Authors: Heidi Cullinan
“Probably for the best, since he
is
a mobster movie.” He nodded to the bottle in Steve’s hand. “That’s over a grand, what you’re holding there.”
Fucking Christ. Steve slid the scotch into the bag. “Any tips on how to behave around him?”
“Be kind, but not condescending. The heart attack was pretty fucking serious, and he’s not taking to his new lifestyle very well. He’s lost about seventy pounds in a few months, and the weight had been keeping a lot of the world at bay. Now it’s gone, and he’s weak to boot. Lots of wounded pride walking around in front of you there. Tread respectfully.”
Steve nodded. Respect he could do.
“Oh, and he loves cats. Like, crazy stupid loves them.”
“I fucking hate cats.”
“I used to too. You won’t for long.” When Steve grunted, Randy patted his arm. “Come on. Let’s go inside so I can help you drink some of your scotch.”
Chapter Twelve
There wasn’t any question, Steve decided as he watched Crabtree greet Mitch and Sam—Crabtree was in the lifestyle. The tell was there, a subtle vein running through the man and everything he did. As Steve studied the way Crabtree dealt with his physical limitations and how he maneuvered others, another suspicion grew in Steve’s mind. He began to think not only did Crabtree actively practice, he might be a sadist too.
For as much as Sam seemed wary of Crabtree, Crabtree exhibited gentleness with the young man beyond what Randy gave him—and while Crabtree delighted in making Mitch squirm, he respected the bond between Sam and Mitch and never so much as taunted it. He regarded Chenco from a distance when he saw his initial overtures were met with wariness.
Crabtree also watched Booker.
“What’s this you’re working on?” Crabtree asked, sidling up to Chenco and Booker’s table.
“New act.” Booker pointed to the plans. “We’ve about got this blocked. A few days of practice, and we’ll nail this bitch.”
Chenco pursed his lips, looking slightly haggard. Crabtree regarded the plans, absently toying with the top of his cane. “This is the drag show?”
“This is Caramela’s show.” Booker nudged Chenco with his elbow. “Best fucking drag act in the RGV.”
“Well.” Crabtree smiled at Chenco, the gesture almost as gentle as the one he saved for Sam. “I look forward to seeing it. When’s the next performance?”
Chenco started to answer, but Booker cut him off.
“There’s another one at Club 33 at the end of April, but this is what I’m trying to tell him—I could get a show lined up for spring break—”
“Chenco?” It was impressive, the way Crabtree cut Booker off with a hard edge but gave Chenco a lot of soft space, all in the one word. “Will you be performing anywhere anytime soon? Perhaps in a more private performance, if a public one isn’t in your lineup right now?”
Chenco glanced at Steve, looking for reassurance to speak his mind, and Steve nodded.
Yes. It’s okay.
“Well,” Chenco began, “the thing is, I’m trying to save up. I want to perform big, but I want to be ready, and I want to do it up right, so I need the money.”
“If you’d let me book these gigs, you’d have—”
“Booker.” The edge in Crabtree’s tone was much more pronounced and yet still veiled, a knife pushed discreetly into one’s back. “Kindly let Chenco finish.”
“I just…” Booker stopped, caught up in Crabtree’s terrible stare.
Crabtree returned his focus to Chenco, gentle once more. “What is your goal, young man? For what are you saving your pennies? I would love to hear all about it.”
Chenco relaxed a fraction. “I want to take the show on the road, but not until I have better legs under me.”
“And Filthy Divas,” Booker interjected, grinning, though he faded at a hard look from Crabtree.
Chenco shot a
don’t start
look at Booker. “Maybe I’ll do a show like Filthy Divas, maybe not. Whatever I do, I need a little bigger name first. I’ll go to South Padre and Austin, but I have to be ready. I won’t go when it’s not the right time.”
Crabtree nodded sagely. “How long have you been performing drag?”
“Well, I got interested when I was sixteen, and as soon as I moved out on my own I started collecting costumes and makeup and hair, but I was twenty-one before I went onstage. So I’m heading into my fourth year now. I’ve only done regular shows for six months.”
