Anyone But You

by Brien Michaels

  Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop.

  This time, he gave in to the darkness.

  Ten days Ryan had been unconscious.

  Jack had been by his side every second he could. The only time he’d left had been to shower and work. He wondered, again, what would have happened if they hadn’t gotten there in time.

  The queen on the table had turned out to be a performer called Justine. A few other queens had identified her after the fact. But as Jack had stood in the morgue with tears of relief streaming down his face, his temporary joy had been overshadowed by the fact that they didn’t know where Ryan was. It was then that the court order had come through and the detective had been able to get the phone company to track Ryan’s phone, which had led them to the basement of an abandoned building.

  Jack recognized the purse by the door as Sheila’s at once. They’d made him stay outside, but a few minutes later the paramedics arrived and, a long time after that, they finally wheeled out two men. One was Ryan, beaten bloody, unconscious with an oxygen mask over his face. The paramedic tried to shoo Jack away, but he wasn’t having it.

  “This is my boyfriend,” he said. “And I’ll be damned if you’re taking him anywhere without me.”

  “Then you need to come on,” the man said as he and one of his teammates loaded Ryan into the back of the ambulance. Jack chanced a glance back to the second body. Even though he had been zipped up tight in a body bag, Jack knew it had to be the killer. Who could have done that to Ryan’s face? It looked like there had been such . . . rage.

  “Sir! Are you coming, or not?”

  Jack wanted to know, desperately, who was in that bag, but he needed to be with Ryan. Before long, the bastard’s name and picture would be on every major news station. And sure enough, before the next morning the press broke the story, and Jack was shocked to see Ryan’s brother staring back at him from the TV. That was when he stopped paying attention to all of it.

  Ryan was alive, and the fucker who’d tried to kill him wasn’t. That was all that mattered. But he made it a point to find out as much as he could about what happened in that room. Whatever Ryan had done, however he’d overpowered Mike, when Mike had hit the ground, he’d fallen on an upturned piece of wood that had pierced his heart. A lightning strike of luck if Jack ever saw one, but it had happened and it had probably saved Ryan’s life.

  Jack’s insides twisted as he looked at Ryan now. The swelling in his face had gone down, but it had taken on that deep purple bruises get when they’re trying to heal. The top of his head had been completely wrapped in gauze, because in addition to the concussion he’d gotten when Mike had hit him, during their final scuffle, Ryan’s head had hit the ground pretty hard and a good amount of flesh had been scraped away. Every one of his ribs on the left side was either broken or fractured, and he’d had a huge gash across his stomach. It was a wonder he hadn’t bled out before they’d gotten there, Jack realized again, fighting back yet another round of tears. He was tired of crying, but he couldn’t help it.

  He just wanted Ryan to wake up, to be able to look into his eyes one more time. But even if he did—and the doctors had made sure that Jack knew there was a fair chance that he might not—his life would never be the same. But regardless, Jack would be by his side the entire time.

  “Jack?” The voice came behind him. Jack looked up, wiping away tears that weren’t there. He turned around to find both of Ryan’s parents standing behind him. They’d been there every day, and Jack was grateful for that, because it meant that he didn’t have to deal with this completely alone.

  “Hey, Mr. Swift. Mrs. Swift.”

  His pain was significant, sure, but he couldn’t imagine what they must be going through. One son fighting for his life because of their other son who was now dead. The two of them had had news vans parked outside of their house and then their hotel since the morning after. He wondered if at least part of the reason they came so often was so they could get a little peace.

  “How is he?” Mrs. Swift asked, crossing the room. She put a hand on her son’s shoulder.

  “He was moving a little, earlier, but not much has changed other than that.”

  “But that’s progress,” she said, something like hope in her voice.

  Mr. Swift stood against the wall opposite the bed, like he always did. He looked down at the bed, his expression mournful, just like always. The man was only sixty, to Ryan’s thirty-five, but every time he came into this room, he appeared to have aged another ten years.

  “This is my fault,” he whispered. Jack agreed. But he made sure he didn’t betray any sign of that. “If I had just accepted him sooner . . . opened my eyes . . . none of this would have ever happened . . .”

