I do not own Bones or these characters. This is a work of fiction. No FBI agents or entomologists were harmed during the making of this story. Enjoy.
“D’you see that?” Hodgens asks the question with a smirk on his face and an amused twinkle in his eye as he points toward the poster.
“What is it? It reminds me of that album cover from the ’80s,” says Booth absently, squinting. “Nice set of gams though.”
“This place used to be a movie theater. Now they have live performances, a different show every other night. I didn’t know that was here,” he says, nodding toward the poster off to the right. “Someone should really change that,” he mumbles before turning back toward Angela.
“What’s-” Booth pauses. “The Virgin … ia, the Virginia Chronicles?” He taps on Hodgins’ shoulder.
“It’s not ‘The Virginia Chronicles’, Brainiac, it’s ‘The Vajayjay Monologues’,” snorts Hodgins. “Can you imagine? If we produced a show called The Penis, do you think anyone would come?”
“Not unless you called it, ‘The Dick’,” chortles Booth.
Once past the glowing light bulbs and the fluorescent marquis of the exterior, the six join an almost all-female crowd funneling toward the awaiting double doors.
This should have been their second clue, but it was subtle, so we’ll let that one slide.
The doors opening off the lobby into the auditorium are flanked with thick, flesh-colored papier mâché railings at waist level. The railings are tunnel-like, round and wide at the end where they lead to seating, tapering as they jut into the lobby fanning out to each side to accommodate the acceptance of more patrons.
Mid lobby, the each railing makes a sharp turn toward the floor, where it finally slopes and slides into what appears to be a red stiletto high heal. And that’s exactly what they are, red stilettos. With some perspective, or, perhaps more information about what show they were attending, either of the men could have realized that they are walking through a giant pair of legs, at the apex of which is the entrance into the auditorium.
This should have been their third clue.
Seated in row D, the six sit comfortably, Booth and Hodgins elbow to elbow, their lady loves to each man’s opposite side.
“I have to admit that I am quite impressed that you’ve made it this far, Booth,” says Brennan, leaning over to bus him on the cheek, landing a second tender kiss on his lips, and gifting him with an admiring toothy smile. “After more than six years, it appears you still have the power to surprise me. I am quite delighted,” she says, encouragingly.
“Oh, Ye of little faith. I’m made of tougher stuff than even you are aware of,” he says, returning her smile with a rakish grin that turns sheepish at the end. He’s tickled that she’s acknowledging his tenacity, his fortitude, his character. He kisses her back sweetly behind her ear, breathing in that wonderful Bones-y scent, then exhaling with a throaty sigh.
“I predicted you wouldn’t make it as far as the lobby doors,” she says, apologetically. “Well done, you.” She winks at him sweetly. This still makes his heart skip a beat, even after all this time. He’s glad he came tonight, happy to have made her proud. They fall into a companionable silence.
The deep red velvet curtains, fringed in black satin make the four silver barstools and four sparkling microphone stands pop out.
“I think it’s a quartet,” whispers Booth, leaning over to Hodgins. “Even I can handle four pasty guys with instruments and toupés. No problem.”
“I love classical,” whispers Hodgins back. “Maybe a stringed quartet, you think?”
“Or one of those groups of people who sing without accompaniment,” suggests Booth, nodding, raising his eyebrows in consideration of that possibility.
“A cappella? I can handle that too. Hope it’s barbershop,” he says, turning toward the stage when the audience starts clapping. “I didn’t get a program. Why weren’t there any programs for this show?” Hodgins looks back toward the entrance, then turns forward again.
“Maybe they ran out during the last show,” suggests Booth as the lights grow dimmer. “Shhh. Here we go!”
Out walks a beautiful woman in a clingy, mid thigh, strapless red satin dress. Her hair is black, straight, just to her shoulders. Her bangs hang in a perfect shiny fringe across her wide brow. Her lipstick is bright red. When she opens her mouth to speak, she flashes a mouth full of brilliantly white straight teeth.
She removes one microphone from its stand and steps in front of the other three.
“Good evening, ladies!” she murmurs, with a broad grin, the microphone projecting for her what she can’t on her own.
The crowd claps enthusiastically.
Her voice is a low, rich, baritone; smooth like chocolate and velvet and an hour-long massage. She enunciates perfectly, her mouth close enough to the microphone that she can probably taste the metal when she inhales. She speaks without much inflection at first, almost as if she were hiding behind that fringe of black bangs. Her eyes are black, warm, piercing, and intelligent. The left corner of her mouth is twisted up in a permanent beguiling grin, matched by the same perfectly shaped eyebrow, which is cocked in a severe sideways question mark. When you look at her, you can’t wait to hear what she’s going to say.
After the clapping dies down, she begins.
“Have you ever been thanked for coming?” She purses her lips, accepting the love from the audience.
The audience roars with hearty feminine laughter.
“Well,” she says, smirking, a glint in her eye, cocking her to address the other side of the house, “Let me be your first.” She pauses. “Thank you. For coming.” She smiles. Beguiling. Definitely.
Laughter all around.
“Has anyone ever … stopped,” she says, “and thanked you for making them come along with you?”
Laughter. Lots of nodding. Grinning. Lots of manicured hands clapping.
“Okay,” she says, that curvy eyebrow dancing, “I thought not. They’re just men, after all. Right ladies?” She walks two steps across the stage and stops.
“It’s comedy. Lady comedy!” Hodgins rasps excitedly. “I’ll gladly sit here and listen to man-bashing to prove a point!”
“Yeah, what the hell? What was all the fuss about? Piece of cake! I’d gladly endure this for a weekend with the guys at a Flyers game.”
“Shhhh. Nothing,” he replies distractedly.
Are you ready for another chapter? Here’s chapter four >>>
<<< Or go back to the beginning of ‘The Culture in the Club’