Angel (The Camboy Network #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

RHYS

Stepping off the subway in Staten Island always feels like I’ve walked through the looking glass. On this side, I’m not Rhys Rawlings, pole dancer and camboy extraordinaire. Instead, I regress to Ricky Gallo, the scrawny, flamboyant gay boy from down the street.

I’ve even dressed the part. Jeans—ugh. And a t-shirt—double ugh. At least the jeans hug my ass like a second skin and my t-shirt sports a cute rainbow unicorn. Not that I expect anyone from the old neighborhood to appreciate the ’fit. The people I grew up with aren’t the most… trendy.

I hightailed it out of here the first chance I got and I only come back when absolutely necessary. Like for Dad’s sixtieth birthday party.

I was tempted not to come. It’s not like anyone will really miss me anyway.

I don’t remember the last time I had a real conversation with my dad, and my mom only calls when she needs something from me. My brother, Nico, and I get along pretty well, but he’s always busy with his wife and kids. They have their own lives here that I’m not really a part of. And I haven’t kept in touch with anyone else in the old neighborhood. There’s never been any reason to.

It’s about a twenty-minute walk from the subway station to the house where I grew up. Nico offered to come pick me up, but I need the extra time to psych myself up for the party.

I can hear it from a block away. Music floats over yards and rooftops. Voices mix with barks of laughter and parents shouting at kids. It sounds like the entire neighborhood’s turned out for the big event. I wouldn’t be surprised. The Gallos have been a part of this tight-knit community for generations.

I stop right before turning the corner onto my parents’ street, gripping the strap of my crossbody bag tightly.

I can do this. I can totally do this. It’s only for a couple hours. Just grin and bear it—like I’m performing on stage or on camera. Then I can escape back to Brooklyn and my real life.

I suck in a deep breath and turn the corner. The party sounds are about ten times louder. Cars line both sides of the small residential street, and people spill out the front door onto the driveway and lawn. I was wrong—they didn’t just invite the entire neighborhood, they’ve invited the entire freaking city.

“Hey, little Ricky!” Someone shouts my name when I’m still three houses away.

I can’t tell who it is, but I recognize the group of men standing in the middle of the driveway. They’re my brother’ s friends, guys we both grew up with, all a few years older than me.

“Hey.” I greet them with a wave, then brace myself as I’m dragged into their circle and passed around for hugs. It’s not the way most people like me would’ve been greeted by people like them. But I’m lucky. Nico’s always been protective of me, and so, by extension, have all of his friends. It’s the only reason I didn’t get bullied growing up—it helps having the entire football team watching your back.

Although, I’ve always wondered if they see me less as Nico’s kid brother and more like a defenseless little pet. The way they toss me around and pat me on the head makes me think it’s probably the latter.

“How you doing, Ricky?”

“Hey, welcome home, kid.”

“Good to see ya, it’s been a while.”

“Good to see you guys, too.” I can’t help laughing at their enthusiasm.

They’re good guys, even if I’ve never had a single thing in common with them. Even if they’d have a collective heart attack if they found out what I do for a living. I might not like coming home much, but I have to admit this warm greeting is nice.

I’ve worked my way through their makeshift obstacle course when someone says, “Nico and your parents are in the back.”

“Thanks!” I venture inside. What are the chances I can sneak through the house and find my parents without getting stopped by some auntie or uncle? Absolutely zero.

“Ricky!”

“Look at you! Oh my lord, you’re all grown up now! ”

“Cute shirt!”

“Whatcha up to these days?”

“What the hell is he wearing?”

“You need to visit your ma and pa more often.”

“Dina! Ricky’s here!”

I’m shuffled along with random hands picking at my clothes, my hair, my cheeks. Arms pulling me into hugs and heavy slaps on the back.

Listen, I’m a pretty tactile person. I’m used to people getting handsy with me—I have to be, considering I’m a camboy and I moonlight as a pole dancer at a nightclub. But I don’t get a quarter of this attention when I’m strutting around in my g-string at The Bronzed Rail.

By the time they spit me out on the other side of the living room, I need a minute to put myself back together.

Mom’s in the kitchen, directing an army of neighborhood women. She turns when I stumble in and marches over to me.

“Did you eat yet?” she asks, as she pulls me into a short, but bone-crushing hug.

“Not yet,” I manage to choke out.

“There’s food in the backyard.” Then she pulls back, holding me at arm’s length, and I can feel her laser-like gaze scanning me from head to toe.

She narrows her eyes. “What did you do to your hair?”

I reach up to pat the messy bun that took me half an hour to get just right. It’s probably actually messy now, rather than merely artfully tousled. “What about it?”

She plants her hands on her hips. “It’s purple.”

“Just barely,” I mutter. It’s a very dark purple. Dark enough that if you don’t look too closely, it could pass as my natural black. She’s lucky I didn’t come with the bright pink I had last week.

Mom shakes her head disapprovingly. “Dyeing your hair will make it fall out faster.”

Not the first time she’s said that to me. Apparently, it’s a little-known science fact that only applies to me. It certainly doesn’t apply to her, since she’s been dyeing her hair for decades to cover the gray, and yet, she still has a full head of the stuff. It also doesn’t apply to Dad, who’s never dyed his hair because, well, he doesn’t have any.

“Okay, Mom. Sure.” There’s no point in arguing with her. Grin and bear it, remember?

She gives my shirt a skeptical look, and I brace myself for whatever disapproving comment she’s about to throw at me next. But surprisingly, she just nods toward the back door. “Dad’s out there. Go wish him a happy birthday.”

