The Queen & the Homo Jock King (54 page)

“All that love,” Kori whispered into the microphone.

“Well, obviously it’s not going to be a
romantic
date,” I said, trying to play the part. “Seeing as how Darren Mayne barely managed to lock all this down.” And, of course, since my life was a bit of a divine tragedy, that’s when I saw Caleb in the crowd, grinning up at me like he didn’t have a care in the world. My gaze skittered over him, and I tried to not make anyone aware that I was four seconds away from scratching his eyes out. “Why would he go looking somewhere else when he can have a piece of this whenever he wants?”

The audience laughed.

Caleb did too.

I didn’t think it was funny.

I hoped he did something stupid or potentially rapey so I could get him kicked out of the club. Then I realized wanting someone to do something
potentially rapey
made me a bad person, so I considered trying to plant drugs on him. But I didn’t even know where one could
buy
drugs, much less how to plant them, so I had to rest my hopes on his stupidity or that he was just here as a spectator.

I could get through this.

I
would
get through this.

I was Helena fucking Handbasket.

I could do
anything
.

“So, yes,” I said, my voice evening out, becoming dark and sultry again. “I am putting Darren out on loan for an evening of platonic merriment. He is a rather pretty thing, after all. But he’ll be returned to me with nary a mark upon his rock-hard body. I would absolutely
hate
to think of what would happen if that wasn’t the case.”

“Because you love him,” Kori said. “Like, a lot. Maybe more than anyone else.”

I glared up at her. “Probably more than you right now,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Awww,” the crowd said again.

I hated them. And their faces.

But specifically Caleb. Because he was smirking and
aww
ing with the rest of them.

I wondered if it could be considered self-defense if I attacked first.

“We love you, Helena!” someone shouted.

“Thanks,” I said, trying to sound chipper.

“And we also love you with the Homo Jock King!”

“Thanks,” I said, sounding far less chipper. “But enough about me.” Which was the first time I’d ever said that as a drag queen. “Let’s see your remaining two drag bachelors up for auction, shall we? Ladies and gentlemen, please give your eyes a feast! Our resident geisha from the East! It’s… Brian!”

I tried not to die from laughter as the DJ played egregiously stereotypical Asian music as Brian shuffled out the curtains onto the stage, wooden sandals over white socks scraping along the floor. He was wearing a bright green kimono, a relic of Paul and Vince’s trip. He had an ornate folding fan that he fluttered in front of his face. A black wig sat tight in a bun on his head, the bamboo chopsticks poking out of the top. He really did look stunning, even if he had to be the most awkward wannabe queen that I’d ever seen. He was sweating profusely, the white makeup caked on his face dripping slightly down onto his neck.

But still he played it up as the audience screamed for him, shuffling back and forth on the stage, fluttering the fan, eyeing everyone flirtatiously.

And because it needed to be said, I raised the mic. “And please, if you find this offensive in any way, shape, or form, please remember that we aren’t trying to knock on anyone’s cultural background. If you
still
find it offensive even after my heartfelt apology, the exits are clearly marked and I suggest you make use of them.”

Two people left, but they hadn’t bid on anything all night, so I wasn’t too concerned.

“Our geisha here is truly one of a kind,” I said. “He likes long walks on the beach, eating all of my bacon in an awkward brunch-type setting, and has his heart set on one day finding true love.” Brian glared at me briefly, so I took that as a sign to continue. “Anyone that bids on the geisha could have the realistic expectation to receive a massage with his feet. He will stand on top of you and walk on your back.”

“That sounds… stimulating,” Charlie said.

“It is! Of course, Brian is a lady and demands to be treated as such.”

Brian broke character and grabbed my microphone. “I’m not actually a lady and I’m sorry about the white face,” he said in a rush. “Also, I probably won’t walk on you, because I think feet are gross and I’m muscular and muscle weighs a lot. Again, sorry about the white face.”

