by Cass Lennox
Like, wasn’t the whole point of being in a relationship with someone to be with them? To spend time doing the stuff they liked to do? Supporting them? Brock had been great at that until his stupid job. What the hell was he doing there that was so much more interesting than being here? Because Gigi wasn’t sure anything outdid bitchy queens for entertainment.
Not least, he was missing Molly’s superb takedowns. God, the girl’s vocabulary was so extensive it should have its own condom size.
She glanced at her phone again. At this rate, he’d get there when LaMore was about to wilt into a bucket of streaky makeup and eyelash glue, at which point Rosenberg would rise up and fret. LaMore wasn’t the type to fret. No. Not at all. She’d cool her heels, then strike—
“Sorry I’m late.”
Oh my goodness, that voice. If she weren’t tucked, she’d have an embarrassing costume problem to deal with. As it was, she just had a painful costume problem.
But wait, she wasn’t supposed to be turned on just from hearing him. She was supposed to be angry with him for being so late. Okay, here was the plan: Chill. Grace. Serenity. Professionalism.
She flipped her hair and turned around. “Glad you decided . . . to . . .”
He was wearing a tight tank that showed off his arms, jeans that showed off his dick, and eyeliner. Combined with a light sheen of sweat from the summer heat covering his skin, and the evil smile on his face as he eyed her up and down, Gigi was ready to swoon into that bucket.
That expression should be criminal. So should those jeans. Goddamn her baby for looking so good.
Fuck it. She was only human.
She jumped at him and wrapped her arms around his amazing shoulders. Serenity and grace was for later in life, right? Wisdom and age, blah, blah, blah.
Oooh. Strong arms pressed her against a hard body, sending fireworks through her. Come to Mama.
His breath was hot on her ear. “Hey, beautiful.”
She’d heard those words so many times before, but damn it if they didn’t make her feel all warm and bubbly anyway. “Hello handsome.”
He huffed in amusement, then tilted his head to kiss her cheek. Carefully, so he didn’t smear the inch or two of makeup on there. Boy had learned well. “When are you going on?”
Oh, right.
Molly was shaking her head when Gigi pulled away from him and clocked him with her best icy glare. “Already happened, sweetie. You missed it.”
Brock’s face fell.
Oh. Shit. That hadn’t been his intention.
And it looked like Gi had done the chorus girl routine too. Damn it. He liked that one.
Brock tried to figure out just how mad she was, but it was sometimes difficult because she was so good at pretending to be mad. “I’m sorry. I had this one last thing to wrap up, and it took longer than I thought and—”
He was cut off by one elegantly manicured finger placed on his lips. Gigi’s eyes glinted in the bar lights. “I’m not angry, honey.”
Uh-huh, she was really mad.
“I’m just disappointed.”
Nail-scratchingly mad.
“I expected better of you.”
Brock tried not to wince. He hated disappointing his boyfriend, especially when he was his girlfriend. LaMore’s anger was just so much worse than Rosenberg’s. Brock wasn’t sure if it was because she could be so much more cutting, but it was totally scary being on the receiving end of it.
Honestly, he wasn’t sure if he was up to dealing with it tonight. Working a full-time job was on a whole other level to studying, and he was tired in a way he’d never been before. He’d just wanted to come here and hang out with his queen. And okay, he’d missed the performance part, but he’d seen it already. It wasn’t like Gi had time to look for him especially while she was on stage, so why did it matter?
He knew better than to say any of that out loud.
But she did look amazing, even when she was lecturing him. Sometimes especially when she was lecturing him. Brock didn’t know what it was about her—the makeup should’ve been weird, but was sexy and artistic in a way he still didn’t understand. The way Gi could slither, dance, and just move differently according to who was in control was also sexy. The sheer fuss of the dresses and feathers and glitter was overwhelming, but awesome in a fancy, bright, fun way. All that, the feminine mannerisms and the occasional male edge freaking got to Brock. He loved how the whole gender thing played out in drag. There was something really powerful about it, and about Gigi, no matter whether she was LaMore or Rosenberg.
