Anyone But You

by Brien Michaels

  “Oh save the bleeding-heart shit for someone else,” Cal said. “He got what was fucking coming to him for acting like that. You wanna get fucked in the ass and dress up and pretend you got a fucking pussy, then you do that shit behind closed doors where the rest of us God-fearing people can’t see it. Cuz if you bring it in front of me, better believe I’m going to have something to say and do about it.”

  Jack knew that his cousin wasn’t talking about him directly, but it felt like he was. There was no way he could have known about his bisexuality, though. Jack had made sure that the only person who knew anything about him wanting men was Ryan. And Jack was suddenly thankful that Ryan wasn’t here. He wouldn’t want him to hear this bullshit. But now, as another part that Ryan had awakened in him roared to life, Jack dug his nails into the palm of his hand. His face was on fire. “And who gives you that right?”

  “I do. And my president. And the Good Book. All those faggot pieces of shit deserve to die.”

  “I hope he presses charges,” Jack said. “I’ll represent him for free.”

  If his mother had been wearing pearls, she would have been clutching them. They all stared at him like he’d sprouted a second head, but Cal actually took a step forward. “I always knew you were one of them,” he said, looking Jack up and down. “Ever since I caught you looking at my dick when we were kids, I knew you’d take it up the ass one day.”

  “I wouldn’t touch your dick if it were the last one on Earth. I’d just never seen one that small.”

  He realized half a second before Cal punched him that he’d kind of come out. But then his head snapped back and he stumbled. He caught himself and blocked the next one his cousin threw.

  A red haze clouded the edges of Jack’s vision. He landed a blow against Cal’s cheek and, while Cal was dazed, aimed another at his throat, then his chest, then stomach. Cal hunched over and Jack seized the opportunity to introduce his knee to his cousin’s nose. There was a snap of bone before blood sprayed all over the floor. His mother screamed, and he froze. What was he doing? He wasn’t violent. He didn’t even kill bugs when he saw them in the apartment. The sanity he hadn’t even felt slipping away crept back in on him. Jack opened his mouth, not even sure what he wanted to say. Next thing he knew, hands were around his arms, dragging him backward. Cal stumbled to Sasha, cowering like a kid who needed to be protected from a monster. Didn’t he, though? Jack certainly felt monstrous. But he remembered how they’d gotten there, why he’d snapped, and anger flared inside him all over again.

  Jack wrenched himself free of his father and brother and straightened, smoothing his shirt. He looked at his cousin’s bruised, bloody face, his stomach churning. “You’d better not ever let me hear you talking like that again. Because those—” He stopped for a second and considered what he was about to say. “—us faggots have more balls than you ever will.”

  There was utter silence in the room. It pressed in on him, almost deafening. He surveyed the people he’d grown up with; suddenly it hit home, if he never saw any of them again, he’d be perfectly fine with it.

  “You all make me sick.” He turned on his heel and strode away, head held high. Through the door to the ballroom. Out into the cooling night air and across the street. He couldn’t believe what he’d done. But part of him swelled with pride he’d never known. After twenty-nine years, he’d stood up to the people who had made him hate himself and feel like he was less than the rest of them simply because of the way he was.

  But he was something else now. Besides a bisexual man. Besides a man who’d fallen head over heels in love with a drag queen. Besides a probably now-disowned man from Brooklyn who’d craved nothing more growing up than the acceptance of the people he’d just alienated.

  Finally, he was free.

  Sheila stared at herself in the mirror. Even under the makeup, she could see Ryan and how much pain he was in. The emotionless depths of his eyes. The droop of his lips underneath the ones she’d drawn on. Even the hunch of his shoulders.

  She couldn’t be her true, authentic self if both parts of her personality weren’t on board. But Ryan couldn’t go back and talk to Jack. Not now. Probably not ever. It would hurt too much. Because if Jack hadn’t come to terms with himself by now, he likely never would, and Ryan couldn’t deal with that. He wouldn’t be thrust back into the closet like an old jacket, and that was the way he felt with Jack. Like he was hiding behind Sheila again. Yeah, Sheila was fabulous and took no shit, and she’d taught Ryan more about being a man than most men in his life, but he couldn’t be her forever. Sometimes he had to come back to himself. No matter how much he hated being that person. Especially now.

