Tough Love (38 page)

“And that’s in Michigan?”

“Yes. Detroit. All my family’s still there, lamenting how the homosexuals are hastening Armageddon.”

“I didn’t think people were as prejudiced in the north.”

“Depends on the north. I’ll admit there might be extra concentration of asshole in my gene pool.” Forking the last bite of his entree into his mouth, Randy patted his belly. “Damn. I’d been meaning to try this place, and now I’m coming back. You feeling dessert, or are you ready to shop?”

“I’m good. Very full.” Chenco glanced at a clock on the wall and raised his eyebrows at Randy.

Randy followed his gaze, grinned and pulled out his phone. “Time to tell hubby he’s getting a lap dance tonight.” He made a low noise of pleasure in the back of his throat as he texted, then slipped his phone into his pocket and put bills on the table. “Okay. Shopping it is.”

Chenco didn’t argue. He planned to simply not let Randy buy anything for him. It was a good thing he hadn’t said this out loud. Randy probably would have made a bet, and Chenco would have lost. It turned out Randy was
good
at shopping, and he had read the secret fashion desires Chenco hadn’t realized he’d written on his heart.

Town Square was near the Strip, an open-air shopping center with plenty of parking, palm trees and ostentation. Randy knew the place like the back of his hand, and he took Chenco from one store to another, a man on a mission.

“You’re all about the plain tees and jeans, which suits you, but you’re not dodging bullies in Donna anymore. You’re in Vegas now, and you’re young and cute. Play it up. I know you’re wanting to.” He held up a weathered shirt with black designs along the hem curling up toward one armpit like a kind of fabric tattoo. Randy looked between the shirt and Chenco then replaced it on the rack. “No, it’s too much. You need something understated. Probably best to stick with plain on top. We’ll do quality basics for shirts, jacket and jeans, and save the party for your feet.”

“My feet?”

“Oh hell yeah, honey. You wait until I show you what you’re wearing out tonight.”

Chenco started to protest—and then Randy showed him the boots.

For several seconds he could only hold them in his hand, hypnotized. Usually it was Caramela falling for shoes—he had no experience looking at men’s footwear and feeling the yearning pull in the base of his gut. These were brown half boots with a long, sassy curve, rustic aerated leather and a buckle whispering steampunk but mostly said
oh, honey, you gotta buy me.

Then he saw the price tag, and he almost cried, because these shoes weren’t happening.

Randy turned the tag over and reached for the mate. “Come on. You’re obviously getting them.”

“I
can’t
.” Chenco couldn’t stop looking at them. “You can’t spend this much on me—I won’t let you—and I can’t afford it.”

“I hate to break it to you, but I already dropped four hundred on you in the last store. These are special, and you’re right. You should make the purchase, a kind of symbol to yourself you’re listening to all your needs, not just your drag persona’s. Pay me back when we get to the house. Don’t give me that look. Why can’t you buy them? What have you been spending money on?”

“I have to save for—” Chenco cut himself off, not sure what he was saving for, actually. “I need to find my own place eventually. Plus I shouldn’t let Ethan buy all Caramela’s clothes. She needs—”

“
You
need clothes, bitch.” Randy put the second boot in Chenco’s hand and glared at him. “You’ve been throwing all your energy at Caramela and precious little at the boy who lets her run that stage. All except for the lovely afternoon you stripped the skin off my back.”

Chenco went hot with the memory Randy conjured, and he couldn’t say anything.

Randy moved in close, pressing the boots between them. “Yeah, baby, I know you’ve been thinking about that, about asking to do it again. You haven’t, though. You’ve been working and worrying about why Steve’s being weird.”

“Why is he being weird?” Chenco’s voice was almost a whisper, and he hated how it wavered.

“I don’t know. But you need to find out, and to do that, you have to confront him. And believe it or not, to find the courage, you have to do things like buy yourself fabulous shoes.
You
, not Caramela. Teach yourself to wear Caramela whether or not you have a wig on.”

Chenco clutched them to his belly. “Why?
Why
are you buying me clothes and lunch and making me buy shoes? Why do you
all do this
?”

