Tough Love

by Heidi Cullinan

  As Steve realized how serious a threat Gordy had become, rage gave way to cold fear as too many ugly futures rolled out potentially before Steve. What if he tried to hurt Chenco? He held out his hands, entreating. “Gordy, this isn’t who you are. If you’re upset about not seeing me, we can talk to Crabtree—”

  “I don’t want Crabtree.” Gordy’s fury rendered him ugly, his clean, well-kept appearance making his rage that much more revealing. “I only went to him to get back at you, to make you want me again. But I can’t get you to look, can I? All you see is the stupid twink who trusses up like a full-on fairy.”

  Parts of Steve’s brain scrambled for control, for a way out of this scene, but he was too full of sorrow, hurt—fear. “Gordy, we haven’t had sex in over twenty years. You’ve seen me date before too. Why are you like this now?”

  “You’re choosing him over me. You care about him.” Gordy spat the words as if they tasted bad in his mouth. “You love him.”

  Steve did. Loved the way he shouldn’t, like he loved nothing and no one else. “I love you too.”

  “Bullshit. If you loved me, you’d be with me. You’d give me what I wanted, the way you give him what he wants.” Gordy’s eyes were almost wild, everything about him too bright, too intense. “If you loved me, you’d give it to me, and you’d enjoy it, not act like I made you sick. If you loved me, you wouldn’t be ashamed of me.”

  Guilt sideswiped Steve like a machete through brush. “I’m not ashamed of you.”

  Lie. It was a lie, and Gordy knew it. His hands clenched into shaking fists at his sides. “You are. You’re ashamed of me, and you’re scared of me. You lie to me and tell me you love me, that you’ll take care of me, and you don’t. You can’t, can you? You’re weak and scared, not just of me but of everyone, everything. You always were.” The rage bled away, Gordy’s emotional tide shifting from fury to pleading in the space of a breath. “Why can’t you give me what I need? Why do you push me away, lock me away, give me away? Why do you pick him and not me?”

  “Gordy.” Steve’s chest and shoulders ached, and his legs felt like jelly. “Gordy, stop. Please.”

  “Why should I?” Gordy took several steps forward, backing Steve into the wall. “Why the fuck should I, Stevie? You want me to trot over to Crabtree’s house and play nice with the other puppies? You want to come watch me beg? Make me sit there whining because you won’t fill me, won’t treat me like you treat him?”

  “You said you wanted other—” Steve could feel sweat running down his head, into the collar of his T-shirt. “You told me you hated being alone.”

  “I want to be with you.” Gordy pressed his hands against Steve’s shoulders.

  The touch was light, yet Steve felt like shattering glass, every wall he’d constructed falling away, every guard, every lie he’d told himself about who he was crumbling under those heavy palms. Gordy’s hands were cleaned of their dirt, yes, but Steve found himself yearning for the veil now. Dirty, homeless Gordy he could pity, but this…this…

  The front door burst open, and with the outside light came a rush of thick, burly young men wearing guns on their hips and shouting orders at one another as they pried Gordy off Steve. It was surreal, like a scene from a movie, except it actually happened, Gordy shouting, demanding to be let go as the men silently led him away. When Gordy began to swear and shout too loudly, a gag slipped into his mouth, and Steve’s stomach turned as their eyes met, Gordy’s wide in terror. The door closed and the din of the men’s exit reduced to a muffle, then nothing, but Steve stayed slumped against the wall, staring at the place where they had been.

  The door opened a second time, and Crabtree, his countenance as unreadable as a rock, came into the foyer. After crossing the tile, he stood before Steve, leaning on his cane as he spoke in quiet, careful tones.

  “My apologies for allowing him to get away from me. I can see Gordon upset you.”

  Upset him. Steve shut his eyes for a second before he was able to face Crabtree. “What—what happened?” What happens now?

  Anger flashed briefly before vanishing into Crabtree’s cool gaze. “Gordon is a clever man. I believe he bided his time, lulling me into relaxing his security. My house isn’t exactly guarded, but I had several minders watching him. Since he came directly to you, I suspect he’s plotted this for a while, and I can see he’s been here long enough to cause some damage.”