  It had killed him to be so mean to Jack, to watch his phone as it rang and just turn it over so he didn’t have to see that beautiful face staring up at him, to threaten him the way he had. But Jack had to know he meant business. That Ryan was putting his foot down and enough was enough. It was time to put the persona away.

  Sheila sighed and pulled at her wig; the bobby pins tugged at the hair they’d been secured to but gave way, and just like that, the illusion of the woman in the mirror had been shattered. Ryan looked from his boy hair down to his still fully beat face and was once again shocked by the difference. He was no one special. Had no real talents to speak of, so how had he created such a character and painted her so beautifully onto his face? Even after all this time, he still couldn’t understand it.

  Next, the lashes came off, then he slipped a wipe from the makeup remover container on his sink and started to scrub at his face. Layer after layer, Sheila disappeared further from the world until nothing was left except the body he’d crafted. Then it was the dress, the bra, the tights, the padding. He untucked, wincing only a little as he pulled the duct tape away faster than he’d meant to. His dick stung for a moment, but nothing he wasn’t used to.

  And he was Ryan again. He resisted the urge to cover himself. There was no one else in his house, but that didn’t make him feel any less exposed. Like he’d revealed himself to the entire world for their jokes and criticisms. He was always fine when he put his boy clothes on, but he’d found that he needed moments like this, no matter how fleeting, to remind himself that underneath all the business suits and the sequins and hair, that he was still just the scared boy who had no idea what he was doing with his life.

  He wished Jack could see him this way.

  But the time for pitying himself was over. He put on a pair of sweats and a white T-shirt before he sat on his bed and turned on the TV.

  Big mistake.

  A Breaking News banner rolled across the bottom of the screen. KILLER STRIKES AGAIN? stood against the red background, and Ryan thought he was going to be sick. “The body of performer Dolly Mattell was found just moments ago in the alley behind me,” the newswoman said, gesturing toward the usually empty space between Neon Trees and the pizza place next to it. Her face was like paper, eyes wide, and she seemed to be shaking her head back and forth as she spoke. The entrance to the alleyway was marked by police tape, and the alley itself was crawling with officers. He’d left there less than an hour ago. How had they gotten there so fast?

  The reporter he knew, because she’d tried to get a comment out of Sheila as he’d been leaving. Ironically, she wanted to know if he thought he might be a target for the serial killer on the loose.

  “I stepped away from the front door to have a cigarette, and that’s when I discovered the grisly scene,” the reporter said. “I was here, collecting interviews for WVOT, and so you’re hearing here first that it would appear the killer has struck again.”

  This wasn’t possible. Ryan had just finished a set with Dolly. She’d gone on first, did a few numbers with Sheila and then Sheila closed the show. She’d left early to get ready because she was supposed to be heading to her brother’s wedding tomorrow.

  The reporter kept talking, but Ryan didn’t hear anything she said. What if she’d been right? Sheila was obviously a target because this bastard
was only attacking drag queens. But what if she was next? What if whoever this was had been there, watching and waiting?

  Ryan wasn’t ready to die.

  God, he wanted to call Jack. Ryan was pretty sure Jack would answer the phone, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it, no matter how scared shitless he was. Jack hadn’t tried to call or text him since Ryan had missed his birthday party. It had only been a day, but still, it didn’t get much shitter than missing something like that and then calling because he needed to be comforted. Besides, after the things Ryan had said, he was surprised Jack had kept trying to get in touch with him at all.

  But that seemed to be over. So he sat there. Alone.

  He looked back at the TV in time to see Sidney, the club manager on screen. Tears streamed down his face and he looked like a breakdown was right around the corner. “Until this madman is captured,” he was saying, “all drag-related activity at Neon Trees is suspended. Our top priority is the safety of our patrons and our performers. We’re sorry it took us so long to come to this decision, but we were hoping he would have been apprehended by now.”

