“It just took me by surprise is all. It’s so sweet.” And here I was thinking in the past month that he was ready to dump me, or that maybe I should be dating someone like Daniel instead. I’m an ass. But I’m not lying. I do find it sweet. Incredibly sweet. Overwhelming, new, and a bit alarming—just call me Belle, I guess. But I’m definitely flattered. Something rises up in me, as tender and delicate as a little baby plant. “No one’s ever done anything lavish like that before,” I say again, trying to send home the point.
I see him debate and then decide to take me at my word. Almost absentmindedly, and partly to himself, he justifies, “It’s not lavish. In my thinking it’s the least you can do for the girl you love. You must have dated some really interesting people if this takes you by surprise.”
Time stops.
I stare at him.
He continues eating, unaware of the bomb he’s just dropped.
My palms itch.
Panic rises inside my chest.
Matteo just said he loves me. Not in passing, but like. Real love.
First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes . . . MG strapped to a lifetime of babies and mortgages and annoying cartoons with no plot.
But again, from within the war-torn battlefield that is now my thoracic region, that baby plant of something new and tender and delicate doesn’t wilt. Is it possible that I’m both terrified and happy about this?
It’s a good thing he’s focused on his plate, because I don’t even know what my face looks like. Sheer panic? Utter joy? Imminent vomit?
Do I love him?
Is it possible to both question if we should be dating when we’re apart and for it to feel so perfectly natural, so homey, so forever when we’re together that I could be in love—love love—with him and not have realized it? It’s only been, what, a few months? Granted, basically my longest, healthiest relationship ever, but . . . can someone know that fast?
“Do you want wine?” he asks, standing and heading for the kitchen, totally blissfully unaware of my plight.
“I—uh—I shouldn’t. I’m driving.” Words. I need to form words.
“You could stay if you wanted.” And after the last piece of conversation, his totally normal offering of his house to me is more than I can bear. I wolf down the rest of my food while he’s pouring himself wine and barely can contain myself. I’m crawling out of my own skin. “I also bought you your very own pillowcase so that you don’t have to put a towel down every time you dye your hair. It’s all warm and cozy on your side of the bed.”
He means it to sound tempting. He looks so proud of his thoughtfulness.
He should be—the pillowcase is perfect. But it’s the linen version of my own drawer at his house. It will be my pillow. In our bed, not just his pillow in his bed that I use sometimes. It’s the MG equivalent of asking me to move in.
“Thanks for the offer,” I say, hoping that my voice sounds normal to him, unlike the I-just-huffed-helium sound I hear in my ears. “But I need to get home tonight after dinner. I’ve got that stuff to finish. And ask Lawrence and Ryan about tomorrow. So.” I trail off, unsure of how much to blather on, lest he get a whiff of my panic.
Matteo studies my empty plate with surprise as he reenters the dining area. “Oh, well, yeah. Of course. I know we’re busy right now, but I appreciate you coming out here for dinner. I miss seeing you, but this is a season, right? The Golden Arrow can’t stay at large forever. Things will calm down. Maybe around Christmas we could go on a long weekend and relax.”
“Relax. Together.” A trip. He’s thinking of a trip several months in the future. I’m seriously about to lose it.
He takes my near-hyperventilating words as dubiousness and laughs, setting his wine down and coming around the table.
I stand at the same time, unable to stay sitting.
It surprises him, but he reaches out and pulls me to him again. Instantly, my heartbeat slows a little and my body relaxes an inch, though I’m still basically frozen in place.
“I know. You don’t relax well, but I’m hoping I can convince you that it’s nice to do every once in a while. Hey”—he must suddenly realize how wooden I feel—“you okay? I know you’re stressed about all your deadlines. I’m fine, okay? It was so nice to see you tonight, but why don’t you head back so you can work? You can stay next time?”
He kisses my head and lets me go, and I stumble gratefully away. At the same time, I miss the warm glow that is present whenever we’re pressed together. How can one person feel all this at once? “Okay.” I manage a weak smile.
