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

I
lie
in bed tossing and turning. Something about what Tate’s friend said at the bar got me entirely worked up. Hooking up with somebody like him had never crossed my mind, let alone somebody my own gender. Why I was so bombarded with all of these new sensations over this performer who had been with my childhood friend, I had no clue.

Giving up, I turned on the side lamp and opened the drawer, pulling out Alan’s envelope from the boat again.

Flipping through the photos of Tate in drag, I wondered why Alan didn’t have one of Tate as himself. I’d seen Tate without his stage clothes, but never without his makeup, and the idea momentarily distracted me as I imagined how he’d look. I glanced at one of the printed emails.

I didn’t want to leave you this morning. You were so warm. My cock would’ve felt good between those pretty lips.

Something stirred inside me. I was sporting a chub imagining Tate lying in bed, his hair messy, his mouth swollen, and his lean chest stripped of his T-shirt. What the fuck was wrong with me? It should’ve been a huge turn off to imagine my friend cheating on his wife with a guy in drag.

Though he wouldn’t be in drag if they were in bed. Did Alan prefer him to leave his costume on? The idea of Tate somewhere in between male and female, like he looked at the bar when he approached me last night made my skin heat to boiling point.

Tate flirted shamelessly with everyone, and I wondered if that was how Alan had first spotted him as well. Was Alan the guy at the bar trying to resist his charisma just like me? I felt like a creeper even having that thought.

But I liked it. No matter how much I told myself I didn’t. I fucking liked what I saw in him. But I didn’t even know Tate, so I was obviously drawn to the idea of him. And that disturbed me most of all.

Not because he was gay or dressed in drag. But that I wanted to know more about my best friend’s secret lover. I was drawn to him like a magnet and I felt shallow because I was being deceptive. But fuck if I wasn’t completely turned on right now.

Maybe I just needed to get laid. I reached for my laptop on the floor, flipped it open, and clicked on a porn site I frequented. A man was undressing a woman and as her tits bounced out of her shirt, I figured this was exactly what I needed. I pushed down on my cock with the heel of my hand because as the man sucked on her breasts, I imagined reaching over and stripping Tate of his flashy dress. Shit.

I shoved the thought aside and focused on the scene in front of me. But after watching the clip progress, I didn’t get any more aroused until the guy flipped her over and began fingering her from behind. I imagined Tate’s blonde hair streaked with purple and those large hoop earrings he wore, along with his firm bubble ass. Holy fuck.

Suddenly a memory slammed inside my head. Of hearing my college friend with his boyfriend the one night I had crashed in his dorm room. I remembered being so aroused listening to their noises. Guttural and masculine, tussling each other around, rough and raw. I was really hard that night. But I had played it off as being open and needing to get off. Sex sounds were universal; I had told myself.

My hand was tugging on my cock in long strokes now as I spread my legs wide open, picturing a metallic blonde head between my thighs sucking me off. My arm shifted to the laptop and I opened a new tab. As my hand hovered on the mouse, I typed in a brand new key phrase—
male on male
—and clicked on the first link that popped up, fully embracing my curiosity.

Holy shit. There was a hardcore fucking scene between two men. I squirmed at first, my stomach burning because I certainly didn’t know what it would feel like to have any object inside my ass, let alone a cock. That would fucking hurt.

But then I imagined myself doing the pounding. I had certainly had anal sex before and the tight fit was like no other feeling I’d ever experienced. But it wasn’t very enjoyable for the woman I was with at the time. So I didn’t ask again. If it made her uncomfortable, wouldn’t it be painful for the guy on screen? But his mouth hung open in ecstasy and his dick was hard and leaking. He was loving it.

My balls lifted, my spine tingled, and my groin grew painfully tight. In two seconds flat I was already crying out as my come trickled over my fingers and onto my bare thighs.

Panting heavily, I threw myself back on my bed, my arm splayed over my head. I had just gotten off to gay porn.
Fucking hell.

As I grabbed for the tissue on my nightstand to clean myself up, another memory filtered through my foggy brain. Of Alan and me as teens. Reaching into our pants, taking out our cocks, and jacking off together.

At the time it seemed like some stupid kid shit, though I had certainly never done that before. We were both wasted and talking about girls. Fuck, was Alan really in the closet? Or was he bi or pan or whatever any of those terms were that the LGBTQ population used to help define themselves? Should I even consider how I’d define myself right in this moment?

