The Fabulous Ladies Night Club (4/8)
Title: The Fabulous Ladies Night Club
Author: ubiquirk
Rating: R
Genre: genfic: action-adventure, humor, drama
Word Count: ~14K
Character: Xander
Disclaimer: Not mine; no money.
AN: Set between S3 and S4 of Buffy. Written for
spring_with_xan . Lots of thanks to my lovely beta,
firefly_124 . There’s a Spanish Glossary to have open in another tab for easy reference.
Summary: The road trip that wasn’t. After graduation, Xander only makes it to Oxnard before his car breaks down, and he finds himself washing dishes at The Fabulous Ladies Night Club. Forty miles to get back home might not seem that far, but sometimes, it can take a lot to cross.
Previous parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
4.
The keys weight his hand as he locks the door on Jorge’s red Chevy Impala, and it doesn’t help Xander’s mood that the small employee parking lot only contains the same cars as the last two nights: Doris’s Caddy, Gino’s F-150, Trey’s old something-or-other Datsun, Roberto’s K-Car, and Carlita’s cute little 60s VW Bug. Nothing that indicates Jorge has finally shown up.
You know, when he blew me off for the beach trip, I thought, ‘Hey, he’s with a woman, and it’s not like I’m that great or anything.’ Now? Now, I just really miss Willow and Buffy. And what’s wrong with me that Jorge is the one who’s not here and they’re the ones I miss more?
Xander kicks an empty whisky bottle, but is denied the satisfying crunch crash of it breaking on the side of the building when it goes too far left and stops in a drift of old, torn newspaper.
Figures. Not only do I suck at the going to college and succeeding in life thing, but I must also suck at being a friend.
As soon as he opens the back door to the kitchen, Doris is there, her presence and voice cutting through his thoughts. “Xander! Have you heard from Jorge?”
“Me? No. Hasn’t called about the car or anything, and when I talked to his sister yesterday, she hadn’t seen him either.”
“I never would have believed it.” She shakes her head. “That boy wanted to dance - I know he did. You could see the fire of performing burning in him, just like I used to have when I was a Solid Gold Dancer.”
“Solid Gold?” She used to get naked? In public? Oh, God.
“A TV show, not a strip club.” Her lips quirk, and he’s certain she once again knows just what he’s thinking. “But Jorge? I just can’t believe he’s going to miss work for the third night in a row and a Friday at that.”
“Well …” Xander raises one hand to rub at the back of his neck. “There’s this woman, see, and …” His hands rise and fall, outlining something that he hopes conveys hot, sweaty monkey sex without being too suggestive.
Doris snorts. “He’s not the first man to run off due to thinking with his dick, and he sure as hell won’t be the last. But that doesn’t fix my situation.” Looking him up and down, she grins. “You, however, just might. Take off your shirt.”
“My wha-?” His voice cracks, and he has to clear his throat.
“Your shirt.”
“But … but this shirt is all nice.” He runs his hands down its smooth, dark-blue front. The thing cost him a good thirty bucks. “I thought it was fine for waiting tables.”
“The shirt is fine, but I want to see your chest.” She begins pacing back and forth between the refrigerator and the sink, avoiding both Gino and the new dishwasher, Michael. “Let’s see. If I do Trey and Roberto and then you followed by Trey and Roberto again, that’s five sets. One short, but if we start a little late and stretch the time between each set by a few minutes, the audience won’t know the difference.”
Oh, God. No. He raises his hands and backs away, making little pushing motions at the air, as his gut clenches under a deluge of iciness. No, no, no, no, no. “I’m so not a dancer.”
“I see how you move when you’re walking between tables - you’re able to hold a beat. And if you can hold a beat, you can dance to it.” She laughs at that, but Xander doesn’t see anything funny.
She waves Michael over. “Call Ernie like I mentioned, then go and ask Carlita about how to work tables out front, okay?”
He nods, teeth flashing bright against dark cocoa skin as he takes off his apron. “Does this mean I’m next for going on stage?”
“You want to?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then. You handle yourself well here for a few weeks, and we’ll see. I’m always open to new talent.”
