by Susan Laine
Surprised by a twinge of jealousy, Cain pondered the nature of their relationship.
He realized abruptly that when he’d spoken with Camille earlier, her Southern accent had been conspicuously absent. Why hadn’t he asked her about that? Probably because it had taken seeing Honoré to remind Cain that the woman who had hired him had a faint hint of a Southerner’s drawl in her speech patterns.
Dark Lily entered her dressing room and closed the door behind her with a soft snick.
Cain heard it because he’d snuck closer, quickly and with purpose. He knocked on the door to catch her before she could settle in comfortably. The door opened a crack, and a pair of green eyes, like gems of a forest, emerged into view.
A light of instant recognition came and went. Cain managed to snare it and knew he’d been right all along.
“Yes?” she asked in a hushed tone. “Can I help you?”
Oh, he was playing the same game with both women. Cain smiled. “You were stunning, Ms.…?”
She blinked twice, her long black lashes fluttering, and licked her lips. A shy smile rose on her full rosy mouth. “Lily. Lily Lavender.”
Déjà vu. Even her introduction was a reenactment of her rendition of Camille. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Lavender. May I come in?”
She glanced over shoulder, hesitant. In the end she stepped aside and allowed him to amble past. “I don’t usually invite gentleman callers into my private boudoir.”
“That’s fine. I’m not much of a gentleman.”
A flicker of a smile graced her lips for an instant. Cain saw it, though it vanished fast.
She sauntered past him to lean a hip against her vanity. Her dressing room had none of the clutter of Camille’s parlor. Clean and neat, everything in its proper place, it was a picture-perfect example of classy, if fastidious, style.
“You’re unlike the foaming-at-the-mouth perverts who tend to stumble backstage.”
“That’s a harsh interpretation of your fans.”
“The good ones wait for me at the artists’ entrance. Only the bad ones try to get in here, usually to steal underwear, perfume, or used makeup from my box.” She regarded him with something akin to remorse. “I should tell you, I called security.”
Lily tapped on her vanity with a black-painted nail; a clicking sound followed. Underneath the desk Cain spied the faint outline of an emergency button. The threat of trespassers must have been significant for the club to install those devices. She didn’t seem frightened to death, but she had assumed a defensive posture, her expression closed off.
“Why would you do that, Ms. Lavender?” Cain asked, patience and curiosity overriding his sense of frustration. “Don’t you think we should talk? Or are you no longer interested in the results of the case?”
Like Camille, Lily didn’t bat an eye. Her ghost of a smile was polite. “I’m sorry, but I think you have me mistaken for someone else. I have a familiar sort of face.”
Her chin lifted defiantly. The door opened, and Honoré appeared on the threshold with two other men, both bulky, big, and armed. Faced with three valid reasons to call it a night, Cain made a tactical retreat.
“My mistake, Ms. Lavender. I bid you good night.” He tipped an imaginary hat, causing a new tiny smile to flicker on her lips. Then Cain walked out, head held high.
Lily seemed disinclined to give him any answers. That didn’t mean he had no options left.
THE dumpster reeked of rotten foods, decomposing newspapers, old urine, and other things Cain was reluctant to identify. The huge metal monstrosity provided adequate blockage and shadow for the field of vision of anyone exiting the artists’ entrance at the back of the club.
Cain waited for Lily Lavender. And he wasn’t alone. A handful of others, enthusiasts by the sound of it, lounged by the red metal door as well, holding pens and notebooks. A dedicated fan base, Cain concluded with a smile. Still, he kept his hand over his weapon’s butt in case any of them weren’t who they appeared to be.
The hour neared 2:00 a.m. Cain suppressed a yawn so hard he had tears stinging in his eyes. Late-night vigils for work weren’t uncommon, but he rarely enjoyed them. He wasn’t a night owl by nature, only by trade.
The back door opened with a sharp metal screech. Out walked one of the security men and a slender young man with long black hair gathered on top of his head in a Japanese samurai style bun.
Alarms went off inside Cain’s head.
