by T. J. Klune
“Who?” he asked, walking over toward my phone. “Do you have a stalker? Are you in the witness protection program and now the people that wanted you dead in your old life have found you? Is there going to be gunplay and explosions? Do I need to find killer boots to wear for—oh. It’s Darren. That’s disappointing. I may still wear the boots, though. I thought you had his phone number already? And why are you texting—” His eyes widened. “You were flirting with him!”
“I didn’t know it was him! I deleted his number months ago!”
“And that makes it better? You would rather have it been a random stranger than Darren?”
“Yes!” I exclaimed because it was obvious. “In what reality would I ever flirt with Darren!”
“Hate to break it to you, Sandy,” Corey said. “But you do it all the time.”
“You shut your mouth, you ungrateful slut,” I snarled at him.
“Yikes.”
“Yeah. That happened, so.”
“Well, if it makes you feel any better, he flirts right back. It’s rather disgusting to watch.”
“He does not. We detest each other.”
“Oh really.” He sounded dubious.
“Yes. Literally everyone knows that.”
“Thin line between love and hate and blah, blah, blah.”
I wondered if I could get away with being the murderer instead. I’d have to get a jackhammer to tear up the tile in the house to bury his body underneath. I’d been wanting to retile the house for quite some time, but now it appeared I had the proper motivation to do so.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” Corey asked, arching an eyebrow.
“Nothing.” I cocked my head at him. “Just thinking about doing some home renovations. Permanently.”
“Uh-huh. Oh look, he sent another text.” He squinted down at my phone. “Huh. He seems a bit annoyed that you didn’t have his number saved in your phone anymore. Poor baby. I’ll write back on your behalf and put him out of his misery. Do you have any pictures of your cock saved? Preferably erect, of course. I think he’d enjoy that.”
“You will be buried under my floors,” I hissed at him, snatching the phone from his hands before he could send a dick pic. Not that I had any, of course. That would be gauche, and I was nothing but a respectable fucking queen.
I looked back at our conversation. Corey was right; he did seem a bit pissed.
Good.
How did you not have my number anymore?
Sandy. Don’t ignore me
SANDY
And that’s exactly what I was going to do.
Because if anyone in this world deserved to be ignored, it was him. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. I had far greater things to focus on.
I sniffed and went back to my ironing.
Corey stared at me.
“You have homework,” I reminded him.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“You have to pass so you can graduate and become rich so I can become a lady of leisure. I won’t expect any less from you, Corey, I really won’t.”
He rolled his eyes. “Because becoming a social worker is such a lucrative field. Are we really not even going to talk about why Darren is texting you?”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” I said. “He’s either high on crack or I’m having a nightmare from which I will soon awake and everything will make more sense.”
“Wow,” Corey said. “Between the sex dream and this texting dream, you’re sure dreaming a lot about Darren lately. I wonder what that means.”
“Do you think it hurts to be burned with an iron?”
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said, smiling widely.
“You’re going to make someone a good housewife someday.”
“Thank you, baby doll. That’s kind of you to say. You’re still not forgiven.”
“I tried.” He went back to his homework and the pseudo-incest homoerotic home show.
I went back to my ironing.
I was strong.
I was fierce.
I could do this.
I would ignore Darren Mayne.
I was not curious in the slightest about what he wanted.
Obviously, it would lead to nothing good.
I didn’t care.
I lasted one minute and twenty-seven seconds.
I felt like a failure.
I’m ignoring you, I wrote, because I thought maybe he should know. It’s always easier to ignore someone when they know you’re ignoring them. It’s also more delicious that way.
The response was immediate: Why?
Me: You don’t seem to understand what being ignored means
Darren: Maybe because I’ve never been ignored in my life
I bristled at that, because what a fucking asshole. I put down my phone, figuring I’d heard all I needed to hear. I picked the iron back up. I hummed to myself.
I lasted sixteen seconds.
Me: Why are you texting me?
Darren: Does it matter? This isn’t the first time
Me: That is beside the point
Darren: Why did you delete my number?
Me: Why wouldn’t I? I only had your number because of Paul and Vince. And then I didn’t need it anymore. We’re not texting buddies.
Darren: Texting buddies?
Me: Yes, I regretted using that term as soon as I hit send
Darren: You should regret. I regret it for you
Me: What do you want?
Darren: We need to talk
Me: So you said. We have nothing to talk about
Darren: My brother and your best friend are getting married
Me: And?
Darren: We have plenty to talk about
Me: We do not
Darren: Sandy, don’t be difficult
“Difficult?” I muttered. “I’ll show you difficult, you motherfucker.”
“Did you say something?” Corey asked.
“Just talking to myself.”
“About?”
“Feminism.”
“Ah,” Corey said. “Because you’re the consummate feminist, after all.”
“Exactly.”
“Who are you texting?”
“I’m not. I’m ironing.”
“Your phone is literally in your hand right now.”
“Fine. Feminist friends.”
“So. Darren, then.”
“I have no idea what you mean. Watch your renovation porn.”