I wish I’d had time to talk to Alan about all of it. But he had obviously kept that part of himself hidden until the very end.

Losing two important men in my life in the span of a couple years had been difficult. My father would’ve been sad to hear of Alan’s passing because he knew that we were close as kids.

Alan had married straight out of college and had a couple of kids early on. I had remained single and we naturally grew apart, given our different careers and interests, though we intersected every so often at charity events or important family functions.

Again I wondered why Alan had chosen to tell me about that goddamn envelope and why it was stirring up so many strange feelings inside me. We’d jerked off together, and I’d enjoyed hearing my college friend with another guy, so maybe this situation just helped me bring those desires to the surface.

Falling into a fitful night of sleep, I dreamed about my unstable childhood, about the foster homes, and Alan befriending me when I had been taunted so relentlessly at school. And as usual, about freezing under a bridge, my mother always somewhere in the backdrop, and fuzzy around the edges.

Waking with a start, a fitting conclusion clicked solidly into place. I needed to talk to Tate, give him the envelope, and then never see him again.

Or maybe only that last part.

I had no obligation to either one of them. For all I cared, Alan and Tate could take their secret relationship to their graves.

T
he following morning
my usual routine helped jump-start my day. I went through the motions as I stopped for coffee, bagels and the Times at a corner shop called Murray’s, and walked the couple of short blocks to work.

I always ordered a plain bagel with butter, and for my store manager, Annie, a toasted sesame seed with honey-nut cream cheese. It had been my routine forever and one she appreciated. I liked taking care of people, providing for their needs. Physical needs I could handle. It was the emotional kind I struggled with.

The spring weather was cooperating today, so I didn’t have to bring an umbrella. I skirted around the crowd at a congested subway entrance, passing the usual three homeless men panhandling against a brick wall. I recognized one of the men from the soup kitchen where I volunteered and he nodded in my direction before averting his eyes.

Rosie’s Repair Shop was located at the lower end of Fifth Avenue on the border of Greenwich Village and always had plenty of foot traffic. My father had named the store after his late mother, Roseanne, the woman I only recognized from photographs.

My dad left me his business a couple of years ago, and I felt compelled to keep it running, even if it wasn’t exactly what I envisioned doing with my life. I owed my father everything. My mother and I were homeless and after she died, I was placed in several different foster homes, until he adopted me. Said he always wanted a son. For that I could never repay him, so I was showing him the best way I knew how.

I turned the key in the lock, twisted the sticky knob, and the bell above the door jingled. The smell of leather and varnish greeted me like an old friend. As I looked around the decent sized space, nostalgia churned in my gut. This store has been in this same location for the better part of forty years even though the job of a cobbler was a dying breed.

Annie came waltzing through the door wearing her usual easy smile. Annie was kind, trustworthy, reliable and probably knew the business better than I did, having been my father’s employee for twenty-plus years. She’d been there for me after my dad died from a sudden heart attack. But I wouldn’t call us close, only familiar, and that was primarily my fault. I didn’t feel close to anybody and could probably count my friends on one hand.

“What’s on the schedule today?” Annie asked. She was a pretty woman in her forties who lived across the street from my favorite breakfast eatery, Cafe Orlin, in the East Village, with her girlfriend, Karen. Karen was a nurse at Bellevue Hospital and they’d been together for years. I didn’t know why she never moved on from the shop to bigger and better things, but I’d be eternally grateful to her. She took it hard when my father passed away and told me she’d do what she could to help.

I pulled the pink-ticket orders off the metal spike. It was an archaic method of keeping organized and though we still used the computer to keep current and accountable, it was our way of preserving the nostalgia of the shop and the techniques my father had maintained. “Looks like a zipper repair on a handbag, a shoe stretch, and a sole replacement.”

“Those Manolos that were brought in two days ago?” she asked. Her specialty was designer brands. “I’ll get started in the back.”

Both of our eyes sprang toward the storefront when the bell rang above the door. “Hello, Mr. Wilson.”

“Got time to fit me in?” he asked, shoving his newspaper beneath his arm.

I had given this customer his first shoeshine when I was fourteen years old and hanging around the shop before I was legal. My dad always knew there was something to be said for loyalty and Mr. Wilson had sent plenty of business our way over the years.

“Sure thing.” I smiled at him. “Hop up on the chair. I’ll be right with you.”

