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The drinks came next.
Moscow mules, vodka tonics, beer, water, ice. All of it swirled down my face, over my chest, down my legs, into my wig. I could hear gasps and “ooh no’s!” from the crowd, a vast difference from the adoring chants I’d been getting seconds earlier. The handsome and sunshine-bright man was quick to get down on his knees and help me up.
I couldn’t even look into his eyes. The adrenaline from performing diminished next to the growing embarrassment that flooded through me, mixing with the jungle juice seeping into my skin cells. I left all my wet dollar bills on the ground and stumbled over onto the stage like a wounded wildebeest.
Back onstage, I could barely even manage a wave. My entire body was soaked with a dozen different kinds of alcohol, and my wig was one strong breeze away from evacuating the premise, which coincidentally was exactly what I wanted to do. This had started off sooo fucking well and ended up a complete drag-saster.
I should have expected this shit. Nothing ever goes smooth for me. Nothing.
Asstral was already getting onto her feet, her face cracking with concern. I looked over her shoulder. My blood froze, every single drop of it, like someone had poured liquid nitrogen down my throat, injected it straight into my veins.
Walter Hooper, a “fan” who had obsessively come to each and every one of my shows and who was my top suspect for the person behind the fucked-up messages I’d been getting. Security had escorted him out of the last show because he had been making a few guys feel uncomfortable. I’d had a chat with the bouncer that same night, and he promised me Walter wouldn’t be allowed back in.
So much for fucking that.
Carmen San Fernando Valley, the host for tonight’s show, stepped out from the side of the stage and said something that I couldn’t make out past the ringing in my ears from my spiking blood pressure.
I walked off the stage, back into the tiny dressing room, wanting tonight to just be over with.
My bag still sat on the same red leather chair I had left it on before the show. I grabbed it, throwing it over a shoulder, not even wanting to look at myself in the cracked mirror, but a flash of red drew my eye.
Turned out I shouldn’t have been scared of looking since I couldn’t even see myself, my reflection broken apart by thick, bold red lines. It took me a second to process the fact that I was looking at words. A message, drawn in a lipstick color that I could only assume would be named “I Know What You Red Last Summer” or some similarly killer-like hue, covered the entire mirror.
It read, “Blue, you were divine as always. I’m almost as green-eyed as I am in love. Can’t wait to show you why I’m your number one fan.”
I almost couldn’t hold back the morbid laughter that came to my lips like gas from the guts of a rotting swamp monster. This was really and truly the shit cherry on this shit cake, and although fear was surely just around the corner from this intense numbness I currently bathed in, I couldn’t help but feel a strong sense of relief. Like a heavy decision had been made for me, one that I knew I couldn’t ever make by myself.
That’s it. I’m quitting drag. I’m done.
Then the fear settled in, nice and cold, rooting deep in my chest.
3
Ryan Diaz
I had been living in Blue Creek for about five years and somehow never ended up at one of the weekly drag shows at the Queen’s Throne. It felt very close to a travesty, knowing I’d been missing out on top-quality entertainment all this time right in my own backyard.
“This is better than some drag shows I’ve seen in New York,” Zane said, taking a sip of his whiskey as we waited for the next queen to take the stage.
“I think I’m going to like it here,” Alex replied, nodding. “Everyone knows a city is only as good as its most sickening queen.”
Zane chuckled and gave a pat on Alex’s shoulder. “True, true. Think Griffin’s going to like it here?”
“Are you kidding? Griff’s head is going to explode with rainbow confetti. He’s been on a nature-boy kick lately, so the drag show plus all the hiking trails and camping around here is going to make Blue Creek an easy sell.”
“If he needs more convincing, let me know,” I said, grinning. “If being a detective ever fails, I could probably jump into real estate with the number of people I’ve convinced to move here over the years.”
Darien chuckled at that. It was almost weird not seeing him with Houston, the sassy cockatoo that had permanently moved from the pet store underneath Stonewall Investigations and onto Darien’s shoulder. “You were one of the first people Zane put me in touch with here in Blue Creek, before I made my move, and I’ve got to agree, you’re a solid salesman.”
