Tough Love (27 page)

She wore red tonight—a single shoulder strap, sequined piece of honey with a slit so high she had to wear a high-cut compression panty. It hugged her body and made her look like a glistening drop of blood with legs. She wore the long flowing wig with red piano striping, red silk opera gloves and the fuck-me Pleaser pumps with a lipstick point heel and ribbon wrapped halfway up her leg. When she finished, she took a look at herself in the full-length mirror, drew a deep breath and went out into the hall.

There they were, her lineup of strong, sexy men. Even Sam looked as if he’d take on anybody who got in Caramela’s way. When they saw her, they stood up straighter, eyes widening in surprise and pleasure. Everyone but Steve, who only looked approving, proud.

Unable to help herself, Caramela preened, touching her hair and smiling. “So. I’ll do?”

“More than.” Randy came forward with a leer and drew her into a careful embrace. Into her ear, he said, “You’re going to rock this house, sugar, and make all the boys come in their panties.”

“Thank you for all your help,” Caramela whispered back, squeezing his arm.

“Anything for you, Princess.” He kissed her cheek. “You’re the closing act, so we have a little time.”

She blinked. “But I thought I was second?”

Randy grinned. “Yeah, but then the owner saw us warming up. He moved the order around. Slick saw the way the wind was moving too, which was why you had your own dressing room.”

“Slick?”

Randy laughed. “Sorry, that’s Ethan.” He nodded at his spouse, who stood off to the side, looking very smooth and slick indeed. “You’re all set up, honey. Just chill, mingle a bit and get your game on, and when it’s time, I’ll come and find you.”

“Mingle? You mean, go out into the club?”

“Hell yeah.” Randy jerked his head at Steve. “You got a big sexy daddy to escort you, and the rest of the posse will be close behind.” He pointed at Sam. “Except you, Peaches. You’re gonna be my assistant for the night.”

The club was packed, with dancers in cages and on the bar tops, with hundreds of young college men let loose and liquored up. The other drag queens worked the crowd too, staying on the edges close to the door. A few were comic, not glam, but several were stunningly gorgeous. Caramela wavered.

Steve put his hand on her elbow, and she found herself centered again.

Drawing a deep breath, she pulled herself into her game—she flirted with men who glanced her way, touching their faces, playing coy or vixen depending on what they wanted. A few looked like they wanted to dance with her but changed their mind when they saw Steve holding her arm. She ran her hands over Steve’s body—his exposed body, as he’d changed into leather pants and a vest, leaving his sculpted, sexy torso visible for everyone to admire. She petted him, cooing and calling him papi, and the crowd ate it up, begging for more.

Soon she had a small crowd of admirers—they were there for both of them, for Caramela and her papi, and it was a joy, a rush to give them what they wanted. Steve stood like a soldier, his face deliciously expressionless, but he put his arm possessively around her waist and bore her up and protected her as she worked her boys—stem to her petal. She had a great time—a perfect, wonderful time.

When she had to go backstage and get ready, she remembered Booker, and it made her sad. She saw how good the other acts were and grew nervous, thinking she couldn’t possibly compete against them, wondering why the owner had made her go last. Steve sensed her nerves and held her closer, saying nothing, just grounding her and keeping her from spiraling away.

Then it was time.

The lights went down, and she took her position in the center of the stage, back to the audience. Pitbull called out, and she answered in lip-sync into her mic. By the time she got to her first verse, she was feeding off the crowd. They pressed against the stage and called her name. Some shouted JLo, some Caramela—they were with her, inside the song, inside the performance, inside of her.

She gave them everything she had.

While she didn’t deviate from the routine, she punched it up, her hip snaps sharper, harder, her knee-bends deeper. Randy had given her a long, ornate cane reminiscent of JLo’s from the song’s video, and she used it with relish, leaning on it, twirling it like a baton, aiming it at her audience, ordering them to dance along. They did, shouting and cheering, some of them weeping.

Was this as good as it felt? Was the magic bubble real, or a figment of her imagination? She wasn’t sure how much of this was her own fantasy come to life—getting even an inch out of the valley—and how much of it was truly this good. She didn’t know, and she didn’t care, she only poured herself out from an endless well until the fire flew from her fingers, her eyes, her mouth.