She dismisses me then, turning back to her army of cooks. I slip out with a sigh.

One down, one to go.

It’s not hard to find Dad in the backyard. His voice booms over the din of conversation as he holds court. I recognize the story he’s telling. It’s the one about him “being kidnapped” when he was a kid. Spoiler alert: he wasn’t kidnapped. He wandered away from the playground and none of the adults noticed he was missing until hours later when a police officer brought him home.

But his hands are waving in the air and his facial expressions are more animated than the characters on a children’s TV show. His audience is rapt, listening to him like he’s a king sitting on a throne rather than an attention hog sitting on a lawn chair. Dad’s never happy unless all eyes are on him, so it looks like the party is going well .

And I guess I know where I get my performance tendencies from.

I wander to the drinks table to survey the meager offerings. Beer—Coors and Coors Light. None of that artsy microbrewery stuff my roommate, Hayden, likes to drink. A bowl of punch for the kids and… ah, there we go! Wine coolers to the rescue.

I crack open a can and wait for Dad to finish his story. I’ve heard it so many times, I could probably recite it word for word. “They had no idea! Can ya believe it?!”

“Yeah, I can believe it,” I mutter under my breath, then take a drink. I’m mid-swallow when an arm swings over my shoulders and drags me backward. Fruity alcohol goes spraying out of my mouth and a little goes up my nose. Ow.

“Oh shit, sorry, kiddo. You okay?” My super great, really amazing, totally-not-trying-to-kill-me big brother smacks me hard on the back.

I nod frantically. “Mmhmm, yep, all good,” I squeak.

Nico laughs. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t. I just…” I wave my hand around, dismissively. “Never mind.”

“I wasn’t sure you’d come today,” Nico says, voice lowered.

I shrug. “Mom didn’t give me much choice.”

Nico snorts. “Since when do you do what they tell you?”

I huff quietly. It’s true. I might have a teeny tiny rebellious streak that makes me want to do exactly the opposite of whatever someone tells me to do. That whole reverse-psychology thing? Totally works on me.

“Anyway,” Nico says, pulling me into a tight one- armed hug. “I’m glad you’re here. I know Mom and Dad are too. Even if they don’t say so.”

I know he’s right. My parents love me. They just don’t understand me. Nico’s always been the golden child. Smart, athletic, a real man’s man. He married his high school sweetheart and they bought a house three blocks away.

But me? I’ve always been different. More interested in dolls than trucks. Wanted to play with makeup rather than sports. I grew my hair long in high school and started wearing “girls’ clothing”. My parents never forbade any of it, but they definitely disapproved.

“Have you said hi to Dad yet?” Nico asks.

“Not yet. Didn’t want to interrupt his story.”

Nico chuckles. “The one about getting kidnapped?”

I roll my eyes.

“Now might be a good time.” He nods toward Dad.

Sure enough, Dad’s standing with our old neighbor from across the street. The rest of his audience has dispersed.

I leave Nico by the drinks table and approach. Dad spots me as I draw closer and his friendly, life-of-the-party expression becomes shuttered. I sigh and force myself to smile.

“Hey, Dad. Happy birthday.” I give him a hug, but unlike the one I shared with Mom or with Nico, this one is stiff and awkward. We barely get our arms around each other for a split second before we both back off again.

“Thanks, Son.”

I bristle. Not because I’m not his son—I am. But because he says it like he’s trying to remind me that I’m a boy, not a girl. And I know I’m a boy. Keeping my hair long and wearing makeup and dresses doesn’t make me any less of a boy. It just makes me a boy who likes long hair, makeup, and dresses, damn it.

My smile might tighten around the edges, but like him, I’m a performer at heart, so the smile doesn’t slip an inch.

“Having a good time?” I ask.

“Yeah, it was nice of everyone to come out.”

I nod and silence fills the dead air between us. Neither of us know what to say to each other. We never have.

“You’re gonna stay for the cake, right?” he asks, finally.

“Uh…” I scramble for an excuse, but he beats me to it.

“Your Ma spent all week baking it.”

Which means that if I leave before the cake is unveiled, I’ll be the disrespectful, ungrateful son who couldn’t be bothered to have a slice of his mom’s cake. Wonderful. I tamp down my irritation.

“Yeah, of course I’ll stay.”

“Good.” Dad nods, then turns away. “Hey, Bobby!”

I’ve been dismissed. Thank fucking god. With my can of wine cooler, I manage to sneak back inside and up the stairs without anyone seeing me or stopping me. I don’t let myself breathe until I’m back in my childhood bedroom, slumped down on the bed.

The room still looks the way it did when I was a teenager, and I’m not really sure why. The walls are plastered with posters of hot dudes—baseball players with their tight pants, Olympic divers in nothing but a speedo, a bunch of Australian firefighters posing with kittens. The bedspread is bright pink, with ruffles. The curtains are tied back with mini feather boas.

I would’ve expected Mom to strip the room down to the studs and redecorate, but nope, everything is exactly as I left it when I moved out. Weird.

I grab my phone. There’s a message from Hayden, who is my best friend in addition to being my roommate. It asks how things are going. And a second message from another good friend, Sebastian, asking me if I’m alright. I smile.

Moving away from home when I was eighteen was one of the scariest things I’ve ever done. I only moved from Staten Island to Brooklyn, but it felt like a world away. I didn’t know what I was going to do with my life or how I would survive. I only knew I had to get out of this neighborhood.

Turns out, it was the best decision I’ve ever made.