The Hardest Fall (Roadmap to Your Heart Book 3) (2 page)

W
hat the hell
was I doing at Ruby Redd’s?
Again.

I pushed away the half-eaten plate of food. It wasn’t like their burgers were out of this world, though I did enjoy their beer-battered fries. I certainly had plenty to keep me busy at the shop and tons of amazing restaurants to choose from on the Lower West Side. Ever since Janice broke it off a few weeks ago, I had way more time on my hands to do the things I enjoyed. I could count those things on one hand, but that was probably better than most.

As usual the bar had erupted in applause for Frieda Love’s impressive performance. I didn’t know what it was, but I couldn’t stop staring at the mesmerizing drag queen, watching her every move. I had never been to a place like this before, not that I didn’t feel welcome or comfortable as a straight man. I just had never considered watching a live show in this sort of venue.

Who the fuck did I think I was kidding? I had gotten myself into this mess and now I needed to do something about it.

I downed more of my drink as my mind flashed back to that terrible week last year.

“Need you to do something for me, Sebastian,” Alan wheezed from his hospital bed, the noise of the machines keeping tempo in the room. “You’re the only one I can trust with this.”

I leaned forward in my chair beside the railing. “Anything.”

“Large envelope. Private.” His watery gaze stole behind my shoulder to the doorway as if making sure we were still alone. “They can’t see it; they would never understand…the family name would be dragged through the mud…scandal…”

“Save your breath, just tell me where it is…”

“The boathouse,” he said, referring to the rented slip he kept on the Hudson. “In a drawer beside the bed.”

“I’ll go,” I said, my heart pumping crazily. What the hell could be in that envelope?

“Thank you,” he whispered, his eyes looking lighter, as if I’d just lifted a great burden. “You’re my oldest friend. Please, just…get rid of it.”

“I will,” I said, already thinking of when I could get there to retrieve it.

Losing my adoptive father—the only father I’d ever known—last year was agonizing enough, and now Alan. Fuck.

“Always wished he could see how much I’ve thought about him…” Alan’s voice sounded choked and his gaze trailed away as if he was lost in a memory. “He deserved better…so pretty…”

I stared at Alan, wondering if he was delirious.

“Wish I could tell him…” he continued, his voice ragged. “Show him the things I kept to remind me…that it was real between us… Denise didn’t care about me, not like that…”

All of my limbs went numb. Alan was speaking of some man and comparing him to his wife. The way his voice had broken left me with only one conclusion. “Who, Alan?”

The door opened and his wife Denise stepped inside. I nearly jumped out of my skin, so entranced by what my friend was saying.

Suddenly, the pulse machine beeped loudly and his wife shouted for the nurse.

I
swiped
my forearm across my brow because I had broken out in a cold sweat just as the crowd was shouting for the next drag queen in the lineup. What a memory.

What I found in that damn envelope was worse. Several pictures, printed emails, scribbled notes. You never really knew somebody did you? Alan had an affair with a man. A guy named Tate Sullivan. A man who dressed in woman’s clothing and had a stage name. A man he’d claimed to have feelings for and had kept hidden from everyone, including his family.

A man who I thought was a woman at first glance in those photos. I hadn’t known what to do with that information. I should’ve never looked in the first place. I wouldn’t have, had Alan not sounded so remorseful, like he needed me to make amends. What a goddamn bleeding heart I’d become over the years.

The anger came as it always did, blazing like a wildfire in my chest.
Fuck you, Alan. You should’ve been the one to make amends…especially with your family.

Now that I had found Tate Sullivan, I needed to get up the nerve to speak to him. Though technically I didn’t have to—I could just walk away. But deep in my gut, I felt like he should know the truth.

So far he was different than I’d pictured.

In one of the notes Alan had written that Tate was the bright spot in his week. That he was funny and passionate and kind.

I found out for myself that Tate was also charismatic and colorful and striking, capturing every eye in the room when he took that stage as his alter ego. Still, the more I came to these shows the more I noticed something different. Just below the surface. A certain kind of melancholy in Frieda Love’s expression that was tucked beneath the boldness and beauty
.

Tate Sullivan had cheated with a married man. Did it haunt him the same way it seemed to haunt my friend before he died?

I couldn’t help wondering if Alan had deceived him along with his wife Denise. This couldn’t have been his first affair. Or maybe it had been. I’d never know. Plenty of men were in the closet and married. Alan was decisive and uncompromising in the other areas of his life, so why hide this?

Except I also knew that he was a proud man, was that way as a kid too. Rarely owned up to his own mistakes and always able to win favor—which made him one hell of a businessman.

After Frieda Love’s over-the-top performance where she had received plenty of tips from appreciative men and women, she had stepped back into the crowd to speak to two attractive men who had their arms around each other. Her eyes continued flitting my way. I certainly did not want to give her the wrong impression, but for some unknown reason I couldn’t look away.

Tate was mesmerizing as a woman. Her lithe body, beautiful face. I guess I was attempting to picture what my friend had seen in her. On the surface I could envision it. It was what was underneath that I didn’t quite grasp yet.