Booker looked as if he wanted to say something, but he swallowed and studied Crabtree carefully instead.
Crabtree didn’t give Booker a chance to speak. “You’re deliberate in your choices. Very admirable.”
It warmed Steve’s heart to see Chenco smile as he did, but it thumped an extra beat of pride as Chenco said, “Thank you, sir.”
Though Crabtree didn’t move, he might as well have run a hand over Chenco’s head, the way he looked at him. Then the gangster turned to Booker. “And you, boy? What are your goals in this venture?”
This was actually fun, watching Booker try to figure out how to behave around Crabtree. He wanted to sass, but even a headcase like Booker could read the writing on the wall that was Crabtree. From the other side of the room, Steve saw Randy watching the show too, biting back a cheeky grin.
Booker cleared his throat and did a kind of submissive head bob as he replied. “I want to make Caramela big. Bigger than anybody else. I like making her shine. You have to see her. She’s fucking amazing. The best. I go on stage with her sometimes, but it’s all for her. Caramela is my queen.”
Chenco listened to this quietly, clearly hearing this level of devotion for the first time. He leaned over and bussed Booker on the cheek.
Booker said nothing, didn’t look him in the eye, but he put a hand on Chenco’s leg and squeezed before returning to a kind of slumped parade rest. He also cast another glance at Crabtree.
The gangster’s focus returned to their layouts and schematics. “What holds you back is finances? Or do you not feel the show is ready?”
“It’s mostly finances,” Chenco said after a small hesitation. “I’ll admit, I get a little fussy wanting things to be just so, but Book’s right. We’re there.” He sighed and brushed his hand over the pages. “It’s going to be clunky at first, no question. I’ll do it someday—but it really is about having the money right first, about being ready.”
“Proper financing is very important.” Crabtree reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a fine leather wallet and peeled out several hundred-dollar bills. “Consider this my donation to a good cause. If this pushes you over to being able to put on this South Padre show, then I shall be in the front row. If I like what I see, you can consider me an official sponsor.”
Chenco gaped, and Booker’s head jerked up to track Crabtree as he leisurely strode away.
The gangster slowed in his already sedate pace as he neared Steve, glancing at Booker before he spoke. “The boy belong to anyone?”
“To a shit wannabe. I’ve been keeping an eye on him while others sort the other end, but it’s not going so well.”
Crabtree’s eyes narrowed, and then he nodded. “I’ll help you in your shepherding. I don’t think it will take, but I won’t have him bothering your boy. Randy is correct. Crescencio is a treasure.”
“I’d be very grateful for your help, sir. Thank you.”
Crabtree ambled to the kitchen counter, where he stopped and examined fruit in a bowl. Waiting, Steve knew, for Booker to come over and thank him, engage with him. He only had to linger a minute.
Steve watched Crabtree work Booker—subtle, distant, feeling him out, but not only did he seem to expertly unpack and identify the damaged sub, he began, without prompting, without so much as a clarification for permission, to repair him.
It was all how he spoke to the young man. How he positioned his body as they conversed, how he commanded Booker to obsequiousness, how when Booker tried to sass him as he did Steve, Crabtree redirected him with only a narrowing of his eyes and a quiet threat of violence so sharp it was a blade in its own right. He succeeded where Steve and the others had failed because he
used
the threat, made it clear he played well beyond the edge, offering something twisted enough to catch Booker’s equally messed-up interest.
Crabtree played the boy like an instrument, but not out of spite or malice or even glee. He played the boy because the boy so desperately needed to be played. He played Booker because it was what Crabtree did best.
A new light flared inside Steve’s darkness, a lantern not threatening to burn down his world but possibly illuminating the way to rise from the ashes. Maybe Crabtree could help another messed-up man in Steve’s life.
Steve stole a glance at Randy, saw the gambler’s slow, patient smile. Randy had seen it too, and he wasn’t in the least bit surprised.
Stacking the deck.
For the first time in a long, long time, Steve began to hope.