Xander cuts in. “Or he could go on stage now!” He flings one hand out toward the other man. “I mean, look at him - he’s much better looking than I am, what with the tallness and the muscles and the … the nice eyes. Not that I really noticed your eyes or anything, but women, women notice those kinds of things.”
Doris laughs. “You’re both good looking. It’s just my policy that I need to have a feel for a guy before I put him on stage. Helps me pick which song will work best and all.” She turns to Xander. “Which reminds me, let’s go into the back and start figuring out a basic routine and what you’re going to wear. I’m figuring boy-next-door will work for you. What do you say?”
“Beyond eep? Not much.” Except I think I’m going to barf.
~~~
Doris pats him on the back. “Throwing up before going on stage is a time-honored entertainment tradition.”
That would really be more comforting if this weren’t the third time he’s tossed his cookies in the past two days. And if the employee toilet were cleaner. Though to be fair, a lot of its current funk is due to him and his nervous stomach.
Friday had gone well enough that she’s decided to put him on twice for tonight, first and last so not so many women will see that he’s only got one song and routine. “I know it’s usually the most experienced dancer who goes on last, but that’s also when the women are drunkest, so they’re going to love you.”
He just grunts as he stands and moves to the sink to rinse his mouth out, the cool water refreshing and sweet against its sourness. And that’s saying something. ‘Cause city water? Pretty gross here, all chemical tang like the taste I get in the back of my throat when Willow does an extra stinky spell. The sharp edge of the Formica counter presses into the tops of his thighs, and he knows he should move before it leaves a line that will show when he rips his fake jeans off, but he needs at least a few more seconds of something else bearing his weight.
When he finally turns, Doris holds out the shirt he’s to wear. That’s at least different from earlier in the evening. A really fancy burgundy number with raised swirls of increased opacity, Doris picked it because it goes sheer under the intense lights on stage.
“Now, the only thing I’d say to change from the set you did earlier is to make sure you do bigger hip swivels when you get to the last chorus.” She demonstrates while singing, arms raised, pelvis rotating in time, punctuating the words: “Gotta have some hot stuff, baby, this evening. Looking for some hot stuff, baby, tonight.” When she comes to a halt, Doris smoothes a hand over her hair and gestures to him. “Like that. Try it.”
Humming under his breath, Xander cycles through the lines, arms overhead, hips swinging to add an extra beat to gotta, hot stuff, looking, hot stuff, and tonight.
“That’s it!” She slaps his shoulder and then steers him down the hall to the back of the stage, easily stepping over power lines and rips in the carpet he has to watch his feet to avoid. “I’ll get your music started in just a second. Knock ‘em dead, kiddo.”
The beginning guitar riff of Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff” rings through the dark space around him, drums echoing, and Xander takes a large breath before stepping out onto stage. Here goes nothing. His stomach gives a lurch, but is too empty to do much more, nausea familiar enough now to feel like a default setting.
Initially, the lights seem so bright to his eyes that it’s a blessing - the audience nothing but a dim haze of faintly moving shapes that won’t crystallize into women until at least a minute in.
He’s danced at the Bronze for years with Buffy and Willow - now he just makes all his motions larger, more grandiose, provocative. Flowing with the beat, he smoothes his hands over his body, pulling the shirt tight across his chest.
His sight doesn’t adjust enough to see the women until it’s time for him to start unbuttoning his shirt, so he concentrates on the slide of the button in his fingers and tries to keep his eyes unfocused, hips moving, moving, always moving.
It’s not as if Doris could choreograph his entire set and have him learn it in a day. She mapped out the most important areas of the song and showed him effective moves to chain together however he’s able to for the rest. The most important thing, she stressed, is to keep moving.
When the shirt’s unbuttoned, he turns his back on the audience, shaking his ass as he slides the top down over both shoulders, looking coyly over one. The women scream, but it’s lost in the background as Kit comes into focus in a flash of copper and glowing skin.
She’s here! And she’s watching me!
