He shot a glance in the mirror as he gathered up his mini-travel bag, shoving back the rush of jitters. Lipstick was still picture perfect, banging figure on glorious display. So what if Vanity’s profile pic had softened her newly sprouted laugh lines some? The audience loved her and so would Maxwell.
Brandon called a quick good night to the others and shoved his way out of the dressing room toward the exit. When he stepped out into the alley, the sultry heat of the night settled over him. It was only a five-minute walk, and it would take longer to get a cab than hoof it. He just had to hope he wasn't a sweaty mess by the time he got there.
His phone vibrated once from its resting place in his bra and he tugged it out, holding his breath as he glanced down at the number above the glowing envelope icon.
Curtis Martin.
He blew out a sigh of relief. For a second, he'd been sure he was about to get blown off for the second night in a row, but it was only his fuckwit, day-job boss. He must've called during the show and left a voicemail.
Brandon hefted the bag onto his shoulder and started down the block as he listened to the message.
"Brandon? It's me, Curt. I'm going to need you to come in to the office early tomorrow morning. I've got a golf thing with some buddies and someone needs to be there to let the plumber in. The shitter's broken again. Thanks."
If he had any concerns about meeting this new agent, that message sealed the deal.
He'd told Curt at least a dozen times not to call him at night when he was at his second job. He also explained that he couldn’t come in early when he worked both jobs the day before, but Curt never listened. It was only petty stuff like food and a roof over his head that stopped Brandon from going ham on the little worm for ignoring his request, but after tonight?
Despite the fact that his dogs were still barking from those heels, the thought of Curt's face when he not only quit, but also told him what a pathetic little monster he was, added a little skip to his step.
He continued down the street, head full of questions and answers about the coming meeting.
First things first, he'd definitely ask for some ID. He'd already done some research on IMDb, and although there were no pictures of Maxwell Connor on the site, he was listed as having multiple clients, a few Brandon had even heard of. He did manage to find a basic LinkedIn account for him, but even that only had one grainy image on it, and Brandon wasn’t about to get catfished.
He was just trying to think of what to order at the bar to portray the right image when he reached his destination. His heart hammered in his chest as he stared up at the sign for Mirage Bar and Restaurant.
Surely, this was it. Vanity’s big break. It had to be. Brandon couldn’t explain it, but he’d never been so filled with anticipation. Like something major was going to happen that would change everything.
He took a steadying breath and leaned against the entrance doorway as he shucked off his sneakers and stuffed them into his bag before donning Vanity’s heels again.
Showtime.
He stepped into the bar and glanced around, pleasantly surprised a moment later when a trim, fit guy with a moustache approached him.
"Vanity?"
A grin spread over his face as Brandon nodded.
“In the flesh. And you must be Maxwell Connor."
“That’s me.”
Pleasant face, easy on the eyes, definitely didn’t look like a creeper. Good start.
“So pleased to meet you." He took Brandon’s elbow almost reverently and led him toward the bar. “Call me Max. We’re over here, so we could have some privacy."
He gestured to the two-person table nestled in the corner. Brandon slipped into one of the seats and Max took the other.
The waitress came right over and offered them a drink menu, but Brandon waved it off.
“I’ll take a bourbon Manhattan up, please."
Max smiled and held up two fingers. "Same."
The cocktail waitress stepped away, leaving the two of them alone again, and a case of nerves had him wishing he'd had one of those before leaving the Kitty Kat. Now that he was meeting Max in the flesh, he felt even more sure that this meeting was the key to finally saying goodbye to his day job and hello to fame and fortune.
Max practically oozed energy and enthusiasm. Brandon wondered idly if he was any good in the sack, but then shoved the thought aside. There were plenty of cute guys in this city. Agents who wanted to take a thirty-something drag queen and make her a star?
Not so much.
"First off, let me apologize again for cancelling so abruptly last night. I’m prone to migraines and it was a doozy.”
“My mother gets them, and I completely understand. They can be debilitating. No need to apologize.”
“Very gracious of you.” Maxwell shot him a grateful smile. “I already made you wait a whole extra day, so let's not beat around the bush, Vanity. I'm a direct guy and I like people to be direct back. What do you see for yourself in the near future? What are your goals and dreams?"
Brandon settled against the red velvet seat-back and thought long and hard before replying. This was one of the questions he'd imagined would come up, but he’d hoped to know more what, exactly, Max wanted from him before having to answer it…
"I want to find a juicy role I can throw myself into. I want to be able to make art and be respected for my work. But most of all," he shot Max the practiced smile, dimples and all, that the Village Voice had once dubbed as ‘lethal’, "I want to be able to tell all those assholes who made my life miserable when I was young to fuck off."
Max threw his head back and laughed. The waitress set their drinks on the table before melting into the background like they did at the most expensive places. Brandon took a sip from the frosty, crystal martini glass, feeling like royalty.
"I appreciate your honesty."
"So now that you know what I want, the question is, Mr. Connor, what is it that you want?"
