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“Is this what gay funerals looks like?”
“I hope not.”
A drag queen in a gold caftan crosses in front of us carrying a cigarette holder with no cigarette in it. Her wig is high and red, her makeup sharp enough to open mail. She stops, looks me up and down, then turns to Becca.
“New arrivals,” she says. “Fresh meat and a sensible girlfriend.”
Becca laughs. “I’m not sensible.”
The queen points one lacquered nail at me. “And you are tense enough to make diamonds.”
I stare at her.
She smiles. “I’m Georgia. Don’t be afraid. I only bite volunteers.”
“Clint.”
Her dark eyes widen. “Oh, darling. I’ve heard about you.”
Of course she has.
“I knew your daddy a long time.” Georgia’s expression softens as she gives me another once-over. “It’s like 1998 all over again. Taller and bigger. Sexier. But the jaw…” Her long-nailed finger runs along my cheek as she smiles. “That’s the jaw.”
With a wink, she’s gone, sweeping toward a group of older men who greet her like royalty. Her touch lingers, and I resist the urge to rub it.
Becca presses her lips together.
“Don’t,” I say.
“It is a sexy jaw.”
“I’m leaving.”
“No, you’re not.”
She hooks her arm through mine and pulls me deeper into the yard.
There’s a long table of framed photographs under a white canopy. Renny on boats. Renny in a tuxedo. Renny smiling shirtless beside a pool years ago, drink lifted. I try not to look too closely. There’s no point in knowing what he looks like.
Beside the memorial table, a bartender pours champagne over a tower of glasses.
A funeral with bottle service, lip synching, and Speedos.
This is not what I prepared for.
“Clint?”
I turn.
Paul Benton stands near the edge of the patio, halfway between the house and the pool. I know it’s him by the way he looks at me. Less like a question, more like a problem.
White shirt with sleeves rolled to the forearms. Dark navy swim shorts. Expensive leather sandals. Eyes clear, but tired.
“Thank you for coming,” he says.
His voice is lower than I expected. I don’t know why that matters.
“Thanks for the invite.”
