The Art of Breathing (The Seafare Chronicles 3)

Kori pulls away, but only just, and kisses me lightly on the lips. She tastes like berries. “Can I give you a bit of advice? All joking aside.”

“All joking aside.”

“And don’t get mad.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Ty, I’m serious.”

“Okay.”

“Stop thinking.”

“What?”

“You’re too much up here,” she says, tapping my forehead. “And not enough here.” She taps my chest, where my heart thuds. “Stop thinking about how you think you’re broken or how you think you’re a failure.”

“But I am a fail—”

“Tyson. Stop.”

Wonder of all wonders, I do.

“You are the strongest, bravest man I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing,” she says, touching my cheek. “You’ve made me a better person just by being in my life. And I promise you with all that I have that great things are waiting for you if you stop thinking and listen to your heart. If you do, you’ll see exactly what you’re supposed to.”

“Why does this sound like good-bye?” I ask her, sniffling.

She laughs. “Silly boy. I told you. You’re stuck with me for life. And I plan on living for a very long time. Who knows what kind of trouble I’ll make now that I’m home?”

That doesn’t seem long enough, but I’ll take what I can get. She takes my hand again and pulls me toward the bar where the others wait.

SAGES THE Second and Third:

It’s surprisingly easy getting into the bar, even though it’s technically illegal for me. Sandy had come early to prepare for Helena’s show, but has left word with the bouncer that I’m to be admitted. It’s exciting, because I’ve never been on a VIP list before.

“No alcohol,” the bouncer warns me in gruff tones. “You stay up in the Queen’s Lair until the show’s over, and if I catch you with one drop of alcohol in your little twinkie body, I’ll break you in half on my cock and then throw you out.”

Now it’s not exciting anymore.

“I won’t,” I promise weakly. “I’m a recovering addict, so I won’t drink.”

He stares at me.

“Not alcohol,” I say quickly. “Mood stabilizers. I’m so over it, though.”

“Tyson, it’d probably be best if you didn’t speak anymore,” Paul says, grabbing my hand and pulling me inside.

We step inside the bar, and I’m immediately assaulted by loud music, writhing bodies, and flashing lights. But before I can even worry about getting pulled through the crowd, Paul opens a hidden door on the wall and we climb up a flight of dimly lit, creaky wooden stairs. We reach the top before he lets me go.

The lights are soft up here, and there’s a large vanity, complete with exposed bulbs outlining the mirror. Scattered across the vanity are eyeliner, lipstick, and falsies, both eyelashes and boobs. Wigs sit on mannequin shelves around the room, and there’s a dressing screen with imprints of Dolly Parton’s face and bust.

The Queen’s Lair, indeed.

“Is this all Helena’s?” I ask, eyes wide.

“Sure is,” Paul says. “And trust me when I say you should feel privileged. Most people never get to come up here.”

“Where do all the other queens get ready?”