Feeling his heart race, he completes his turn, and it’s not till he’s facing the audience again that he thinks to look for Jorge, expecting to find him leaning up against the bar or a wall, arms crossed and face covered in a grin that could almost be a smirk. Which is so not fair. I mean, it’s not like I practiced to be this for months like he did.
Xander throws in a few extra hip swivels, arms raised and flexed, just to show off his best form, while scanning the club.
He doesn’t see Jorge.
Tugging the shirt off his arms, he looks at Kit again to make sure it’s her. And boy is it ever. Her rich lips are parted, teeth nibbling slightly at the bottom one before releasing it in a pout as her eyes seem to trace every line of him. She smiles, and time slows around him, the falling shirt flowing like a waterfall to the stage, the snap kick that starts his next turn drawn out and out and …
He’s released from her eyes. Time whirls around him, spinning him almost faster than the momentum he’s generated does. Disoriented, he shakes his head, then remembers enough to make the tail end of it match the beat, hoping it looks like a purposeful bout of exuberance.
The buttons on the jeans are a tease since he’s going to rip them away, but he lingers over them, looking along the walls again.
Still no Jorge.
Pop.
Why isn’t he here?
Pop.
Why’s she looking at me like that if she’s with him?
Pop.
Shimmying so the jeans slide lower on his hips exposing the g-string made to look like tighty-whities from the front, Xander starts another turn.
Kit’s eyes flash over him, through him, solid like the teasing touch applied by the very tips of fingers.
Completing his spin, he rips the jeans from his legs, and it hits him. Wait just a freaking minute. If she’s here and Jorge’s not, then … Something’s wrong - very, very wrong.
He thinks back over the last few weeks. Martin and Kit and Jorge and Kit and … Holy Fucking Mackerel, Batman! You’d think living on a Hellmouth for years would give me Spidey sense or something. It’s her! She’s …
His fists clench the material.
Okay, so without a researchy Giles around, he’s not sure what she is, except something bad.
But he’s going to find out.
He flings the jeans behind him with enough force that he hears them hit the thin fake wall of the back of the stage.
Feedback appreciated.
Part 5
Author: ubiquirk
Rating: R
Genre: genfic: action-adventure, humor, drama
Word Count: ~14K
Character: Xander
Disclaimer: Not mine; no money.
AN: Set between S3 and S4 of Buffy. Written for
spring_with_xan . Lots of thanks to my lovely beta,
firefly_124 . There’s a Spanish Glossary to have open in another tab for easy reference.
Summary: The road trip that wasn’t. After graduation, Xander only makes it to Oxnard before his car breaks down, and he finds himself washing dishes at The Fabulous Ladies Night Club. Forty miles to get back home might not seem that far, but sometimes, it can take a lot to cross.
Previous parts: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3
4.
The keys weight his hand as he locks the door on Jorge’s red Chevy Impala, and it doesn’t help Xander’s mood that the small employee parking lot only contains the same cars as the last two nights: Doris’s Caddy, Gino’s F-150, Trey’s old something-or-other Datsun, Roberto’s K-Car, and Carlita’s cute little 60s VW Bug. Nothing that indicates Jorge has finally shown up.
You know, when he blew me off for the beach trip, I thought, ‘Hey, he’s with a woman, and it’s not like I’m that great or anything.’ Now? Now, I just really miss Willow and Buffy. And what’s wrong with me that Jorge is the one who’s not here and they’re the ones I miss more?
Xander kicks an empty whisky bottle, but is denied the satisfying crunch crash of it breaking on the side of the building when it goes too far left and stops in a drift of old, torn newspaper.
Figures. Not only do I suck at the going to college and succeeding in life thing, but I must also suck at being a friend.
As soon as he opens the back door to the kitchen, Doris is there, her presence and voice cutting through his thoughts. “Xander! Have you heard from Jorge?”
“Me? No. Hasn’t called about the car or anything, and when I talked to his sister yesterday, she hadn’t seen him either.”
“I never would have believed it.” She shakes her head. “That boy wanted to dance - I know he did. You could see the fire of performing burning in him, just like I used to have when I was a Solid Gold Dancer.”
