Someone Like You

by Timothy J Beck

  “I’ll always be here,” Derek said. “I can’t protect her from the unibrows of the world, but I’d be the best friend I could to her.”

  Davii nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Do you listen to yourself, Derek?”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re not going anywhere. You’re in love with Hunter. Maybe you’ve got problems, but you’re still very much in that relationship. You should forget pretty men like Christian, straight or gay, and skating hairdressers, and focus on your relationship. Even if Hunter screws it up, you won’t be finished with it until you’ve given it your best effort.”

  “I guess I ruined the mood, didn’t I?” Derek asked somberly.

  “So we won’t have hot man sex in here tonight. We’ll always have that really hot kiss,” Davii teased. “That doesn’t mean I’m not glad you’re here. Or that I want you to leave. We’re friends. Maybe one day; who knows.”

  “But not this day.” When Davii shook his head, Derek said, “That takes a certain pressure off. Let’s make popcorn and watch a DVD or something.”

  “Thank God,” Davii said. “I can put on my raggedy sweatpants. I think these jeans are a size too small. I wanted to show off my assets.”

  Derek nodded with understanding and said, “You wouldn’t by chance have an extra pair of sweats?”

  Davii laughed, hugged him, and said, “I can cover your assets, too.”

  13

  Two Doors Down

  Riley surveyed the Congreve lobby from the mezzanine and congratulated himself on what an asset he was to the hotel. They hadn’t experienced any kind of crisis since Hunter’s departure, confirmation that Riley knew what he was doing and that his boss’s presence was unnecessary. Riley almost regretted not having to prove himself further by deftly handling an emergency, but he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He was sure the lull would end all too soon. Besides, he’d kept himself busy with the matter of Natasha Deere.

  People were amazingly simple if one took the trouble to watch them and do a little legwork. A few weeks before, while strolling through Drayden’s to meet his contact, Craig, for lunch, Riley had witnessed Derek getting reamed by his manager. He faked an interest in a new fragrance so he could edge closer to the two of them, but he hadn’t been able to overhear anything except Derek muttering that he was going on break. Riley noted that Natasha’s jerky movements and twitches vanished as soon as Derek did. She was obviously one of those people who exhibited strong physical reactions to stress.

  Riley had squelched the cologne queen who kept hitting on him and committed the Derek incident to memory, wondering if there was a way to use it to his advantage. Later, when Craig was ecstatically inhaling the dessert Riley had insisted he order, his careful interrogation began.

  “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask you. How’s Derek Anderson working out?”

  Craig rolled his eyes, swallowed, and said, “He’s a good kid, but his sales are shit. He’s lucky that he’s gotten excellent customer service cards filled out for him, or I wouldn’t be able to keep his manager from dumping him.”

  “He doesn’t like Derek?” Riley asked cagily.

  “She,” Craig corrected. “As far as that goes, Natasha doesn’t like anyone. But she does have the best Women’s Shoes numbers of all the Midwestern stores, so she doesn’t appreciate having a nonperformer thrust on her. I’m not sure how much longer I can protect him. I know you wanted me to help him out. There are more easygoing managers. I could probably get him transferred to a different department.”

  “What about a different store?”

  “Any other store would look at his numbers and decline to hire him,” Craig said, then smacked his lips over his last bit of chocolate sauce, making Riley’s skin crawl.

  Craig had really let himself go since he’d gotten a boyfriend, and Riley, who kept trim through rigid self-control and excessive smoking, thought Craig was being shortsighted. One day, he’d be on the market again, and he’d remember just how unforgiving buyers could be. He realized that Craig was watching him expectantly and said, “What?”

  “You asked about a different store. Does Derek want to move?”

  “Beats me. I don’t know him that well. I was just doing a favor for my boss,” Riley lied. He adopted a placating tone when he went on. “I don’t want to cause you any trouble. Don’t worry about it. Let the kid fail or succeed on his own. He has to learn how to deal with the Natalies of the world.”

  “Natasha,” Craig corrected. “Trust me, there’s only one Natasha Deere. The world couldn’t handle another.”