  Ryan’s heart sank. So not only were his friends being murdered, but now he’d lost the one emotional outlet he had. He hated himself for even thinking that. It felt selfish, but it was honest. Without drag, he probably would have killed himself a long time ago.

  Jack danced back into his mind, all sexy and wounded and . . . there. One relapse wouldn’t hurt, would it? But Ryan needed more courage before he could make that call. So he padded down to the kitchen with the rational part of his mind trying to talk him out of his plan the whole way. It was no match for the raw loss, though, and a moment later Ryan plopped down on one of his stools, pried open a bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a cup.

  The resolve he wanted wasn’t at the bottom of that one, so he went for another. And another. By the end of the bottle, his head was wading into the deep end of the bad-decision pool. He stared at his phone, but still couldn’t will himself to make the call. So he got up for another and toppled over. His head hit the ground and he winced, but refused to move yet. Maybe he belonged down here. He lay there, staring up at the ceiling and hating himself for wanting Jack so bad, but he couldn’t help it. For the last few weeks, he’d shared literally every part of his life with him, and now he couldn’t and it would have been less painful if he’d just jumped into a pool of acid.

  Something chimed in the distance, and he rolled over and to his feet a little too fast. The room swam around him; he had to grab the island to steady himself. He reached for his phone, but it was blank. So what the hell had that been?

  And there it was again. He looked around, eyes darting from one end of the kitchen to the other. Had he left music playing somewhere? Then came the banging, and Ryan realized what it was. He did have a doorbell. At least, he thought he did. So he stumbled through the living room and into the foyer as it chimed once more.

  There was a shadow on the other side of the frosted glass. A Jack-shaped shadow. He staggered toward the door, elation flooding him, and threw it open—fuck him sideways Jack was really there, staring at him through grieving eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” Jack whispered.

  But apologies didn’t matter. Not anymore. “Shut up and get in here.” Ryan pulled him inside and into the kiss he’d been aching for for the past two weeks. Everything about it was warm and familiar and he melted against the man who’d opened his heart to a part of his life he hadn’t even realized he was missing. He wasn’t sure how long they stood there, wrapped in each other, but a sharp pain in his abdomen brought him back to reality. He broke away and stared down at the hilt of the knife sticking out of his gut.

  His mouth fell open and a pained gasp tumbled out of him. He looked up at Jack, the obvious question on his lips, but Jack wasn’t there anymore. Instead the man standing in front of him was clad in all black, hood drawn up to hide his face. Ryan tried to turn and run, but the stranger knocked him to the ground and pulled the blade out of his belly. Ryan wanted to see under the hood, tried to reach up and knock it away so he could look into the eyes of the man who was about to murder him, but the killer swatted his attempts away, closed both hands around the handle, raised the knife, and brought it back down, driving it into Ryan’s heart. Ryan’s blood spurt as the organ beat uselessly, pumping the final bits of his life into the air. He felt himself fading. But there was so much he hadn’t done yet. So much he still wanted to say, and so many people he hadn’t told he loved them in far too long. It was too late now. He tried to fight off the darkness, but it clawed at him, dragging him deeper and deeper until—

  Ryan jerked awake. He was on the kitchen floor. Sunlight streamed in from the open curtains. He sat up and pressed a hand to his head. What time was it? Why had he drunk so much? Why did it feel like someone was sawing at his brain with a dull butter knife? He looked down to see a dark-gray stain in the crotch of his sweats. Had pissing himself pulled him out of the dream that was already slithering away from the reaches of his memory? He climbed to his feet, ignoring the warning throb in his skull and got the bleach and mop from the closet. As he cleaned up his mess, a sickening fact occurred to him. It was Friday. Jack’s last day.

  He’d spent the last two weeks begging for this day to come so he could be done with it already, but now that it was actually here, he wished he’d had more time. He didn’t know if he’d be able to deal with it, especially not hungover. But he’d have to do what he’d have to do, because he was an adult. So even though it nearly killed him, he went upstairs, got in the shower, and got ready for what would surely be the worst day of his life.