Me: I’m not difficult. I just don’t know what we possibly have to discuss
Darren: Humor me
Me: That doesn’t sound like something I’d do
Darren: Sandy
Me: Darren
Darren: You’re so fucking annoying
Me: Yeah, that’ll get me to do what you want
Darren: Look, I’ll just see you before your show. We’ll talk then
Me: What. Darren. No
Darren: Good night, Sandy ;)
Me: DARREN. WHY ARE YOU SENDING ME WINKIE FACE
Me: DARREN! GODDAMMIT
“That fucking bitch-ass whore,” I snarled at my phone.
“Feminist friends?” Corey asked.
“Exactly. Damn feminist friends. With all their feminism. Down with the patriarchy.”
“Because that’s believable. Say hi to Darren for me.”
“I will burn everything you love.”
“Hollow threat. I love you, therefore you’d have to burn yourself.”
“Well played. Damn you.”
I didn’t know what Darren was up to, but I didn’t like it one bit.
I would figure out his game.
And I would make him wish he’d never decided to play in the first place.
I laughed evilly as my grip tightened on my phone.
Chapter 7: Hey, Republicans! Suck My Balls!
NORMALLY, I arrived at Jack It at eight on Wednesdays to prepare for my show at nine, but Mike had texted me that morning,
asking that I come earlier and meet with him. I couldn’t think of a single damn thing he’d need to meet with me over, not that I was really giving it that much thought. I was more distracted by Darren and plotting his death in such a way that it would look like an accident. I didn’t know if it would be believable or not if he suffered a fall from the balcony above the dance floor. I would have to be distraught. Repentant. Possibly screaming why, why, whyyyyy. I could do it. It wouldn’t be that hard. Naturally, I wasn’t arriving early to speak with him at all, even though he wanted to. Darren would never have access to the Queen’s Lair, I’d make sure of that.
Vince and Paul had promised to bring my wigs and costumes later so I wouldn’t have to try and carry everything in myself. Corey had a late class on Wednesdays and was usually too drained to attend my show, the poor dear. I’d told him that his education was far more important than any old thing I would be doing, which is why he was living with me rent free to begin with. That had brooked a few heated arguments, but in the end, I’d won, however begrudging the victory had been.
When Corey had announced he was coming back to Tucson, I knew I was going to do everything I could to make the transition smooth. His foster parents didn’t have anything to contribute to him (not that I thought he’d actually take anything from them, even if they did), so I felt personally responsible for him. I was the one who’d found her as she was then, a seventeen-year-old girl in a frayed but pretty dress, riffling through the racks at a secondhand clothing store, trying to find a skirt that she could wear to school. She’d been in awe of me when I told her the reason I was looking through women’s clothing. I was in awe of her (and him and therefore them) when she told me the reason she was looking through women’s clothing, her words shy and her voice small. I’d paid for her clothes that day and took her to lunch, and when we parted the first day, my number programmed into her phone and a promise to meet the following weekend, I had hugged her. She’d been stiff for a moment, unused to any kind of physical contact. But I waited. And she’d hugged me back.
He was Corey the next time I saw him.
She was Kori when she’d shown me the acceptance letter to Dartmouth.
He was Corey when he’d graduated high school.
She was Kori when she cried about leaving.
He was Corey when he’d moved across the country.
She was Kori when she’d told me she’d met a boy named Tyson Thompson.
He was Corey when he said they were dating.
She was Kori when they’d broken up.
Corey when they became best friends, Kori when she said she wanted to come back home, Corey when he decided to transfer to the University of Arizona, Kori when she said she was spending part of the summer in Oregon, Corey when he’d whispered conniving plans down the phone line in getting Tyson and his hot cop together.
Darren wanted to talk to me.
Corey had a penchant for interfering.
I wouldn’t put it past him to have his finger in this somehow.
But no matter.
I had more important things to deal with.
Like why the owner of Jack It needed to meet with me.
Mike was a bit of an asshole, which is why I liked him. He ran a tight ship, everything from the go-go boys to the bartenders to the support staff vetted personally by him. Everyone knew that if you worked at Jack It, you worked hard, were paid well, and your boss was a fucking dick.
Even to me, though he knew the draw I had. We butted heads constantly. He left me in charge of the shows and even the queens, though he couldn’t help but try and oversee every little step. We’d gotten into countless arguments where he’d threaten to fire me or I’d threaten to walk, but eventually we would both calm down and he’d pour me a shot and ask for a blow job. I’d drink the shot and swear I’d bite off his dick if he put it anywhere near me. He’d smile and I’d smile, and we’d retract our claws until next time.
Izaac was already behind the bar, serving a few people who sat on the stools. He raised an eyebrow when he saw me enter. “Boss man?”
“Boss man,” I agreed. “In the office?”
“Yeah. A bit pissed off, so.”
“Great,” I muttered. “Because that’s what I need right now.”
“Would it make you feel better if you saw my nipples?” he asked, reaching for the hem of his shirt.
I sighed as I shook my head. “Thanks, baby doll, but I don’t think even your nipples will help me out today. I best get in there and get this over with.”