“Solid Gold?” She used to get naked? In public? Oh, God.
“A TV show, not a strip club.” Her lips quirk, and he’s certain she once again knows just what he’s thinking. “But Jorge? I just can’t believe he’s going to miss work for the third night in a row and a Friday at that.”
“Well …” Xander raises one hand to rub at the back of his neck. “There’s this woman, see, and …” His hands rise and fall, outlining something that he hopes conveys hot, sweaty monkey sex without being too suggestive.
Doris snorts. “He’s not the first man to run off due to thinking with his dick, and he sure as hell won’t be the last. But that doesn’t fix my situation.” Looking him up and down, she grins. “You, however, just might. Take off your shirt.”
“My wha-?” His voice cracks, and he has to clear his throat.
“Your shirt.”
“But … but this shirt is all nice.” He runs his hands down its smooth, dark-blue front. The thing cost him a good thirty bucks. “I thought it was fine for waiting tables.”
“The shirt is fine, but I want to see your chest.” She begins pacing back and forth between the refrigerator and the sink, avoiding both Gino and the new dishwasher, Michael. “Let’s see. If I do Trey and Roberto and then you followed by Trey and Roberto again, that’s five sets. One short, but if we start a little late and stretch the time between each set by a few minutes, the audience won’t know the difference.”
Oh, God. No. He raises his hands and backs away, making little pushing motions at the air, as his gut clenches under a deluge of iciness. No, no, no, no, no. “I’m so not a dancer.”
“I see how you move when you’re walking between tables - you’re able to hold a beat. And if you can hold a beat, you can dance to it.” She laughs at that, but Xander doesn’t see anything funny.
She waves Michael over. “Call Ernie like I mentioned, then go and ask Carlita about how to work tables out front, okay?”
He nods, teeth flashing bright against dark cocoa skin as he takes off his apron. “Does this mean I’m next for going on stage?”
“You want to?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, then. You handle yourself well here for a few weeks, and we’ll see. I’m always open to new talent.”
Xander cuts in. “Or he could go on stage now!” He flings one hand out toward the other man. “I mean, look at him - he’s much better looking than I am, what with the tallness and the muscles and the … the nice eyes. Not that I really noticed your eyes or anything, but women, women notice those kinds of things.”
Doris laughs. “You’re both good looking. It’s just my policy that I need to have a feel for a guy before I put him on stage. Helps me pick which song will work best and all.” She turns to Xander. “Which reminds me, let’s go into the back and start figuring out a basic routine and what you’re going to wear. I’m figuring boy-next-door will work for you. What do you say?”
“Beyond eep? Not much.” Except I think I’m going to barf.
~~~
Doris pats him on the back. “Throwing up before going on stage is a time-honored entertainment tradition.”
That would really be more comforting if this weren’t the third time he’s tossed his cookies in the past two days. And if the employee toilet were cleaner. Though to be fair, a lot of its current funk is due to him and his nervous stomach.
Friday had gone well enough that she’s decided to put him on twice for tonight, first and last so not so many women will see that he’s only got one song and routine. “I know it’s usually the most experienced dancer who goes on last, but that’s also when the women are drunkest, so they’re going to love you.”
He just grunts as he stands and moves to the sink to rinse his mouth out, the cool water refreshing and sweet against its sourness. And that’s saying something. ‘Cause city water? Pretty gross here, all chemical tang like the taste I get in the back of my throat when Willow does an extra stinky spell. The sharp edge of the Formica counter presses into the tops of his thighs, and he knows he should move before it leaves a line that will show when he rips his fake jeans off, but he needs at least a few more seconds of something else bearing his weight.
When he finally turns, Doris holds out the shirt he’s to wear. That’s at least different from earlier in the evening. A really fancy burgundy number with raised swirls of increased opacity, Doris picked it because it goes sheer under the intense lights on stage.