  “Bitch, huh?”

  “An epithet hasn’t been written that can sum up Natasha. I don’t know how she got hired by a warmhearted organization like Drayden’s. Well, she knows how to butter up the brass, and she operates totally by the book. She’d never give anyone a reason to get rid of her. But she doesn’t have a drop of human kindness in her veins.”

  “I’ve met a lot of people from the Northeast like that,” Riley said, fishing.

  “Northeast? She’s from southern California. One of those spoiled Beverly Hills kids. She probably has to work for a living because her family disowned her. Although it’s more likely she was raised by wolves.”

  Feeling smug at how well his conversation was paying off, Riley smoothly snatched the check from the waiter and said, “It’s on me. The least I can do after sticking you with Derek.”

  “Thanks, Riley,” Craig said. “Generous, as usual. Don’t give the Derek thing another thought. I was happy to help you out.”

  Instead of returning to the hotel after their lunch, Riley had taken a walk through the mall. He needed to think, and there were too many interruptions at work. It was a fortunate choice, because as he strolled into the corridor that ended at Kohl’s, he realized something was nagging for his attention. He rapidly looked around until his gaze fell on a woman walking in front of him.

  Drag queen! was his instant thought. Long blond curls hanging from a hat; tiny, cinched-in waist of a dress that seemed to undulate because of its metallic, varicolored threads; flat ass; and four-inch stilettos. Most notably, the stilted walk was evidence of someone who wasn’t at ease in those clothes.

  Two thoughts struck him simultaneously. The few drag queens he’d known were more comfortable inside drag than in their regular clothes. And this person’s crablike walk reminded him of Natasha Deere’s jittery movements.

  A man on a mission, he rushed past the woman, stopped, and pretended to look at the window display at Patti’s Pages, then turned to let his eyes casually drift over her as she came his way. It took effort to suppress his gasp when he realized that, except for her height, and even partially concealed by sunglasses, the woman was a dead ringer for Dolly Parton.

  So it was a female impersonator after all. Not a common sight in the mall, and certainly not someone who wanted to go unnoticed. Riley fell into step behind her, noting with amusement the double takes and widened eyes of the people who glanced “Dolly’s” way. He wasn’t sure why he kept following her, except that something didn’t add up. If she didn’t want to be noticed, why was she dressed so outrageously? But if she liked attention, why were her movements erratic, almost stealthy?

  When she hesitated, Riley slowed down, wondering if she’d realized she was being followed. Then she slipped into Galileo’s Glass and, after a few moments, Riley followed her. When he saw where she was sitting, his interest waned. A drag queen and a bit of rough trade, like a porn movie without the flesh.

  Since he was already inside, he sat at the bar and ordered a drink, glancing back at the table just in time to see an exchange of paper bags. It was even less interesting than he’d thought—probably a drug transaction. He yawned, but before he could turn away, “Dolly” spun around, and Riley got a good look at her face before she put on her sunglasses. She was no drag queen. She was not only female, but he was convinced he was looking at Natasha Deere in disguise.

  Riley didn’t see how this in
formation could help him in his quest to banish Derek Anderson, but it was intriguing. After Natasha left the bar, her companion called out to the bartender, asking if he could change the TV station to the game. It didn’t sound like the man was planning to leave any time soon, so Riley made a quick decision.

  A half hour and several credit card transactions later, Riley emerged from Kohl’s wearing faded jeans and a distressed leather jacket over a white T-shirt. The clothes he’d changed out of were being delivered to the hotel, and Riley felt oddly vulnerable in his generic—and discounted—outfit. If his new getup was suitable for cruising, it would also blend in among the unsavory clientele in Galileo’s Glass.

  Rough Trade had moved to the bar, and Riley slid onto the stool next to him, ordering another drink and frowning when his neighbor’s pistachio shell landed on his arm.

  “Sorry, dude,” Rough Trade said. When Riley stared pointedly at the pistachio shell, Rough Trade swiftly tapped it off his arm. “Nice jacket.”

  “Thanks,” Riley said, then moved his gaze to the TV.

