Death Prefers Blondes

by Caleb Roehrig

  Davon looked over at her and realized she was trembling. Placing his hand over hers, he squeezed. “Mama, you can tell me anything, you know that. I love you, you messed-up bitch.”

  Georgia started to laugh, and a tear slipped out of her eye. Swiping it away, she smiled bravely. “Drag saved my life, you know? I hated the world and everything in it, and I hated myself until I found Georgia Vermont. The first time I beat my face and put on a pair of heels, I saw God, and I’m not kidding. When I’m onstage, I’m alive, Davon. That’s the only time I feel like myself, like I fit my skin.” Taking a shuddering breath, she paused, shifted, and then blurted, “I’m not a man. Not a man in a dress, or a man who just prefers lady pronouns, or any other kind of man at all. I’m just not.”

  “Okay,” Davon answered, relieved to his very core that the confession had nothing to do with cancer. Absorbing this information wouldn’t be a huge challenge, all things considered. Lots of trans girls found themselves in the drag community. “So, you’re a woman. That’s great! I’m glad you told me. I mean, this a good thing. Listen, on the way home, maybe we should pick up a cake and have them write ‘It’s a Girl’ on—”

  “I don’t think I’m a woman, either,” Georgia interrupted, and Davon shut up, because this was a twist he hadn’t expected. His drag mother watched her feet. “I should say, I know I’m not a woman. Not exactly. I guess I feel more like one than a man, but most of the time … most times I’m somewhere in between? The only thing I’ve never felt like at all is someone called ‘Stanley Darga.’”

  “Okay,” Davon repeated, nodding. “Well, fine. Because you’re Georgia Vermont, and you’re too fabulous to be contained by anything as boring as a gender binary. We’ll get that cake and have it say ‘It’s Georgia’ with a big old exclamation point, because fuck it, let’s celebrate!”

  “Davon, I’m being serious,” Georgia murmured uncomfortably.

  “So am I!” He took her hands and met her eyes. “This is a big deal, Mama! You’re sober and figuring shit out; you are Georgia Vermont, Somewhere in Between; you’re my fucking hero, don’t you know that?” With a heartfelt smile, he said, “You’re my person, and I only get one of you. So sue me if I want to make a thing out of it.”

  “Do you really mean that?”

  “Of course I mean it! I’m sorry if I’m doing a bad job of saying what it is I want to say. I just love you, and I support you, and I’m happy as fuck that things are finally falling into place.” Davon got to his feet. “And I won’t push you into anything that makes you uncomfortable, only it seems to me that we could be eating cake in Malibu right now, but instead we’re roasting alive in motherfucking Van Nuys.”

  “I’m lucky I met you, Davon.” Georgia wiped her eyes as she stood up. “I meant what I said before, though. I’ll always be an addict, but I’m done trying to escape. I need Tuck/Marry/Kill. I need to be doing drag again.”

  Davon tossed his hands out. “Well, shit, you don’t need my permission. I’ll worry about you, but I’d worry about you anyway.” With his arm linked through hers, they started down the path to the garden’s entrance. “Truth is, the show’s just not the same without Georgia Vermont.”

  “Of course it’s not,” she stated indignantly. “What’s this ‘not the same’ bullshit? It’s my fucking show! What have you done with it?”

  Davon patted her hand, his smile hardening in place. “It’s great to have you back.”

  * * *

  Salmon-hued curtains undulated in the salty breeze, filtering the light and glazing the walls in rich, decadent warmth. The room was large, but bare as a monk’s cell, and every squeal of the bedsprings echoed like a falcon’s cry.

  “Shit, we really need to stop,” Leif panted, trying to stifle an inappropriate laugh. “There’s no way your mom can’t hear us. The Valley can probably hear us!”

  “My mom’s asleep on the other side of the house.” Joaquin was breathless, his lips rosy and swollen, and he dug his long, slim fingers deeper into his boyfriend’s hair. “We could blow up a tank in here and she wouldn’t know.” Primly, he added, “And anyway, we’re not even naked.”

  He was right, technically; they were still in their underwear. Their legs tangled together, their chests pressed so close Leif could feel the boy’s heartbeat against his own, they were making the absolute most of their time together.