Frieda Love appeared so unruffled, flirtatious—not at all like the person from those notes and emails. That person sounded hopelessly smitten. But who was I to talk? I seemed serious all the time because I had a business to keep afloat—one I had inherited from my father. People didn’t realize that I could have fun. Janice had all but said I was dull and lackluster in the bedroom. Story of my life. I just wasn’t relationship material.

I thumbed the condensation on the rim of my glass and wondered if Alan had sat at the bar the night he’d met Tate. Or was it under different circumstances? Tate was always in full regalia in those photos. Was that how Alan preferred him to dress?

My stomach roiled thinking about all the secrecy and deception and I forced my drink aside. It was really beginning to get to me and I needed to do something about it.

“How you doing, buddy?” The bartender, whose name I learned was Phil, approached me. He was getting used to seeing me here. “Need anything?”

He followed my line of sight to Frieda Love and his eyebrows rose fractionally. He opened his mouth to say something else, but I cut him off at the pass. “Another gin and tonic, please.”

“Coming right up.”

When I looked back at the crowd, Frieda Love had already disappeared. Most likely to change, like she always did. The fact that I knew her routine was a bit fucked up.

Normally Tate would reappear as himself in skinny jeans, a T-shirt with some bold saying, and his face still fully made up, which at first was disorienting and unexpected. But it was also part of his mystique and that was the one thing I couldn’t quite reason with. It was a mixed up ball of confusion in my head.

I knew that people were all the colors of the rainbow and living in this city had allowed me a rich and diverse perspective. No one person matched another in his preferences or experiences—in fact, they shaped who you were, who you became.

I had a few striking memories of living under a bridge with my mother. She had given me my Pacific Island genes, according to my dad, and that had certainly helped mold who I was today.

It was sheer curiosity that had dragged me out to this bar one night, to find Tate Sullivan as his alter ego. To help me understand how his life had been affected by his experience with my surreptitious friend. There certainly weren’t any outward signs; there usually weren’t at first glance.

But I had gotten in over my head. The best thing to do—the rational thing—would be to finish my drink and head the fuck home.

A
fter wrenching
my feet from those god-awful pumps, I carefully stepped out of the sequined mini-dress and hung it on the rack in the employee locker room. This building wasn’t equipped to allow the performers their own changing places. So we were squashed into this tiny room with a makeshift mirror and dresser to hold our accessories, right along with the servers coming and going from their shifts. But somehow we made it work.

Besides, Bethany, the owner’s daughter, was our resident wardrobe stylist-slash-office manager and she was backstage most nights to help us tuck and untuck, pin and unpin, and on certain nights when all I wanted to do was let my balls hang loose, she was a freaking godsend. Some queens didn’t want the audience to see them after performances but since I wore makeup on the regular, I didn’t mind. I wasn’t all that serious about maintaining diva form. Although the shows allowed me a freedom I wouldn’t experience otherwise, I was all about letting my cock out of my pants, so to speak.

“Let me unhook your bra,” Bethany said, reaching behind me, as I held onto the front cups to keep my silicone inserts in place.

After she stripped the straps from my arms, she placed the bra and inserts in a lingerie bag she had labeled for me. I extended my hands over my head to stretch my back now that I was free from the confines of that torture mechanism.
Much better.

I didn’t know how women withstood it day in and day out, though most weren’t this made up all the time. Tori didn’t even own a fancy outfit like the few I used on rotation for performances, but she did always complain about her girls being constricted. She made a production of removing her bra once she got home from work.

I enjoyed being in costume for the shows, loved wearing makeup even more, sometimes on a daily basis. But I preferred my comfort clothes best of all.

Bethany was busy taking the pins out of my wig and once the tape was removed from my temples and she lifted the heavy hair away from my head it felt like my scalp could finally breathe again. “You were awesome tonight,” she said, throwing me an air kiss.

“Of course I was,” I said, tongue in cheek. It could be a rough transition from Frieda to Tate and Bethany understood diva behavior so she just snorted and rolled her eyes. Regular me was brassy enough, but drag queen me was invincible. We all were and we had no shame in letting people know it.

Most men were cool with my job and the ones who weren’t didn’t deserve to have Frieda Love grace their presence. Besides, it wasn’t like I was dressing for them in the bedroom.
Not anymore.

I ran my fingers through my hair, leaving it tousled and messy before I slid into my jeans, purple Chucks, and a shirt that was one of my own designs. My T-shirt business was holding its own on the internet, but not well enough to give up performing drag. Not that I didn’t enjoy it, because certainly there were perks.

But it held too many memories for me from a time I didn’t know myself enough to figure out when I was being taken advantage of. But I knew now, and it would never happen again, that was for damn sure.

And let’s face it, the hookups I got because of this gig were pretty awesome. But just like with any popular novelty act, there were leaches. As if my celebrity was real and didn’t cease to exist once I stepped onto the pavement outside the door.