Man, he was so lucky. He needed Gi on levels he was still trying to understand.
So, no, he couldn’t let her be seriously angry with him. That was the last thing he wanted.
He opened his lips and mouthed her finger, sucking it and rolling his tongue around it.
Gigi narrowed her eyes, the grey of them barely visible through the curtain of fake lashes. “What are you doing?”
Brock reached up and took her hand, keeping it near his mouth. “Saying sorry.” Then he sucked her finger some more, keeping his eyes on hers.
Sometimes it was difficult to tell, but he thought she was blushing.
“You think good tongue is gonna save you?” Her voice had gone slightly breathy.
“If you need help making a decision,” Molly remarked, “I volunteer as very willing tribute.”
“That’s not how these games work,” Gigi snapped.
“Fuckin’ shame.”
Brock teased another finger into his mouth and tried not to smile when he saw her swallow. Yup. He’d rescued this.
“You,” she cooed, “are a very bad boy.”
“’M sorry.”
“And you’re talking with your mouth full.”
“Mmffmm.”
She leaned in closer. “Madame is going to teach you a lesson tonight.”
Brock couldn’t wait.
He slipped her fingers out of his mouth and kissed her hand. “I hope so, madame.”
She lifted her chin. “Got anything else to say?”
He tugged her closer to him so he could run his hands along her waist and hips. Knowing that under the padding and cloth and mascara and lingerie there was a very toned and hard male body was such a goddamn turn on. “Can I buy you and your sister a drink?”
Molly fanned herself. “Oh my days, he’s well trained.”
Gigi tilted her head slightly, a small puzzled line appearing between her brows. Brock wasn’t sure what that look meant. Had he said the wrong thing? Asking to buy a queen a drink was never a wrong move though. Never. Well, almost never. It looked like Gigi had been expecting him to say something else. But what? What more could Brock do except be there and be sorry?
Gigi suddenly grinned, sending relief swimming through Brock. “You can indeed, boyfriend.”
He leaned forward and gently kissed her, then got their drinks orders and leaned on the bar. Disaster was averted tonight, but man, he needed a drink now. He’d have to be on time for the next performance. Brock could totally handle that.
Gigi woke up to a dry mouth, deep headache, and full bladder, and he burrowed his face into his pillow with a groan. His mom’s infamous wine cabinet had struck again. Ugh. Had he even made it to the bathroom last night? Had he brushed his teeth and washed the journey off him?
Wait.
No. No, he had not.
Not that he remembered much, but he did remember his top priority when going to bed, and it sure as hell wasn’t getting clean.
He forced his eyes open. His clothes were where he’d left them last night, crumpled over his suitcase. Brock wasn’t where he’d left him though. The air mattress was slightly deflated and the sheets on it were crumpled. Gigi was alone in his room.
He’d epically fucked up. All he could remember was wanting Brock, the smell and feel of him. He’d gotten that, but he’d also been pushed back. Brock hadn’t wanted to fuck him, because why would he? Drunk and desperate was such a good look on a que
en. Especially when it was followed by drunk and sad. Real classy.
Damn it, Brock had worn that hurt expression again, hadn’t he? Bitching had happened, so probably.
Gigi groaned again and covered his face. He was stupid. So stupid. What the hell was wrong with him? What was he doing?
Being back with his family felt way better than he’d anticipated. Unbelievably, he’d missed all the teasing and the affection. It was good to see Sophie happy with Alan. And having Brock at the table had left a small glow in Gigi’s chest. His people, all around one table.
Even if Brock had barely eaten or said anything and looked perpetually trapped in the headlights. Ugh, awkward. Would it kill the guy to relax?
Then the small glow had been totally wiped out when Brock said he didn’t want Gigi to meet his family, then avoided him by going to bed early. Sure. Right. Like Gigi hadn’t seen straight through that, the idiot. How were they supposed to deal with this weekend together if they weren’t actually together? Though Gigi could tell the guy was trying. He’d said he liked Gigi’s family, which was something. After all, Gigi’s family wasn’t that bad. Gigi’s family weren’t the people to be wary of in Maney. They both knew that.
