Tough Love

by Heidi Cullinan

  Chenco shook his head, as if he could dispel this craziness. Caramela rose too, adding her fire to his words. “What the fuck have you been smoking? You’ve lost your goddamned mind. We work together, asshole, and don’t you forget it’s my ass out there on stage, me in the killer heels, me risking getting knifed in my trailer for wearing a wig. You run the lights, but it’s me on the stage. We make decisions together, not you beat me down until I agree to whatever you want. I want their help. I want—”

  “You owe me, bitch.”

  Chenco took a step back, and to his horror Booker raised his fist. He’s going to hit me, Chenco realized, and he held his breath as he waited for the blow to strike.

  A pale hand caught Booker’s arm a foot away from Chenco. Booker’s eyes widened in surprise then contracted in acute pain. Steve stood beside him, holding the other man’s arm, impassive, not appearing to exert any energy.

  “You’re out of line.” His vocal inflections were mild, as if Booker had stepped on his toe, not tried to punch Chenco. But the fire in his eyes promised Steve was anything but mellow.

  Booker’s struggle played out on his face—clearly he longed to lash out, to take Steve down, but he deflated significantly, and he didn’t attempt to struggle out of Steve’s grip. “They’re gonna take him away, and you fucking know it. They’re going to take him to Vegas, they’re going to tell him what to do, and he’s going to fucking listen.”

  “To them instead of you, yes. He has the right to make that choice, and you have no right to hit him. And if you try…” Steve’s voice became quiet and dangerous, “…I will make you sorry.”

  Everything went from bad into a suburb of hell. Booker swung at Steve, and Steve blocked him and twisted Booker’s arm at a painful angle. Ethan grabbed Booker’s other arm, and in seconds Mitch was there too, helping herd Booker out a side door into the bright afternoon sun.

  Chenco stood staring, head spinning, gut knotting. It wasn’t until Sam asked in gentle tones if he wanted to sit down that he realized he was shaking.

  “What just happened?” Chenco whispered, but Sam didn’t answer, only made him sit down and asked someone from the Crave staff to bring water.

  Chenco drank, but he felt wooden and disconnected, the voices around him echoing oddly in his head, Sam a quiet blur before him. It wasn’t until Steve’s lower half moved into his field of vision, his bare, hairy arm reaching out, that Chenco came back into himself—he drew his breath in on a sharp hitch and leaned into the touch.

  Ethan came into his vision too, crouching between Steve and Sam to take Chenco’s hand in his. His tie was undone, and he looked like he’d been in a mild struggle. His gaze was calm and steady, however. “How you doing, sweetheart?”

  “Booker,” Chenco choked out, and it was all he could manage.

  Ethan remained steady. “Booker won’t be with us tonight. There’s no need to worry,” he said when Chenco tensed. “I’ve seen your rehearsals, so I know what’s involved. Randy will work the lights. The club is giving us an extra half hour to set up and rehearse too. Everything will work out. You’ll see.”

  This wasn’t happening. This could not be happening. “But why—Booker—why?”

  Steve’s grip on his shoulder turned into a gentle kneading. “Baby, you can do this. The guys can help you too. It will all work out, just as it’s supposed to.”

  “But—I don’t—” Panic began to snowball inside Chenco, and he went stiff as he realized how close he was to coming apart.

  The grip on his shoulder turned sharp, and he eased, but only a little.

  Steve murmured something, and the next thing Chenco knew, Steve led him toward the side door to the stage, into an alcove with dark curtains shielding them. Steve’s big body moved in front of him, trapping him, keeping out the world, and Chenco pressed against him, burrowing his face in Steve’s chest, fighting sobs.

  “Hush,” Steve ordered, his hands gliding over Chenco’s body, claiming it, demanding he calm down by sound and touch. “None of that. Not now.”

  “What did I do?” Chenco whispered. “Why—?”

  “You didn’t do anything. You and Booker have been coming at this for weeks. Months. Maybe years. He wanted things his way. You didn’t share his vision.”

  “But I did, sometimes—”

  “He’s not healthy, baby. You held back because you’re smart, careful.”