The fans present flocked around the handsome young man, confirming Cain’s suspicions.
Lily Lavender is a man. He was a female impersonator, a cross-dresser, a drag queen. And a talented one at that, convincing even a professional like Cain. He had never heard of a drag queen involved with burlesque. That seemed like such a female-dominated field.
The young man smiled shyly at his adoring admirers, signed each paper thrust at him, and took pictures with them on their cell phones. Once everyone left, Lily-who-wasn’t-a-woman picked up his bag from the ground and headed for the street, his gaze switching from side to side, perhaps in search of a cab.
Since the security guard had withdrawn, Cain had unobstructed access to Lily. He approached warily and intersected the artist’s path by the sidewalk.
“Lily?”
He started, backing off, fear in his eyes. When he saw Cain, he visibly exhaled in relief.
“Oh, Mr. Noble. I didn’t see you there.”
Cain smirked. “How did you know my name? I failed to introduce myself in your dressing room.”
Lily flinched, his cheeks turning a cute shade of dark pink. “D-didn’t you…?”
“No.” He offered a reassuring bow. “Look, I’m not gonna harm you. I’d appreciate some answers, though. Care to explain this song and dance? Pardon the pun.”
The young man released a long breath. “Yes, of course. I suppose I owe you that much.”
“Who are you?”
“My name’s Riley Lavender. Lily is my onstage persona.” He chuckled insecurely. “And off-hours sometimes too.”
“Nothing wrong with that.”
His eyes lit up when he heard Cain’s words, and a soft, grateful smile made an appearance. “I agree.” His smile faded as he glanced around cautiously. “Listen. Could we maybe have that talk somewhere else? I’m feeling a bit exposed out here.”
“My car’s back there in the alley.”
After Riley nodded his acquiescence, Cain led them to his vehicle. He opened the door for Riley, who flushed red and giggled but got in without a word. Cain puffed his chest, feeling like a gentleman despite his earlier claims to the contrary.
Riley gave Cain his home address, which Cain filed away in his memory banks.
Neither man spoke until Cain had steered the vehicle into the streets, busy with traffic even at this late hour. Yellowish street lamps lit up damp asphalt and virtually deserted sidewalks. The city looked like a reflection in a mirror, surreal somehow.
Out of the corner of his eye, Cain checked Riley out.
Without makeup, it was obvious he wasn’t a she. Cain had trouble estimating his age—could have been on either side of twenty. No stubble shaded his chin or jaw. Dimples peeked into view, one on each cheek in perfect symmetry. Riley’s eyebrows were narrower than was usual for a man, but they seemed to fit his personality.
Onstage Lily had been bold in an elegant sort of way; in the car Riley came off as shy, unassuming, even a tad bland. But that was a ruse, a mask to cover up the startling beauty Riley was.
All the features Cain had noted in the false Camille were there. The high forehead, full lips, silky smooth pale skin, high cheekbones, bright, intelligent green eyes, a presence that reeked of class. With mild irritation Cain acknowledged his infatuation with this enigmatic young man who’d mesmerized him as a woman and now captivated him as a man.
“Riley? Talk to me. Why’d you pretend to be Camille Astor to hire me to find Sheridan and the Rodin statuette?” Cain kept his tone encouraging and calm. No point in aggravating
the one person who could answer his questions.
Frowning, Riley refused to speak. A loaded silence hung heavy in the air. Finally, Riley let out a sigh. “Sheridan and I are friends. He’s missing. I felt it was my duty to intervene.”
“Why not go to the cops?”
Riley squirmed as if in discomfort. “It wasn’t my place. Camille is the wife.”
That sounded like a flimsy excuse. Of course, it was understandable for feminine gays to avoid the police who tended to be derogatory, dismissive, or outright violent against them. But in this instance that rationalization wasn’t enough.
In any case, clearly Riley wasn’t telling Cain everything, especially why Camille hadn’t gone to the police herself, yet had gone along with the deception.
“Are you and Sheridan lovers?” Cain held his breath in anticipation, as if this was personal somehow.