Though, Gigi had to admit that after three hours of Toby this and Toby that and Toby, you’ve sure lost a lot of weight, he’d been ready to get away from them too. He’d braced himself for being called Toby again, and okay it wasn’t exactly wrong because, hey, it was his name, but it just wasn’t who he was anymore. So he’d climbed the stairs absolutely aching to hear his name, and Brock had delivered right away.
Of course he had. Gigi had been very clear on that from the start. Right from the first time Brock approached him in QS Dance, Gigi’s dance school.
Gigi had wrapped up his first lesson with Mark, his hetebro competition partner, and had bumped into Brock in the hallway. Brock had recognized him by then, but it had taken like two days. Gigi wasn’t sure how he’d felt about that. Queen lost a bit of weight and dyed her hair, and suddenly she was unrecognizable? After their history? Hmmm. In any case, the first time Brock had called him out as Toby had been then, in that hallway, when Gigi was all tired and sweaty after a practice session, and Gigi had instantly replied, “It’s Gigi now.”
Brock had blinked, then warily said, “Gigi. You remember me?”
Of course he had. How could he not? The high school crush who’d crushed him. Gigi couldn’t decide what was worse: that he was back or that he was so fucking hot. How could a T-shirt and jeans be so sexy on someone. How?
He still looked good in a T-shirt and jeans, but he’d put on a little weight since starting his job. Gigi suspected that same shirt would be tighter now. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing.
The second and last time they’d “discussed” his name, they’d been dating for two months. Brock had stayed over, and they had been lying in bed in a post-sex, pre-breakfast haze. Gigi had been trying not to stare at the scars slashing down Brock’s side when Brock had retrieved the pillows from the floor in order for them to lie comfortably.
Once they’d resettled, Brock had begun stroking his fingers along Gigi’s shoulder and arm. One long, delicious sweep down, then back up. Gigi closed his eyes, ready to be lulled back to sleep by the sensation.
“Can I ask you a question?” Brock said quietly.
“You just did.”
The sweeping paused, and Gigi’s skin was lightly flicked. “Hey.”
“Course, sugarplum.”
“Why do you prefer being called ‘Gigi’ now?”
Gigi opened his eyes to look at Brock. He was staring at the ceiling, face calm and nonchalant. Avoiding his gaze? No good. Gigi reached over and gently pulled Brock’s chin towards him. “Gigi is who I am. Toby is who I was.”
A small crease appeared between Brock’s brows. “But . . . your drag performance is Gigi LaMore. Right? You don’t do drag all the time. You’re not her all the time.”
What the hell was he talking about? Gigi LaMore was like an amplification of who he was. She dazzled and preened and danced the way he sometimes didn’t let himself do as a male dancer. She played and brought out deep parts of himself that he’d refused to keep hidden any longer. She was fierce. Beautiful. Rude. Unapologetic.
Gigi Rosenberg was those things too, but he was less rude and more apologetic. Gigi LaMore had adorers and a stage; Gigi Rosenberg had friends and three jobs.
Toby, on the other hand, had a weight problem and hated attention. Toby raged. Toby hid. Toby was no fucking more, not if Gigi had anything to do with it.
“No, but she’s me, and I’m her.” Gigi rubbed his thumb along Brock’s jaw, enjoying the stubble prickle. “We’re different sides of the same person.”
“I get that, but your sister called you Toby the other week, and you didn’t care about that.”
And now Gigi regretted putting Sophie on speakerphone so she could meet Brock. “Family’s different.”
“How?”
Gigi shrugged. “They know all of me and love me. And they always have.”
Brock’s mouth twisted. “I . . . Oh.”
“Plus my parents wouldn’t really get it, even though they love me and what I do. And I don’t mind them calling me by the name they gave me. I put them through enough shit.” He really had. Sometimes Gigi wondered how they’d put up with him, especially through all that trouble at school and his Rent phase.
“But no one else calls you that?”
Gigi gripped Brock’s jaw, making sure they stared into each other’s eyes. “No one,” he enunciated clearly.
Brock’s lips thinned.