  Steve glanced around the foyer—it looked almost as if nothing had happened. A vase on its stand was slightly askew, but beyond this the only thing upset by Gordy’s entrance was Steve.

  Crabtree’s mouth flattened into a line before he continued. “We have reached a gray area, my boy. If I cannot convince him to remain willingly in my care, if he declares his intent to leave—well. Things become delicate. Even without his shouted threats to Crescencio before I asked the boys to silence him, I’ve been afraid of this happening. I cannot allow the young man to be placed in danger by letting Gordon go free.”

  This was the terror, Steve realized, banked deep within him. What if Gordy went after Chenco? What if Gordy refused to be kept by Crabtree and went off on his own, determined to take out his rival? What if this mad creature that had once been his friend, the beast Steve himself had helped make, destroyed the only good thing in his life?

  What if Crabtree had Gordy taken care of? What if Steve had to live with that, his selfish, arrogant desire to follow Chenco leading to this?

  A hand rested on Steve’s shoulder, but unlike Gordy’s heavy pressure, Crabtree’s touch was light, steadying. “I must go and see to him. Despite his angry outburst, he’ll be frightened, upset now that he’s been tempered. You and I will speak soon, however. For now know I have him in hand and Chenco will be protected. Gordon will not escape me again.”

  With a gentle squeeze of Steve’s shoulder, Crabtree left. After the car pulled away, Steve remained at the wall, slumped, breathing heavily, staring blankly across the foyer. His gaze fixed on the cream-colored vase on its stand, tilting sideways, nearly falling but saved by the silk flowers inside them, the sturdy, wispy wands bending against the walls of the nook they rested in.

  Numbly, Steve pushed off the wall and righted the vase. He straightened the flowers, fingers brushing the rust-red petals. Nudging his glasses higher on his nose with a trembling hand, he drew a deep breath, caressed the flowers one last time, and returned to the office where he sipped, uncaring, at his stone-cold coffee.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  THE NIGHT OF Caramela’s first show at Herod’s, Chenco nearly threw up from nerves.

  All his boys were there, rallying for him—Randy kept up a constant banter, and Sam rubbed his back and said soothing things. Ethan appointed several staff members to see to him personally, fetching water, eyelash glue, anything he needed. Mitch stood sentry in the hallway, not allowing anyone in.

  Steve never, not for one minute, left Chenco’s side.

  The last few days his papi had been unusually reserved, making Chenco wonder if he’d done something wrong. Tonight all hints of any trouble were wiped away. Steve was a solid, secure presence, full of quiet reassurance and support—exactly what Chenco needed. As the butterflies died down and Caramela emerged, Steve remained. Dismissing the others, Caramela turned to him, studying him with an equal quiet before finally speaking. “Thank you for being here, for helping me get here.”

  His smile seemed a little sad. “You didn’t need me to get here, didn’t need any of us. Maybe we helped things along, but I don’t doubt you’d have made it to the Vegas stage someday, if that’s what you wanted.”

  “I do need you.” Caramela squeezed his hand, drawing it close to her chest before kissing it, careful not to smudge her lipstick. “If I would have left the valley on my own, it wouldn’t have been for a long time, and it would have been with Booker making me crazy.” She let his hand fall to her lap, sadness seeping in. “I do miss him, though. He always told me I was strong, I was a queen, right before I went on. In Spa
nish, to set the mood. For all his flaws, he was good sometimes.”

  Steve caught both her hands, bowed his head, and kissed her knuckles reverently. “Eres fuerte, mi reina.”

  Caramela shut her eyes. “If you make me cry, I’ll ruin my makeup.”

  His slow smile filled her belly with heat. “Save your tears for me, cariño.”

  She laughed, but even as she did, she felt the same anchor that held Chenco begin to tether her too. She kissed his cheek and whispered in his ear. “Soy fuerte.”

  For you, my king, she added silently. I am strong for you.

