Gulliver Takes Five (6 page)

Fucking traitors. They’re ALL there, and Shane led me on this fucking wild-goose chase just to throw me off the trail! Each of them will suffer tonight. They can sit in the waiting room of the ER at New York fucking Presbyterian and try their best to continue laughing at me through their wired jaws. Assuming they’re even conscious.

After driving past the supposed address five times, the cabbie pulls up to a corner in the West Village and finally admits he has no idea where we’re going. I tip him anyway and tell him to have a good night. I can’t blame him—not a single building owner on this street cares to display an address on the walls of their vacant-looking properties. The cab honks and rockets down the street in search of another fare to make up for how far off the main streets I took him.

I’m so tempted to call out for Christian—
Hey, loverboy! Where are yoooooou?
—just to hear my echoes off the empty street. At this point, it’s a game. I could easily forfeit and head home, gather up all his shit and fling it out in the rain. Considering that some of that “shit” is very expensive DJ equipment he stores at my place for convenience, it might even be a harsher blow than any attack I could dole out. After the sex and drugs and drinking, not to mention one misplaced ass kicking, I’d say my night is complete. I’m so tired.

As for the rest of the crew? We partied, we joked, we had some good times. But when things got shitty, where have they been? Peeling me OFF whoever I’m laying the smackdown on. Telling me I’m overreacting. Never once have they just listened to what I had to say or truly understood how I felt. So fuck ’em. I’ll go it alone. I don’t need snakes for friends.

Maybe I’ll just disappear. Vanish from their lives. Christian’s, Todd’s, Shane’s—all of them. They’ll never hear another word from me, spend the rest of their lives not knowing if or how I figured it out. Wouldn’t that, in a way, be the sweetest revenge I could possibly muster?

A flash of blue runs by me so fast I almost fall into the street. A boy, in nothing but underwear and a hoodie, his cerulean hair leaving a blurry trail in its wake. I’m overcome by the desire to chase him down and punch him out for knocking me off balance, but I’m not the only person on the sidewalk. There’s another boy standing twenty feet away from me underneath the only streetlight.

“Hey!” I yell.

The boy looks up, surprised. He’s not a happy camper—he’s been crying, and actually, might still be. I’m momentarily comforted that someone else is enjoying their night about as much as I am.

“Yeah?”

“I’m looking for eWrecksion?”

The boy sighs, his shoulders sagging. “Follow the blue-haired douche bag with the chinstrap. Tell him Graham said good-bye if you catch up with him.”

I don’t bother to thank him, just turn and follow the path blazed a minute before by my gay, blue version of Alice’s White Rabbit. Unfortunately, I crash into a long line of guys—and they don’t look much happier than I am. The blue-haired boy is nowhere to be found. Was he some sort of VIP who got to cut the line? I should have caught up with him. Dammit.

Minutes pass before I learn why everyone is pissed: the line isn’t moving. Unfortunately for whoever’s at the door, my patience left town hours ago. I break from the crowd and walk up to the muscle-bound black drag queen guarding the way. “Excuse me? Excuse me? What the fuck is going on?”

“Oh, do NOT address me like that tonight, dollface. I’ll bitch slap you back to wherever you bought that hideous hair dye.”

I laugh. First time tonight. Things are looking up.

“Listen, I need to get in there.”

“You and every other queen on this fucking line!” she says through an expelled puff of cigarette smoke. “Tough shit. Doors are closed. About to tell the rest. Mind if I tell ’em it was your idea?”

“What do you mean the doors are closed? Is it that packed?”

The drag queen measures me up and down, probably trying to gauge how drunk I am—which, to be honest, isn’t nearly as much as I’d like to be. And the coke wore off ages ago. “Did you not read the promo? Did you not hear about this party all over the city?”

No, queen, I didn’t. Todd is my connection to nightlife. And since he decided for whatever reason NOT to tell me about this once-a-millennium event he was throwing, I had no fucking clue.

“I guess not.”