  “Can you believe the score? This game sucks. I’m DeWitt.”

  More like DeWittless, Riley thought, but improvised, “My friends call me RB.”

  “So we’re friends now, huh?” DeWitt asked, and Riley realized the man’s arm was suddenly very close to his. Interesting.

  “Weren’t you in here with your girlfriend earlier?” he asked.

  DeWitt looked confused for a minute, then said, “Oh, her? Hell, no.” He dropped his voice when he said, “I’m in the Brotherhood of the Machine.” When Riley gave him a blank look, he said, “Great Lakes Harley Riders?”

  “Uh-huh,” Riley said. Not a group he was likely ever to book at the Congreve.

  DeWitt sighed and said, “Gay. We’re gay men who own Harleys.”

  “Ahhh,” Riley said. He realized that he’d been caught glancing at his companion’s long, oily hair when DeWitt whipped out a bandana and tied it around his head. Not great, but an improvement.

  “It gets greasy when I ride,” DeWitt said apologetically. “So, you ever been on a Hog?”

  Riley rapidly discarded a dozen sarcastic answers and replied, “No. Not my thing.”

  “I wouldn’t mind checking out your thing,” DeWitt said with a grin.

  Riley’s senses went into danger mode, but he forced himself to entertain a vision of Hunter and Derek in tuxedos at a commitment ceremony. With an inward shudder, he said, “Listen, I need to be honest with you.”

  “I’m not stupid. And you’re not straight.”

  “No,” Riley said, forcing himself to laugh. “It’s about the woman you were with. I’m a store detective here at the mall, and our shrinkage consultant thinks she may be a shoplifter.”

  “Nat? She’d never do that. Unless maybe you work at the Barbie store?”

  “Kohl’s,” Riley said, the first name that came to mind.

  “Then I know she’s not your thief. Nat would never shop at Kohl’s. Don’t let her outfit fool you. Can you keep a secret?”

  “To the grave,” Riley said.

  “She’s got a little Dolly Parton obsession.”

  “Like a stalker?” Riley yelped.

  “No. She just loves Dolly. Truth be told, so do I.”

  “Stand by your man,” Riley commented.

  “That’s Tammy. It’s a long story, but Nat and I do a little business. That’s all.”

  “What kind of business?” Riley asked.

  DeWitt blushed and said, “She buys Barbies and dresses them as Dolly. In clothes that I sell her.” When Riley stared at him, DeWitt turned a deeper shade of red. “I sew them myself, okay? I happen to be handy with a needle. I make a lot of money off of Nat. And she’s not a shoplifter.”

  Riley wasn’t sure why, but DeWitt’s confession made him seem bizarrely endearing. With a shave and a haircut…Riley looked at the bib overalls and repressed a tremor. Only in an alternate universe.

  Or after several drinks, Riley remembered while he stared at the Congreve lobby. As tricks went, it hadn’t been bad. In spite of the beard. DeWitt had been eager to please, and Riley hadn’t minded playing Hoosier Daddy with him. It wasn’t always easy to find gay men in rural America, and Riley was baffled as to why Indiana had been chosen as the location for a super mall. It was an alternate universe in Riley’s opinion, so he supposed his dalliance with DeWitt was justifiable.

  “Thinking of jumping?” Juanita Luna asked, jolting Riley back to the present as she stopped behind him.

  He turned around and met the challenge in her eyes by saying, “I couldn’t trust you to adequately clean up the mess.”

  When he got back to his office, he powered up his laptop to link to Hunter’s network and check his boss’s e-mail. Hunter had sent a half-dozen messages to his friend Garry, and it appeared Garry had finally answered. Riley opened his e-mail and frowned as he read it.

  Con,

  I know. I know. I’ve left town on business. At least that’s the official story. But really it’s an escape. The Buffy situation is heating up, but I’m not. So I’ve sort of dropped out on a mini-vacation. I’m on a mission. More later. Hope things are better with you and Derek. Any idea how much longer you’ll be in Australia?

  Pro

  Mission? Riley wondered. What the hell does that mean? He lit a cigarette, then read a new series of e-mail exchanges between Hunter and Derek.