Not three minutes later I’m stumbling out the door, gulping crisp fall desert air on my way to my Aspire. If I didn’t think my life was full before, now I have several things to add to my freak-out plate. The fact that I am going to have to come clean to Lawrence about the parties and go undercover for the police, and that Matteo just said the three words I’ve spent a lifetime avoiding.
CHAPTER 15
Saturday night arrives with a heavy dose of anxiety, topped with jitters. I skated through with barely two hours of sleep. The morning involved trying to track down Lawrence, who was increasingly hard to get ahold of with his new Halloween idea coming together, and convincing both him and Ryan that it really is a good idea to go to this party. Surprisingly, L was cool about the party thing, if a little surly . . . Truth be told, I guess that he’s just downright curious about Cleo’s activities, and this gives him an excuse to gate crash. Though Lawrence agreed to be my date, Ryan insisted on walking us to the door, having heard the media frenzy that had arisen from the lottery.
“There are way too many people here,” Ryan mutters as we make our way to the building that houses the black box theater. The street is filled to the brim like an iPhone release week. We started passing people in clubbing clothes and costumes in the last block—people like us who were forced to park a million miles away.
“It’s that damn lottery spot,” Lawrence answers as we make our way across the last little alleyway and approach the actual entrance.
“You’re mad because it’s, yet again, a brilliant PR move,” Ryan shoots back.
“It is brilliant,” Lawrence grouses. “What I want to know is why suddenly my nemesis is such an evil genius.”
“Late-night infomercial webinar about growing an underground following the old-fashioned way?” I quip.
“Playing to the sinful trifecta: Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll?” Ryan asks.
“Precisely,” I answer. We’re now abreast with the end of what is clearly designated with velvet ropes as the “lottery pool.” A teeming line of humanity, smashed against the side of the building. I spot Muggles in and among costumed queens, party girls squashed up against people with press badges. It is a damn zoo.
“Okay, so. One last check, are you sure we look okay?” I turn to L, who looks about as basic as I’ve ever seen him. Gangster jeans, probably borrowed from a friend, baggy black tee, backward black hat with do-rag underneath. No bling, no sparkle, no queen. It is disconcerting to say the least, but it’s how he says he’ll be least recognizable. He’s fully in character now, complete with swagger—though that might be the baggy pants’ fault.
“You look fine,” L answers without so much as a glance at me. I fidget with the zipper of my black pleather jumpsuit—a total hack job on my part. I’d sort of stitched together leggings and a slinky black mock turtleneck dress shirt, and then added a quasi-vest over the top of it. From far away the effect is one of “Kill Bill goes clubbing.” Close-up, I look like I’m wearing Joseph’s monochromatic dreamcoat. What my auburn wig is hiding, though, is the thing I’m worried about: I have a mic pack on the top of my collar and a wire that’s running up to my ear. The buttons of my fur vest are also imbedded with a wireless camera setup. I’m a damn spy, and I feel like anyone who looks at me is going to know. I adjust the sunglasses on my face—we’re all wearing them, despite it being ten forty-five at night. Something I typically find annoying and stupid but
just feels . . . right . . . when you’re going undercover against the enemy.
“Stop fidgeting. That’s what’s going to get you caught,” Ryan agrees, slapping my hand down from my wig and wrapping his own around mine. I’d be tempted to call it sweet, except his grip is anything but comforting. It’s a band of iron meant to keep me from outing us before we’re in. Ryan is dressed in what I can only describe as a Bruno Mars look: slim pants, open front blazer, fedora. He looks so far from the typical gamer guy I live with that I wonder how he even came up with the outfit.
“Lelani,” he answers, catching my gaze.
Dammit. My friends know me too well.
“So, she knows you’re here.”
Ryan gives me a look that says, “Duh.”
“I mean she’s cool with this? All of it?” I didn’t think Lelani had been too keen on Ryan’s involvement with the police after our little debacle at SDCC.
“She and I both think it’s a . . . fascinating opportunity to see what’s going on,” Ryan answers cagily.
