by Arden Powell
“You’re lying,” Leif said.
“No, I’m not! Rayne, show them—show them the peacock tattoo!”
Rayne looked at him wildly. “Right. That’s right, I have a peacock tattoo.” He bent forward as far as the ropes would allow, not that anyone could see anything though his mane of hair.
Leif stepped forward, a frown marring his brow, to grab Rayne by the back of the neck and push his hair aside. The mandala was plain to see against his skin, even crisscrossed by the necklaces. Red and Boar crowded in to see, and all three of them stood there for a minute while Rayne, still bent double, waited, looking increasingly nervous.
“See?” Kris said. “That’s a sign! You can’t deny that’s a sign.”
“That doesn’t mean—” Boar began.
“Yes, it does!” Kris shouted.
On cue, an eerie scream went up from outside the tent, and the cult froze like they’d been electrocuted.
“See?” Kris insisted.
Leif let go of Rayne’s head and Rayne reared up just in time for Freddie Mercury to come flying into the tent like divine retribution, screaming the whole time and pushing the cultists aside to land in Rayne’s lap in a whirlwind of feathers and talons.
“Look,” Angel cut in. “Your god is beauty incarnate, right? So who’s a better earthly incarnation of beauty than Rayne Bakshi?”
“He’s literally perfect,” Kris added. “The peacock knows it. Do you want to risk the wrath of the All-Seeing God by flouting his will like this?”
Leif, still frowning, stepped forward, flicking his knife out. Everyone on the floor flinched. The peacock flared his wings warningly, but Leif only knelt, reached around, and cut Rayne’s rope. He drew Rayne to his feet—Rayne was shaky, but drew himself up tall—and studied him up and down as if examining a prime cut at the butcher’s.
Rayne kicked Kris surreptitiously in the ankle in an obvious bid to know the plan. Kris winced and then shrugged. Freddie, devoid of lap in which to sit, began screaming again.
Like flipping a switch, Rayne cleared his throat and donned his stage persona like a robe.
“Your god is moving up in the world,” he said, his voice low and smooth. It wasn’t the voice of a hostage bargaining for his life: it was the voice of someone who held all the cards, and knew how to play them. “He wants to be admired by more than just four people. He wants to be adored by millions. That’s why he chose me—I’m already loved the world over.”
“But we’ve done everything He ever wanted,” Red said plaintively. “Aren’t we good enough anymore?”
“You did wonderfully,” Rayne soothed, his voice like honey, “and you’ll be rewarded for it. He’s not dismissing you. This is just the next step of his plans.”
“But He should have told us His plans,” Boar protested. “We would have carried them out for Him.”
Rayne straightened up another inch and glared. The cult took an involuntary step back.
“He should have?” Rayne demanded. “Maybe he thought you were getting too presumptuous; maybe that’s why he left you. He’s in me, now. I’m All-Seeing, and if you claim to worship me, prove it. Otherwise, I’ll leave you here in the desert and find worthier acolytes.” He glanced down at Kris, who nodded encouragingly. “I have the tattoo.”
The cult nodded, slowly.
“You saw how Freddie—how the avatar came to me.”
They murmured among themselves in quiet agreement.
“Have you ever seen anyone more beautiful than me?”
A frown and a ripple of debate.
“Have you?” Rayne demanded, steelier this time.
Kris was biased, but still, he couldn’t see how they could deny it. From Rayne’s dark complexion and the way his skin held the warmth of the sun like a jewel, to the sea-glass color of his eyes, to his curls—thick and silky, never a split end or a strand out of place—legs for miles and narrow hips—
Kris swallowed, distracted. Of course Rayne was the most beautiful man they’d ever seen. To think otherwise was blasphemy.
“I’ll worship you,” he said, over the cult’s muttering.
Rayne and Cal both looked at him, startled.
“I will too,” Angel said.
“And me,” said Rikki.
“Fuck, sure,” Jay agreed. “Why not.”
“Good speech,” Billie added.
“Stef will be furious they missed this,” Maki said, “but I’ll worship you.”
“And me,” Lenny sighed, regret plain in his words.
Hatchwork and Knocks chimed in, clearly lost, but amenable as long as it got them untied.
