Jack put an arm around Ryan, who was visibly shaken. He didn’t want to believe what he’d just heard.
“I’m sorry the two of you had to go through that,” Aunt Sasha said. Jack turned in her direction. “I’ve always loved you and I always will,” she said. “I accept you just the way you are.” She stroked her own son’s face gently. “And I’m guessing now that his secret is out, your cousin will too.”
Jack got up and embraced first his aunt, then Cal. He turned back to Ryan, who was paler than he’d ever seen him. A thin sheen of sweat stood on his forehead. “I . . . I can’t be here,” he said. God, he was trembling.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “I’m going to get him out of here,” he said to the only two family members he had left. “Thank you. I’ll call you. I promise.”
“You’re not going anywhere by yourself,” Cal said. “I don’t trust them. I’ll drive you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course. I told you, I’m here for you.”
Jack looked from Ryan to his aunt, feeling slightly helpless. He was at war with himself. Logic told him there was no proof his brother was a killer. That threat kept echoing in his mind, though.
“I’ll pay the bill, don’t worry about it. Just get out of here,” she said.
He nodded and then helped Ryan out of his chair.
Cal escorted them outside, sparing an extended glance at the hipster host on their way out the door. It was odd, but Jack brushed it away. The others had gone already, but that didn’t mean that he and Ryan were safe. What if his brother really was the killer? He could be waiting in the shadows for them and they would never know. They’d never see him coming. Just like the other queens hadn’t.
The lights on Cal’s pickup flashed as the doors unlocked, and Jack climbed into the backseat with Ryan. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Of course not.”
Jack wondered if Ryan was rethinking his event. It was only two days away now, but he didn’t want to ask in front of Cal. His boyfriend was vulnerable already without him pressing anything with someone else around. Jack gave his cousin his address—he wasn’t about to tell anyone where Ryan lived, not until he was sure it was safe—and settled back with Ryan nestled against his shoulder.
The night had gone almost exactly the way he’d thought it would, though he hadn’t counted on Aunt Sasha coming to his rescue. It was nice knowing that he did still have people on his side. He pulled Ryan a little closer to him, tried to project a calm that he didn’t feel. Ryan stopped shaking eventually and his breathing grew deep. A moment later, his light snores filled the back of the truck.
“You really do love him, huh?” Cal asked. Jack saw him peering at them through the rearview.
“I really do. He’s helped me more than I can ever say. I don’t know where I’d be without him.”
Cal chuckled. “Maybe one day I’ll be able to find someone like that too.” He looked, almost mournfully, back at the road.
Something had happened to his cousin. Something Jack had never noticed because he’d always thought he hated him. But this wasn’t the time to ask.
Jack was wrecked. He hadn’t felt so emotionally drained since the last time he’d talked to his mother, and he needed to recover, so they rode in silence for the rest of the journey. When they pulled up to his place, he helped Ryan out and went back to the window. “I’ll call you,” he told Cal. “I don’t even know how to thank you for all of this.”
“Just don’t let anybody force you back into the closet, yeah? This is a good look on you.”
Now it was Jack’s turn to chuckle. “Promise.” He nodded another thanks and took Ryan up to his apartment. Once they were inside, they plopped down on the couch, not bothering to take off their nice clothes. Jack reached for the remote, but Ryan stopped him.
“Please don’t do that.” A tear fell that Jack wiped away. “Someone else might be dead and, if they are, I don’t want to know. Not tonight.”
Jack understood, so they sat there, silence blossoming around them until Ryan fell asleep once again. Jack snuck away long enough to change out of his suit and to grab a blanket. He sat back down as gently as he could—Ryan was going through enough and Jack didn’t want to wake him. He’d been all but threatened tonight and, in less than forty-eight hours, he and twelve other entertainers were putting their lives on the line again. All to show some madman that he wouldn’t terrify them into silence. That the night was theirs. And they were taking it back.
Jack glanced at the door to make sure it was locked, and then followed Ryan off to sleep.
This club was smaller than the normal one. And I hated the name: The Reputation Room. But it’s where the bitches had decided to make their stand; they’d wanted me here, so here I was. I crumpled the flyer in my pocket; it had told me everything I needed to know.
I could respect bravery; it was an admirable trait in anyone. The first one had been brave, and that’s what had inspired me to slash his throat from ear to ear. And then the second one . . . The bitch just wouldn’t shut up; and the blood spurting in my face from the severed artery had been so satisfying. There hadn’t even been a hint of fear until he’d realized what was about to happen. The only reason I hadn’t dropped my pants and stroked one out right then had been because it would have left DNA.
But this . . . this spectacle wasn’t about bravery. It was about defiance. And I hated being defied. I’d slaughter every single one of them on stage tonight if I could.
There were more people in the club than I’d thought there would be. At first, I’d thought it was because I hadn’t inspired enough fear in the people, but then I realized, they must have figured that since they weren’t strutting around all done up like sluts, they were safe. And maybe they were right.
I didn’t want the men who actually knew they were men. I only wanted the bitches. And a dozen of them were here tonight, under one roof, taunting me, practically begging to be the next headline. And they would be. I wished there was a way I could have taken all of them out tonight. But it would have had to be one by one.
Movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. Another police officer. Fourth one I’d seen tonight. I gritted my teeth. Their increased presence tonight was troubling, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle.
I ordered a drink and watched as the bitches paraded through their acts one by one, until there was only one left. One I’d seen before.
The man swept onto the stage, more sissy in his walk than a gay on the runway for the first time. Gone was that gown he’d performed in last time; it had been replaced by a pair of thigh-high red boots, a shimmering red dress that stopped maybe an inch before the shoes began, and a long blonde wig. “How the hell is everyone doing tonight?” he shouted into the mic, and the crowd erupted into applause. He waited until they finished, flipping that fake hair over his shoulder like he actually thought he was a real woman. A smile spread across his face. “Ladies . . . gentlemen . . . and everyone somewhere in the middle or still trying to figure it out . . .” He tilted his head and let out a small laugh. “I want to thank you so much for coming out tonight. My name is Sheila Saltue and I organized this event.” Another thunderous roar from the audience. “As I’m sure you’ve all heard, there’s someone out there attacking us. Murdering us. Hiding in the shadows like a coward, and trying to scare us away from doing what we love.”
Oh I’m not hiding anywhere, sweetheart. I’m right here. Right under your nose. Not my fault you’re too self-absorbed to see me.
“And this is my way of telling him: FUCK YOU!” Now there was stomping with the clapping, a chorus that made me even more sorry I hadn’t brought along something deadlier than my usual knife. “We won’t be silenced. We won’t live in fear. We’re going to keep doing this, because this is what we do.” A pause. “I hope he’s watching right now. Because I’m about to give him something to see. Are you all ready to be entertained one more time?” The man on stage shouted this last part,
and their applause was drowned out by the music blaring to life over the speakers.
I didn’t even know what the bitch was singing about this time. Anger coursed through every part of me; I could almost hear the rush of blood in my ears. I didn’t like being mocked, and just like that, I didn’t give a shit about the rest of them, even as they filed on stage to join their fearless leader for what I could only assume was the final number. I made a note of every one of their faces and filed it away. They were safe, because tonight my sights were only set on one: that bitch in the middle. That mouthy little faggot was going to pay for every single word he’d just said.
With his life.
Ryan couldn’t remember an evening going more perfectly. They’d had to go to the next county over to find a club willing to host the event, but it had all been worth it. Even now as he slid off his tights and untucked—the only de-dragging he’d be doing tonight—he was still riding high. A couple of the other girls clapped him on the shoulder as they passed.
“I have never been more proud of you,” a voice came from behind him. He spun around, instinctively shoving the dress back down to cover himself.
“Oh please,” Justine said. “I’ve probably touched that thing just as much as you have. Someone didn’t like to tuck in the beginning, remember?”
This was a cherry, if he’d ever seen one. Shame cast aside, he threw his arms around his drag mother and squeezed. He couldn’t put into words how happy he was to see her, so he just held her, trying to absorb her strength for once the adrenaline wore off. Finally, he let go and backed away.
“Were you here the entire time?” He wanted to say that those weren’t tears prickling the corners of his eyes, but it would have been a bald-headed lie.
“Where else would I have been? Queens all over the place have been talking about this nonstop for the last two weeks.”
Ryan’s insides swelled with pride. “Why didn’t you say something?”
“Because I wanted to see you in action. Couldn’t do that if you knew I was watching, could I?”
A shiver of unease ran down Ryan’s spine. God, he wished Justine had worded that a little differently. He tried to shake it off as he pulled one of his boots back on. “I, um, I didn’t think we’d have the turnout we did. But it looks like people really do support us. Either that, or they just wanted to get out and have a good time. But either way, I’m good. I made a killing today and everybody had fun, so that’s all that matters.”
“Of course it’s all that matters. But you know how it goes, give people a reason to get shit-faced, and you’ll have them beating down your door. Shit, give someone enough of a reason to do anything and they’ll be there. It’s just human nature.”
Something was off about Justine. Ryan couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was, but for starters, he wasn’t the biggest fan of the way she was looking at him. Like she was sizing him up or something. And now that he was really seeing her, he noticed more. She wasn’t nearly as put together as usual. She’d hardly put on any makeup—lipstick and a little mascara maybe—her wig was off-center with the lace standing out in stark contrast with her dark skin. Even her clothes were rumpled, like she’d just pulled them out of a bag, or something. The Justine he knew would never be seen in public like that. Her cardinal rule had always been to never step out of your house unless you looked like you were about to meet the most important person in the world. The one you wanted to impress the most. Because at the end of the day, this was female illusion.
So where was hers?
He nearly tore the zipper of his boot he was moving so fast, because suddenly, he didn’t want to be here anymore. Something was very wrong. It might have been his anxiety, kicking into overdrive because he hadn’t taken his meds before he’d come here, but he’d never know for sure until he was out of this room and could think more clearly.
An idea started to form and he swatted it away, because he damn sure wasn’t about to go there.
