Free Uncaged Love by JJ Knight Page B

drink. It’s bad enough keeping my head above water when I’m sober.
    A man at the next table leans over and says, “We got the cheap seats.”
    I nod, not sure what to say, or if my voice will give me away as an impostor.
    It must be getting close to time, as the room begins filling rapidly. I scan the room looking for Colt. The people shown to the front are well dressed. Tuxes. Gowns. Jewels. Several people cluster around a super-tall guy who I think might be in the NBA.
    An overwhelming perfume makes my eyes water. I turn to see who it is, and there’s Angel Wild, staring at me like I’m the devil herself.
    “Who the hell are you?” he asks. He’s completely in white, the southern-belle pouf of his skirt filling the entire aisle. When his hands hit his hips, two feathered wings pop out.
    Time to pull this off. I try to use a voice that sounds fake girl, rather than my own. “Jo.”
    “This is Zerobia’s table.”
    I nod. “Yep.” I hope by keeping it monosyllabic, I can avoid messing up Zero’s ruse.
    “You come here with him?” Angel’s mouth is a tight line, soft pink on his powdered face.
    “Yep.”
    Angel bends down to grasp fistfuls of his skirt and stalks off. Unlike Zero, he keeps his masculine stride. I find myself thinking amateur , and another giggle threatens to surface. Zero was right to make me come. This is kind of fun. My life has way too little fun.
    “Always drama,” my neighbor says. “It’s my favorite part.”
    The lights blink, and the clustered groups begin to disperse. I search again for Colt. He might be above me, in the balcony. Rats.
    But just as the lights go down, I see him leading Brittany to a table. My light mood evaporates.
    A woman I recognize from a news channel steps onstage to talk about the charity.
    I kind of zone out. The day’s events start to settle in again. Lani, Colt, Brittany. Why was Colt taking such a risk by acting that way with me? If Brittany saw it for what it was, then I had to be right. He was hitting on me. Right there where his girlfriend could see.
    But it didn’t feel wrong. It was rapture. Like I belonged. Like everything was exactly the way it should be.
    Stupid lie.
    I’m back to sullen Jo.
    The first act is a couple dressed as a hillbilly bride and groom. The man has a fake potbelly and a straw hat that keeps shedding bits onto the stage. The one dressed as a woman has a huge blonde wig under her veil and wears a teeny polka-dot halter and cutoff denim shorts. They lip-sync a hilarious version of Georgia Satellites’ “Keep Your Hands to Yourself.”
    I find my mood lightening up again.
    After their exit, some young guy holding a guitar comes out, dressed as a guy. I’m wondering who he is when Colt stands up and wolf-whistles, making the crowd laugh.
    The guitar player salutes Colt. “Thank you very much.” He looks out across the crowd, and I can see all the women sitting up a little straighter. His charisma is irresistible, reaching us even back here in the “cheap seats.”
    “I’m Dylan Wolf,” he says. “You may know me from such great moments on YouTube as ‘Photobombing the Rich and Famous.’”
    The crowd laughs.
    “I had a little song get some attention recently, so the kind sponsors of this event allowed a dude to come onstage without a wig or girly undergarments.” He looks out across the tables. “Or do I?”
    Another laugh. He lifts his guitar. “This one is called ‘Blue Shoes.’”
    I remember this now. A viral video about a girl who ends up getting her purse stolen. I wonder how this guy knows Colt. I wish I knew everything Colt knows.
    Dylan’s song is sweet and romantic. A lot of the guys wrap their arms around their dates.
    But not Colt. He isn’t sitting very close to Brittany. There isn’t any talk between them. They don’t touch. They don’t seem to be affected by the song.
    I wonder if it would be different if he was sitting next to me.
    Angel is up next. His number is melodramatic, a