“Jesus Christ,” Brian sighed. “Rayne—”
Rayne cleared his throat pointedly and tapped his foot.
“Your Serene Majesty,” Brian corrected himself.
“And me,” Cal said. “I’ll worship you too.” He glared at the cult before turning his gaze back to Rayne, who nodded to him.
“See?” Rayne said to the cult. “New acolytes.”
The cult jostled one another for a second longer before reaching their decision and prostrating themselves, foreheads touching the floor. Rikki twitched but, being bound, couldn’t join them. Cal closed his eyes for an instant with a wistful sigh. Rayne took a step back and looked around, shooting Kris a helpless glance before resuming his haughty stage character. Freddie walked between their prone forms, inspecting each one as they held quaveringly still, and everyone tied to the pole held their breath, waiting.
“Attention!” a voice blared from outside, crackling through a megaphone. Everyone jumped. The three cultists twitched and leaped to their feet, hands going to their knives. “We have you surrounded,” the voice continued. “Come out with your hands up.”
The cult glanced at one another. The megaphone screeched with static.
“You have until the count of three,” the voice said. “On three, we’re coming in, and we’re not afraid to use force. One—”
Freddie shrieked and took wing, flying directly for Leif’s face. Flinching, Leif ducked back with a shout as the bird drove him toward the tent entrance with beating wings and a tail that seemed far too heavy to fly. He fell through the opening, a scuffle sounded, and the megaphone blared again.
“Your compatriot has surrendered. I repeat, come out with your hands up.”
Red and Boar exchanged a look and silently obeyed. As soon as they were out, the tent entrance flared open and the sun came streaming in, revealing Cassie, wearing a security guard’s vest, and a very pleased Stef, who was wielding a megaphone. Butch headed an assortment of sooty-looking security personnel as cops and medics swarmed in the background, forcing the cultists into cuffs. The press, confused and overexcited, stood by with their cameras flashing.
“What’s up?” Cassie asked. “You guys look like you had a fun afternoon.”
“Please untie us,” Kris said. “Now, please. Immediately.”
“Sure, sure,” she said easily, pulling a knife from god knew where. “So a cult, huh? An entire hostage scenario! And I missed the whole thing. I’m glad you’re not dead, though; Mom and Dad would have had a fit. What happened with you, anyway? Brad said you weren’t feeling good so he drove you back to the festival early—did you get your talk with Rayne?”
“I’m standing right here,” Rayne said.
“Brad,” Kris said. “Is he here? I’m going to kill him.”
“Yeah, he’ll probably be here in a sec,” she said. “Why are you killing him?”
She finished sawing through his ropes and he rubbed the feeling back into his wrists before trying to stand. Rayne took his elbow and helped balance him, while fishing his phone from his pocket and handing it to Cass. “Read the last texts from Kris.”
As Cass did, her eyebrows climbed higher and higher until they threatened to disappear into her hairline. “Brad sent these? What a dick. I missed a lot.”
“What we get for sneaking off to make out,” Stef said, cutting Passionfruit free. “Who wants a quickie when you
can get kidnapped instead?”
“Seriously,” Cass agreed. “And then there was that fire on that north-side stage! Most of security’s still dealing with that. They caught the guy, though. See?”
She pointed to a couple of personnel who weren’t manhandling the cultists: instead, they had in custody a skinny, twitchy-looking man who seemed to have been caught in an explosion. He was covered in ash from head to toe and littered with scratches, his hair standing on end and his eyebrows missing, but beaming manically. He shouted, squirming around in the security guard’s grip as he tried to wave at Leif, who stoically ignored him.
“Huh,” said Kris. “He’s connected to the cult too?”
“Wild stuff.” Cassie nodded. “You okay though, Kris?”
“Mentally?” Kris asked. Rayne still hadn’t let go of his arm. His hand was warm, but he stood farther off than he normally did, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. “We still need to talk,” Kris said. “That’s what I was coming to do before the fucking peacock cult got involved.”
“Go,” Cassie shooed. “Not far—the cops will want to talk to you. But go talk!”