A bark of laughter came out of Riley’s mouth. “No. Sheridan isn’t into men.”
The reaction, one of surprised amusement, sounded sincere and authentic. But Cain was far from convinced. He decided to pursue a different line of inquiry.
“How long have you been a burlesque singer?”
Riley chuckled. “Is that a subtle query about my age, Mr. Noble? I am of age.” When Riley joked, his New Orleans accent became more prominent, a delicious twang that made Cain’s toes curl. “I’ve sung for my supper for four years now, two of them at the club.”
“That’s your real singing voice, then? You’re not just lip syncing?”
“No, that’s all me. I’m a tenor, so I can sing songs composed for both men and women. It’s tough to vocalize women’s songs, but I manage. Thankfully, if I make a mistake, I can distract and dazzle the audience with the rest of my act.”
“Do you dance too?”
“On occasion.”
“Isn’t it, I don’t know, hard to do? You being a man, after all. There’s some stuff even the best women’s clothes can’t hide.”
“Ah, the intricacies of the male anatomy.” Riley grinned. “You’d be surprised at the tricks we employ to camouflage our privates.”
“There are other burlesque drag queens at the club?”
“A few. Mostly women, though. The men come on first, early in the evening, before most customers arrive. I’m the only one performing late into the night, at midnight. Tonight was a short show, as it’s a weekday. Weekends are busier for me.”
Cain’s brain was teeming with questions. His head ached from their urgency. Quickly he fished out a gummy bear from the bag in his jacket pocket and popped it into his mouth. Gelatinous sweetness relieved the symptoms immediately.
“You’ve got a sweet tooth, I see.” Riley chuckled. “Saw you eat goodies at the office.”
“I suffer from low blood sugar,” Cain explained curtly. He hated going into his weakness. It wasn’t a manly thing to do, to confess he had a vulnerability, a chink in his armor. “Since you can sing so well, how come you’re not a recording artist?”
Riley hesitated. “Adam Lambert can get away with female attributes because he’s a skilled rock cock, so to speak. I wouldn’t be. Firstly, rock and pop are not my genres of music. Second, I’d put on way more than guyliner, glitter, and lip gloss. Is the world ready? Is America?” He shook his head and sighed. “No, the club’s my venue—for now at least. Maybe one day….”
Riley sounded resigned. Cain empathized. Today’s America turned alternative sexualities into dangerous ventures to undertake in public. Hate had become socially acceptable conduct again, as if the clock had been turned back a hundred years. Resistance and rebellion existed, though, and their voices could not be silenced.
Perhaps one day Riley would make his mark in the world as a world-class burlesque starlet.
“Um, Mr. Noble?” Riley’s small voice startled Cain out of his musings. “This is the wrong direction. This is not the way to my place.”
Confused by his guest’s words, Cain gazed out the windshield to get his bearings. Instantly he identified the problem. He’d not been driving Riley home; he’d headed to his home instead.
And deep down he knew why.
Cain was well aware he was being a fool. But… in for a penny, in for a pound. He couldn’t deny his desires for one more second, even if it’d be a monumental mistake.
“Spend the night with me.”
In the passenger seat Riley gasped. “Wh-what?”
Cain swallowed hard to erase the dryness of his throat. “Look, I know this is kind of wrong and all kinds of crazy but… I just wanna make love to you.” He ended his declaration in a singsong voice, echoing the number Riley had performed back at the club.
Riley giggled. “Touché, monsieur.” He continued smiling at Cain, his dimples showcased perfectly. Cain could barely sit still waiting for a response. Finally Riley shifted on the seat, visibly making himself comfortable. “Guess I should buckle up for the ride, then.”
Ridiculously giddy and triumphant, Cain grinned and went right on driving.
Chapter Six
The day before
“WHAT are you going to do?” Honoré asked Riley, his tone fraught with concern.
Riley worried his bottom lip, tasting cherry-flavored lipstick. “I don’t know yet.” He waved the bouncer off with a soft smile. “You should be at the door. Woolrich will bark at you if you’re not there on time.”