That shiver of unease had blossomed into full-blown panic, and as Ryan collected his things from around the dressing room, trying to maintain a calm air. He found his gaze kept falling to Justine’s purse. It was definitely large enough to hold a knife. Hell, if she wanted to be crafty, she could have hid the damn thing in her dress. Clubs around the city checked the customers for weapons, but no one ever bothered to check the queens. They were only there to entertain. Why would one of them ever want to hurt anyone?
A piece of a puzzle Ryan hadn’t even realized he’d been putting together fell, unwanted, into place as his own words floated back to him. Why would the killer need to hide in the shadows when it was so much easier to hide in plain sight? When you’d put in your time and paid your dues and everyone trusted you. Drag queens, as a general rule, were not a very gullible bunch; too many people disliked them, even in the gay community, so they had to be on their toes at all times. So who better to pick them off then someone who was already a member of the inner circle?
Ryan didn’t want to believe it. He wanted it to be crazy. He wanted his brain to come up with literally any other scenario, but it made too much sense. Valentine had been the first victim. Only a few days after she and Justine had had another of their arguments.
“Are you all right?” Justine asked, and Ryan realized then that neither of them had said a word in at least two full minutes.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t betray how definitely not fine he was. “I just need to get home. My boyfriend is waiting for me and he made dinner to celebrate tonight.”
“Oh?” Justine cocked her head a little to the side. “Why didn’t he come tonight? Doesn’t he know about you?”
“Of course he does. He just wasn’t feeling well.” That wasn’t true. Jack had been demanding to come since Ryan had told him about his idea. It was literally five minutes before he’d walked out the door to head here tonight that Ryan had finally convinced Jack to stay behind. He wouldn’t have been able to put on his best show if Jack had been here—he would have been too busy performing directly to him. He would have lost focus. Possibly missed things that would have been important for him to notice. Like the very real fact that the person who had put him in his very first wig might be getting ready to murder him.
“That’s too bad,” Justine said. “No one should be alone at a time like this. Especially with that speech you gave. I mean . . . if the killer had been here, that would have really pissed him off, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, probably. I wasn’t really thinking,” Ryan said, edging his way toward the door. “You know I’ve always had a problem running off at the mouth.” He could hear the fear in his own voice. She was absolutely right. Him and his big mouth had signed his own death sentence and hadn’t even realized it. Justine was right in front of the only door out of the dressing room. He was trapped. “You know, I really should get going. It was great talking to you. I’ll call you soon.”
He reached for the knob, but Justine put herself in his way. He let out a shaky breath and probably for the first time in his life, he started to pray. “I need to talk to you about something,” she said, undoing the clasp on her purse. “It’ll only take a second, I promise.”
This was it. No amount of praying would protect him from whatever she was about to pull out. He had to save himself. He shoved his drag mother aside, wrenched the door open, and ran into the hall. The click-clack of his heels echoed back at him as he fled toward the outside. But there were other footsteps behind him and closing in fast.
“Sheila, wait! Please!”
“Leave me alone!” he shouted. He barreled toward the exit sign and what he hoped was safety. Once he was outside, he could flag someone down. If he even made it out, that was. The other steps grew closer still and he pushed himself to move faster. Running in stilettos was a bitch. Something he hoped he survived long enough to vow never to do again. Finally he reached the door, threw it outward, and felt freedom at last. But then pain burst in the back of his
head. Stars exploded in front of his eyes, and there was a dull thwack of something metallic hitting flesh and bone.
Then he was falling, and the darkness engulfed him.
Jack wasn’t going to let himself worry. It was only—he checked his phone again—quarter to two.
The show was supposed to be over by midnight, which meant that Ryan should have been back over an hour ago. Sure, it was possible they’d all gone out to eat, or something after, but Ryan would have said something. Or answered any of the dozen times Jack had called.
His heart pounded, beating more and more furiously until he had to sit and force himself to calm down. But he knew something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones. His hand trembled as he called Ryan one more time. With every ring he prayed a little harder and when the voicemail kicked in, he resisted the urge to hurl his phone across the room. He needed it. He dialed another number.
Nine-one-one.
It only took the dispatcher a few seconds to pick up, but it felt like it stretched on forever. Each ring could have brought Ryan closer to death.
“Nine-one-one, what is the nature of your emergency?”
Jack swallowed, said the words he had wished he’d never have to. “I think my boyfriend is in trouble.”
“Why do you think that, sir?”
“He’s a drag queen, and—”
“He was one of the performers tonight?”
“Yes.” His voice was shaking as bad as his hands now. What would he do if anything had happened to Ryan? They had only been back together a couple of weeks. And they’d both worked so hard to get to where they were. They needed more time.
“What is your address, sir? I’m sending a unit and I’m going to patch you through to the detective in charge of the case.”
“A unit? Why? What’s wrong? What happened?”
“The detective will explain everything he can, sir. I just need your address. Please.”
Jack collapsed onto the sofa, racked his mind trying to remember exactly what Ryan’s address was. His brain was mush, and he could barely figure out his own damn name, but finally, he gave the dispatcher what he hoped was the right information.
Anyone But You Page 15