Kris led Rayne through the side slit in the tent, ducking around the congregation of bemused but warily entertained law enforcement at the front, to stand a few yards back in an illusion of privacy, hidden by the tent’s shadow.
“So,” Kris said.
“I’m sorry,” Rayne said immediately. “I never should have believed you would drop everything and run like that. I know you wouldn’t, not for any reason, no matter how it looked. You’re not Fink. You’re nothing like him.”
“I’m in love with you.”
Rayne blinked, lips parted in shock. Kris doubled down and rolled with it.
“I’ve been in love with you this entire time.” He forged on, speaking over the crazy pounding of his heart and the way his palms broke out in sweat. “Since way before we messed around. Maybe since you bought me that guitar and offered me a contract. And it wasn’t messing around,” he corrected himself. He needed to be completely transparent this time. “I needed to get drunk before I could make a move on you, but I didn’t regret it, and I wasn’t experimenting. I like guys too, Rayne. I’ve always liked guys, even when I was scared to say so back home. I’m bi, always have been, and I didn’t need to get my hands on your dick to figure that out. But mostly I just like you. And I’m pretty sure you like me too. So, uh, anytime you want to say something, feel free to jump in. Please.”
Rayne wet his lips. He looked lost, and like the sun coming through the clouds, radiant and hesitant and overwhelmed all at once. “Okay,” he said. “I like you too. A lot. And I’m sorry for what I said this morning—I was scared of getting hurt, and I thought getting involved with you was going to hurt a lot. It usually does,” he added, running his hand through his hair, “when straight boys are involved, and after Fink, I never wanted to take that chance again. I didn’t want to risk the band, and I didn’t think the sex would be worth the fallout.” He dropped his gaze. “I didn’t want to risk my heart again, either. Fink trampled it pretty ruthlessly, even if I was over him by the time he quit the band for good.”
“Fink’s a dick,” Kris said bluntly, “and I’m sorry for everything I did that made you think I was like him. I should have told you I was bi sooner, but I’d never said it aloud before. I didn’t want to complicate things, especially once Calloway showed up, but I still should have said something.”
His heartbeat had calmed now that Rayne had heard him out, though as the adrenaline faded it left him weak-kneed and in need of a hug. Rayne made an aborted movement like he wanted to reach for him, but Kris shook his head. “Obviously I managed to complicate everything anyway. I wasn’t planning on falling for you, if that helps.”
“Complicate everything by encouraging me to do this stunt with Calloway, even though you liked me the entire time, for example?”
Kris’s heart leaped at Rayne’s cautiously teasing tone. “I was hoping that if you were off-limits, it would help me get my head on straight and I’d get over you,” he admitted. “It kind of backfired.”
“That night in the hotel, when I asked you whether I should do that stunt, I was hoping you’d tell me it was a dumb idea,” Rayne said. “I was looking for some sign that you wanted me too.”
Kris stared at him for a second before he started to laugh. “Oh man, did we ever fuck up. So, you and Cal . . . still just fake?”
“Yeah. We talked this morning, after you and I . . . after you left, but before Brad sent those texts. Cal said he wasn’t ready for anything serious, but he didn’t feel right about messing around when I was clearly hung up on someone else. And I’m not really into the whole casual-sex thing anyway.” Rayne paused. “Of course, now he might be under arrest with the rest of the cult. I should go see about that.”
“I’m sure you can convince the cops it wasn’t his fault. Though you might have to fight Brian first. He’s pissed.”
“I can’t blame him.”
Kris shifted from one foot to the other. “So, are we okay?”
“Yeah. I should have seen this coming, though. I knew you’d be trouble the minute I saw you.”
“The good kind of trouble?” Kris asked, daring to look Rayne in the eye.
“I think so. I hope so.”
Rayne caught his wrist and tugged him near. Kris let Rayne reel him in, inch by inch, until they were standing a breath apart. Tipping his head back, he met Rayne’s gaze, simultaneously shy and daring. His stomach flipped like it did when he’d first seen his own reflection after Angel had made him up, or when he’d walked out of the change room wearing girl’s clothes for the first time, or when Rayne had come prowling up to him onstage and the crowd’s roar swelled to a crescendo. He was going to kiss Rayne Bakshi—Rayne Bakshi was going to kiss him—in broad daylight, when they were both sober, and there was no audience to impress. He couldn’t stop smiling as he leaned in. Rayne’s hands hovered just above his shoulders, like he couldn’t believe Kris was real, and—
“You!” a voice thundered.