Not for the first time, I’m getting the sense that Ryan has his own agenda, but I don’t have enough time to pursue the course of conversation. We’re almost up to the three bouncers at the door, and I use my one free hand to reach into the top of my shirt and produce the seal. I’m careful not to do it in view of the waiting crowd. Just this week in the news, a major film actor offered not a small sum of money for getting a seal. Rumor has it that someone showed to take advantage of the dollar figure and several other people jumped the seal possessor. One person critically injured, several arrested, and no one’s sure exactly who ended up with the seal.
The crowd hushes as we approach, and I get my first taste of what it would be like to be famous. The scrutiny. The palpable jealousy. The feeling of crazy, immense “I have it all” that washes over me. Like a scene in a bad movie, I palm the seal and reach out to shake hands with one of the bouncers—a big, beefy Samoan-looking guy. Quite frankly, it looks like he could pound me flat with one swipe from his ham hand.
He squints at me and then turns the seal over in his hand. Next, he puts a jewelry loupe to his eye and inspects it before waving several wands over it. Apparently my golden ticket passes muster, because I’m ushered forward.
“One guest.”
Ryan starts to peel off while Lawrence steps in behind me when another bouncer lays a hand on the first guy’s arm. They have a brief conversation that I can’t hear over the rustle and mutter of the crowd behind me.
“You’re on the list, Mr. St. Claire. You may all go in,” the first bouncer says to Lawrence after the hushed tête-à-tête. He then steps aside, bringing with him the red velvet rope that grants all three of us access to the theater.
My eyebrows shoot up immediately. I turn to Lawrence, who looks equally surprised. And suspicious. In his nondrag look, it’s pretty hard to recognize him. And this does more than raise my eyebrows. Something cold and slimy takes root in the pit of my stomach.
“List?” I ask, glancing around. His podium is empty. There’s no list I can see anywhere up front.
The bouncer doesn’t answer, just holds the rope open.
Something is definitely up. Lawrence is well known enough to get in, I guess, even if someone were looking specifically for him in any dress, but why is another matter. Cleo isn’t supposed to know L is coming. In fact, we solidified that plan only this morning, and the police are the only other people privy to that info. Add to it that this list seems to be something of an oddity, given the grumbling of the people closest to the door. No one else on this imaginary list has been given entry yet tonight.
“L . . . ,” I start, planning on telling him that he can leave, that something doesn’t feel right.
“It’s fine. I’m not leaving you alone here; we need to stick together, capisce?”
“Aye aye, Captain,” Ryan agrees as we cross out of the glare of the streetlamp and into the dark foyer beyond.
Just beyond the main doors, a heavy curtain hangs across the room, blocking our view of the theater. As we shuffle forward, two figures clad all in reflective black sequins—I suspect queens, but no way to tell in this dark—step forward and execute mirroring, neat bows before each pull aside half of the curtain to admit us to the room beyond.
I’d use the word “party,” except maybe the word “landscape” fits better? The curtain parts to reveal a completely surreal setting. So much so the three of us stop on the threshold just to gawk. Around the exterior I assume I can make out rings of seats, sitting silent and empty. Rather than feeling abandoned, the empty seats, half-shrouded in darkness, seem watchful and malevolent. Like an unseen audience is judging our performance.
And what a set. Literally. The entirety of the floor of the black box theater is overtaken by a hulking, human-scale neon-lit chess set. More than that, the “white” pieces, which tower over my small form, are clear glass or acrylic and transmit the colored light from the squares on the floor. Only a few other occupants wander around the pieces, looking as thoroughly disconcerted as I feel.
“What. The. Actual. Eff,” Ryan mutters as we move among the pieces, studying them in the changing lights from the floor. Everything is given an unearthly appearance, lit by greens and pinks, turning them into what are essentially glowing ice sculptures.
“What. The. Actual. Eff,” Ryan again mutters from my left.
“About where I’m at,” I agree. I’ve spotted what I think is a bar on the far side of the chessboard, shrouded in black cloth but bearing decanters of smoking liquids. The glasses—no, test tubes?—are lit from within, the same eerie lighting effect that the chess pieces give on the floor.