  “He’s right, though—I trust you and the others, and I barely know them.”

  “You trust me and the others, particularly Ethan and Crabtree, because you look at us and can tell we’re stable and strong and able to help you. This is his failure, cariño, not yours.”

  Chenco knew this was true, but it still hurt. “I don’t know how to do this without him.”

  “Yes you do. Caramela does. Don’t you tell me she can’t get on stage and own it.”

  “But I was going to do ‘On the Floor’, and I need someone to play Pitbull.”

  “No you don’t. Caramela’s the star. Not him. That’s why he’s so upset. He liked the idea of controlling you, of having a star in his pocket. He never really had you, but in his mind, strong people need to be pinned down.”

  It sounded so ugly. It didn’t fit with the Booker in Chenco’s heart, which made him wonder if that Booker had ever been at all. He felt as if he were mourning someone who hadn’t ever really existed.

  Steve stroked his hair and made soft shushing noises. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to go out there on stage, sweetheart, and you’re going to kill them, you’ll be so good. You’re strong and amazing and talented. Later Crabtree will be here, and he’ll see it too, and then, mark my words—he’ll make all your dreams come true.”

  What good were his dreams if they came at the cost of losing his best friend? Chenco swallowed another sob and burrowed his face in Steve’s chest.

  “The thing you said about Booker,” he began at last, “about him wanting to control me or whatever. How is it any different from the way you guys fuss over me? From the way you and I…?”

  He half-expected Steve to get mad, but to his surprise, Steve only stroked his back and pressed a kiss to the side of his head. “The difference, Crescencio, is we fuss and control and set you up so you can fly—in the way we see as best for you. Which isn’t much different than what Booker tried to do, except if you were to tell us no, we’d let you go.”

  What he said made sense, except it made Chenco sad. It felt like Booker was really gone, forever. “I’ll miss him.”

  “Of course you will.” Steve kept stroking him. “But I wouldn’t count him out. Not completely.”

  Maybe Steve was making it up just to give him hope, but Chenco appreciated it anyway. “So what do I do now?”

  “Now you go splash water on your face, pull out your queen, and you knock this gig out of the park.”

  KNOCK IT OUT of the park was exactly what Chenco did.

  It was rocky at first. Randy knew what he was doing with lights, but it took a long time to try and explain what Booker had done and at what times as so much of it had been instinctive. For the first half hour of practice, Chenco wasn’t sure it was ever going to work. He felt like he was performing naked and missing an arm and a leg, especially when Pitbull sang and there was no Booker there to play him. By the time they got to the top of the hour, though, he and Randy had a rhythm going, and Caramela had filled in all the gaps Booker’s absence made from the routine. When their extra half hour of rehearsal closed, Chenco thought this might work after all.

  As the club opened and the floor began to fill, Chenco went back to his dressing room and began the ritual of putting Caramela together. It was strange to not do it in the trailer or at Steve’s house, to hear people milling about in the hall, knowing Steve stood there, ready in case Chenco needed him. He wondered if he should have asked Steve inside.

  This will never work, Chenco thought, staring at his half made-up expression in the mirror.

  Stop whining and let me
do my job, Caramela replied. Since he didn’t know what else to do, Chenco did.

  She wore red tonight—a single shoulder strap, sequined piece of honey with a slit so high she had to wear a high-cut compression panty. It hugged her body and made her look like a glistening drop of blood with legs. She wore the long flowing wig with red piano striping, red silk opera gloves, and the fuck-me Pleaser pumps with a lipstick point heel and ribbon wrapped halfway up her leg. When she finished, she took a look at herself in the full-length mirror, drew a deep breath and went out into the hall.

  There they were, her lineup of strong, sexy men. Even Sam looked as if he’d take on anybody who got in Caramela’s way. When they saw her, they stood up straighter, eyes widening in surprise and pleasure. Everyone but Steve, who only looked approving, proud.

  Unable to help herself, Caramela preened, touching her hair and smiling. “So. I’ll do?”

  “More than.” Randy came forward with a leer and drew her into a careful embrace. Into her ear, he said, “You’re going to rock this house, sugar, and make all the boys come in their panties.”