“Just lovely,” I said, after I’d yanked the mic back. “Now, given his pedigree and the fact that I
know
we’ve got some people out there who don’t quite seem to understand the meaning of the word
charity
, the opening bid will start at one thousand dollars. Do I have one thousand dollars for this lovely beauty?”

I did.

In fact, I had several thousand dollars rather quickly.

Brian looked as surprised as I did as the number kept going higher and higher. Eventually, the highest bid went to what looked like a group of men with killer handlebar mustaches and wearing biker’s leathers. The patch on their jackets was a stitched cow with rainbow spots holding onto a large serrated knife and a dark glare on its face. I knew who they were, and apparently Brian did too, if the look on his face meant anything.

“Oh my god,” Brian whispered to me. “I just got bought by the Dairy Queens.”

“And they just paid ten thousand dollars for you,” I whispered back, just as fervently.

“What if they take me to their clubhouse and
gang
bang me?” he demanded.

I gaped at him because
what
.

“I mean, like, what if all of them just want to take turns with me?” He looked slightly feverish.

I arched an eyebrow and took a not-so-wild guess. “Would that be such a bad thing?”

“Whoa,” he breathed. “I’m going to a biker gang bang with the Dairy Queens. That’s
another
one I could check off my list along with mustache rides and bovine-based groups.”

“What the fuck kind of list do you
have
?” I asked him.

The bikers leered up at him, and I had no doubt that Brian would have a good time riding their hogs. He hopped off the stage as well as someone dressed up as a geisha could, and hobbled his way over to the biker gang. They swallowed him up almost instantly into their fold, but not before I saw the blissful look on his white face.

I felt like a pimp whose first working girl found love.

It almost brought a tear to my eye.

But since I didn’t cry for whores, the tear never fell.

Besides, I had something else to focus on.

“Now,” I said into the microphone as the crowd fell into a hush before me. “I may be a tad biased when it comes to this last drag bachelor, though
bachelor
might be a bit of a misnomer.” More like
asshole
, but they didn’t need to know that.
He
knew it,
I
knew it, and really, who else mattered? The crowd chuckled, though, like they were in on the joke. Caleb too, but I tried not to look at him at all. “It was quite difficult to decide what to dress the Homo Jock King in for his drag debut. Did I go something fierce like Beyoncé? Or did I go old school and make him Barbra? So many, many choices I had for him. In the end, though, there really was no contest.”

Britney started singing overhead about how her loneliness was killing her, a remix I had the DJ put together that raised the bass and made it
crawl
along the walls and floor. Upon hearing the song, the audience started going nuts as the lights flashed.

“She was my first.” I grinned wickedly. “Fitting, since he’s going to be my last.” And they took that how they wanted to, sexy and romantic. And maybe I meant it like that, or at least wished to mean it like that. That little secret part of me that still hoped I could get my happy ending with the Homo Jock King.

The problem with that little part, however, was that it was attached to the
bigger
part of me, the one entrenched in the morbid cynicism that came with being Helena Handbasket.
That
part looked upon the little part with scorn and disdain, wondering how it had led me to believe I could have anything with Darren at all.

That
was the part that was pushing for control at the moment.
That
was the part I used as a shield, maybe more so than makeup and a sharp tongue.

But it all pretty much went by the wayside when Darren stepped on the stage.

Because, honestly?

Darren Mayne did not make an attractive woman.

And it wasn’t for lack of trying, god no.

He
was
trying.

It was just
terrible
.

“Oh my god,” I choked into the microphone.

Darren—excuse me, Ms.
Spears
—rolled his eyes at me out from under the blonde wig, two pigtails expertly braided on either side of his head. Little pink pom-poms were attached to the top of the braids. The white button-up shirt was open all the way to the bottom, where it had been tied off across his flat stomach. Underneath he wore a black bra, stretched tight against his chest. The top was completed with a gray sweater that looked like it was about to tear at the shoulders, the fabric clinging to his biceps.

