina.

“Are you sure you want to get married, honey? There are so many men and so little time!” Shimmying her shoulders to the heavy drumbeat, she does a Ginger Rogers slide and makes her way back up to the stage.

“We have so many good acts tonight, and I can tell you are the perfect audience.” She winks, and someone calls something from the audience. “You all behave now.” She waves her hands and does a grapevine with the cane out in front to exit the stage.

I’m beaming, and I can’t wait to give L a huge hug and a high five. No matter the case and all the shade going down, Latifah is damn good at her job. I turn to Nina, unable to contain myself. “What do you think?”

“The glitz, the glam, the costumes, the eyelashes. This is so much fun!” Nina laughs and fans her face. “This is the best bachelorette party ever!”

I laugh. “Yeah, not too many straight men come to these events, but when they do, it can get really hilarious.”

Nina cracks up like she’s about to fall off her seat. Boy, she must be really in her cups; she can barely catch her breath. “MG, isn’t that your boyfriend over there? He might need saving. It looks like there are four or five gay men fighting over him.”

“What?” I whip around, and like my eyes are powered by magnets, my gaze meets Matteo’s. I feel it like a physical jolt all the way down to my feet. Then waves of nerves come crashing down on me. Is he here for L? Maybe he’s come to pull L offstage midperformance and drag her down to the station. My heart hammers in my chest.

“Um, I’ll be right back. I thought he was . . . working.”

I make my way across the room to where Matteo is politely telling a tall gentleman in a crop top and a pink wig that he doesn’t drink. I offer the tall man a smile, then turn narrowed eyes on Matteo. “What are you doing here?”

“You told me where you were, so I thought I’d just come . . .” He looks around, bewildered. “Where are we?”

“Hamburger Mary’s.”

The next act starts, and I pull Matteo back toward the table with me. “I can see why you’re good at your job.”

“I need to ask you about a suspect. The guy in the hoodie.”

“So ask.”

“Can we sit? It won’t take very long, and then I’ll be going back to the office tonight to follow up.”

My shoulders relax. So this isn’t about Lawrence. I sigh. “All right, come on.” I drag him the rest of the way to Nina’s table. If the show follows its usual pattern, we won’t see L for at least three or four numbers.

The girls at the booth go gaga over Matteo and giggle to themselves while making room for him. Nina won’t even let me apologize for crashing her bachelorette party and goes back to attacking her hamburger with glee.

Once Matteo and I are as alone as we can get, I turn to him. The faster we get this over with, the faster Matteo can leave. “Okay, Scotty, give her all she’s got. Let’s hear it.”

I try desperately not to think about how I’m squished up against him, the thigh of my tight black pants against his slacks. Bigger fish to fry, MG.

“Scotty?”

“Never mind.”

The next performer’s music starts, and Matteo tries not to seem like he’s staring, but who wouldn’t stare at a five-foot-five Filipino hottie who literally just burst out of a clamshell? A campy mash-up of The Little Mermaid’s “Kiss the Girl” with Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” booms over the speakers. The performer’s forties, victory-rolled hair and sexy pink kimono-style maxi dress are perfection.

Matteo blinks. “I just expected hamburgers.” His genuine confusion undoes some of the tension I’ve been feeling. Matteo is just here to talk. No ulterior motive. He didn’t know this was going to be a drag show. Or that L is a performer.

“You do seem to have a habit of arriving at interesting moments. Is it something you come by naturally, or do you have to practice?” I take a sip of my beer.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Honestly, it just seems to happen around you. I can’t find my feet sometimes.”

He gives me a look far more searching than could be labeled “professional interest.” My heart stutters in my chest. His gaze drops to my lips, and mine to his. It amazes me how fast we can go from my paranoia to banter to crazy sexual tension. His admission that he can’t find his feet around me does impressive things to the dragons in my stomach.

The urge to kiss him overwhelms me. We can’t, we can’t, my brain chants. Do it, do it, my hormones insist. He’s fighting the same battle. I see it in his face. It’s a bad idea. We work together. Another part of my brain points out that it’s dark, and no one would see one tiny little kiss . . .