  The countdown was already on to the break-in at Manning. Best-case scenario: They all got a new lease on life; worst-case: Well … in the event of the worst-case, Leif wanted to make sure he got as much Joaquin Time as possible beforehand.

  Leaning back in, he nipped his boyfriend’s chest and collarbone, kissed his way up the steady pulse in the boy’s neck, and growled when their mouths met again. With a grunt, Leif hoisted Joaquin’s knees higher, so their bodies would fit together a little tighter—so he could eliminate just a little more space between them.

  Soft music played, his blood hot and close to the surface, and when Joaquin’s hand slipped down along his back—reaching the waistband of his underwear before stopping—Leif expelled an agonized breath. “You can keep going. If you want to.”

  After a moment, the hand dipped farther, finding the curve of ballet-hardened muscle with a cautious squeeze. Leif growled again, sinking his teeth into Joaquin’s bottom lip, and the boy flinched, pulling his hand back.

  Shoving himself up, Leif blinked with concern. “Sorry—was that too much? Did I hurt you?”

  “No, it felt good, I just…” Joaquin swallowed. “I liked it. I just … I mean…”

  “What is it?” Leif eased into a sitting position. Dust motes drifted in the ginger light, and Joaquin’s face was flushed, his eyes on the wall. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, I just…” His boyfriend hesitated. “I’m not sure how far I want to go. What I’m ready for, I mean. And I wanted to say something, before…”

  “Yeah, that’s okay,” Leif cut him off with a reassuring smile, stroking Joaquin’s leg a little. “I didn’t mean to—I don’t have any expectations, or whatever, you know? I just like being with you.”

  “I know.” The boy still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “But you’re used to dating guys with more experience than me. I mean, you’ve had more experience than me. I mean…” He covered his face and groaned. “Leif, you’re the first person I’ve even kissed, okay?”

  “I am?” Leif asked, both surprised and somehow aroused by the revelation.

  “I kissed a girl in the eighth grade, on a dare,” Joaquin amended miserably, “and we both thought it was gross. And then Dad got arrested, and after that … I mean, the only people who talk to me at all are these scary foreign exchange girls, and all they’re interested in are my eyelashes, for some reason.”

  “Your eyelashes are really pretty,” Leif pointed out.

  Joaquin groaned again but uncovered his face. “This is the most I’ve ever done. With anybody. And … I think I want to go slow?”

  “Okay. Slow is okay.”

  “Really?” Joaquin struggled up onto his elbows, the muscles in his stomach flexing, the rich sunlight gleaming on his swollen lips. “Because I know you’re used to more, and I don’t want you to be frustrated, or—”

  “I’m not.” Leif looked him in the eye. “Look, I think about it, maybe a lot—and it would be great; but that’s not the reason I’m with you. And there’s no pressure, or whatever.” Rubbing his thumb in a circle over his boyfriend’s knee, he hitched a shoulder. “My experiences with other guys were about those relationships. Or about me.”

  Coming to LA from his stifling hometown had been like emerging from a cave and feeling the sun for the first time; Leif couldn’t get enough. He wanted to bathe in it, to roll around in it as much as possible. Safe from his parents and Pastor James, he’d finally been able to free himself, and he’d gone through sort of a slutty phase. He’d made good choices and bad ones, and only a handful he actually regretted—like hooking up with his “straight” roommate—but wh
at he felt for Joaquin went beyond self-exploration or horniness.

  “I’m with you because you’re cute and funny, and you make that adorable noise when I tickle you,” he explained softly. “I’m with you because you make me feel good. Because you make me happy. And I can wait until you’re ready. It’s worth it.”

  “I make you happy?” One corner of Joaquin’s sulky mouth turned upward, and the room got even warmer. He was so beautiful, with his dark eyes and long lashes and coy smile; how had nobody kissed him before?

  Two days earlier, on the phone with his parents, Leif had opened his mouth to tell them he was gay—and instead, another lie popped out. Temporarily freed from the weight of needing their money, and with another perilous job on the horizon, he’d felt reckless and ready; but he hadn’t been able to go through with it.

