I carry Ro-Ro piggyback, arms wrapped under his knee-pits. Thank goodness he’s so slender, what with that perfect twink body and all. Ro-Ro is carrying his boots in one hand, my heels in the other and has the hem of my dress clamped firmly between his teeth. I am definitely flashing any onlookers my panties right now, but it sure beats having that expensive-ass material dragging in the puddles.

“You know you’re fucking spoiled as shit right?”

“Yup,” he says through the fabric of my dress.

I sigh. At least he’s fucking self-aware. Well, it’s true that Ro-Ro has to dance all night, and it’s true that I don’t. (And I’d rather sniff FuckFace’s ass than listen to Ro-Ro whine about being in pain all day tomorrow.) (Unless I’m the one causing the pain…)

We’ve reached our destination. The car is a pink, sparkly Mary Kay Cadillac — one of the Mary Kay pink, sparkly Cadillacs. Ro-Ro told me he stole it years ago from his evil stepmother Janice when he’d run away from home.

Ro-Ro shifts around some of the items he’s holding so that he has a free hand and proceeds to reach into my cleavage to pull out the car keys.

I chuck Ro-Ro in the back seat and grab the keys from him, slamming the door and starting the Mary Kay car so quickly it growls at me angrily.

11:51 PM. Nine minutes until we’re late for work. We whip out of the parking lot so fast that Ro-Ro, who hasn’t had a chance to buckle his seat belt crashes onto the floor.

“Christ in a fucking bubble bath, Emmy!” he groans.

I am flooring it through the city, whipping around turns in a full-on Tokyo Drift. Ro-Ro is desperately trying to lace up his boots, lying on his back in the backseat with one leg lifted up in the air. He keeps smacking around back there and cursing. A Jay-Walker leaps out in front of us and I slam on the breaks.

“Oof!” I feel Ro-Ro’s body smack into the back of my seat. He moans in pain. Hmm. Not a bad sound. I really don’t mind it when I am the one causing the pain. Ro-Ro takes the opportunity to climb up into the front, boots finally on. He swings one platformed tipped leg over my head and meaningfully buckles his seatbelt. The second the Jay-Walker has cleared our path (and has been appropriately flipped off and shouted and honked at by me) we shoot forward again, weaving in and out of traffic.

Ro-Ro reaches into the glove box and pulls out his gel eyeliner. I think to myself that if Ro-Ro’s magical ability isn’t the ability to fuck around without getting STD’s (I’ve guessed that, and he’s told me it’s not), it must be to apply eyeliner flawlessly in a moving vehicle without stabbing himself. Ro-Ro does winged liner and uses a little stamp to print a tiny heart under the corner of his left eye. He reaches back into the glove box and applies a lite coat of red lipstick, blotting it on some tissues and tossing them carelessly into the backseat. (I will be making him clean those up later.)

He reaches over to me and clips a long necklace with layers and layers of glittering black jewels around my neck. He kisses my cheek, grinning and uses his thumb to wipe away the lipstick smudge, “Now you look perfect, darling.”

I roll my eyes.

We (clearly) keep a lot of shit in our glovebox, but I think the most surprising thing in there is that we actually keep gloves in our fucking glovebox. I don’t know anyone who actually keeps gloves in their fucking glovebox.

Ro-Ro pulls out his gloves— short, leather, blood red, fingerless, and hands me mine — long, black, lace — right as we skid into the parking lot. The time on the dashboard reads 12:02 AM. We’re fucking late.

The two of us bolt out of the car, yanking on our gloves. We head around back of The Sexy Kitty so that Ro-Ro can enter through the Employee door. I’ll wait a few minutes before heading around to the front to come in through the door for patrons.

Even though we’re late, Ro-Ro stops before going inside for our Tradition. Every time — every single time — before we start a job, Ro-Ro and I hug it out. We stand there and give each other one big, real, true hug. Because, if something happens, who knows when the other will get a hug again? What if we get kidnapped? Chained up? Killed? Being hugged by someone you know cares about you — really and truly and for sure cares about you, is super important. It can keep you alive. It’s a reminder that there is somebody out there who really and truly and for sure cares about you and who will really and truly and for sure miss you if you don’t make it home. And fuck you if you make fun of us for it.

I hold Ro-Ro for a long second, wrapping my arms around the pleather trench coat and burring my face in the crook of his shoulder, and he holds me too. He wraps his hands around my corset style back of my dress and leans his face down onto the top of my head, smelling my hair. We don’t say anything. We never say anything during our Tradition. That’s part of it. You don’t need to say anything because you already have.