“I know.”
“Just… let him down easy, okay? If it should come to it. Having a broken heart is like shattered glass under your skin that you can’t figure out how to extract, and I can’t have it spill over to anyone here. Moving on. Here’s how I think you need to play it with the… Super Gays. And if Corey calls them that to their faces, I expect you to record a video so I can laugh about it. I have a feeling we’re going to need something to smile about in the coming weeks.”
I didn’t hear anything else they said above the buzzing in my ears.
There. That was it. That was all I needed to hear.
Great.
Fine.
Perfect.
It didn’t matter. I had already come to the same conclusion.
I was almost able to convince myself the prickling in my eyes was because of something else entirely.
Chapter 12: Mess With the Bull, You Get the Sledgehammer
THAT FRIDAY night, I found myself doing something I never thought I’d do.
I was wearing a suit and going to the rich section of Tucson—Catalina Foothills—in order to beg Republican Super Gays for money to save a youth center.
Fucking eighties movies.
Sandy had laughed himself silly when I told him (conve
niently leaving out what I’d overheard through the vents). When he finished laughing almost a full five minutes later, he wiped his eyes and demanded that I steal some of the china, because all of our dishes had come from Target. I told him I would do my best, already trying to figure out how many forks I could take without being noticed. And since I knew rich people at dinner necessitated the use of sixteen different types of forks, I thought I could snag at least a few that no one would miss.
Being a drag queen meant Sandy had connections. But it also meant that he had to first try to get me to wear something garish and off-putting. Naturally, he first suggested the peach suit I’d worn as Slim Trim Colvin, just because he thought it would knock the Super Gays off their feet. “And,” he said, “since we now know they’re Republicans, they would be able to use the health insurance they don’t want anyone else to have.”
When I politely declined the peach suit (“I’m not going to fucking wear that, you hag!”), he made a phone call I didn’t hear, given that I was furiously stomping around the living room, stepping over Darren, who, for reasons I didn’t care to know about, felt the need to do push-ups in our living room.
“Thank you,” Sandy said into his phone. “We’ll see you in a bit.” He set his phone on the coffee table before looking down at Darren. “Keep going, big boy. You owe me a hundred more.”
Darren grunted but didn’t argue.
I did not want to know what kind of twisted sex game was going on.
“I’ve got you covered,” Sandy told me. “He’ll be here soon.”
“Who?” I asked, bewildered.
Sandy grinned at me.
I was appropriately terrified.
HE TURNED out to be Flavius the hairdresser, and when Sandy let him in an hour later, I immediately wondered how it’d gotten to this point.
Flavius was carrying two black garment bags over his shoulder. “Delivery service,” he announced cheerfully. “Fashion to the rescue. I didn’t bring shoes because you didn’t mention them, but I can always come back if needed.”
Sandy shook his head as he closed the front door. “No, we should be fine there. If you brought what we discussed, I already know what’ll match.”
“Good,” Flavius said. He glanced at Darren, who was now doing pull-ups on a bar that he’d installed in the hallway. Flavius seemed very appreciative. “Nice.”
“Isn’t it?” Sandy asked. “He’s soft-core porn. I cherish him.”
Darren rolled his eyes as he pulled himself up again, biceps bulging.