  Jack pulled him into a hug. They both needed it. “You can’t blame yourself for what other people do,” he said as Ryan’s father sobbed into the crook of his neck. Jack had spent much of the last week doing just that, but they needed to be strong and united right now so that if—no, not if. When—Ryan woke up, he was surrounded by faces that loved him.

  A tiny gasp from the other side of the room had Jack turning around. He was ready to ask Ryan’s mother what was wrong, but the words died on his lips. Ryan’s eyes were open. One of them was blood red, but they were open, and Jack couldn’t even begin to put into words the joy that swelled through him in that moment. He ran to the door, tripping over his own feet and righting himself as he held on to the doorjamb. “He’s awake!” he cried to the nurses at the station across the hall. He didn’t even bother waiting to see what they did. Already, he was back at Ryan’s side, looking down at him with tears of joy streaming down his face.

  “Hey,” he whispered, resisting the mighty urge to caress him. Ryan opened his mouth as though he was going to try to speak, but Jack shook his head. “Don’t try to talk. Not yet.”

  People filed in behind him and he got out of the way so they could do their jobs. Jack tucked himself into the corner, pressing a hand to his mouth. He wanted to collapse, to finally release everything he’d been holding in for the last nine days but, even though there was now a wall of people separating them, he needed to keep his eyes on Ryan, to make sure nothing went wrong and they were really out of the woods before he let that happen. He’d slip away later and collapse in private. But for now, he watched as people checked vitals and charts and fawned over Ryan. And Jack knew that if the circumstances were different and he wasn’t lying in a hospital bed with half his body broken, Ryan would have loved every second of it.

  But at least Jack could appreciate the sight for now. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  Six Months Later

  After all had been said and done, Ryan had spent nearly twelve weeks in the hospital getting poked and prodded and tested, and relearning how to use his body. Jack had been there the entire time and, when they’d been alone again at last, Jack had explained everything that had happened since he’d lost consciousness that night. Including the fact that he’d won over the judge in Stephanie Benning’s case. She hadn’t wanted her job back and, instead, the judge had ordered the company to pay her a very generous settlement in addition to her legal bills.

  Ryan still hadn’t been cleared to go back to work, but he’d been going stir-crazy in the house and he could walk, damn it, so he’d begged Jack to take him to the office. What had happened to him had made the news—he’d been labeled a hero for stopping the Slasher— and as the elevator doors had slid open and he’d adjusted his crutches, he’d been met with applause and cheers. He’d looked up, stunned. The entire firm crowded in front of him. A sea of his colleagues, his subordinates, his bosses. A room full of people he respected more than life itself, and they’d all been there, clapping and screaming for him. They didn’t care that he was a drag queen. They’d only cared that he was safe, and damn if he hadn’t begged Jack to let him stay on the elevator because he had been about to start ugly crying and nobody would want to see that.

  He’d be able to go back to work
before long, and he’d been assured that his job would be right there where he left it the minute he was ready to return. But now, as he stared at himself in the mirror, he smiled, because even though he loved his job, what he was about to do was far more important.

  “Stop being like that,” he said, grinning up at Jack. “I’m not made of glass.” He jerked his head toward the puff in Jack’s hand. “I could have gotten a dozen other people to do this, but I wanted you. Don’t make me regret that. Beat my fucking face.”

  A poor choice of words, as flashes of his face actually being beaten rushed in on him, but he shook them away. That was why he was doing this. He wasn’t about to let Mike’s ghost control him even a minute longer. He’d done most of his own makeup, but he still got wiped pretty quickly, and he needed to save some of his energy, so that was part of why he had Jack pushing the setting powder into every inch of his face and neck. He wouldn’t be moving a lot tonight, but the lights in Neon Trees were super fucking bright. And the four and a half minutes Ryan usually spent under them got hot.

  Finally, he was satisfied and told Jack he could stop. “Now grab the wig.” It was something he could have done himself, but this was bringing him and Jack closer together somehow. Considering he was going to officially ask his boyfriend to move in with him at the end of the night, they needed their relationship to become as strong as possible.