“Now, the only thing I’d say to change from the set you did earlier is to make sure you do bigger hip swivels when you get to the last chorus.” She demonstrates while singing, arms raised, pelvis rotating in time, punctuating the words: “Gotta have some hot stuff, baby, this evening. Looking for some hot stuff, baby, tonight.” When she comes to a halt, Doris smoothes a hand over her hair and gestures to him. “Like that. Try it.”
Humming under his breath, Xander cycles through the lines, arms overhead, hips swinging to add an extra beat to gotta, hot stuff, looking, hot stuff, and tonight.
“That’s it!” She slaps his shoulder and then steers him down the hall to the back of the stage, easily stepping over power lines and rips in the carpet he has to watch his feet to avoid. “I’ll get your music started in just a second. Knock ‘em dead, kiddo.”
The beginning guitar riff of Donna Summer’s “Hot Stuff” rings through the dark space around him, drums echoing, and Xander takes a large breath before stepping out onto stage. Here goes nothing. His stomach gives a lurch, but is too empty to do much more, nausea familiar enough now to feel like a default setting.
Initially, the lights seem so bright to his eyes that it’s a blessing - the audience nothing but a dim haze of faintly moving shapes that won’t crystallize into women until at least a minute in.
He’s danced at the Bronze for years with Buffy and Willow - now he just makes all his motions larger, more grandiose, provocative. Flowing with the beat, he smoothes his hands over his body, pulling the shirt tight across his chest.
His sight doesn’t adjust enough to see the women until it’s time for him to start unbuttoning his shirt, so he concentrates on the slide of the button in his fingers and tries to keep his eyes unfocused, hips moving, moving, always moving.
It’s not as if Doris could choreograph his entire set and have him learn it in a day. She mapped out the most important areas of the song and showed him effective moves to chain together however he’s able to for the rest. The most important thing, she stressed, is to keep moving.
When the shirt’s unbuttoned, he turns his back on the audience, shaking his ass as he slides the top down over both shoulders, looking coyly over one. The women scream, but it’s lost in the background as Kit comes into focus in a flash of copper and glowing skin.
She’s here! And she’s watching me!
Feeling his heart race, he completes his turn, and it’s not till he’s facing the audience again that he thinks to look for Jorge, expecting to find him leaning up against the bar or a wall, arms crossed and face covered in a grin that could almost be a smirk. Which is so not fair. I mean, it’s not like I practiced to be this for months like he did.
Xander throws in a few extra hip swivels, arms raised and flexed, just to show off his best form, while scanning the club.
He doesn’t see Jorge.
Tugging the shirt off his arms, he looks at Kit again to make sure it’s her. And boy is it ever. Her rich lips are parted, teeth nibbling slightly at the bottom one before releasing it in a pout as her eyes seem to trace every line of him. She smiles, and time slows around him, the falling shirt flowing like a waterfall to the stage, the snap kick that starts his next turn drawn out and out and …
He’s released from her eyes. Time whirls around him, spinning him almost faster than the momentum he’s generated does. Disoriented, he shakes his head, then remembers enough to make the tail end of it match the beat, hoping it looks like a purposeful bout of exuberance.
The buttons on the jeans are a tease since he’s going to rip them away, but he lingers over them, looking along the walls again.
Still no Jorge.
Pop.
Why isn’t he here?
Pop.
Why’s she looking at me like that if she’s with him?
Pop.
Shimmying so the jeans slide lower on his hips exposing the g-string made to look like tighty-whities from the front, Xander starts another turn.
Kit’s eyes flash over him, through him, solid like the teasing touch applied by the very tips of fingers.
Completing his spin, he rips the jeans from his legs, and it hits him. Wait just a freaking minute. If she’s here and Jorge’s not, then … Something’s wrong - very, very wrong.
He thinks back over the last few weeks. Martin and Kit and Jorge and Kit and … Holy Fucking Mackerel, Batman! You’d think living on a Hellmouth for years would give me Spidey sense or something. It’s her! She’s …
His fists clench the material.
Okay, so without a researchy Giles around, he’s not sure what she is, except something bad.
But he’s going to find out.
He flings the jeans behind him with enough force that he hears them hit the thin fake wall of the back of the stage.
Feedback appreciated.
Part 5