  How had Jack come to hate every suit he owned? Black. Blue. Dark gray. Black. Blue. Mahogany. Black. Blue. Black. Blue. Why the fuck did everything look like he was heading to a goddamn funeral? Even his ties were those muted, dreary colors. But maybe those were right for today. Nothing about the hours ahead of him called for anything happy.

  He could just skip it, though, right? He didn’t have to go. What were they going to do, fire him?

  The thought comforted him even as he pulled one of those dark pieces of shit from his closet and started to slip it on. The oxygen left the room as he slid the pants on. Would death be easier than buttoning up his shirt? But what if it wasn’t? Would he be stuck tying that same simple black tie for the rest of eternity? Or would shrugging into the jacket be his damnation? All because he couldn’t be honest and open about his feelings in time. He deserved this.

  Ryan was one of the best men he’d ever known. And Jack had hurt him. So why shouldn’t he be miserable in return?

  His phone rang as he picked it up to order a car to come get him. His mother. Again. She’d called a dozen times since his party, and he’d ignored every one of them. There couldn’t be anything she was going to say that was going to make a damn thing better. Every moment of his life up to now had taught him that.

  But once more, he let himself toy with the thought that maybe she had come around. And that was why she was calling. Maybe she wanted to tell him that she loved him no matter who he slept with and the hell with the rest of the family, she accepted him for who he was. Because that was what unconditional love was.

  The thought was so powerful his vision shimmered and his hand trembled as he finally answered the call.

  “Hello?” he said, hoping his voice was steadier than he felt.

  “Good morning, Jackson.” He knew that tone and already he could feel his heart cracking under the weight of it. He could just hang up now. What he was sure would be his last memory of the woman who’d given birth to him would be the one he’d created. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. For some reason he found himself rooted to the spot, hoping and praying that he was wrong.

  “Good morning, Mother.”

  “I thought you’d like to know that your cousin had to go to the ER the other night. You broke his nose.”

  Usually, Jack would have been filled with savage pleasure that Cal ha
d finally gotten what was coming to him after years of torment. But this wasn’t the time for that.

  “I see.”

  “He’ll be pressing charges.” Jack nodded, throat too dry to speak. She went on. “And we support him.” There it was. Part of the reason she’d been trying to get in touch. But still, there had to be more. She could have told him that in a text. Or an email. No. She was only pressing the knife into his flesh now. The plunge was yet to come. She sighed. “I cannot believe you would embarrass us the way you did. We raised you better than that. But you don’t seem to care about anything anymore. You only care about yourself. There’s no other reason you could possibly have to . . .” Her voice faltered, and for one wild moment, Jack allowed himself to hope she felt remorse for what she was about to say.

  “Ma . . .”

  But this was a woman who’d never felt remorse about anything a day in her life. “You are no longer welcome in our home, Jackson. As far as we’re concerned, your brother is our only son.”

  That was it. Though it had been exactly what he’d been expecting, Jack still had to grab the counter to steady himself. The air really had left the room. Fuck it to hell, when had he actually started to cry? Hot tears stung his face, and his heart shattered in his chest. It was one thing to imagine the words, but something else entirely to hear them.

  This was the person who’d given him life. Now, here she was on the other end of the line telling him that she didn’t love him anymore, all because of who he wanted to go to bed with.

  She was still talking, he knew that, but he wasn’t sure what she was saying. It didn’t matter. He’d never see her again. Outside of court, that was. Because on top of everything else, he was being sued for defending himself against someone who had attacked him first. Wasn’t that just the bee’s fucking knees?

  “You didn’t have to tell anyone about your sickness,” he finally heard her say. “We could have all gone on assuming the best, but no. You had to be selfish and let a room full of our closest friends know what kind of person you really are. And now when we walk past, they’ll whisper. And they’ll turn the other way when they see us on the street, because one was living right under our roof the entire time and we didn’t even know.” She paused and Jack prayed that she was done at last. But of course she wasn’t. “The sin is in the scandal. Goodbye, Jackson.”