This was what she’d wanted, what she’d craved when she’d watched recordings of JLo perform. This was her dream, right here, and she couldn’t believe it was happening for real.

When the song ended, they roared.

There were so many of them, twice the crowd she’d ever had in McAllen. They tried to tip her, but security had come out to hold them back. Ethan and Mitch had moved to the other side of the human wall, holding out their hands to accept offerings in her stead. The crowd was insane, whipped into a frenzy and calling out. When the chant began, though, it wasn’t her name, and it took it a second to congeal enough so she could hear it.

Papi. Papi. Papi.

She stilled, shocked, and glanced offstage at Randy, who stood grinning like a cat in a roomful of trapped mice. How had they known about “Papi”? Were people here from McAllen? But how did they
all
know? She was only meant to do the one song by the agreement with Crave. Was she supposed to perform another one? Now?

Randy glanced over his shoulder and nodded. The thumping backbeat of a “Papi” remix pounded through the loudspeakers, giving way to the familiar synthesizer identifying the specific arrangement. It thrilled her and sent her into panic all at once. Was she supposed to perform it? This version? She never did
this
one.

Apparently she did now.

She looked at Randy, who only stared back, encouraging. The mix was on loop, never going into the chorus. It wouldn’t go until she gave the line for cue. She didn’t give it. Not yet.

She looked out at the still-chanting crowd.
Papi. Papi. Papi.
Steve and Mitch remained at the front, taking tips. Off to the other side, Crabtree and a man in a leather mask stood in the shadows. Crabtree nodded in approval, and Caramela glanced back at Steve.

He met Caramela’s gaze, and he smiled a slow, proud smile.

Caramela drew a deep breath and let it out. No,
this
. This was what she wanted—to perform, to shine, but…with family. She wanted them all—Ethan, Randy, Mitch, Sam, even Crabtree. And Steve more than anything or anyone else. Chenco rose up to stand with her, and they were one, yearning and craving together. With one dream expanding beneath their feet, another one opened, and the need for it burned.

I will have it all, then.
Caramela closed her eyes, absorbed the music into her soul, found her rhythm, her place in the song. She lifted the microphone to her lips and switched it live.

“
Baila para tú Papi.
”

The crowd became so loud it was a wave of sound, a deeper rush and thrill than she had ever known. The music moved forward, onward into the song, into the future. Caramela danced—for her papi, for her family, for herself, for Chenco—for everyone.

She didn’t remember the set ending—she only knew she was on stage, and then she was off, surrounded by Randy and Sam and the other queens, everyone fawning and gasping and congratulating her. Somewhere in the middle of it Chenco fell forward, mingling with her, absorbing the praise.

“Come to Vegas with us,” Randy said. “Come back with us and knock them dead. Let Ethan and Crabtree help you.”

Sam stood beside Randy, beaming. “Let us all help you.”

Yes,
Chenco wanted to shout, but he couldn’t, could only look over at Steve, who was still fighting his way through the crowd.

Randy squeezed his shoulder and pressed a kiss on Caramela’s hair. “We’ll bring your papi too, honey.”

“Come on.” Sam bounced a little on his heels. “Say yes.”

“Yes,” Chenco said, then became so dizzy he had to hold on to them both to simply stand.

Steve shouldered his way through the last of the crush, Crabtree and Ethan behind him. Chenco saw his brother too, looking happy and proud. Mostly he saw Steve, his pride and admiration lifting Chenco higher than the adoration of a thousand crowds.

He’ll come too,
Chenco thought, Randy’s promise echoing in his ears.

Yes, he realized as he looked into Steve’s bright, proud face. His papi would follow him anywhere.

Chapter Sixteen

For over a week, Steve hadn’t seen Gordy once. Not from the feeds—Crabtree had those taken down. Gordon was in Crabtree’s exclusive care now, and he required he make every decision regarding his sub. His very first decree was Steve be removed from the equation unless Crabtree expressly asked for his return. It was the right thing to do. Intellectually, Steve understood this was what had to happen, that it was best for everyone involved.