Mr. Wilson worked on Wall Street and was always dressed to the nines. He had also given me some good tips for my portfolio so it was a win-win. This was the part of the job I enjoyed most—interacting with the customers. The city was teeming with variety and I wouldn’t have wanted to be raised any place else.

“How was your weekend?” Mr. Wilson asked. Normal question in an everyday conversation. Except my life felt tilted on its head at the moment. “You got yourself a nice girl to take out to dinner?”

I noticed how Annie became motionless as if curious about my answer as well. A funny thought crossed my mind right then. Of confessing that I was at Ruby Redd’s both nights and that yeah I had dinner with some nice girls—a roomful of drag queens. That was more fulfilling than any recent night I’d had home alone.

I covered my own laugh with a cough.

“Nope,” I said with a smile. “Not anymore.”

“
C
lutch your pearls ladies
, because Frieda Love is going to rock your world.” I still snorted at my ridiculous stage name after all these years. It was campy but the crowd ate it up. And Maurice, the owner of Ruby Redd’s and our resident Emcee, was good at buttering up the audience.

I walked onto the raised platform to rousing applause to perform my melody montage of various hits including Cher’s “Believe” and Dusty Springfield’s “Son of a Preacher Man”. The song was a crowd favorite as I mimicked getting down on my knees for that naughty boy and sucking him off. That move earned me extra tips as I crawled to the edge of the stage, having a blast teasing the spectators.

It was just as I was shaking my ass to the far end of the stage during my finale song by Divinyls that I spotted Sebastian. Same stool at the bar, his chair turned sideways to get a better view of the performance.

He hadn’t shown up the night before and I’d felt a twinge of disappointment, wondering if he had already gotten his fill. Tonight he was dressed in a fitted black button-down shirt, his sleeves rolled at the forearms, the veins taut as he raised his glass to his lips. He was so striking; I could scarcely tear my eyes away.

So I flirted from the stage, pretending that he was thirsty for me as he took another gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing where his shirt was unbuttoned at the throat. The crowd went crazy as I pointed in his general direction and sang the words from the famous song, “
When I think about you I touch myself
.”

I could hear wolf whistles and catcalls as my hand skimmed between my fake double Ds and some dude from the audience appeared to suddenly surge closer, maybe hoping to cop a feel, but the bouncers kept him in check.

My gaze remained pinned to Sebastian and I could see the blush forming right below his bronzed cheeks as he looked away. But it was as if he couldn’t possibly keep his gaze off of me, so his dark eyes found mine again. As I moved into my final notes, I realized that my feet were killing me again. Same stilettos, different night.

My roommate had given me her expensive castoffs and the way my toes pinched you would’ve thought they came from the dollar store instead of a designer showroom. In another ten minutes, I’d be limping off stage because pointy heels and I did not get along.

I did practically that as I walked through the crowd to congratulatory chants. As soon as I got down the stairs I kicked the offending heels off, and then picked them up from the dingy floor to be sure the expensive shoes didn’t get ruined. Bummer, because they were lush and fancy but at least they made a nice container for the tips that were coming my way after I had killed it on stage.

I flirted for five minutes more with some of my regulars near the platform, one of whom propositioned me with a tilt of the head. My audience knew not to touch me or I would read them the riot act. This guy was hot and any other night I might’ve asked him to wait until after I changed so I could take him up on it, but I had my sights set on Dark Eyes—the nickname stuck—even though I still wondered if he was straight. Dean and Callum had returned to Florida the day before so there was nobody to keep me from heading in his direction, though I got the impression he’d try to wander away before I even got a chance to say hello again.

Why it mattered to me, I didn’t know. Hadn’t I told myself I wouldn’t fall all over a closeted gay man again? But right now he was the most interesting guy in the room. And so different from Alan, who had pursued me until I had caved. I ended up giving away far too much of myself and I planned to never let that happen again.

I excused myself from my adoring fans to head for the tall glass of water that Phil had placed for me at the end of the bar. In a few minutes I’d sashay down the hallway to let Bethany remove my long black wig, before I slid out of my catsuit and leather jacket. But right now I needed to quench my thirst in more ways than one.

As I made my way to the bar, Phil smiled and nodded in Sebastian’s direction. He knew what my play was—I had done it a few times before, usually with men who were eager for my attention. When I tipped my chin, I knew he’d send a drink over to where Sebastian was seated.