  Jack pulled the wig, a curly red number, off the foam head and held it over Ryan’s. “Don’t worry about it being perfect,” Ryan said. “Cuz I’m going to have to wind up doing a couple things to it anyway. But . . .” He grabbed the stocking cap off the table in front of him and stretched it over his head. “What you’re going to want to do is try to get those pins through the holes in the cap, because they’re going to grip my real hair, and that’s what keeps the wig from sliding off.”

  As Jack did what he was told and bobby pins tugged at Ryan’s hair and slid across his scalp, Ryan pulled the lace attached to the end of the wig as straight as it would go and added a little spirit gum. It needed to lay flat on his forehead so no one would see it. There were clips attached to the inside of the wig, as well, one at the back and one on either side. When Jack backed away, his task done, Ryan secured them to the bottoms of the cap, put on a little lipstick and gloss, and gave himself a final once-over.

  Sheila was back, damn it, and she’d never looked more stunning, in her not-so-humble opinion. She slipped the sleeves of the dress she’d already put on back over her shoulders and stood up, reaching for her crutches. “You ready?”

  Jack looked at her, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you’re coming out there with me. We’re making this debut together. At least, if that’s okay with you.”

  “Of course it is,” Jack said, grinning. He kissed her and when he backed away, his lips glistened with a faint red tint.

  Sheila shook her head, the corners of her mouth turning up, and reapplied.

  It took her longer than she liked to get from the dressing room to the back of the stage, and she had to take a minute to catch her breath, but it was nothing she hadn’t expected. She signaled Rudy that she was ready, and the stage manager turned away, speaking into his headset. The club’s overhead music faded away, and Sheila heard the voice of one of the few girls left from the original bunch of performers—Jade. She sent up a word of prayer for her fallen sisters and took a deep breath.

  “Ladies and gentlemen and everyone in between of Neon Trees,” Jade screamed. “Put your hands together and welcome back to the stage the one! The only! Sheila motherfucking Saltue!”

  The roar was deafening, but Sheila lived for it. Never one to keep her fans waiting, she led the way onto the stage, Jack’s hand gently at the small of her back. She stared out at the crowd, gratitude swelling inside her. The house was packed from end to end, and every single person was on their feet, looking at her. Hell she even saw a few people from the firm standing out there, cheering her on the same way they had when she’d gone to the office that day. She didn’t know how long the crowd cheered and didn’t care. Because they were all here for her, and everything she’d done that night, she’d done not only for the other queens, but also people like the ones out there. People who were marginalized. Terrified to be themselves. People like the man next to her had been until he’d come up to her after her show and changed both their lives forever.

  She reached down to the pocket of the dress she wore, fingered the square box there. Coming out on stage with her wasn’t the only surprise she had in store for Jack tonight.

  And standing there beneath the spotlight with the crowd cheering for her and the man she loved at her side, Sheila had never felt more at home.

  Dear Reader,

  Thank you for reading Brien Michaels’s Anyone But You!

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  There’s a group of men whom I’ve never met but whose courage to step on stage in a pair of stilettos gave both me and Sheila the courage to keep going with this story. To Billy, Wayne, Alan, Todrick, J, Callum, Matt, Simon, Kyle, Timothy, Kenneth, and all the other actors who have played Lola around the world . . . thank you. Sheila wouldn’t have the strength she does if Lola and her Kinky Boots had never run into my life.

  Brien Michaels was hatched shortly before the turn of the century. He grew up in the DMV area and has been creating characters for as long as he can remember, starting with an imaginary friend named Farquad Beaverhausen. Before turning his considerably wicked imagination to writing, he was an actor, aspiring film student, movie theater concessionist, and the first human to enter the seventy-second dimension. Though it is unclear whether he made it back or if Farquad’s evil twin, Brad, has taken control of his body. He’s currently on the run from the Secret Police, who want to bring him in for questioning regarding the whereabouts of erotica authors L.A. Witt and Lauren Gallagher. If you encounter him, please contact his publishers immediately, as he likely should be chained to a desk writing and not out walking children in nature.

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