“Princess, take a look around. We’re the fucking lonely hearts club. You’re Mitch’s little brother. You’re goo-eyed over one of our longest-standing, loneliest friends. You need a family, we like adopting people. That’s it.” When Chenco sputtered, Randy put a hand on his shoulder. “Right, I know—it’s more than taking in a stray. We’re helping you with your dream. I’ll try another angle. Why do you do Caramela? Not the shit you say. Not because you want to prove yourself or whatever. What made you put on the wig? What called you to the stage?”

Chenco didn’t have to think about his answer. “When I go out there, when I put her on, I feel alive all the way to my toes. It’s not about being a girl or saying
fuck you
to gender politics. It’s about
being
. Living. Breathing. Existing in a way I can’t by any other means. It’s better than anything in the world. Better than money. Better than sex. Better than love.”

Randy nodded, not quite smiling, but there was a light on his face, an understanding. “That’s how I feel when I play a particularly good run of poker. That’s how Ethan feels when he makes the casino work. We took one look at you on your stage in McAllen and all we wanted to do was make the light you give off shine brighter. It’s fun to watch you succeed. Other people helped us find our happiness, and it’s time we returned the favor.”

The floor that had felt so absent began to flood back beneath Chenco’s feet. Feet which were itching to put on these damn shoes. What was Steve’s dream, he wondered? What was it he dreamed to have? What was his Caramela? He thought maybe Randy knew, but he didn’t want to ask. He wanted to discover it for himself.

Though he did wonder about something else. “What’s Mitch’s better-than-love?”

Randy snorted. “He and his slut-bunny husband are those disgusting nougat-center people who just flat out like being in love best. And fucking. Which, I gotta admit, is hot as all hell to watch.”

Chenco, remembering the view beneath the curtain in the semi cab, blushed as he silently agreed.

Randy’s eyes darkened, and so did his grin. “Somebody owes Uncle Randy a dirty story. Time for a tea break where you spill the dish. First, though, we’re buying those shoes.”

“Yes.” Something deep inside Chenco eased as he said the word. He grinned, hugged the boots against his chest and laughed. “First we’re buying these shoes.”

When Steve arrived at the theater at six to pick up Chenco, he was surprised to find not only was Chenco not there, he hadn’t been in all day. He was in the middle of texting him when Ethan appeared and explained Chenco had gone off earlier in the afternoon with Randy.

“To do what?” Steve demanded.

“Randy things,” Ethan replied.

Had they done another scene? Without telling him? No, one look at Ethan told him this wasn’t playtime, whatever Randy and Chenco were doing, but he couldn’t work out what the hell was going on. They stared at each other for several long seconds in silent communication, Steve telegraphing he wasn’t pleased, Ethan reflecting back he wasn’t exactly happy, either.

“What’s going on?”

Ethan’s expression didn’t change. “He came to me this morning, wanting to talk.”

About you
was heavily implied. Steve glanced around, half expecting to see angry big brother waiting in the wings. No Mitch, but the theater had quietly cleared out, and it was just the two of them now. Steve glanced up at the security camera and raised an eyebrow.

Ethan waved a dismissive hand. “I’m not Crabtree, and you’re not going to end up as dry bones in the desert. But yes, I wanted to talk to you. Chenco is upset. We had a talk, but I don’t think I helped. Randy showed up, and from what I hear, they’re having a good time. Lunch. Shopping. Sam met them to collect their purchases, and now the three of them are on their way to a party, as I understand.”

Randy things.
Steve wanted to be annoyed, but the only person to blame was himself.

Ethan seemed to agree. “He has this idea he’s somehow made a mistake and upset you, except he can’t think of what he’s done wrong. Thankfully he’s got enough presence of mind to realize if this were the case,
you
should have told him.” When this bald scrutiny got under Steve’s skin, Ethan bared his teeth—and then he really did look like Crabtree. “Don’t insult us both by saying this isn’t any of my business. I haven’t involved Mitch or Crabtree yet, for now.”