  He led her out of the dressing room to the wings of the stage. Ethan was the only one remaining, the others having gone out to the audience to claim their seats. Her opening act was just finishing up—a magician who from the crowd’s reaction was a known favorite. Ethan smiled at her as she approached, holding out his arms and taking her hands as he looked her up and down.

  “Caramela. Enchanting as always.” He pulled her alongside him and nodded out to the crowd, which they could barely see between the panels of a side curtain. “Caryle did her work well—a full house.”

  It was indeed full, much more so than Caramela had expected. “Why did they all come to see some hick drag queen from southern Texas?”

  “Caryle is an amazing promoter, and I have a reputation for only hosting quality acts. If you’re on my stage, you must be good.”

  Caramela would have taken a deep breath to steady herself, but the silver sequin dress she wore required some pretty serious Spanx, especially after a month of Randy’s cooking. “I’ll do my best to live up to your reputation.”

  “I have no doubts, my dear. None at all. You’ll conquer Vegas, then the world.” Kissing her hand, he gave her a wink. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to take my seat so I can properly enjoy the show.”

  Ethan left. Caramela kept her knees flexed, rotated her shoulders, and mentally mapped out her opening routine, which she’d done a thousand times, almost fifty times on this stage alone.

  Steve put his hand on her shoulder. She shut her eyes, absorbing his strength.

  The lights went down, the manager gave her a nod, and she began.

  It was, in so many ways, the same show she’d always done and yet it was entirely different. For one, it wasn’t just a few numbers—she did a full hour of performing, with one break while backup dancers allowed her a moment’s reprieve and an extensive costume change. That was the first distinct difference—she had dancers behind her. Not just Booker, the sly show-stealer, but six strapping young men who made Booker’s body and dancing skills look rather paltry. Caramela had come to know and respect each one of her dancers over the last few weeks’ rehearsals, and having them onstage with her now was nothing but an honor.

  She opened with “Starting Over”, which felt good on so many levels—the title sent a positive internal message, but the song itself had a magical, floaty quality while still carrying enough energy to give the show a club vibe. The applause at the end of her number lifted her up, and the banter she’d planned between the first and second songs came easily, so she riffed a little, adding some flirts for strangers and plenty of nods to her family in the front row.

  Steve was there now too, her papi standing guard. She blew him a kiss and swung into the next song. So many songs—they began to bleed together, dances, lip syncs, breaks to flirt. It was odd to not walk the perimeter and take tips. Ethan had been firm, insisting it wasn’t how he ran things. The audience tonight came for free, because all first-time acts were set up this way at Herod’s, but Ethan said he had no intention of letting them leave without gambling much more than her show fee away.

  It was wonderful, she decided, to not have to work her cojones for cash, to simply pour herself into the music, the dancing, the audience. The difference between wheedling money out of them and simply serving them, thanking them for making her night so special, was profound, and she decided then and there she never wanted another tip, no matter how much Heide would be appalled.

  When she went into Steve’s arms at the break, she was breathless, vibrating with energy and smiling so wide she thought she’d crack her face.

  The second half was entirely non-Lopez songs. This had been Sam’s suggestion, to help Caramela not be simply a Lopez impersonator. He’d helped pick the songs as well—Kelly Rowland’s “Commander”, Nelly Furtado’s “No Hay Igual”, and as a special surprise, Kylie Minogue’s “Aphrodite” for Sam. It didn’t quite fit, but apparently the room was full of fans because not only did they love the song, they cheered at the way Caramela’s backup dancers came out in full-on replicas of costumes from the Australian diva’s most recent tour.

  When the riotous applause died down, she made the transition into the finale, Nicole Scherzinger’s “Puakenikeni”, complete with a braided wig, a skimpy cowgirl outfit and plastic six-shooters. When Caramela struck a pose and the lights went down, the theater went wild.

  She savored the roar, the sweet rush that rolled from the theater and over her body. She closed her eyes, drank it in deep.

  Then she ran offstage, let her assistants change her clothes and hair. As the rising siren signaling the beginning of “Papi” rang across the stage, she grabbed her microphone, strode out in her five-inch red heels, and threw herself into the song with every ounce of everything she had. She reached into the bottom of her soul and pulled out a little bit more because she was that happy.