  At sixteen, even with his tuition settled for the year, he still needed their permission to stay at the academy; at any time, if they chose, they could simply call the registrar’s office and have him unenrolled. With his secret out, he’d be shunned and scorned back home, mocked by the creative bullies and assaulted by the uncreative ones. He knew how to fight now, thank God, but he would never go back there. Never. Not if he could help it.

  “You won’t win every fight,” Margo told him during his first training session, just after he’d been recruited, “but the key to success isn’t dominating every single battle; sometimes it’s retreating—living to fight another day when the odds are better. Find your strengths, learn your weaknesses, pick your battles.”

  So he was picking his battles. He’d walk this tightrope for two more years, until all he had to fear was rejection, and then try again. In the meantime, he’d invented a girlfriend.

  Part of him was ashamed for lying; but another, greater part of him was so relieved at keeping them away from a joyfulness they would surely obliterate, that it made him break out in a cold sweat. Gazing down at his boyfriend, his heart full, Leif managed, “Yeah. You make me really happy.”

  “Good. Because you make me happy, too.” Joaquin reached up, pulling Leif closer. “And just because I’m not ready to do everything doesn’t mean I’m not ready to do anything.”

  Leif hesitated. They were so close together he could feel Joaquin’s breath against his lips. “Um. What does that mean?”

  “I could tell you,” his boyfriend answered, his hand sliding down Leif’s back again, “or I could show you.”

  His fingers moved underneath the waistband of Leif’s underwear this time, skin slipping across skin—and when their mouths met, Joaquin was the one who growled.

  * * *

  His plastic chair was uncomfortable, and the overhead fluorescents cast everything in a harsh, pitiless light. The room had a strange smell, too, a mix of bleach and body odor, and Axel’s stomach revolted against it. A lifetime had passed since an armed guard led him into this windowless cement box, and for the millionth time, he asked himself what the hell he was doing—cursed himself for not backing out while he still could.

  He’d had to make an appointment for this, spend long nights dreading it in advance, and make the drive out with his nerves rattling together like coins in a pouch. It was more than an hour from Malibu to Terminal Island, the federal penitentiary where Basil Moreau had been ordered to fulfil his debt to society, and Axel had talked himself out of turning back at least once every minute of it.

  It was all Davon’s fault, with his constant prodding and quiet suit yourself shrugs. He’d planted the seed of this idea, and now its roots had grown so robust they were cracking through the pavement of Axel’s thoughts. You obviously have a lot to say to him, and it might do some good to let it out. Finally, caught in a vulnerable, tequila-fueled delirium, he’d let his friend with benefits talk him into it.

  It was a sick joke that his father was confined so close to home. The man had spent the last of the Moreaus’ savings on a high-priced lawyer, who’d convincingly sold the judge on Terminal Island. Wringing pathos from Jacinta’s chronic illness and the boys’ ages, the attorney had begged the court to show mercy on Basil’s family—to not punish them by placing the man somewhere they’d never get to see him.

  The last time Axel had set eyes on his father was at the sentencing, where Basil Moreau had sobbed over his own fate and given not a single thought to what would happen to his wife and sons. If the judge had asked for the family’s input, Axel would have suggested stranding his dad on the Bikini Atoll—or maybe Neptune—somewhere far enough away that they had a chance at forgetting he ever existed.

  Now, nearly two years later, Axel fidgeted in an unstable chair, staring at his hands, waiting for the man he hated most in the world. His fingernails were varnished a bright red—Liesl Von Tramp’s color—and he dug them into the flesh of his palms, trying to leach some strength from his alter ego.

  Drag wasn’t a disguise or an illusion; it was armor. When he stepped onstage, Axel became someone fierce and untouchable, a force of nature that gave no fucks and couldn’t be bothered. He brought hecklers to their knees, read homophobes until they needed the Da Vinci Code to piece their dignity back together, and faced the worst with a smart remark and a tongue pop. Liesl was both shield and weapon, the only refuge he’d had from these ugly years. To capture at least a little of her magic, he’d painted his nails—and contoured his eyebrows, because he wasn’t an animal—but now, staring into an abyss that stared right back, it suddenly wasn’t enough.