Taking one last look in the mirror, admiring my fake eyelashes and smacking my red lips together, I waved to Bethany over my shoulder and strolled back into the bar. As usual, I was immediately swarmed by my fans. Men who congratulated me, wanted a piece of me—and I had already given away plenty—men who wanted to dance to Candy Cane’s Britney rendition.

“Sorry,” I said, shrugging off one bear’s furry paw from my shoulder, while Jessica, surrounded by her own entourage, winked at me. She always joked that my pretty features were too much of a draw, in or out of costume. “I’ve got friends waiting for me.”

Callum and Dean were still hot and heavy on the dance floor and I didn’t want to disturb their make-out session, so instead I made a beeline to the bar because I was still thirsty after that performance.

Phil spotted me immediately and though he already knew my drink preference, he asked anyway. A lady had a right to change her mind, after all.

“What can I get you, Tate?” Phil was always on top of his game. Ms. Love in costume and Tate as soon as I changed. Drinks were always on the house the nights of performances. But I was a pretty simple guy when it came to my beverages. “The usual?”

“Blue Moon with lemon, please.” As I waited to be served, one of my regulars petted me on the ass and out of costume I allowed such groping. A couple of Jessica’s friends wandered over to me to comment on my make-up tonight. We talked blush and mascara and I noticed Dark Eyes was still sitting in his spot pretending not to watch me.

When I made eye contact with him, his gaze darted away. This closer view of him was better than I had anticipated. From a distance, I couldn’t zero in on the details of his face. How his eyelashes curled upward, how his cheekbones were now tinged with a pink that shone brighter than his bronze skin. His eyes were deep pools of black liquid that held a hint of emotion—nerves or curiosity, I didn’t know which. Maybe both. He looked a couple of years older than me, unless it was simply the way he held himself, almost with an air of sophistication.

Maybe he didn’t come to clubs often or maybe he was shy, but one thing was for certain, he’d been here enough times that I could at least say hello to one of my fans.

As soon as I picked up my drink, I made my way over to the mysterious man. I rarely got nervous around hot guys but for some reason, my heart picked up speed, pattering away in my chest.

He looked momentarily panicked when he saw I was headed in his direction. Shy, if I had to guess, as his head swung down and he drew his wrist across his mouth.

When he looked up our eyes snagged and held. His gaze darted all around my face and hair as if taking me in and then skirted down to my chest. The moment he spotted my shirt, a smirk quirked his lips. It read: Not Gay as in Happy, But Queer as in Fuck You!

I cleared my throat, which had suddenly become clogged. “Did you enjoy the show?”

His eyes widened before his lips moved. “Um, yeah, you…you’re great on stage. You have an amazing presence.”

“Thanks,” I said, as I allowed his deep voice to roll over my skin. Hot damn. “You say that to all the drag queens?”

He appeared briefly frozen as his throat worked to swallow. “Erm, you’re actually the only drag queen I’ve ever come out to see perform. But the other ladies, I mean,” he motioned toward the stage where Candy Cane was in her finale as a deep crimson hue crawled across his neck. “
Queens
. They’re good too.”

Dark Eyes looked down at his lap as if mortified. I placed my drink on the bar in front of him. “Well I’m flattered that you’ve seen my show so often.”

His head snapped up, most likely disconcerted that I noticed. “I uh….I don’t live too far from here and…”

“No need to explain.” I so wanted to ease this guy out of his panic, especially if he was a newb. But I also couldn’t help feeling a niggling of disappointment. I already had a guy in my life who wanted to make excuses and hide; I didn’t need another.

Christ, look at me jumping ahead. Who the fuck cared if this man was in the closet and wanted to stay there? Or even if he was bi-curious? The only thing I’d want is a one-off anyway. No way this guy seemed ready for that kind of thing, but I’d be polite nonetheless.

“My name is Tate, by the way,” I said, tipping my chin in his direction. It was unnerving how he watched me so intently. As if a gay man had never spoken to him before. Or maybe not a gay man wearing a full face of makeup. Sometimes I forgot that I was completely dolled up. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“I’m Sebastian,” he said, thrusting out his hand and meeting my gaze head on. Hell yeah, this man was hot.

He seemed surer of himself as our fingers connected briefly. Too briefly. His palm was warm and his eyes held a hint of inquisitiveness. “Sebastian, nice to—”

Suddenly grabbed from behind, I was hauled into a one-armed hold by Callum. His huge body was right against mine and it was not an unwelcome feeling.

“Dude, we came all the way to the West Village to see you and you’re going to leave with a hookup?” Dean smirked and lightly nudged my arm.

I laughed because normally it was too true. “I can’t help that everyone wants a piece of this queen.”

When I looked back at Sebastian his entire face had heated to a deep scarlet. Had I still been dressed as Frieda, I would’ve thrown a good barb his way, but in this case his embarrassment was endearing. Or maybe I was getting soft.

I spun out of Callum’s hold. “If you’re so into bondage, feel free to take me home.”

Callum scrunched up his nose and Dean shoved at my shoulder. “Leave my man alone, you horndog.”

When I twisted back to the bar, Sebastian was already gone.

Damn
. Hopefully he’d be back for more Frieda Love.