“I have six words for you then, baby doll,” I said. “Just to give you an idea of what you can… expect.”
He nodded and my bottom lip caught briefly on the lobe of his ear. Without giving it much thought, I scraped my teeth against him. “Six words,” he panted. He was hard against my knee, his cock straining, and I pushed against it. It seemed the rumors of his… physique weren’t unsubstantiated. He groaned, low and guttural, and I gave serious thought to getting him off right then and there, just to say I did.
“Six words,” I agreed. “Are you ready for them?”
“Yes,” he said hoarsely.
“Good,” I said. “Here they are.” I pulled away and saw his eyes were blown, face red, a bead of sweat dripping down his forehead. I gripped his hair, snapping his head back, keeping his chin in my other hand. I leaned forward until our noses bumped, until his breath was on my lips. I sneered at him and hissed, “Hit Me Baby One More Time.”
And Darren Mayne swallowed thickly.
Chapter 19: With Heartfelt Apologies to Britney Spears
THERE IS something kinetic about the moments before a show. It’s a visceral feeling, almost primal. There’s excitement in the air, but it goes beyond that. In those moments, I wasn’t the humdrum Sanford Stewart that I sometimes thought I was. That Sanford was trapped in a dead-end job as a claims representative for an insurance company. That Sanford Stewart was uncomfortable with people he didn’t know. That Sanford Stewart liked to pretend he wasn’t affected by everyone else around him falling in love and being happy while he stayed behind, smiling and nodding and saying things like congrats and you two are meant to be.
Helena didn’t have a single fuck left to give about Sanford Stewart.
Because when I was Helena, I was powerful. I was revered. I was feared. People came from far away just to see me perform, to shake my perky ass on the dance floor, to sweat and bleed in heels that defied gravity. I had been trained by the great Vaguyna Muffman, and I was good at what I did. Sure, maybe that was mostly ego talking, but you had to have ego if you were going to be a queen. You couldn’t get away with being humble and being a queen. You’d be eaten alive.
Possibly even by me.
Tonight I was dressed like a circus ringmaster by way of Cruella De Vil. The wig was long, the hair curling at my clavicles, one side white, the other black. I had a tight black suit jacket with tailored coattails that fell against the black thigh-high boots. Under the jacket was a white unitard that proclaimed me as MADAM in sequined letters across my chest. My makeup was dark and smoky, smeared just the barest amounts.
This morning I had woken as Sandy, meek and mild Sandy.
Tonight, I was a star.
It was a duality I was used to, even if it was getting harder and harder these days to shake Helena. She was me and I was her, but sometimes, it felt like she just took over and something I would say as her would come through when I was Sandy and it would be almost shocking.
Yes, it’s essentially Sybil.
But I had no problem with it.
Mostly.
Especially on drag bachelor auction night, the most fired up I’d felt in a long while.
It felt good.
It felt right.
“Whatever you do, don’t fuck this up,” Mike said, coming behind the stage as I took breaths to focus on my inner queen. “Pretty much everything is depending on you. So. No pressure.”
It felt like rage.
I turned slowly to fix him with the most horrible expression I could muster, one that usually sent others running in the opposite direction. If anyone saw this look on my face, they knew death was to follow.
The other queens standing with me scattered like cockroaches, fleeing from my unholy light. I thought Summer might have even hissed trying to escape, cowering against the wall.
They were smart. Well, most of them.
Mike, though.
Mike was fucking stupid.
Or he didn’t give a shit.
Which was pretty much the same thing.