Brandon hadn't meant for the question to come out sounding loaded, but he'd spent the last five years working burlesque. Flirtation was literally his profession, and it had crept in without warning.
He waited to see how Max would react. Either he'd get all uncomfortable and their warm rapport would evaporate under the glaring heat of homophobia, or he'd laugh it off and take it the way it had been delivered.
To Brandon’s surprise, he did neither.
He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
"I don't think it would be appropriate to tell you that since you're considering taking me on as your agent, Vanity."
Brandon flushed and cleared his throat. "I meant professionally, Max. What do you see for me as far as the industry goes?"
Max pulled away, his gaze lingering on Brandon’s face a little longer before he took a sip from his glass.
"TV. There’s a pilot starting production in the fall. Lots of buzz around it. They want a character to play a drag queen and are adamant about being authentic here.” He set his drink down and slapped the table with his free hand. "I've seen the preliminary treatment and I swear, that role is made for you."
Brandon’s throat went tight with emotion. He'd been hoping for a regular gig off Broadway. His stretch, pie-in-the-sky fantasy was that Max had come to talk about a role actually on Broadway. The very idea that Vanity’s face could potentially be splashed all over millions of television screens throughout the nation?
It was enough to make him weep.
His mom would be so goddamned proud of him.
He bit down on his bottom lip to keep it from shaking, and tried to talk himself down.
None of this was a done deal. Max needed to sign on as his agent, first. Then, he would have to audition, probably along with dozens, if not hundreds, of other candidates. It was just like him to go off half-cocked before there was even anything to be excited about.
"You're very quiet. Are you interested or am I wasting your time here?"
Brandon polished off the last of his drin
k and flashed Max another smile. Honesty had been working so far, and there was no reason not to continue.
"Definitely not wasting my time. I'm honored that you contacted me. I'm used to small-ball stuff here in the city, so I don't know how all this works. What's the next step? I don't want to get too far ahead of myself, because next thing you know, I'll be calling friends and family and throwing a party in my own honor before I even have a job."
"Why don't we have a look at the script? I didn't want to be presumptuous by bringing it to our first meeting without actually having signed you yet, but I'm staying just at The Luther, on 54th. We can head over to the bar there, I'll run up and get the script and bring it down for you to look at. Sound good?"
Brandon managed to keep a lid on the mini-freak out moment his brain was having.
An actual script.
For him to look at.
"Sure. I'd like that."
Max threw two twenties down on the table and stood. Brandon followed suit but made a grab for the edge of the table as the room spun.
"You okay?" he asked, gripping Brandon’s elbow to help steady him.
He blinked up at Max and nodded. "Long night on a hot stage and probably not enough water to drink. When we get to the hotel bar, I'll have to remedy that. Come on," he said, picking up his bag.
They headed outside and strolled down the sidewalk. The stifling summer air didn't help Brandon’s increasing queasiness, though, and by the time they reached the hotel a short while later, he was sure he'd be sick.
He'd always been hearty stock, but it was just his luck that tonight would be the night he'd wilt like a rose in the heat.
Not now. Please, God, not now.
Max’s low voice penetrated Brandon’s daze as he steered them toward the door of the hotel, but for the life of him, he couldn't make out what the other man was saying. He sounded muffled and so far away…
Lights flashed before his eyes as he tried to tell Max he couldn't hear him…that something was wrong.
Very wrong.
His tongue was thick, like a fat slug in his mouth, and he couldn't feel his legs.
“M-Max?"
Cool air battered his face, and he forced his heavy eyelids open. Max half carried him toward the gold elevator doors he could only see in flashes a few yards away.
Had he had something bad for dinner? He struggled to recall what he'd eaten, to no avail.
The doors dinged and they stepped into the empty elevator. Dimly, he heard Max’s voice again. Softer and slower this time.
"It's okay, Brandon. It’ll be over soon."
Brandon? Had he even told Max his real name?
But the thought fluttered away before he could grab hold of it. The next few minutes went by in a psychedelic blur. The motion of the elevator, the drag of his heels along the plush carpet, the sound of a bolt slipped into place.
It was only when he saw the gloves on his hands and the vacant look in Maxwell’s eyes that Brandon knew the truth, and it filled him with a deep, aching regret.
There would be no TV show.
No television role for his mom to be proud of. No fame to lord over those catty bitches who told him he’d passed his prime.
If only he'd known that tonight would be his last bow, he'd have milked it a whole lot longer.
24
Lucky glanced at the clock and stood, stretching her arms higher over her head until her back cracked.
Nine PM, and she still hadn’t taken her bath or done anything that remotely resembled relaxing. After talking to Skip and picking up her car, she’d gone straight home, as planned. She’d intended to stop working once she made her calls to get some information on Moncrief, but once she’d started working, she hadn’t stopped.
Stopping meant time to think about something other than her open cases. And time to think was bad…
Especially now that she knew there was almost no way her flat tire had been an accident.
“Something like that?” Skip had said, looking grim. “It would’ve been like a blowout when you were driving. You’d have felt it…probably even heard it. Someone slashed your tire.”