“Doors close at two. No one is allowed in. And”—she pauses to check her cell phone—“it’s now five after two, so you’re shit outta luck. Mmkay?”

No. NOT mmkay. Not even on the same planet as mmkay. Not while Christian is in there. There must be a way.

“Todd DiTempto’s in charge of this thing, right? Let him know Brayden is here.”

Oh, this queen loves me. She sends a text on her phone to Todd while shouting, “Doors are closed, boys! Let this be a lesson not to show up gay late everywhere, mmkay?”

The wailing wall that sprouts up behind me is awe-inspiring. At least two hundred gays commence to bitching and moaning and swearing. I have no pity and neither does the queen, whose cell phone lights up with Todd’s response.

“Sorry, sugar. Todd went home for the night. He said he’s not the boss and doors closed means doors closed.”

I don’t believe her, but then see the words for myself on her phone. What the fuck? Todd doesn’t leave his parties early! He’s the last guy there, helping mop up the puke and shattered shot glasses! It’s a lie. Fucking Christian is inside this club right now and Todd is with him. God. How stupid do they think I am?

I steal a glance at the drag queen’s hand clicker. If she’s been counting honestly, there are more than seven thousand fags in there. Only one of them is Christian. I couldn’t find him if I tried.

It’s time to give up and just—

NO. Weak! Brayden Jesse Castro is NOT weak. He does NOT give up or let anyone stand in the way of giving assholes exactly what they deserve.

Including this built, black bitch.

I know it’s wrong to hit an actual woman—but fake bitches don’t count, right? There’s a dick tucked and tied somewhere under that spandex jumpsuit. This is a fair fight. I take a shot at her. A clenched fist right at her fucking nose.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” the drag queen howls, clutching the spot where my nails scraped the side of her face.

“Get out of my way, you cunt! Let me inside!”

I come at her again.

And get a six-inch heel in the side of my face.

Fuck that bitch can kick high! The punt is only the beginning of a tight combination of kicks, punches, and slaps, all ending in a hip toss that launches me off the sidewalk and into the street, right on the small of my back, all to laughter and cheers from the handful of stragglers that have yet to give up hope that they’ll get into the club. They may not get the triple-X blowout they came for, but they won’t be leaving without a show. I’m screaming, soaking the street with spit. I breathe around the exploding pain fanning out from my torso.

The queen looks down at me, shakes her head, and says, “Well, that was a pretty fierce show, girl. Not as good as the one in there, though.” She clip-clops into the front door and SLAM.

The echo bounces around the rapidly emptying street. There’s a loud metal clank as she bars the door shut from the inside.

I remain on the street as the rest of the dejected crowd disperses, counting the cracks in the concrete. In five minutes, I am alone, and I’ve lost count. No drag queens, pissed would-be partygoers, or asshole security guys. If that’s not the green light to cry, then nothing is. Yes, crying is weakness defined. A private failing to be kept to yourself.

Well, if anyone’s failed, it’s me.

At finding Christian tonight. At keeping Christian happy. At picking the right guy once again.

Fuck tonight. Fuck the past month. Fuck Christian and fuck me. Fuck Grant for fucking Christian and fuck me for fucking him to get back at Christian. Fuck Ronald and his sugar kiddies and those other materialistic bitches on the Upper East Side, all fucking each other by now, I’m sure. Fuck my cabbie for not getting here fast enough, and fuck me for tipping him. Fuck that blue-haired kid for almost knocking me into the street, and that weepy loser whatever-his-name-was under the streetlight. But mostly fuck ME. Fuck fuck fuck.

The coke and booze have worn off completely. Every bit of tonight’s bullshit stares me in the face. Cops are probably casing the city in search of a bright-white-haired twink who tore up a fancy party on the UES. The drag queen may very well tell Todd his friend Brayden attacked her, and if there’s one thing Todd won’t tolerate, it’s me pulling shit at one of HIS parties. Now that I’m thinking clearly, I doubt Christian is even in there. He’s constantly surrounded by swarms of people when he DJs; when he goes out, he tends to prefer somewhere a little more low-key.