They jumped apart.
Brad Golding stopped a yard away, glowering, one finger pointed accusingly, at which of them, Kris couldn’t tell.
“You never learn, do you?” Brad demanded. “I thought I took care of this, but obviously—”
“Shut up,” Kris interrupted. “What is even wrong with you? This is none of your business, man. Let it go.”
“No. You—” Brad jabbed his finger at Rayne. “You’re exploiting him for your sick gay exhibitionist fantasies, and he’s going along with it because he thinks he needs the job. You messed with his head, and now he’s confused, and he’s dragging the rest of us down with him. I’m bringing him home to work in Dad’s garage until he figures his shit out again, and we can go back to being a normal family!”
Kris punched him.
It wasn’t a very good punch, as Kris had never had much practice, but it made a satisfying thwack when it connected, and the pain that shot up Kris’s arm from his knuckles spoke of a job well done. Brad reeled away clutching his jaw.
“Oh, shit,” Rayne said.
Kris shook out his hand. “I’m going to need an ice pack. You think the medics have one?”
“Yeah, probably.”
Brad was bent double now, holding his face in obvious pain.
“Should we just . . . leave him?” Rayne asked.
“You just wait until Mom and Dad hear about this,” Brad swore.
“What are you, five?” Kris said. “Get over yourself or I’ll hit you again.”
“I feel like I should be more offended about the exploitation comment,” Rayne said, “but he’s clearly nuts.”
“Republican,” Kris agreed. “If you want to fight him to defend your honor, I’ll totally back you, though.”
Brad, seething, walked up and shoved Rayne hard in the chest. Rayne staggered back a step, then shoved him in return. Shoving quickly turned to grappling
, completely ineffectual on both sides, while Kris tried to figure out whether he should pull them apart or join in. Rayne was the taller of the two, and more fit, but Brad was clearly running on unadulterated anger, while Rayne had just escaped a hostage scenario and looked faintly baffled by the whole thing. When Brad resorted to hair-pulling, Kris intervened, wading into the fray to grab hold of Brad’s ear—the only handhold he could manage—and yanking. Brad howled and pulled harder on Rayne’s hair; Rayne yelped, and the police and medics, who were gathered at the front of the tent presumably straightening out the story behind the cult, finally took notice and poked their heads around.
“We’re being attacked!” Kris yelled, pointing at Brad.
Brad finally let go, looked around wild-eyed, and booked it. He ran straight past the cops to the nearest motorcycle, which he leaped onto as if he had any idea how to ride the thing. He kicked the engine to life and made a bid for freedom. For a minute it seemed like he might succeed—Kris wasn’t about to chase him down, and they’d run into each other at the next family gathering anyway—but the bike let out a shuddering cough and lurched to one side. At that precise moment Freddie Mercury, apparently seeing his own reflection in the shiny chrome of the motorcycle’s body and deciding it was a threat, charged the thing head-on and latched on to Brad’s scalp with an unearthly wail, louder and shriller than the engine. Brad yelled and drove straight into the nearest tent, which collapsed around him in a wave of canvas as the bike made a horrible noise and literally fell apart underneath him. The engine choked, sputtered, and went dead from under the wreck. Freddie fluttered out to land a few feet away, rearranging his wings and looking pleased with himself.
Kris and Rayne watched the tent settle. There was a conspicuous broken-motorcycle-shaped heap in the center of it, and it wasn’t moving.
“Do you think he’s all right?” Rayne asked eventually.
Kris couldn’t muster any convincing amount of concern. “Let the medics figure him out,” he said. “Let’s go see how everybody else is doing.”
Rayne slung his arm around Kris’s shoulders like he’d done the day they first met, and Kris leaned into him, comfortable and warm, as the butterflies in his stomach finally settled into something hopeful rather than anxious, and together they walked back around to the front to rejoin the rest of their band.