  Baila para tú Papi.

  He watched her as she danced. He was there in the wings when she came away, and she went into his arms, kissing him. She didn’t care what about her makeup she wrecked now.

  She’d done it. She’d come to Las Vegas, put on a dress and made a thousand people weep with joy. All because of Steve. The others had helped, had made the space, but it had been he who held her up, and she would never forget it.

  When she came up for air, he smiled at her, his secret, wicked smile just for her and for Chenco. He stroked her face. “Are you ready to hit the town, mi reina?”

  Caramela kissed his nose. “Yes, Papi. Let me change my clothes and take a quick shower, and I’m all yours.”

  “Why change? You’re fine as you are.”

  Caramela almost forgot to breathe. “Papi—” she began, but that was all she could manage.

  His smile deepened, full of trouble and promise. “Ethan has a limousine waiting. The others are already inside.” He patted her on her padded bottom. “Get what you need, and let’s go.”

  “But I can’t—I don’t pass, not good enough to go out,” she whispered.

  This time he put his thumb on her bottom lip, pressing his fingernail into it as he held her chin. “Get what you need, Caramela.”

  She kissed him so hard she drew blood. When she lifted her head, she was shaking. Oh, he sees me. He sees every inch of me. “I’ll be a few minutes,” she said, hurrying down the hall to her dressing room. “I have to fix my face, and I really, really fucking have to pee.”

  IT TOOK CARAMELA ten minutes to decide she’d been born for luxurious limousine rides down the Las Vegas Strip.

  Her boys celebrated her as if she were Lopez herself, as if she’d just finished a concert and now would go out on the town. Champagne flowed inside the limo, all their eyes shining as they congratulated her over and over, recounting favorite moments of the performance, passing on reactions they’d heard from the casino floor after the show. Steve had taken her out via the front door, and she’d been so rushed by fans, casino security had to step in and help her into the limo Ethan had arranged for her. By the time she got to the car, she was breathless—not from fear but from excitement and a sense that oh yes, she’d had this coming, she was owed this kind of response.

  The limo itself was incredibly swank—it was the new kind, half Hummer/party bus and looked like a rap daddy had tricked out the inside. Neon piping outlined the ceiling, offset by recessed lighting and spotlights over the shallow side bar. Sam saw to the music, which wa
s Lopez heavy, but when Kylie came on, Sam beamed at her and thanked her for the song, which was as good as the real thing, he said.

  When they got caught in slow traffic on the Strip, Randy opened the moonroof and stood with her as they toasted the town.

  They went everywhere—bars, casino lounges, exclusive clubs—Caramela quickly lost track of where they were and had been and simply let herself flow. At first she hung back, needing to hold on to Steve as they entered a new place, but she soon stopped hesitating. He was always there, always at her elbow, glaring at anyone who dared look at Caramela with anything other than a worshipful eye. She did glean a lot of looks, but they were not, to her surprise, ever negative. Wide eyes, yes, and lots of whispering behind hands, but to her delight they treated her as if she were a star, not a boy in a dress.

  “They think you’re JLo,” Sam told her as they entered the dance floor. They were at Krave, the real one Randy had mentioned in South Padre.

  “I don’t look like JLo,” Caramela argued back, though she was secretly thrilled.

  “You do, though.” Sam indicated her with a sweep of his hand. “It’s not just your hair and makeup. You hold yourself the same way a star does, and you look close, so people fill in the blanks. They want JLo to be partying in Vegas. It’s a great story. You set it up, and they finish the job.”

  That was what Heide had always said about drag—it wasn’t simply the performer’s fantasy. A man in a dress, a woman in a beard with a pair of socks down her trousers—convincing impersonation allowed everyone a space to be free. She had felt that before, but never quite like this. Never this loud.

  What had changed? Was it Las Vegas? Was it the magic of the show going so well? Whatever it was, it felt as if pieces of Caramela’s soul were sliding into place, Chenco and queen merging in fuller harmony than they ever had.

  Caramela watched a pair of tourists whisper to each other, and then, cautiously, one of them came up and asked for her autograph.