by Tara Lain
“I know.” He walked away from the group with Laila beside him. He spoke quietly. “There’s no guarantee how much the agency’s going to pay for this effort if the client hates it.”
“You mean they could charge us to get fired?”
Wen laughed. “That’d be Arnie’s style.”
“So where can I find a bunch of multiethnic, nonbinary people who don’t want a bunch of money to be our guinea pigs? I guess I could just go out on the sidewalk.”
A little eureka exploded in his brain. “Uh, I might know a place.”
“Really? Jesus, Wen, if this thing works, the whole team is going to owe our employment to you.”
“Yeah. It’s got to work first.”
“So where are you going to find this rainbow crew?”
He stuck up a finger. “I’ll let you know if I’m successful.”
Chapter Eleven
“Come on, Peter, let’s go to the club.”
Peter flipped onto his side, facing the wall. “Not going.”
Samu knelt beside the mattress. “We told Smee you’d sing tonight.”
“He’ll just have to die of disappointment.”
Peter felt the mattress wobble, so Samu must have sat. Shit. Not giving up.
A big hand plopped on Peter’s shoulder. “What’s this about, Peter?”
“I’m tired. I didn’t get a lot of sleep.”
“Never stopped you before.”
“Come on, Samu, leave me alone.”
“Shit, Peter, is this business guy really worth all this?”
Peter sat up like somebody lit his tail on fire. “What the fuck do you mean?”
Samu sighed. “I mean, you haven’t been yourself since Wen showed up in that subway. If he’s what you want, then go after him. Otherwise, get on with your life.”
“Why would I want a straightover dude like Wen?”
“You tell me? Come on, PP, I’ve never see you flame out over anybody—until this guy. He’s nice enough, but you see something else. Something we don’t see. No offense, but you’ve got three mountains of crap you carry around, and I suspect you’ll have to drop some of that shit to have Wen and his very complicated life. Decide if you’re up for that, but quit acting like the world’s out to get you. This is on you.”
Peter stared. Samu never lied to him. All the guys had agendas. Wingman wanted to be a star, Map craved money, Dudish—well, Dudish didn’t know what he wanted, which made him dangerous—but Samu seemed to want the best for Peter and everybody. “Okay, shit. Give me a few minutes and I’ll be there.”
“Honest?”
“Honest.”
Samu got up and lumbered his big body out of the room without even looking back. That was Samu. Peter said he’d come and Samu trusted him.
Unlike Wen.
Peter wiped a hand over his face. Why had Wen’s accusation hurt so much? Hell, it was only true. If Wen knew anything about Peter really, he could have found fifty people who’d line up and swear every word Wen said barely covered Peter’s resume of faults.
But for Wen, he’d tried to come through. He’d tried not to be a fairy flake. And Wen kicked him in the teeth. Yes, he apologized, but there just wasn’t enough juice in it. If trying to act like a grown-up got him nothing, why bother?
Fuck, who needs him?
Peter stood, took a deep breath to stave off his dizziness, and walked to his small pile of clothes folded on the cardboard box in the closet. He pulled out his tight black jeans and skimmed them on, then slipped on the long-sleeved black T-shirt. Good base coat. Now what?
He wandered over to where Tink kept her stuff. She didn’t mind if he used it, so he grabbed a pair of black-and-white dotted suspenders, snapped them on, and then layered a pink kimono over the whole deal. He slid on his black sneakers and walked to the door. Don’t feel like singing.
So what?
An hour later, Peter stood next to Samu offstage and stared into the special-effect smoke rising all around the musicians.
Wingman yelled, “And now the fairy prince of the Lost Boys, Peter Panachek!”
The crowd went nuts, which perked him up a little, and he raised his arms as Samu carried him onto the stage in their flying pose. They made a big circle while people cheered, then Samu set Peter down next to the microphone and went to his keyboards.