  “Thank you for all your help,” Caramela whispered back, squeezing his arm.

  “Anything for you, Princess.” He kissed her cheek. “You’re the closing act, so we have a little time.”

  She blinked. “But I thought I was second?”

  Randy grinned. “Yeah, but then the owner saw us warming up. He moved the order around. Slick saw the way the wind was moving too, which was why you had your own dressing room.”

  “Slick?”

  Randy laughed. “Sorry, that’s Ethan.” He nodded at his spouse, who stood off to the side, looking very smooth and slick indeed. “You’re all set up, honey. Just chill, mingle a bit, and get your game on, and when it’s time, I’ll come and find you.”

  “Mingle? You mean, go out into the club?”

  “Hell yeah.” Randy jerked his head at Steve. “You got a big sexy daddy to escort you, and the rest of the posse will be close behind.” He pointed at Sam. “Except you, Peaches. You’re gonna be my assistant for the night.”

  The club was packed, with dancers in cages and on the bar tops, with hundreds of young college men let loose and liquored up. The other drag queens worked the crowd too, staying on the edges close to the door. A few were comic, not glam, but several were stunningly gorgeous. Caramela wavered.

  Steve put his hand on her elbow, and she found herself centered again.

  Drawing a deep breath, she pulled herself into her game—she flirted with men who glanced her way, touching their faces, playing coy or vixen depending on what they wanted. A few looked like they wanted to dance with her but changed their mind when they saw Steve holding her arm. She ran her hands over Steve’s body—his exposed body, as he’d changed into leather pants and a vest, leaving his sculpted, sexy torso visible for everyone to admire. She petted him, cooing and calling him papi, and the crowd ate it up, begging for more.

  Soon she had a small crowd of admirers—they were there for both of them, for Caramela and her papi, and it was a joy, a rush to give them what they wanted. Steve stood like a soldier, his face deliciously expressionless, but he put his arm possessively around her waist and bore her up and protected her as she worked her boys—stem to her petal. She had a great time—a perfect, wonderful time.

  When she had to go backstage and get ready, she remembered Booker, and it made her sad. She saw how good the other acts were and grew nervous, thinking she couldn’t possibly compete against them, wondering why the owner had made her go last. Steve sensed her nerves and held her closer, saying nothing, just grounding her and keeping her from spiraling away.

  Then it was time.

  The lights went down, and she took her position in the center of the stage, back to the audience. Pitbull called out, and she answered in lip-sync into her mic. By the time she got to her first verse, she was feeding off the crowd. They pressed against the stage and called her name. Some shouted JLo, some Caramela—they were with her, inside the song, inside the performance, inside of her.

  She gave them everything she had.

  While she didn’t deviate from the routine, she punched it up, her hip snaps sharper, harder, her knee-bends deeper. Randy had given her a long, ornate cane reminiscent of JLo’s from the song’s video, and she used it with relish, leaning on it, twirling it like a baton, aiming it at her audience, ordering them to dance along. They did, shouting and cheering, some of them weeping.

  Was this as good as it felt? Was the magic bubble real, or a figment of her imagination? She wasn’t sure how much of this was her own fantasy come to life—getting even an inch out of the valley—and how much of it was truly this good. She didn’t know, and she didn’t care, she only poured herself out from an endless well until the fire flew from her fingers, her eyes, her mouth.

  This was what she’d wanted, what she’d craved when she’d watched recordings of JLo perform. This was her dream, right here, and she couldn’t believe it was happening for real.

  When the song ended, they roared.

  There were so many of them, twice the crowd she’d ever had in McAllen. They tried to tip her, but security had come out to hold them back. Ethan and Mitch had moved to the other side of the human wall, holding out their hands to accept offerings in her stead. The crowd was insane, whipped into a frenzy and calling out. When the chant began, though, it wasn’t her name, and it took it a second to congeal enough so she could hear it.

  Papi. Papi. Papi.