The rest of the outfit was just as ludicrous. The dark pleated schoolgirl skirt wrapped around his waist, stopping midthigh. How Paul had found a skirt that fit him like that, I didn’t know. Darren also wore black stockings that came up just above his knees. The outfit finished off with patent loafers, shiny and black, little pink bows on the top of each. Luckily, he hadn’t been forced to wear heels, otherwise, he would have been towering over everyone in the room like a muscular giraffe.

I was right, in that the contrast between the masculinity that was his normalcy meshed wonderfully with the femininity of the costume, especially his legs and thighs. The skirt was
just
long enough to cover his ass, but not by much, hinting at the small briefs I knew he wore underneath. However, he looked so jacked up, like he’d been bench pressing a few hundred pounds for a couple of hours before the show, that it was almost uncomfortable.

The audience didn’t give two shits about that, though.

All they cared about was the Homo Jock King in drag.

They roared their approval.

He came up to stand beside me. He covered the microphone with that big hand of his to block out the sound. He leaned over, lips near my ear, and to anyone watching, it probably looked like he was kissing me.

He wasn’t kissing me.

“I am going to kick your fucking ass for this,” he growled at me.

“Oh, bae,” I said, not even trying to stifle my delight. “Don’t lie. We both know you wouldn’t even get close enough to touch me before I took you down. Also, don’t stand with your legs bent like that. You look like you’re about to take a shit on my stage. You are supposed to be a
lady
, for fuck’s sake. And not just
any
lady, but an icon. Treat it as such.”

“Out of everything you could have chosen, you picked
this
?”

“Could have been worse,” I said. “You could have had to wear the ‘Oops!… I Did It Again’ red catsuit.”

“That would have been better than this!”

I grinned. “Subjective.”

He scowled at me. “These fucking stockings are cutting off the circulation in my legs.”

“If it makes you feel better,” I said, “flex your thighs and see if they tear. I’m sure we’ll get even more money because of it. Britney Hulk Smash!”

He pulled back slightly until our faces were only inches away, eyes searching mine. “You’re enjoying this too fucking much.”

“You have no idea,” I said. “Now, attempt to look like you just got out of class and for no reason that makes any sense, you have to dance in the school hallway while you sing about how you’re sad that you’re alone because you want to be with him.”

“With
who
?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “It was never defined. It didn’t
need
to be because it’s fucking Britney Spears and just her mere
existence
is enough for you to shut the fuck up and just
be Britney
.”

“Nothing you just said makes any sense. And it
never does
.”

“And yet, you’re the one in a skirt and pigtails.”

If his glare could have been harnessed, it could have been used as a weapon of mass mortification.

It was literally one of the greatest moments of my life.

I stepped away from him, making sure he was center stage and in the spotlight. I didn’t want to humiliate him (well, not
too
much) but I still had a job to do. He looked slightly panicked as I took that step back, but relaxed when he saw I wasn’t going far.

“As you can see,” I said into the microphone, “Darren’s loneliness is killing him.”

“No it’s not!” he said, loud enough for the microphone to pick it up.

“And he must confess that he still believes.”

“Believe that I’m going to smack your ass for this later,” he growled.

I choked on my tongue, but recovered gracefully. And by gracefully, I meant that I wiped the drool off my chin before it could drip onto the floor. Because he had really big hands that probably would make the most awesome of sounds as they struck my ass and—

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

There were catcalls pouring in from around us, which, really.
That’s
what did it for them? Hearing a large man in a skirt wanting to spank the statuesque drag queen known for her poise and grace? I wasn’t one to judge. Okay. That was a lie. Because I was totally judging them. Sure, it sounded fucking hot, but my fans seemed to be a bunch of kinky weirdos.

“If he’s not with you,” Kori said from the balcony, having stolen the microphone from Charlie, “he loses his mind. Helena, all he wants is a sign.”

I flipped Kori off.

“Not that sign,” she said before Charlie yanked the microphone from her.