  An abrupt click shattered the peace in the room, a metal door swinging open, and Axel’s heart spiraled up his throat as a burly guard entered with a tall, slim figure in a prison jumpsuit. He’d lost some weight, along with most of the color from his hair, but otherwise Basil Moreau looked remarkably the same: the dark eyes, the square chin, the healthy tan. Unaccountably, Axel began to shake.

  “No touching,” the guard reminded them as Basil sat down.

  “Axel. Wow.” A bright grin lit his father’s face, one so familiar it made the boy’s chest ache. “You look— You’re a man now. You must have grown six inches since the last time I saw you.”

  “Three.” Axel’s voice was all wrong, a tune played on an unfamiliar instrument. “I’ve only grown three inches.”

  “Three.” Basil had his hands on the table. They were veined and strong, the nails neatly trimmed, and Axel frowned. “I think about you all the time, Axel. All the guys here are sick of my stories by now—right, Fields?” This question was for the guard, apparently, who mumbled a reply. “How’s your mother? I’ve been worried about her.”

  “Mami’s okay.” The words came out automatically, his brain sluggish, trapped in a strange bubble. “We got her into an experimental treatment program. It’s helping.”

  “That’s great.” Basil’s smile spread wider. “Maybe she can come visit soon, too. You don’t know how much I’ve missed you guys. Tell your mom and Quino that I—”

  And that’s when the bubble popped. “I didn’t come here to take your fucking messages!” Basil fell silent, his expression shuttering, and Axel dug his neon-red fingernails into his palms until the skin began to split. “Is that all you have to say? ‘How’s your mom? Tell her blah-blah-blah?’” Rage burned his stomach, made his vision sparkle. “Do you have any idea what we’ve been through? What we’re going through because of you?”

  “Axel—”

  “Stop saying my name! You don’t deserve to say it!” His eyes filled and his throat closed, choking his words. “How could you do it? How could you?”

  “Axel, I— You…” Basil trailed off, shaking his head. “I don’t have an excuse. I made a terrible mistake, and I—”

  “No.” Axel swiped at his tears with unsteady hands. “A ‘mistake’ is when you type your address wrong, or wave to a stranger at the mall. It’s not when you spend an entire fucking decade stealing money from everybody you know, and leave your family behind to pay the price!” Breathing hard, he struggled for control. He couldn’t fall apart until he got this out. “
Do you even care what’s happening to us? You’re down here making friends and keeping up your tan, while we’re hiding in the dark from the enemies you made! We still get death threats taped to the gate every other week. Did you know that?”

  “No. I didn’t,” Basil answered, subdued.

  “Of course you didn’t.” Scorn rubbed his throat raw. “You ruined us. You ruined everything, and all you have to say is, ‘tell your mom I miss her’? What about sorry? What about, ‘Sorry for the anchor I tied around your necks and the ocean of liquefied shit I dumped you into before I went off to Club Fed’?”

  When he finished, his words rang off the concrete walls, deadly arrows driving back and forth. Basil was quiet for a moment, his lips pale. “Is that what you came to hear? That I’m sorry? Because I am, Axel. I don’t have any self-defense to offer. I stole because it was easy—because there were things I wanted, and I had clients with money they would never miss.” He turned his hands over in a helpless shrug. “But you have to know that I never meant for you and Quino and your mother to get caught up in it. Never.”

  “Nobody ever means to get caught,” Axel retorted bitterly.

  “No. You’re right.” The man sagged, pulled down by unseen hands. “I was selfish. I didn’t think about anything but what I wanted and how I could get it.”

  “Don’t you dare agree with me.” The surrender in his father’s voice was almost more than Axel could stand. “We are not on the same side!”

  “But you’re right.” Basil spoke softly. “If I hadn’t gotten arrested, I’d probably still be doing it—because it was working, and because … because I was greedy.” He was quiet for a long moment, the room breathing bleach and sweat, thickening the air. “I never gave a thought to the consequences of what I was doing until it was too late to make things right again. But I would do anything to change what’s happened, Axel. I would.”

  “Yeah, no shit.” Axel tried to sound hurtful, but he could barely breathe. His vision was loose and wet, his throat knotting around every syllable as he battled his tears.