Aww. He didn’t look happy. Time to fix that. “You know what else no one else calls me?” Gigi inclined his head forward and kissed Brock on that tense mouth. “Their boyfriend.”
Brock’s face had cleared into a smile. He’d pulled Gigi closer for more kissing, which had led to more touching and then to one of the best morning blowjobs Gigi had ever had.
And Brock had never raised the question again. He’d never needed to. Instead it had been Gigi, and on occasion Ms. LaMore, and on very special occasions madame, but no more mentions of Toby.
Being back here, surrounded by family members, Gigi was rethinking that whole “family’s different” thing. Because it did feel strange now.
It’s only for a weekend. Like it even matters that much.
Inside, LaMore shook her head.
Gigi rolled to a sitting position and groaned when his head complained. Jesus. Jesus. He was never drinking again.
Along with being a drunk asshole last night, there was one other little problem he definitely had to talk to Brock about: Brock’s family. Brock hadn’t mentioned them much—at all? Gigi couldn’t remember—since they’d started dating, which in retrospect was raising all sorts of alarms for Gigi. Like, he’d never seen Brock calling them or arranging stuff with them, which was weird.
Gigi remembered Brock’s mom and dad. He’d seen them at school sports days and occasionally around town, and Gigi’s mom went to a book club with Brock’s mom. They seemed pretty quiet and nice. So what was the deal there? Obviously Brock was uncomfortable with them . . . right? This wasn’t a thing where he was ashamed of Gigi?
Wait.
Brock was out to them, right? Right. Like, how could he not be?
See, this was why they had to talk shit out. Otherwise Gigi just reacted (like last night) and didn’t understand what was going on.
He stood, pulled on his EXPERT READER shirt so he wore something more appropriate than boxers and regret, and made his way downstairs to the kitchen. In it were his cousins Ed and Sarah, eating at the table, and Grandma making scrambled eggs on the stove.
“Morning, Toby,” Ed and Sarah chorused.
“Hey. Where’s Brock?”
They both shrugged. Grandma turned from the stove. “Your young man was up with the lark. I made him eggs. You want some eggs?”
He knew Grandma’s eggs. They were buttery
and creamy and cheesy and had bacon bits. His stomach screamed, Yes, while his head bit down with a vicious, Girl, hell no. “Not today, Grandma.”
She fixed him with a familiar glare. “You’re a growing boy.”
Gigi went digging in the fridge for something healthy. “Twenty-five is when most people stop growing. I’m officially on the road to death, Grandma.” He pulled out fruit and yogurt while Ed and Sarah scoffed behind him.
“‘The road to death’? You talk about death to me? Oh, Toby,” Grandma sighed.
“Grandma, you still got a long way to go.” Gigi kissed her cheek before moving to the blender.
“See? I’d never get away with that,” Ed said to Sarah.
“Good morning, honey.” Mom had come into the kitchen.
Gigi waved at her before creating a breakfast smoothie. When he was done, she was pouring herself a cup of coffee. He turned to her. “Mom, have you seen Brock?”
She nodded. “He went out to get groceries with Alan and Sophie.”
“He . . . did?”
“Yeah. We needed extra for lunch with the Wongs. They’re arriving today.”
Gigi frowned. “Lunch?”
Mom looked exasperated. “You didn’t read the emails, did you?”
Emails?
“There’s a schedule,” Ed said.
Schedule?
“Your job this morning is to help your dad clean the rec and dining rooms.”
Job?
“But I—”
“After that, you’re having lunch with all of us.” Mom sipped her coffee. “Then it’s the bachelor party in the afternoon and evening, while Sophie has a girls’ night here.”
Bachelor party? “Mom, what the hell?” Gigi burst out.
Mom rolled her eyes. “Honey, you really have to stay on top of these things.”
“It’s after ten! Why didn’t anyone wake me up earlier?”
“Brock said you were sleeping.”
“I was, but bachelor party? I might want more warning than three hours for a bachelor party!”
“Chill, coz,” Ed said. “It’s no big deal. It’s only orienteering, then dinner.”