I’m about to suggest going and checking out the glasses when I realize that Ryan isn’t even looking at the bar; he’s watching the figures of the people walking among the chess pieces. I assumed all of them were seal-bearers like myself, but upon closer inspection, the figure closest to us seems to be wearing a catsuit lined with glow sticks and carries what appears to be a snake.
In fact, as I look harder around the room, it’s easy to pick out that nearly half the people attending the party are . . . performers, for lack of a better word. The one that crosses closest to us is a queen in high-fashion, high-art drag. Much closer to a “Sasha Velour meets Cirque du Soleil Club Kid” than most of the camp/glamour queens that I hang with. This queen is juggling what looks like a spinning lighted ball, balancing it on each hand and then passing it off to her foot. I’m mesmerized, watching the lights swirl and dance inside the piece.
She moves away, and I’m tempted to follow her. I’m not sure if it’s to study her play on mime makeup and her perfectly tailored catsuit, or to see where else she plans to balance the gyrating orb.
Instead, Lawrence pulls me across the floor, and we move toward the bar.
“This is beyond crazy,” Ryan says, trailing us, his eyes following a small group of people—I assume regular Joes like us, though they’re dressed up in clubbing clothes—who are trailing the snake woman.
“It’s . . . oddly beautiful, though?” I’m searching for words. “Beautiful” isn’t the right one. “Otherworldly,” I add.
“Hmm,” is all Lawrence will concede. “But how on earth did she pull this off?” He waves around the room, and I get what he means.
This party is on a different level. Even from the pretty avant-garde party at the Zebra. And truthfully, it smacks of some pretty high-end taste that I wouldn’t have necessarily attributed to Cleopatra before this. Media stunts? Yes. High-art fashion queens, glowing chessboards, and snake women? Harder to reconcile.
“Refreshments?” a smoky voice inquires from our right.
We swing as one to find the party’s version of a cigarette girl—a queen in a black dress made of bubbles that Lady Gaga herself would be jealous of—carrying a tray of drinks.
No.
Flasks.
There, on the gold-plated tray, sit tiny glass flasks. One filled with red, one filled with th
e liquid the green of absinthe, and one filled with a deep amber liquid. All three bottles have colored, cut-glass stoppers, and a hand-scripted placard in the center of the tray reads, simply, DRINK ME.
Reflexively, I grab for Lawrence’s hand, willing him to remember what I told him about my suspicions that the refreshments at the last party played a role in Louis’s death.
Beside me, Lawrence stiffens visibly. He’s gotten my message. “No, thank you,” I answer, flashing a smile.
“Are you sure? I insist. They’re on the house.” This to Ryan.
Small alarm bells go off in my head.
“We’re good for right now,” Ryan agrees. The queen moves off without another word. As one, we step closer to the bar. I’m getting the sense that I won’t be eating or drinking anything at this party. Call me paranoid, but there is something I don’t trust about it, whereas I’m usually all over the party food at gatherings. The more artichoke dip, the better.
The bartender steps forward, black towel over arm. He’s dressed all in black and sporting a rather impressive silk top hat.
“Do you have anything bottled?” I ask. “Red wine, or beer?”
“I have the soda water for the mixes,” he answers in a lilting accent. Eastern European, maybe? “But our drinks are of the highest quality liquor, each one a piece of art, I assure you.”
That’s basically what I’m afraid of. I eye the dazzling array of drinks in front of me. This bar looks professionally stocked and manned, but . . . the flasks have me rattled. And his mention of soda water has me wary of even that; it could be spiked.
“Er . . . bottle of water, I guess,” I say, immensely saddened. I could really use a drink, truth be told.
“Same,” Lawrence says.
Ryan, on the other hand, picks up the red-lit glass in front of him. “What’s this one?”
“Ah, that’s the Red Canary. Vodka, cranberry juice, lime, and a hint of jalapeño.”
My eyebrows raise for a second time that night. “And this one?” I point to an amber one.
The Queen Con (The Golden Arrow Mysteries Book 2) Page 15