The keyboards established the tone as they started into Gaga’s famous anthem, “Born This Way.” Peter didn’t have a great voice, but it was sassy and fun, and he did well on up-tempo songs with a story. Since Peter still wore Tink’s pink kimono and his red hair swirled around his head, he really camped it up when he sang about his mother rolling his hair and putting his lipstick on in the glass of her boudoir. As if his mother had ever even let him into her bedroom. When Peter broke into the chorus, he walked down close to the audience and reached out to the spangled and studded masses, proclaiming they were all born this way.
He stalked to the corner of the stage, knelt over the apron toward the audience, reached out—and came face-to-face with Wen. Peter gasped and for a second stopped singing.
Wen grasped Peter’s hand and pressed it to his lips. He mouthed the words, “I’m sorry.”
Peter’s mouth poised open—then he picked up the refrain and kept singing, but his eyes strayed back to Wen. A lot of the people in the audience craned their necks to see who Peter was looking at, but they still sang along and clapped to the song.
When it ended, the audience stomped and yelled. The Lost Boys were supposed to do an original song next, but Samu picked up a refrain from a country-western tune by Cam they’d practiced a bit called “Half Broke Heart.” Peter glanced back at Samu and got a wink. Okay, we can play this one.
Peter strutted around the stage, yelling about making a bunch of lame excuses, and where Cam’s song had said blonde, Peter proclaimed he was a redhead but wasn’t stupid. When he got to how he better leave too, he wagged his butt toward Wen. A quick glance showed Wen looking half-amused and half-worried. That seemed about right.
Finally, Peter twirled and stared right in Wen’s eyes when he declared that a half-broke heart was still broke.
With that conclusion, Peter folded forward in a bow and then let Samu lift him to carry him off the stage as the Lost Boys announced time for a break.
In the wings, Samu set him down and smiled in his face. “See, he came.”
“Yes. I wonder why.”
“Why don’t you go find out?”
“Why don’t you come with me?”
Samu extended a hand in a swooping bow. “After you.”
Peter straightened his back and marched out the stage door into the club. People crowded around, patted him, and yelled congratulations.
He waved a hand. “Thanks so much. Glad you liked it.” But his eyes kept combing the crowd. Finally, from between two guys painted silver, Wen squeezed through, looking wildly conservative by comparison in his jeans and white shirt but still adorable. He smiled, though it appeared a little uncertain. “Hi. You were great. I didn’t know you could sing too.”
Peter shrugged. “I can’t, really. I just fake it.”
“Sounded great to me. Uh, I didn’t get to tell you how much I love the painting. It’s amazing. More amazing than I can even describe.”
“Thanks.” Peter’s eyes drifted to his black sneakers.
“I already took it to the art department, and they’re working it into a new campaign.”
“That’s good.” He couldn’t quite raise his eyes, but his heart beat too hard. Wen came. He apologized.
Wen said, “You’re wonderful on those keyboards, Samu.”
Samu nodded in that easy way that said flattery didn’t matter one shit to him.
The other Boys—and girl—piled down the stage steps and into the audience like a group of puppies.
“Hey, Wen.”
Wen smiled. “Hi, Wingman.” He nodded. “Dudish, Map.” His smile got a little forced. “Hi, Tink.”
She i
gnored him, but the Boys slapped Wen’s shoulder and gave him high fives.
Map said, “So, you got Peter’s money?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a check. He handed it to Peter. “This is just the kill fee. If the client buys the campaign, I’ll get the rest of the money to you.”
Peter stared at the handwritten check for $750 from Allworth Communications. “Thanks.” This sure made it feel like a business. Still, Wingman and Map practically had saliva rolling down their chins at the sight of the check, which made sense. Their landlord raised the rent pretty regularly, and since places where they’d overlook six people in a two-room apartment were scarce, they paid it. But the Lost Boys had expenses—instruments, music rights, lights, amps, beer, and party supplies. Add a supply of illicit drugs for Dudish, and money went fast.
Wen looked at the Boys, glanced at his shoes, looked back at the Boys, and rushed out some words. “Uh, I was wondering if any of you would want to be in the ad? No lines. Just dance around, maybe bring your instruments, stuff like that.”