I’m a mess. Which means I need to drink with someone who might actually understand what the fuck is wrong with me tonight.

I call Servando, who answers on the first ring—confirming that he isn’t in eWrecksion, confirming that at least not ALL of the crew is in on some massive conspiracy to shut me out tonight.

Although, from the sound of things, he’s somewhere almost as happening as eWrecksion is.

“Bitch, where are you?” Servando’s high-pitched voice pisses me off a little less than it usually does. Maybe it has the power to blow open the bolted doors to this fucking club.

“Did you know that Todd was running a party tonight?” I ask him.

“What! You for real? I thought he was going out of town for something! You mean that fuckface didn’t tell us he had an event?”

“I didn’t know he had an alibi too. Weird. Brunch topic for tomorrow, I guess.”

“You okay?”

No.

“Yeah, peachy. So what’s up? Where should I be? I could use a few dozen stiff drinks. Maybe a blow job.”

“Funny you should mention that—there’s this sex party out in Brooklyn serving up a shit-ton of both!”

I was kidding about the blow job. I couldn’t be any less turned on right now. A sex party? Ugh. Is there a single event that doesn’t revolve around everyone taking it up the ass tonight?

“Where’s Rowan? Doubt he’d be too happy to know your location, whore.”

“I’m here too, Bray Bray. And you’re on speaker, so don’t go maligning my character, b’okay? You gotta get down here,
prontissimo
.”

And I thought tonight was Ripley’s Believe It or Not weird already! Servando and Rowan still hook up sometimes, even though they broke it off ages ago, but I don’t know many people who’d agree that attending a sex party with your ex is anything close to a good idea.

I want a drink. I want a shower. The last thing I want is to somehow find and hail another cab in this ghost town of a neighborhood. My bed sounds so much more welcoming. At least there I can beat the shit out of my pillow and scream until the stupid neighbors register a noise complaint. Sounds like the perfect end to the perfect night to me.

“Hellooo? You there, Bray?”

“I’m not really feeling the whole sex-with-shady-strangers vibe tonight. Sorry, boys.”

“Then just do it with Christian!” This is followed by Servando’s trademark seal cackle, a noise that would make a stereotypical wiry-haired cartoon witch blanch with envy.

“Christian is there? My Christian?”

“Um, yeah. We just waved hi to him like two seconds ago. We were gonna go over, but he looked busy.”

Busy
. I flinch. Like a punch to the gut. “What’s the address?”

“Oh, NOW he wants to come out? Not for his old buddies, but for some boy toy he’s been seeing for like three weeks? Typical!”

“Actually, it’s been a month. To the day.” If I hear one more of his laughs, I will find him and skin him like a rabbit. “So. Address?”

“Whoa. Sorry, Bray. Hey, Row? Where the fuck is this place anyway?”

Cabbies despise driving to other boroughs—especially this late, when they’re planning on driving back to the garage to retire their yellows for the night and head back home for five hours of sleep before it’s back to the city in time for the morning rush. For this reason, I make sure I am in the backseat, door closed, seat belt latched (and I NEVER wear my seat belt) before I tell my victim where he’s taking me.

“No, no, I no go there,” he says.

I repeat the address.

“No. No.”

“Drive this motherfucking cab right now or I’ll call the fucking cops on your ass!”

I can actually get the authorities involved because, in this city, it is against the law to deny a passenger a ride once they’ve entered the cab. Smarter cabbies refuse to unlock their doors before hearing
where they’re expected to drive. Mine is clearly a rookie, so this is a teaching moment.

I catch his eyes in the rearview. He’s scared. Probably wondering if I’m carrying a knife or something, like those occasional cabbie-murderers the newspapers graduate to front-page placement every few months when they go on a spree.

“Thanks, buddy,” I add.

And so the hunt is back on. How long has Christian been at this fucking sex party? All night? For Christ’s sake, he could have been there since I got to Grant’s. I yawn so wide that the sides of my mouth hurt. I should have gotten a Red Bull.