Hudson put his hands up. “You know what? Fine. I need to live by example and heed my own wisdom. Do whatever you want, Nova. I have performed enough gay labor for today.”
Delilah and I cocked our heads, waiting for him to elaborate ongay labor.
“Gay labor is spending inordinate amounts of energy trying to keep your straight friend from main charactering herself onto an episode of a Netflix true crime docuseries.” Hudson uncrossed his arms. “And I amnota tropey side character.”
Hudson stared at the hand I placed on his shoulder, both of us mildly uncomfortable with the physical contact.
“Of course, you’re not. You contain multitudes.” I meant it earnestly, but the longer I peered into Hudson’s eyes, the more our lips began to twitch.
We broke into laughter at the same time, though Hudson didn’t look pleased about it.
He shrugged away from my hand. “Oh, fuckoff.”
“Love you too,” I called as I headed out the door.
I stood on the Greenpoint-Williamsburg border in my fool-proof disguise. My target was across the street, sitting in the same diner booth where he’d first eavesdropped on me. Thatencounter was feeling far more suspicious than serendipitous now.
I moved behind a white truck to stay out of sight, only glancing at Wes and the unsub across from him periodically to make sure they weren’t on the move. They kept looking down at paperwork, or maybe books, sitting with their coffee and food.
I never should’ve doubted my instincts. Men who were attracted to dominance weren’t to be trusted. They were all misogynists with Cluster B personality disorders, nothing like the dominant heroes written by women in fictional novels. The only safe way to engage with my unwanted, fucked-up kinks was in the privacy of my own fantasies.
I, of all people, should’ve known better.
An older woman eyed me suspiciously, and I threw her my bestmind your own businesslook. She kept walking.
After another thirty minutes, Wes and the bald, older Black man were on the move. I’d never followed anyone before, so I perhaps waited too long to start walking after them, which made me almost lose them completely.
I found them again on Manhattan Avenue. They were both in casual clothing, which threw me off a bit. The unsub was smoking a cigarette, and I watched him laugh at something Wes said as they waited at a crosswalk.
At the slightest turn of Wes’s head, I turned too, knowing I looked nothing like myself in my baggy clothing and ponytail-ballcap situation. I wouldn’t be recognized unless he saw me head-on. An irritated woman almost collided with me, and I apologized. As a fast walker who loathed anyone who disobeyed New York’s unspoken foot traffic rules, I felt a great amount of shame for my faux pas. I wanted to tell the stranger this was unlike me, that I was usually a perfect walker, a true star in the pedestrian community.
“Fuck,” I muttered, realizing I’d lost them again. I picked up my pace, scanning the side street at the next intersection.
I spotted them. I quickly jaywalked, dodging City Bikes and an irritated Nissan driver.
They approached the back of a tall, red brick building I quickly realized was St. Anthony’s church. I’d only ever seen its beautiful 19th century splendor from the front.
Oh my God, St. Anthony’s is a front for The Circle?
How many churches had they bought and deconsecrated to use for degeneracy?
I was hot with both anger and the scorching afternoon sun as I waited for Wes and the unsub to disappear inside the back of the church.
The coast was clear ahead of me, but before I could look behind me, a woman just over my shoulder muttered, “Shit, we’re late.”
I froze. Two women walked right past me, ignoring me as if my black cap had truly rendered me invisible to onlookers.
They were late to what? A gathering of the inner circle? And what were elections for?
Before I could second-guess myself, I beelined for the door, opened it, and descended into another layer of hell. I kept each step on the stairs as soft as possible.
When I reached the bottom of a dim basement, illuminated by string lights and a single fluorescent panel at the front, I had no fucking idea what to make of what I saw.
There was a table with an old coffee machine, paper plates, and donuts to my left. In front of me was a group of thirty people in cheap metal chairs facing the front of the room, where five more people in cheap metal chairs sat next to a big poster with a culty triangle symbol and a numbered list of what I could only assume was cult propaganda.
I quickly averted my eyes. My legs moved me forward, toward the table of food. Because, for whatever reason, that was where I felt most safe at cult gatherings. This got the three women and two men I didn’t recognize at the front to stop staring at me.
What kind of cultwasthis?