She pushed the disturbing thought aside as she looked around the room and realized with a start that it was already dark out. The only light in the room was coming from the street and the screen of her laptop. Her stomach gurgled and she realized she hadn't even thought about dinner, but now she was starving.
She saved the changes to her notes and closed the laptop before crossing the room to the kitchen and flicking on the light. There was a ninety percent chance the fridge was empty and she was going to have to get takeout, but there was also a ten percent chance Abby had brought home leftovers from the bar the night before.
She opened the refrigerator door and slumped against it as she surveyed the contents.
Relish, ketchup, mustard, almond milk, and what was either furry cheese or a small rodent of some kind with mange wrapped in a plastic baggy. She wrinkled her nose and prayed it was cheese as she grabbed a plastic shopping bag and reached for it.
Clearly, they needed to add “clean out the fridge” to the list of shared chores. She rarely even opened the damned thing, mostly getting her food on the go, and either Abby did the same or her sense of smell had been destroyed from having to breathe in all that cologne night after night at the club.
Lucky closed her eyes and gripped the baggy full of whatever that was and wrapped the shopping bag around it three times, tying it off at the end.
"Takeout it is," she mumbled under her breath. She lobbed the offending item into the trash and tugged her cell phone from her shorts pocket, quickly thumbing to her local pizza joint. Once she placed her order, she made her way to the small kitchen window and peered out onto the crowded city streets.
They were out there somewhere. The people who had killed Mel Walsh and Bishop Moncrief. Just strolling around on the same New York sidewalk as the little girl across the hall whose mother called her Peanut, even though her name was really Sadie. Maybe sitting shoulder to shoulder on the train next to Lonnie, who owned the corner store. Or in line at the grocery store behind Mrs. Srinivasan, who always left a pile of sturdy blankets on the front stoop of their building on the coldest winter nights.
There were monsters lurking in her neighborhood, and thinking about it now made her muscles tense.
Hell, in a borough this size, there were a lot more than just the two. Any passing stranger, even the most harmless-looking, could be hiding a dark secret. But right now, for her, the only ones that mattered were the ones she was responsible for catching. And the fact that she hadn't caught either of them yet?
Was pissing her off.
A dull ache formed between her eyes and she reached up to yank the elastic band from her hair, sighing as the pressure eased. She massaged her tender scalp and turned away from the window, heading back to the living room.
She’d spent the past couple hours going over her notes about Moncrief. According to his emotional assistant, the Bishop was one miracle away from sainthood. Mrs. Adamson had explained that he was particular and exacting, yes, but he’d been a good boss and an even better person. Her testimony bordered on hero worship, so Lucky took it with a grain of salt. After making her way through a list of four church associates and two family members, though, they all had the same story.
Michael Moncrief didn’t have a single enemy. Yes, some of his colleagues found him to be difficult and sanctimonious, but across the board, they’d all described it as no more than professional jealousy and church politics. When she’d tried to delicately probe about potential rumors of sexual misconduct, every single one of them had shut her down. No hesitation, no telling pauses.
Not Moncrief. No way.
Either the good Bishop had been very careful about covering his tracks, or he was as squeaky clean as it seemed.
So why the humiliating violation, then?
She blew out a sigh and made her way toward the large whiteboard riddled
with magnets hanging on her living room wall. For the next half an hour, she scoured her notes again, until her eyes started watering with fatigue. When the buzzer finally rang, she let out a sigh of relief, desperate for both the break and the sustenance.
She got up and pressed the intercom button.
"Hello?"
“Giuseppe's," a male voice replied. She buzzed him in and grabbed a five from her purse before going to the door. A knock sounded a few seconds later and she swung it open.
"Bless you," she murmured, the smell of spicy tomato sauce tickling her nose and making her mouth water.
"Hey there, Miss Strickland. How's it going tonight?"
"Pretty good, Ricky, you?" She should probably be embarrassed that she knew at least three quarters of the delivery people from that place by name, but she was too hungry for shame.
"Hoping for a break in the weather, I'll tell you that much. It’s like a sauna out there. I shouldn't complain, though, the guys in the kitchen have it a thousand times worse." He handed over the white box, nodding his thanks for the tip before backing out the door. "Stay cool!"
"You too," she called after him. She closed the door, locking it before she set the box onto the table. She was just about to sink her teeth into the first, cheesy slice when the buzzer sounded again. "Shit."
She set down the pizza and scurried to the intercom, wondering if it was Ricky again.
"Yeah?"
"It's me."
She didn't have to ask who it was, disengaging the front door lock with a press of the button. Suddenly, her stomach that had been clenching with hunger did a restless flip-flop. This wouldn't be the first time ‘Los had been to her apartment. It would, however, be the first time he'd ever shown up unannounced. On the heels of the past twenty-four hours, she had a sinking suspicion that this was more than just a breezy social call. He’d come to clear the air.
She yanked the elastic band off her wrist and stuffed her hair back into its ponytail before opening the door.
Lucky Break (Lucky Strickland) Page 16