Emotionally, Steve was going absolutely out of his fucking mind.

Three days after Caramela’s South Padre show, Crabtree invited him to see Gordy’s progress. The gangster had moved Gordon to a rented house in downtown McAllen a few days after he’d taken him over. At first, Steve had been impressed, even relieved. Gordy was clean, to start—his clothes unsoiled, his beard trimmed. His skin didn’t look quite so sallow, and his eyes had a new light to them.

Ten minutes with Steve, though, and Gordy went to pieces.

It started subtly, Gordy growing agitated, fidgeting. He didn’t have on puppy gear, which apparently displeased him, and he begged to be allowed to put it on. Crabtree told him no.

Gordy whimpered and turned to Steve, pleading for his hood and his paws. Steve said to listen to Crabtree, and this led to a full-on meltdown where Gordy revealed his trump—a knife he’d pilfered from somewhere and stowed in his jeans pocket. He got a good long cut in along his arm before Crabtree had him disarmed and on the floor, but the real damage was the crazed, evil grin he’d thrown at Steve.

Come play in the blood with me, baby.

He left before Crabtree had Gordy secured—awful of him, beyond terrible, but it took everything in him to text Randy and let him know the old man might need backup, and then he was off on his bike. He drove so fast he wasn’t just a danger to himself but anyone else on the road, tearing up dusty roads along the border, helmet off, wind screaming at his eyes until he couldn’t see for tears.

It wasn’t enough.

He stumbled into the drugstore as if he’d been drinking—what the poor clerk who checked him out must have thought, he didn’t know. Stuffing his purchased supplies into the saddlebag, he tore off down the road, head spinning.

Swimming in irony, Steve went to the cannery. He’d used needles more there than anywhere else, after all, and it was Gordy who’d driven him to this, who’d thrown him so hard he had to go here. Unlike Gordy, however, he was sane enough to practice universal precautions. He laid out the beach towel he’d bought for this purpose and scrubbed his arms with the wet wipes until his skin was raw and red. He gave his hands the same treatment then put on latex gloves.

Drawing in a deep, tortured breath, he picked up a 22 and shut his eyes.

The first time he’d used a needle he’d been seven, and he’d been an idiot. He’d stuck his arm full of his mother’s sewing sharps, no cleaning them or himself, and he’d been so proud he’d left them in when he’d gone out to play. When Gordy had wanted one, he’d simply pulled the first available out of his skin and slid it into the thick meat of Gordy’s shoulder. To their mutual shock and delight, he’d gone too deep, and blood had run down Gordy’s arm. They’d watched the red stream trickle between Gordy’s freckles, trapping in the roll of fat above his elbow.

Gordy had looked up at Steve with worshipful eyes and said, “Do it again, Stevie.”

They had, and until they were well into middle school they’d tempted fate with every prick, never washing a damn thing, never cleaning up after. AIDS was in full rage while they played, but they didn’t give a damn.

Steve remembered those first times now as he slid the needle under his skin, deliberately going shallow, taking no blood.

Gordy loved blood. He wanted it every time, couldn’t ever get enough. It was why Steve had stopped playing with him in high school, had felt a release as he’d left for college. What had been fun had become a little frightening. He’d given himself needles when he first went to Stanford, but sometime during the war he’d stopped. He’d never seen anything too grisly, not driving trucks across the desert in 1990, but so many things had changed during those eighteen months he’d been deployed. The world had been big and bad enough while he’d tried to find his way in California, but the Middle East? Steve came home far too aware he was an ant against a mountain.

Then he’d found out Gordy was in trouble, and suddenly he didn’t have to be an ant anymore.

He’d restarted needles with Gordy—in fact, they were how he’d drawn his old friend back out of the dark, with Depeche Mode and a trio of 15s leaving beautiful trails down Gordy’s pale, hairy skin. They’d taken needles together, a communion of mutual pain. As were so many things with Gordy, though, their sessions soon turned too dark and intense. Steve had walked away a second time—and Gordy had nearly died.