The group got quiet—though it was hard to tell in the middle of the wild-ass din of the club. Peter’s stomach clenched.
Wingman said, “Wait. I thought this was all about Peter’s painting.”
Wen nodded. “The painting is the background, like the world of the ad, but people are moving around in it. It’s all done digitally, of course.”
Map, aka Mr. Mercenary, pounced. “So you’d pay us to be in this ad?”
“Yes. I can’t pay a lot because it’s speculative, but you’d only have to be there, like, a half day.”
“How much?”
Wen smiled a little. “Uh, probably $100 or $150 each. I know it’s not much.”
Wingman’s eyes looked wide and shiny. “What if the peanut butter guy buys the ad?”
“Then you’d get more, and you’d be on national television.” He grinned.
Dudish murmured, “No shit?”
Wingman beamed. “Hell yes. Count me in.”
Map looked at Peter. “You?”
Peter frowned and shook his head. “I can’t, but you guys do it if you want to.”
Tink put a hand on Peter’s arm. “IfPeter’snotI’mnot.”
Peter covered her hand with his. “Seriously, my reasons are personal. This could be good for the Lost Boys. You never know.” He glanced at Wen. “It’s not every day you get such a good business proposition.”
A crease popped between Wen’s brows. “Peter, I—” He looked around at the others and stopped talking.
Samu said, “Let’s go discuss this someplace else, okay?” He glanced at Wen. “We’ll make a decision.” He gave Peter a look and herded the Boys and Tink away toward the back of the club.
Wen kind of shuffled. Not his usual to be so awkward. “I figured you wouldn’t want to do it.”
Peter crossed his arms. “I’m sure Map will negotiate for the rest of them.”
“Yeah.” He half grinned. “I really love the painting. I wish I wasn’t so desperate to win the account. I’d just keep it and hang it on my wall.”
Peter wanted to like that idea. “But then you are desperate, aren’t you?”
His forehead contracted. “I’m sorry, Peter. I wish I could be what you want and that we could just fly off together into creative world. I just can’t.”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
“No, you don’t.” He held up a hand. “Honest, I want to so much. I hate the word should more than tetanus. I just don’t know how to escape it.”
“You need—”
“Good evening, Peter. You performed so well tonight. Why don’t you introduce me to your friend?” Vadon Hooker stared over Wen’s shoulder at Peter.
Don’t panic! Or at least don’t look it. Peter slouched a little and tried to appear offhand. “Hi, Vadon. This here’s, uh,—” He glanced up at Wen, hoping he’d catch on. “—Wendell, right? Yeah, this is Wendell. He’s trying to get us to be in some ad thing he’s doing, and he’s damned persistent.” He put all his best shark in his smile. “Aren’t you, Wendell?”
Wen stared at Peter, his eyes narrowed; then he plastered on the phoniest smile since Trump said he supported the LGBT community. With a turn, he stuck out his hand. “Great club you have here. I’m Wendell Darling. And you are?”
“Vadon Hooker.” Vadon raised one of his dark brows but took Wen’s hand. “Why are you bothering my boys?”
“Well now, I don’t think of it as bothering. I mean, we could give these guys some exposure that would benefit the club as well as the band. No guarantees, of course, but if the ad in question were to be bought by the client, it could be good all around.”
Peter pressed his lips together, trying to look pissed. That wasn’t exactly hard.
Hooker said, “What kind of ad and why do you need the Lost Boys?”
Wen waved an arm grandly. “We’re seeking the look of young America, with all the vitality and diversity that entails. I happened to see the Lost Boys when I visited your club one night recently and felt they’d be perfect. I know I’ve been a little, shall we say, focused, but our big presentation is only days away, so I have been hoping to persuade the Boys to participate. And the girl too, of course.”
Hooker looked at Peter. “What do you think of this?”