While Chenco still wasn’t entirely certain about Randy, his husband Ethan was quickly a favorite.
Ethan was cool, smooth and easy to look at. He wore suits a lot, which was weird, but hot—literally hot, with the heat wave hitting the RGV. Ethan said Vegas was worse most days.
Ethan ran a casino he’d won in a card game—how the fuck did you top that in the game of life? He had a quietness about him Chenco appreciated too, something probably essential for survival when dealing with Randy. Chenco’s favorite trait about Ethan was the way he calmed his husband without doing anything at all, just by being present. With Ethan around, Randy was less like a loose ball bearing and more of a paddle ball on a string. Ethan clearly held the paddle.
Something about their relationship caught Chenco’s attention, but he couldn’t figure out what it was. Maybe Chenco was too new at the BDSM thing and wanted to label everyone top and bottom, but he couldn’t quite work them out. If he had to pin them down, he’d call Randy the sub and Ethan the Dom, but only sometimes. Every now and again, when they weren’t aware you were looking, they flipped. When Chenco studied them in public, he could sometimes catch Randy shoring up his husband or making a place for him in a strange situation. It was a complicated dance, and Chenco found he enjoyed it.
He enjoyed Ethan on his own merit, in part due to his subtle approach. Chenco kind of wanted to follow him around like a puppy—not for sex, but because Ethan made him feel even and okay. He talked with Chenco in such a quiet, easy way, giving him space to work things out.
Such as whether or not he should do the South Padre gig. Chenco asked Ethan if he owed Crabtree now. Ethan said no, not exactly, but he pointed out Crabtree didn’t do such things lightly, so if this truly did mean the difference between no and yes, perhaps he should consider letting things move forward. Ethan had nudged him into letting his new family help him prep too—Randy took Booker to get the lighting set up, and Mitch had been offended Chenco hadn’t asked him earlier to find a small truck to haul all Caramela’s shit to the site.
When Chenco confessed to Ethan he was nervous to approach the owner, how sometimes Booker had bad judgments about contacts, Ethan offered to vet the man himself.
This was how Chenco found himself sliding sideways into the spring break show, taking Caramela to a bigger stage. He wasn’t sure why it made him feel so panicked. One night, as he sat snuggled against Steve in Caramela’s room listening to music, he confessed how he felt. Steve hadn’t had any trouble understanding.
“It makes you feel panicked because you’re taking a step forward. You’ve already been kicked out of your nest twice, and you’ve been flapping around, but now you’re going to try to actually fly. It would be odd if you weren’t nervous.”
Chenco wanted to fake it, to buck up and be self-assured, but he didn’t have it in him, especially with the next thing brought up. That morning Chenco had gone to his post office box and found the notice from the lawyer letting him know the trailer now belonged to the Ku Klux Klan. Chenco was officially homeless.
When he told Steve, his boyfriend said nothing, only pulled Chenco onto his lap, tucked Chenco’s head into his shoulder and began to pet his hair.
It felt good, but worry clawed at Chenco, fears formerly lurking in the dark working their way to the surface. He didn’t lift his head, but he still tensed a little as he asked, “How long is it okay, really, for me to stay here?”
“I don’t have any specific timeline in mind. I suspect you’ll soon—” He broke off, pausing in his strokes on Chenco’s hair. When he started up again, his voice had a careful quality about it. “Let’s just say, things are fluid for you right now, and I understand. I can’t give you any guarantees on what will happen, but I’ll give you my word—if things don’t work out with us, I’ll never throw you out. If I had to ask you to leave, I’d work with you and give you time.”
“Okay. Thanks.” He shut his eyes, soaking in safety, feeling secure enough to add, “I love how you explain things so clearly and honestly. I don’t feel like you’d ever lie to me. Even if what you had to tell me was grim, you wouldn’t lie.”
“I wouldn’t, no.” Steve’s hand trailed down Chenco’s back and began to rub in gentle, drugging circles. “You’ve had it rough a long while. Take your time to make sure you feel safe, but don’t stop yourself from letting go with those you can tell care about you. Those people would be Mitch and the boys.”