They walked to the rear of their vehicle, opened their respective doors, and ordered Colton and Bella to get out. Now!
Colton was naked. And with his hands cuffed behind him, he had no way to cover his “shame” (asfCOC doctrine described the male appendage)—not that his penis merited any pride as far as Matt could tell.
Gym rat cop had obviously drawn the short straw and been stuck with the drunk, excreta-slimed (there was that word again) Colton. Gym rat sported rubber gloves and struggled to find a spot safe enough to touch his prisoner.
Matt gasped at sight of Bella.
Her wig was askew, sprinkled with twigs and leaves, as though she—or it at least—had been on the ground. Her grayish wig cap peeked out like a garish bandage on a head wound. Her dress was torn. She was limping, one shoe missing entirely.
Bella’s cop—the one whose body was trying to equalize its circumference and height—wore the “I-smelled-a-fart” frown of homophobes everywhere. He pushed the handcuffed drag queen along as though he was taking out the garbage.
Molly fussed with her camera, fine-tuning the framing. The nature of the perp walk was such that the prisoners approached, then passed, the media on their way into the building.
Molly called out Colton’s name.
Colton turned instinctively and beamed his frat-boy Colgate smile.
That was Bella’s cue. She twisted violently and wrenched free of thick-cop’s grasp. She hurled herself forward into the same photo frame as her alleged attacker. Her face bore marks of trauma (tear-streaked mascara, purpling bruise on her cheekbone).
The contrast between the beaming scion of privilege and the worse-for-wear drag queen was jarring.
Molly clicked away—including capturing the moment thick cop caught up with Bella and kneed her violently in the groin.
Chapter 40: Making Amends
Friday, March 29, 1996. 8:30 p.m.
Matt parked his Jeep and headed towards the clubhouse for the last time. He was there to leave his key. His resignation from the GM was effective April 1st. What difference did a couple of days make?
He crossed paths with a woman and her dog.
He nodded politely, said hello.
The woman stopped and eyed him bird-like. She seemed to be in her fifties. She had stringy, blonde/gray hair. She wore a thin shift that hung from her shoulders and stopped at her knees, like a hospital gown. Her dog sniffed the air.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Matt apologized.
“I’m not startled,” she said. “I’m intrigued by your aura.”
Matt wasn’t sure he had such a thing. He certainly wasn’t in the mood to discuss his with a stranger. He edged away from her.
The woman motioned skyward. “The moon is waxing gibbous.”
“Uh-huh.” Smiling. Still edging. Matt stole a quick glance at the moon, searching for this gibbous thing. Didn’t see it. Didn’t need to.
“You have a warrior’s aura, but it’s weak. Have you been in a great battle or struggle lately?”
Matt nodded. How could she know that? Or did she say that to everyone, figuring even bad hair days qualified as battles to some people?
“You should be recuperating. Healing. Drawing strength from the earth and the moon and your friends. But—”
“But what?” Matt asked. Despite himself, he was intrigued. He had been tired and lethargic since Colton’s take down. There’d been none of the endorphin high he would have expected after finally defeating the guy.
“You are cut off from your friends. It’s hindering your recuperation.”
Matt laughed bitterly. The clubhouse key felt heavy in his hand. He was about to be even more cut off from friends.
“May I?” The woman didn’t wait for an answer. She clasped her hands around his. Closed her eyes and just stood there, as if waiting to hear from the Mother Ship.