“I think it’s crap, but the Boys want to do it, or at least some of them do. So count me out, and quit pissing me off, okay? Go aggro the others.” Taking a deep breath, he turned and walked away. Every cell in his body screamed for Hooker to follow him and leave Wen alone. He got halfway back to the stage. Shit, not working. Then a hand grasped his shoulder, he turned to face Hooker, and much as he hated those hands on him, he almost sighed in relief. He channeled a drag queen. “So did you get rid of him?”
“He’s off looking for the rest of the Boys.”
“Thanks.”
Hooker’s eyes narrowed. “Why does this guy bug you so bad?”
Okay, play it cool. “Truth? He reminds me of someone I didn’t like.”
“Oh? Who?”
Make it good. “My father. This gray, dull accountant person, always slaving away to make ends meet. A total loser.” He made the L sign on his forehead. “So it’s really not this guy’s fault. He just rubs me the wrong way.”
“So your father is an accountant.”
Peter sighed. “Was. He died. Anyway, thanks for rescuing me.”
“Any time.”
That gave Peter a shiver. “I think we’re ready for the next set.” He turned and continued his walk to the stage. Hopefully Wen wouldn’t mind Peter appropriating his father.
Chapter Twelve
“You’re a genius.”
Wen blinked out of his reverie and glanced at Laila. “Thanks. Any particular reason?” He shifted his butt on the stool in the freezing cold photo studio.
“Are you kidding? These kids are amazing. Perfect. They’re like a map of America if America was a bit more creative.”
“Yeah.”
Dudish walked across the photo cove in front of the green screen with Tink by his side. She carried her parasol. He leaned over and whispered something, and she laughed, which came off looking like they could be in love, or maybe not. Wingman played air guitar, and Samu lumbered through the set, then twirled back like a ballerina—a piece of business he made up and literally stroked genius. “I think George is going to have an orgasm, he’s getting so much great stuff.” George, the director and cameraman, raced around the set with a handheld camera to supplement the stationary cameras he’d positioned.
“I can’t wait to see this shit in front of the painting.”
“Me too.” What he really wished he could see was Peter flying across the set held high above Samu’s head, not because Wen desperately need a redheaded white boy in the commercial, but because—well, he just wanted to see Peter. Yes, like all the time. Très stupid.
“Hey, Wen, what kind of music are we goin
g to use?” George held up a hand. “Take a break, guys.”
“I haven’t had time to preview anything. I’ll get on it today.”
George walked over to Wen and Laila. “We need some actual dancing. Can any of these kids dance?”
“Don’t know. Ask ’em.”
George turned toward the green-screen set where the five Lost Boys—which happened to include one girl—were still prancing and laughing. “Hey, can any of you dance?”
Map laughed. “Sure, man.” He did a little b-boy stuff that came off cute and appealing.
Samu threw in a few moves, and George nodded, but then—holy shit. Dudish began a slow, rhythmic undulation, both graceful and sexy—mesmerizing and impossible to look away.
Map reached over to the guitar case Wingman had brought in with him and pulled out the instrument. He handed it to Wingman, who started playing a popular melody.
George looked up from the camera, startled. “Wait. You mean you guys actually play?”
Wingman nodded. “Sure. We’re a band, minus one.”
“Maybe you should play something for the commercial? What do you think, Wen?”
Well, hell. “That might work, but I’ve mostly heard you play covers, and that we can’t do.”
Wingman shook his head. “No, we do lots of original stuff. Both Samu and I write.” He looked at Samu. “What about ‘Airhead’?”
A slow smile crept over Samu’s big face. “Could be. Play some.”
Wingman ran his hands over the guitar strings. “This piece has a lot of keyboard and lyrics, but I’ll give you an idea.” He slid into a piece that somehow melded whimsy and optimism with a touch of deeper romance and truth. Behind Wingman, Samu and Dudish began to dance, not exactly with each other but in harmony. Tink swooped in and sailed around them. The sound raised hairs on Wen’s arms. He glanced at George, who stared with an open mouth.
When Wingman stopped playing, he said, “You need to hear the keyboards and the lyrics. They’re, like, great, man.”
Wen looked at George. “Can we get a piano in here fast?”
“Yes. Actually, they’ve got one in another studio down the hall.”