“Crabtree already knows,” Steve confessed.

Ethan’s expression turned grim. “That’s not a good sign. If he’s not actively pushing on you, he’s written you off.”

Was Crabtree pushing Steve? He’d given him plenty to do on the security upgrade, but nothing else. Steve didn’t know what to say to that, so he looked away.

Ethan sighed, frustration leaking out in the sound. “If you’re giving up, don’t stay here and fuck with Chenco.”

Now Steve glared. “I’m not giving up.”

“Then get your shit together.” Ethan put his hands on his hips, fanning out his suit jacket. “Is this about Gordy?”

“Partly.” Steve pursed his lips and held up a hand. “Look, I’ve got this. You can stand down.”

“The hell I can.” Ethan aimed a long, elegant finger at Steve’s chest. “I don’t know what’s going on, but consider me officially on a mission to find out. If Crabtree’s willing to invest in Chenco but will write you off, this is serious. I like you, and I know Randy and Mitch feel you’re family. You’re well on your way to being that for me. You can fight me if you like, but you won’t win. I won’t insult you by explaining why. You have my attention, Mr. Vance. What do you wish to do with it?”

Steve drew a deep breath, pushed aside his pride and said, “I want to fix this.”

“Good answer.” Ethan pulled out his phone, punched in a text then waited a second to see the reply. “I’m told I can bring you at nine.”

“Where is he?” Steve asked, trying not to demand. “Where is Chenco?”

“An old friend of Randy’s is having a leather party, and Chenco is there with him and Sam. We’re to come and bring Mitch.” Ethan glanced at his watch. “We’ll leave from the house at eight thirty, so you’ll want to get ready, perhaps grab a bite to eat. I’ll finish up here and join you shortly.”

The idea of waiting two and a half hours to go to Chenco when something was clearly wrong made Steve crazy, but he did as he was told. He went back to the house and took another shower, standing with his eyes closed under the hot spray, calming himself down. He put on his side-laced leather jeans, his vest, and put a polish on his motorcycle boots. The black-and-white cat came in to supervise him, and while he glared at it, he didn’t kick it out, either.
Be good,
he told himself, and he tolerated the animal. If he convinced Chenco to stay with him, he’d have to get used to them eventually because Chenco wanted one. Chenco deserved to get what he wanted.

Out on the patio, Steve lit up a cigar and settled in to wait. Mitch joined him before too long, looking good. Mitch favored Levi’s over leather jeans and stuck to his well-worn cowboy boots, but he wore chaps and a thick leather band on his left wrist. He accepted the cigar Steve offered him, though he murmured something about
only a few days left
under his breath. He sat lounging as he savored the initial bouquet.

“Been awhile since I put this getup on,” he said after a period of silence. He nodded at Steve. “Everything going all right with your work? No trouble with the location change?”

“No trouble,” Steve said. Mitch was very carefully, he knew, not asking about Gordy. Steve sipped the mescal he’d brought out with him and passed the bottle and a clean glass over to Mitch.

Mitch accepted but only poured a small finger of liquid. They spoke of idle things, Mitch reporting on some of the jobs he’d taken lately and ones he hoped to find in the future. The two of them were talking about moving in formally to Randy’s old house, renting at first and then maybe buying it. Steve listened as Mitch confessed how a faltering economy hurt a long-distance driver, how jobs had become tougher for Sam to find. How he wanted to settle somewhere for a bit, how Sam hated the desert but loved being near the boys. How Mitch hated being tied down but hated feeling like he wasn’t taking care of Sam and making him feel safe.

Steve listened, and he let himself yearn.
This is what I want, this struggle, this love, this life. I want it, and I want it with Chenco.

Just before eight thirty, Ethan appeared, and Steve had to give an admiring smile when he saw Ethan Ellison in gear. He was in full leather—a close-fitting black polo with side vents and a line of grommets along the sternum, soft, elegant black leather jeans, and a pair of half boots looking as if they had come out of an Italian showroom.

Ethan, however, frowned as he took the finger of mescal Mitch poured for him. “Mitch, does this outfit really work?”