He nodded. “That’s what my girlfriend said when we decided to try anal.”
“This is what I get for coming early,” I groaned.
“That’s what she said after trying anal,” he said, wiping the bar top.
“Thank you for being heterosexually adventurous and sharing it with me,” I said.
Izaac shrugged. “Gays can’t corner the market on butt sex. It’s for everyone, Sandy.”
Helena wanted to purr and rub his face, but I pushed her down and reminded myself I had to have my serious game face on right now. If Mike was in a bad mood, it wouldn’t help if Helena came out to play.
“I adore you,” I told him instead. “I’ll be back for my shots later. Make sure they’re ready.”
“I always do.”
“You’re so good to me,” I called over my shoulder.
I walked out the door to the second dance floor, which was an open-air back patio to the bar. There was a DJ booth set up on a raised platform and a second bar lining the far wall. Every other month, I hosted a Karaoke Sunday Beer and BBQ lunch out here, listening to men and women drunk off whatever the bar had that week on tap. Mike had wanted it to be a weekly thing, but I refused to give up my Sunday brunches with the family. And since no one else could handle hearing people warbling Katy Perry or Whitesnake (varied and eclectic, my Karaoke Sunday people were), he relented and let me set the schedule as I pleased.
I walked through the back patio and out the back gate to a small gravel parking lot that led to an alleyway that ran between the businesses. In the parking lot off to the right sat a small camping trailer that had been retrofitted to become Mike’s office. He couldn’t stand being inside the club while trying to work at night, given that the bass was always vibrating through the walls. And you only ever went out to the trailer when summoned. Job interviews usually took place inside the club. And if you were ever summoned out to the trailer, it was usually to get chewed out or fired.
Since I probably wasn’t going to get either (though I’d been subjected to the former and threatened with the latter on multiple occasions), I wasn’t too worried. Mostly.
I knocked on the door of the trailer and waited.
“I’m busy,” an irritated voice said, muffled through the door.
I rolled my eyes. “Then I’ll just leave you to it.”
“Get your ass in here, Sandy.”
I opened the door to the trailer and climbed the steps. It was stuffy inside; the ancient air conditioning unit attached to a window circulated the air more than cooled it. Mike sat at a desk at the far end of the trailer, a laptop opened in front of him.
Mike was in his forties, dark hair thinning on the top, spare tire around the middle, and a penchant for scuffed Italian loafers at the bottom. Mike wasn’t a good person, but then I didn’t think you could be a good person and also be a ruthless businessman at the same time. He owned Jack It, one of the few gay bars in Tucson, and the only dance club. I didn’t like Mike all that much. We had an odd respect for one another, but it was extremely volatile. I’d just as easily kiss his ass as kick it, depending upon my mood and what he demanded of me.
He didn’t look up at me as I closed the trailer door, focusing on the computer screen. He motioned for me to sit in the chair in front of the desk. I hadn’t actually seen Mike face to face in almost two weeks, since he typically preferred to bark his orders at me via text or messenger. “So, you woke up and thought that mustache was a good idea, huh?
” I asked, trying to avoid bumping my head on the ceiling. The trailer was fucking tiny. “Going seventies porn star?”
“Can it, princess,” he snapped. “I don’t have time for your shit today.”
“Make time,” I replied, not taking a seat just to piss him off more. “You can’t expect me to take you seriously with that thing. Also, it seems as if your chest hair is trying to escape from the collar of your shirt. At least we know where your hair has gone.”
“Clyde likes it,” he said.
“Clyde,” I repeated blankly. “You know I don’t keep track of your flavors of the week, Mike. I have far more important things to worry about.”
He rolled his eyes. “Clyde is my partner of twenty years.”
“Right,” I said slowly. “Because that was obviously Clyde I saw you jerking off three weeks ago in the back room. Looked a little young to have been with you twenty years. Unless you started early. Like, really early.”
He waved his hand at me. “Clyde doesn’t give two shits about that. We fuck around with whoever we want and go home to each other. It works for us.”
I shrugged. “I suppose. It’s not for everyone, but as long as you’re happy.”
“Because you care about my happiness.”
I grinned at him. “Always.”
“Somehow, I don’t believe you,” he said dryly. “Thanks for trying, though.”
“It’s what I’m here for,” I said. “Stroking your ego is my number one priority.”
“How is Corey?” he asked, looking back at his computer.
“Fine,” I said. For some reason, Mike had a strange fascination with Corey, though I didn’t think it was anything sexual. I’d already threatened him egregious bodily harm if it ever tried to go that direction, but I didn’t think it was actually necessary. He apparently just had a soft spot for Corey, and I tried not to question it too much. “He’s got late class today, so he won’t be in.”
Mike nodded as he opened a drawer on his desk and pulled out a fifth of Jack. He slid the bottle over to me. “Drink this.”
“I hate Jack. Not my drink.”
“I don’t have any tequila.”
“That’s fine, because I’m not getting drunk with you.”
“Sandy, take a hit. You’re gonna need it.”