I took a deep breath and pasted on my best blazing smile as I approached Dark Eyes. “Fancy seeing you here again, Sebastian.”

He swallowed roughly as if he was nervous or maybe regretted showing up at all. “Hi, er,
Ms. Love
.” I realized he didn’t know how to address me since I was still in drag and I had introduced myself as Tate after the show last time. Although he also seemed to understand where the line was drawn. I liked that about him.

I found I wanted to make him feel comfortable, not have him bolt before I had a chance to talk to him again. “I threw a new song in the lineup. What did you think?”

An innocent lip bite, almost as if he was new to the whole hookup scene. And maybe he was, at least with a man dressed in drag.

“It was fun. But…” His gaze scaled down my legs and my pulse picked up speed. His eyes zeroed in on the heels I was still clutching in my hand, dollar bills stuffed inside.

“Those shoes are doing a number on your feet,” he said with a nod. “Throwing off your balance.”

What the hell? My mouth hung open because his statement had thrown off my equilibrium as much as the shoes had. I hadn’t expected that. But I plastered my best queen smile on my lips in a lame attempt to recover.

“Well, aren’t you full of surprises?” I asked, jutting out my hip. My taped balls did not feel good in that moment. “Been studying me, have you?”

“No, I…” the flush that arose across his cheeks was endearing as he sputtered his words. “I’m in the shoe business.”

I kept my face from falling. The dude apparently just knew how to keep me guessing. “My roommate is a stylist and sometimes she brings home last season’s designer duds from shoots. If they’re my size.”

“Only your size?” He arched his eyebrow. I didn’t think he was being seductive, but it was a playfulness I hadn’t seen from him yet and it was sexy as hell.

I laughed. “Well no, her closet pretty much rocks because she can fit into those sample sizes. I have smaller feet for a dude apparently, so if she ever sees something I can wear for the show, she snags it for me.”

“That’s a good roommate.” Sebastian stared down at the offending shoes as a smile quirked his cheek. “Those are Louboutins. I can stretch them for you.”

“Um…okay,” I replied, trying to figure out how or why he’d offer that kind of service. Maybe the way he dressed was some sort of clue. “Do you work at a department store? Saks or …?”

When he chuckled the sound was a rich baritone and damn, I liked hearing it. But before I could enjoy it further, it was gone, replaced by his normal quiet contemplation. I had a feeling he didn’t give away too many smiles.

“I own Rosie’s Repair Shop on 8
^th
Street between Fifth and Sixth. Been in my family for years. My store manager, Annie, specializes in designer shoes.”

“You’re kidding,” I said, suddenly feeling light-headed, as if he’d just told me he’d been abducted by aliens. I had never pictured him as a small-shop owner, though the business part certainly fit. More so, I had imagined a Wall Street trader, somebody successful and wealthy. But that didn’t quite fly either, given his lack of confidence in this bar setting and his low-key demeanor.

Right then, the same customer who had propositioned me earlier approached me from behind, his fingers hooking onto my bicep. As Tate, I might’ve wanted that kind of playful contact—it could’ve led to some dance floor or bathroom fondling. But to Frieda Love, it was offensive.

“Take your hands off of me,” I said in a tight voice. I turned to him and noticed his glassy eyes, his leering gaze. He was drunk and horny. “If the
queen
wants your attention, she’ll ask for it. Now move along.”

The man stumbled back as if remembering himself. “Sorry, my bad. I thought maybe you’d want to hook up again. Last time, we—”

“I said move along,” I reiterated, not wanting him to finish that sentence. I attempted to tamp down my mortification at having ever hooked up with him at all.

I noticed how Sebastian rose from his seat like some knight in shining armor to save me. I appreciated the effort, but a queen could handle herself. “Unless you want me to rip off your balls and stuff them down your throat, I suggest you catch a clue.”

Sebastian seemed to rock back on his heels as if uncomfortable and maybe even disappointed by the interaction, though I couldn’t quite read him.

Before I knew what was happening, one of our security personnel from the stage had come up behind the man and was attempting to escort him out. No doubt Maurice had sent him over. The guy became a spectacle with his arms flailing and his voice yelling out how sorry he was. “Frieda, please, I love you. I’ll behave, just let me stay.”

I watched helplessly as Sebastian threw his money down on the bar top to cash out. “If you need those shoes stretched, you know where to find us.”