  She stilled, shocked, and glanced offstage at Randy, who stood grinning like a cat in a roomful of trapped mice. How had they known about “Papi”? Were people here from McAllen? But how did they all know? She was only meant to do the one song by the agreement with Crave. Was she supposed to perform another one? Now?

  Randy glanced over his shoulder and nodded. The thumping backbeat of a “Papi” remix pounded through the loudspeakers, giving way to the familiar synthesizer identifying the specific arrangement. It thrilled her and sent her into panic all at once. Was she supposed to perform it? This version? She never did this one.

  Apparently she did now.

  She looked at Randy, who only stared back, encouraging. The mix was on loop, never going into the chorus. It wouldn’t go until she gave the line for cue. She didn’t give it. Not yet.

  She looked out at the still-chanting crowd. Papi. Papi. Papi. Ethan and Mitch remained at the front, taking tips. Off to the other side, Crabtree and a man in a leather mask stood in the shadows. Crabtree nodded in approval, and Caramela glanced back at Steve.

  He met Caramela’s gaze, and he smiled a slow, proud smile.

  Caramela drew a deep breath and let it out. No, this. This was what she wanted—to perform, to shine, but…with family. She wanted them all—Ethan, Randy, Mitch, Sam, even Crabtree. And Steve more than anything or anyone else. Chenco rose up to stand with her, and they were one, yearning and craving together. With one dream expanding beneath their feet, another one opened, and the need for it burned.

  I will have it all, then. Caramela closed her eyes, absorbed the music into her soul, found her rhythm, her place in the song. She lifted the microphone to her lips and switched it live.

  “Baila para tú Papi.”

  The crowd became so loud it was a wave of sound, a deeper rush and thrill than she had ever known. The music moved forward, onward into the song, into the future. Caramela danced—for her papi, for her family, for herself, for Chenco—for everyone.

  She didn’t remember the set ending—she only knew she was on stage, and then she was off, surrounded by Randy and Sam and the other queens, everyone fawning and gasping and congratulating her. Somewhere in the middle of it Chenco fell forward, mingling with her, absorbing the praise.

  “Come to Vegas with us,” Randy said. “Come back with us and knock them dead. Let Ethan and Crabtree help you.”

  Sam stood beside Randy, beaming. “Let us all help you.”

  Yes, Chenco wanted to shout, b
ut he couldn’t, could only look over at Steve, who was still fighting his way through the crowd.

  Randy squeezed his shoulder and pressed a kiss on Caramela’s hair. “We’ll bring your papi too, honey.”

  “Come on.” Sam bounced a little on his heels. “Say yes.”

  “Yes,” Chenco said, then became so dizzy he had to hold on to them both to simply stand.

  Steve shouldered his way through the last of the crush, Crabtree and Ethan behind him. Chenco saw his brother too, looking happy and proud. Mostly he saw Steve, his pride and admiration lifting Chenco higher than the adoration of a thousand crowds.

  He’ll come too, Chenco thought, Randy’s promise echoing in his ears.

  Yes, he realized as he looked into Steve’s bright, proud face. His papi would follow him anywhere.

  Chapter Sixteen

  FOR OVER A week, Steve hadn’t seen Gordy once. Not from the feeds—Crabtree had those taken down. Gordon was in Crabtree’s exclusive care now, and he required he make every decision regarding his sub. His very first decree was Steve be removed from the equation unless Crabtree expressly asked for his return. It was the right thing to do. Intellectually, Steve understood this was what had to happen, that it was best for everyone involved.

  Emotionally, Steve was going absolutely out of his fucking mind.

  Three days after Caramela’s South Padre show, Crabtree invited him to see Gordy’s progress. The gangster had moved Gordon to a rented house in downtown McAllen a few days after he’d taken him over. At first, Steve had been impressed, even relieved. Gordy was clean, to start—his clothes unsoiled, his beard trimmed. His skin didn’t look quite so sallow, and his eyes had a new light to them.

  Ten minutes with Steve, though, and Gordy went to pieces.

  It started subtly, Gordy growing agitated, fidgeting. He didn’t have on puppy gear, which apparently displeased him, and he begged to be allowed to put it on. Crabtree told him no.