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She was right. I’d had my eye on a lovely red bag that would go beautifully with my rose caftan. I wasn’t expecting the evening to lead to anything, but I may as well look my best.
Chapter Twelve
Dear Diary,
My nails are buffed and shiny—not a cuticle can be seen. The red Prada bag is now residing with me and looks darling with my rose caftan. However, I’m a hot shaky mess. Doing the right thing is not easy.
My dream of Prince Charming arriving on a white steed is only a dream. That might be one of my issues. My expectations are absurd. Do you think so? Don’t answer. I’d freak out if you actually spoke, Dear Diary. I much prefer you to be my silent and supportive confidant.
Dreams don’t always come true, but the good thing is that dreams can be amended and changed. I might not inherit the adorable brownstone on the Upper East Side with a doorman named Jeeves, but if I can truly love myself, I can find someone to love me… who I won’t ghost.
That’s my new dream—Johnson Jones, the wizard who doesn’t torpedo his love life. It’s doable and smart.
As much as I don’t want to go to dinner this evening with Boutonniere Man, I shall not stand him up and cause him indigestion. I’m a polite, gay, caftan-designing wizard. Hurting people isn’t my thing… even though I’d hurt Kurt.
Maybe… just maybe, in the future we can be friends. Or maybe not. I’m in love with the man.
Anyhoo, wish me luck, Dear Diary, and thanks as always for lending an ear… or a page to be more accurate.
xoxo Johnson Jones
The ride into Manhattan was more eventful than anticipated.
Helen had insisted on coming and waiting in the car with Dracula Smith, just in case I needed her. The surprise was that Triple D had come along for the excursion. Her moniker was incorrect. I’d have guessed her to be an E cup… possibly a double E. The vampire was delightfully profane and only punched Dracula in the head twice during the trip. That was iffy, considering she almost knocked him unconscious, but he seemed to enjoy it. I was just happy we made it to Luigi’s alive.
“How do I look?” I asked the Uber posse.
“Beautiful,” Helen said, handing me my bag and kissing my cheek.
“Youse look great, Johnson,” Dracula Smith added. “If dat bastard don’t like youse, he’s a pecker.”
“My Pookie is right,” Countess Plasma assured me. “And if he looks at you sideways, I’ll be happy to whack his pecker off. Ding-dong gone.”
I was far more partial to ding-dong ditch than ding-dong gone. The undead were such a violent bunch. Dracula’s gal’s name was godawful, but she was a sweet one other than her penchant for castration. I was pretty sure the name was fake, but with vamps, who knew?
I almost choked on my own spit. “While the offer’s appreciated, it will not be necessary,” I said quickly. “I can handle it.”
“Whatever you say,” Countess Plasma told me. “But if you need a cock removed, I’m your gal.”
“She’s not kidding!” Dracula said, covertly covering his junk.
I got out of the car. I didn’t want to hear any stories about Dracula’s experience with castration at the hands of his fiancée. I wanted to be able to eat. Luigi’s was one of my favorite restaurants in all of Manhattan. Kurt and I had planned to dine there, but sadly never got the chance.
“Stop it, Johnson,” I chastised myself as I crossed the street. “Boutonniere Man doesn’t deserve a mopey date. What’s done is done.”
“You look great,” Dwayne said, sneaking up behind me.
I screamed. He grinned. Zorro was right beside him.
“What are you two doing here?” I asked, alarmed.
“Wingmen,” Zorro confirmed. “Just in case Boutonniere Man is a jackass, we’ve got your back.”
I shook my head and laughed. They were nuts. “I’m quite sure I can handle it.”
“I am too,” Dwayne agreed. “But we’re here if you need us. We got a reservation on the patio as well. If you want us to save you, just text.”
“Texting on a date is rude,” Zorro pointed out. “Maybe we should have a different signal.”
