Chapter 1
Green eyes blinked beneath glittery mascara for a full thirty seconds.
Fists were balled and planted firmly on ample hips.
Ruby lips pursed.
The crowd laughed in anticipation of the public molestation they were about to witness.
I shifted in my seat, finally beginning to understand that sitting in the front row at a drag show had been one of the worst decisions of my adult life, which was saying something for a man who had once personally co-signed a loan for his cousin’s food truck.
“I asked,” the queen repeated, stabbing one ridiculously tall stiletto into the lip of the stage so the whole structure groaned, “What does a man do for a livin’ when he comes to a charity drag show dressed like he’s here to inspect my ductwork.”
Her name, the announcer had said, was IneedaPhalis.
She was a mountain of a woman, standing six-foot-four before the heels and a clean head taller in them. She’d somehow poured herself into a floor-length gown the shade of a road-crew safety cone, sequined from clavicle to ankle so that every movement sent light skittering across the ceiling like a disco ball having a nervous breakdown. Her wig, a platinum bouffant tall enough to qualify as a fire hazard, was lacquered into a shape that defied the laws of physics, and her eyelashes arrived a full second before the rest of her face did.
In contrast, I wore a dark blue polo shirt with my company logo stitched over my heart.
As she blinked lashes that practically reached the back row of seats, I said nothing. I had found over the years that saying nothing usually made things stop.
My silence didnotmake things stop.
What it did, however, was make Finn laugh hard enough that I thought an oxygen mask might drop from the ceiling.
“He’s not answerin’ me,” Ineeda told the crowd with wounded astonishment. She pooched lower lip. “I asked the pretty man a question, and he’s lookin’ at me like I’m a buildin’ inspector come to condemn his soul.”
The crowd howled.
“Sir… Darling… Sugar plum… We’re all friends here. Talk to the pretty lady. What is it you do?”
“He’s a contractor,” Finn called out, throwing me to the wolves with visible relish.
“I can see that, sugar. He’s wearin’ it like a bad confession.” Ineeda leaned closer, squinting at the stitched logo. “‘Delgado Construction.’ Honey, you came to a drag show in your work shirt? That’s not an outfit; it’s an alibi.”
Finn snorted beside me. His face had gone redder than his hair.
Ineeda didn’t flinch, her dagger-like nails shooting out to motion for all to see. “Stand up, contractor man. Let the room see what a complete absence of personal fashion does to a man’s aura.”
“I’m not standing up,” I said, somewhere between a growl and a whimper.
“He’s not standin’ up, people!” Ineeda reeled back, fan fluttering against her sequined chest. “He’s the only man in the state of Florida who came to a drag showto be left alone. Baby Doll, that’s like goin’ to a buffet and orderin’ a glass of water . . . or comin’ to the beach in a turtleneck . . . I mean, unless you’re uncut and wavin’ it around, what’s the point of a turtleneck? Why are you even here?”
A laugh cut through all the others as one guygasped for air, “Turtleneck!”
“My friend made me,” I muttered.
This was a tactical error. I'd just handed the hostess a thread to pull.
“Your friend made you?” Ineeda’s eyes slid to Finn, who was practically vibrating. “And who is this, then. The friend? The instigator? The man laughin’ so hard he’s about to soil my good chair?”
“That’d be me,” Finn said, raising his beer like he’d been waiting all night to be called on. His Irish lilt rolled out thick and delighted, four years in the States having done nothing to wear it down. “Finn O’Brien, guilty as charged, ma’am. I dragged him here by the collar. Somebody had to. He’s never taken a holiday in his life, not one in all the years I’ve known the man.”
“Years and no holiday?” Ineeda pressed the back of her hand to her forehead like a Victorian about to faint.
“Not one, and barely a date!” Finn went on, gesturing at me with his bottle. “And for the record, he sat himself right down in the front row of his own free will. I told him there were seats in the back, but he said the front had a better view.”
“A better view,” someone in the crowd squealed.