  H. I hate my boss. You wouldn’t believe this woman. Take every foul quality you can think of, multiply it by a hundred, and that’s Natasha. Juanita was asking when you’d be home. D.

  Derek,

  Quit. You don’t have to work. I don’t understand why you took the job in the first place. Tell Juanita I don’t know. I can’t treat my job like a whim.—Hunter

  H. You don’t take me seriously. My job may not be ideal, but it is not a whim. I’m making money and good friends. There’s more to life than dressing up and attending functions, you know. Juanita looks at me like I’ve driven you away. D.

  Derek,

  You haven’t driven me away. I’m working. WORKING. Not all work involves punching a time clock. Stop talking to me through Juanita. It’s juvenile.—Hunter

  H. You know what? It sounds like I’M the whim. Fuck you, Hunter. D.

  Derek,

  Take the hostility down a notch and tell me about your friends. What does Juanita think of them?—Hunter

  Then there was nothing, which meant that Derek must not want Hunter to know about his new friends. Riley, however, had his own means of finding out what Derek was up to. He checked his mall directory and called Drayden’s, asking the operator for Women’s Shoes. “Natasha Deere, please,” he said sharply to the man who answered.

  “Certainly. Just a moment.”

  While Riley waited, he cued up the CD player. As soon as he heard Natasha’s voice, he hit PLAY and listened to the dulcet strains of Dolly Parton bemoaning her nine-to-five existence. When the song finished, Natasha weakly said, “Hold, please.” He waited, and her voice was biting when she returned. “DeWitt, this isn’t funny.”

  “It’s extremely funny. Who’s DeWitt?”

  “Who is this?” Natasha demanded. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing—”

  “Dolls,” Riley said. “Do you like to play dolls, too?”

  “Listen, you freak, I don’t think you realize who you’re dealing with.”

  “No, that’s you,” Riley said. “But I’m willing to introduce myself. Your little hobby is really of no interest to me. Although your employees would probably get a kick out of it.”

  He heard a sharp intake of breath, then Natasha said, “What do you want?”

  “Meet me tonight at nine in the Aurora piano bar at the Congreve. In costume or out—it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll recognize you.”

  “Just tell me what you want,” Natasha snapped. “I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

  “Tonight,” Riley said and hung up.

  H
e called the Aurora and left a message for Sheree Sheridan, then read a few of Derek’s e-mails to his online friends. They were as boring as ever, mostly forwarded jokes, stupid stories he made up, or celebrity gossip. He powered off the laptop and went back to work.

  That night, after dinner, he dressed as meticulously as if for a date. He wanted Natasha to realize she was not dealing with some ordinary schmuck, but an accomplished player who was holding all the cards. He knew she would arrive at the Aurora well before the designated time in hopes of figuring out who he was before he spotted her. Amateur.

  He saw her as soon as he walked into the bar. Her corner table gave her a good view of the room, which her eyes swept with a chilling gaze every few seconds. She wasn’t dressed in Dolly attire, however, but an exquisite black Ann Taylor sheath. Even Riley had to admit that she was a striking woman. No one would ever guess what a freak show she was.

  As he’d requested, when Sheree saw him come in, she began singing “Jolene.” Natasha’s spine straightened, and she looked right at him, her eyes narrowing when he gave her a little nod. He stopped at the bar and ordered a whiskey sour, then casually drifted to her table. In the dim light, he could make out bright spots of color staining her high cheekbones.

  “Miss Deere,” he said, taking a seat. “I was hoping to see you in one of your fetching costumes tonight.”

  “Who the hell are you?” she snapped.

  “So uncivil,” Riley replied. “I always thought people from Southern California were mellow and polite.”

  Natasha’s eyes flickered; when Sheree switched to “Coat of Many Colors,” her body seemed poised to attack him. As an adversary, Natasha was too easy. Maybe she’d turn out to be more fun as an ally.

  “You have one minute—”

  “I only want to make a little deal with you,” Riley said soothingly. “My silence in exchange for a small favor.”