Magic Mansion by Jordan Price (best fiction books to read .txt) 📕

Ricardo beneath Mr. Topaz on the paper star on the door. And so that was the place Ricardo, for the moment, was calling “home.”

John was still awake, lying in bed in his robe, reading. He slipped his bookmark into his book, set it aside, and pressed himself up against the wall so Ricardo could sit on the edge of the mattress. Ricardo ran a hand down John’s thigh, and said, “I’ve never been so exhausted.”

John said nothing. He simply waited. The silence, somehow, felt encouraging—or maybe it was the compassionate look in his eyes. “Today I had a voice coach,” Ricardo said. “And a choreographer. And I tried on—” Ricardo stopped himself before he said a hundred pairs of jeans. He and John had made a pact to surprise one another with their new routines…and for the opportunity to see a brand-spanking new Professor Topaz act, live, in person (and in turn, to be seen by him) was worth the agony of not being able to talk about his preparations in anything other than the most abstract terms. “I’m not sure about this. It’s all so new.”

Not only was it new…but it felt risky. Ricardo and his stylist had combed history for a period that would showcase Ricardo’s talents, from medieval juggler to futuristic space traveler (who just happened to have linking rings dangling from his belt.) They all felt so much like costumes, though, Ricardo had nixed every idea, one after the other…until his stylist suggested the 1950’s.

And he remembered how the hula hoop segment of his short-running stage show had always wowed the audience.

It wasn’t just any hula hoop act, either. While the audience was busy watching Ricardo stack more hoops around his waist and neck, his hands were free to palm a number of coins that he’d then produce from “thin air.” It was acrobatics. It was magic. It was flashy. It lent itself well to performing on a boardwalk, where Ricardo would stroll and mingle with the crowd. And in terms of period and theme, it was absolutely perfect.

The choreographer was on board immediately. The way her eyes shone, you’d swear she was just given the opportunity to go back in time and choreograph West Side Story. She walked Ricardo through a few steps, putting his body through new and exciting moves that would leave him sore in a bunch of interesting places. He was really beginning to envision this new act taking shape when he saw the vocal coach and stylist off to the side in a surprisingly heated debate. A pair of hoops he’d been spinning around his neck did a few more lazy revolutions and then fell to the ground, and the vocal coach looked up at the clatter.

“What is it?” Ricardo said.

The coach fluttered his hand. He was a wrinkled, frail-looking man in his seventies with a neckerchief, a small mustache and a startling, booming voice. “It’s just that this whole hula hoop idea, darling…do you really want to come off so nelly?”

The choreographer gasped.

“I don’t look nelly,” Ricardo spluttered.

His stylist said, “He looks hot.”

“Of course he’s hot.” The vocal coach gave a small, affected toss of his head. “His hotness is not in question. The boy’s scorching. If I tried to pick him up, I’d get singed. But I’m looking at him through working class America’s eyes, and I’m telling you…he looks nelly.”

Ricardo might have been outraged, if the image of his childhood self in the Dracula costume—tilting his head coyly, thrilled to be wearing his mother’s lipstick—didn’t flash past his mind’s eye…if he didn’t suspect the vocal coach might be right. He tapped one of the hula hoops with his toe. It sprang into the air, and he caught it nimbly. He bounced it a few times, gathering his thoughts, and finally said, “I don’t care who knows I’m gay. But it doesn’t need to be the only thing they see when they look at me, either. I’ve seen plenty of men work with hoops and make it look masculine. So, if the three of you are on board…that’s what I’m going to do.”

Now, watching John watch him, Ricardo wondered how he seemed to John. It felt too soon to ask. And he wasn’t sure he was prepared to hear an honest answer.

“Think of the strangeness as an opportunity,” John said. “Working with people we wouldn’t have access to otherwise, getting exposure we’ve never dreamed we could. It’s all change. And change is difficult, even when it’s a change you’ve been looking forward to.”

Ricardo toyed with the collar of John’s robe. “All change?”

John smiled. “No. Not all….”

The next few days were a blur of fittings and rehearsals. It was tempting to do the same old linking rings act in a randomly-chosen period costume, but the thought of just “phoning it in” was even scarier than the pressure of developing a new twenty-minute act in such a short amount of time. Ricardo wasn’t going up against the dancing chihuahua act at a dry corporate retreat, after all. He was competing against three accomplished professionals.

In the end, he rejected the “greaser” look for a more colorful bowling shirt (settling finally on sparkle-gold and black) with skin-tight jeans. The loafers were fabulous, and the socks matched the shirt’s aqua piping and embroidery. The whole “teen idol” getup seemed painfully appropriate.

The choreographer paid particular attention to the manner in which Ricardo held himself—apparently the way he turned his elbows in and thrust his weight on one hip was too fey. Since he didn’t want to overdo it and come across bandy and bowlegged like Kevin, he focused on small, moderate changes. If anything, his years of skating had taught him accuracy and control.

He lived and breathed his new act—and with any other new boyfriend, it might have been a problem. But John was doing the very same thing. He understood. He knew. John had been able to share these things with Casey Cornish all those years, but for Ricardo, dating a fellow magician was