“Pfft.” Honoré dismissed the notion with a swift wave of hand. Which was understandable because Woolrich never raised his voice. “I don’t give a flying fuck what that miserable gargoyle has to say. His bark is worse than his bite. To be honest, he probably doesn’t even know how to bite.”
Riley chuckled and winked. “Lucky for all of us that you do, honey.”
“Don’t I know it, precious.” Honoré tossed his head back and kicked his leg up in true diva fashion and exited with a strut befitting the flashiest of men.
Once his friend was gone from the dressing room, Riley mulled over his outlandish plan. So much could go horribly wrong. He needed a second opinion and he knew where to get one.
He fished out his phone and called his father. “Hi, Dad.”
Ian sounded weary when he answered. “Uh, Riley? Hi.”
Riley winced. Ian went to bed early because he rose early. His daily routine and Riley’s were complete opposites, since Riley worked late at a nightclub. “Sorry to wake you.”
“Nah. I was up. That’s how you know you’re growing old, son. When you have to pee at least five times a night, no exceptions.”
Riley grinned at his father’s sarcastic voice because that meant he was amused, not angry. “Aww.”
Ian grunted. “What’s up?”
“Um….” Now that Riley had his father on the line, he found he had great difficulty forming his thoughts into words. “Something’s going on here. But I have a plan. I guess I just need some reassurance.”
Ian paused. The silence was worrisome, but Riley waited patiently. Finally Ian asked, “How bad is it? Do you need help?”
Bless you, Dad. Riley’s heart warmed at his father’s instant offer of assistance. “I said I’ve got a plan, Dad. But it involves an innocent stranger being pulled into this mess. I have my doubts about justifying this. What if it all goes sideways?”
“Life tends to do that, son. Be careful.”
“You taught me to take risks,” Riley reminded him in a rather smartass tone.
Ian chuckled. “I did. But I also taught you to be smart about it. To take precautions if and when possible. And to be careful in whom you place your trust.”
Riley pondered his father’s sage advice. To some it might have come off as overly cautious or even pessimistic, but LA only glittered on the surface. Beneath dwelled a black sea of monsters. But if he wanted to get things done, he would have step out of his comfort zone and put himself in harm’s way.
And perhaps others too.
What kind of person did that? Riley shuddered. This was the role he’d picked for himself. N
ow he would have to play the cards he’d been dealt.
“I’ll take care, Dad. You do the same. Go back to sleep. Love you.”
“You too, son.”
When Ian’s side of the call ended with a click, Riley immediately felt cold and alone. As if the hand of death hovered over him, ready to claim him forever. Instinctively, he glanced up at the shadows of the dressing room, but no one was there.
Riley snorted in self-admonishment. “Of course there’s nothing in here. Your overactive imagination will be the death of you, Lavender.”
After checking his makeup with one last glance, Riley stepped out into the hallway and into the hustle and bustle of a burlesque nightclub. Pretty girls in colorful, skimpy outfits dashed past him on high heels, laughing as they disappeared into dusky corridors full of clothing racks, boxes, wires, and stacked chairs. Invisible clouds of perfume and hairspray wafted in their wake, mixing with the lesser odors of concrete dust and electrical machinery. Everything a spectator viewed onstage was controlled from backstage. That was where the true work of the club, the dirty grind, was done. Riley had great respect for people who could do manual labor. For some reason he never included singing and dancing in that category.
There was still time before midnight and his stint onstage. So Riley dawdled, doing vocal exercises and flexing his muscles. His show didn’t last for more than an hour, but sometimes it felt like days passed onstage, and he was left exhausted, drained to the bone. But he loved his job. It made him feel accomplished and beautiful. It allowed him to be himself.
The maze of narrow hallways was familiar to him. He never got lost. And he knew all the best hiding places when he sought five minutes of alone time, apart from the bedlam.
Unfortunately, so did a few others.
On his way to the orchestral-instrument storeroom, normally devoid of people during showtime, Riley heard hushed voices. He slowed his steps and quieted, sneaking the rest of the way to steal a peek around the corner.