Cheyenne was going at in the bathroom when he peeked his head around the corner. Hairspray was thick like a fog, and he coughed in spite of himself.
“Can I help you with somethin’?” She asked, not for a moment ceasing the cyclonic movement of spray can and hair pick. “You know it takes me at least two hours to get ready to go out to Denim and Diamonds. I don’t need your interruptions.”
“Now, baby, put down the spray for just a second, alright?”
“Dalton, if you make this hair fall like some bad soufflé, I will never forgive you.”
“Alls I want to know is if the chaps are too much…or just enough.”
He took a step out from behind the bathroom wall. The chaps were denim, and slightly darker than the jeans he wore under them. Above them he wore a black and purple western print shirt, pressed to perfection and off-set by a rattlesnake’s head bolo tie.
“Do a little twist.” Cheyenne said, spinning her index finger around in a circle. “Like you’re doin’ a line dance.”
She smacked her gum as he did the turn.
“Nah, just right. Makes your tush stand out.”
Denim and Diamonds was a western-themed nightclub that opened up in the mid-90s to cater to the Garth Brooks line-dancing set. Catch was, it opened up in a neighborhood that was on the way out, and after not too long the white clientele they catered to were too scared to show up. Demin and Diamonds didn’t make it out of the 90s.