Disco Witches of Fire Island

Chapter 29

29.

Trey Winkle

“Disco Witches are terrible at discerning good dicks from bad dicks. Our hearts, while large, can be stupid about love.”

—Disco Witch Manifesto #9

Ronnie and Joe walked east along Fire Island Boulevard to get to Trey Winkle’s brand-new, ridiculously expensive beach house on Ocean and Sky. It was the invite-only, cocktail-party event of the season that everyone was dying to attend. This was why Ronnie and Joe had just purchased brand new clothes from one of the exorbitantly overpriced Pines boutiques. On top of their identical pairs of Guess acid-wash jeans, Joe wore a mint-blue Ralph Lauren polo, while Ronnie’s just-pumped pectorals threatened to rip the seams of a pastel-pink Izod. From a distance the two men resembled a pair of muscular blueberry and strawberry acid-washed ice-cream cones.

“Trey better like this new outfit,” Joe grumbled. “It cost me a week’s tips.”

Despite his complaints, Joe liked how the new expensive clothes felt, and appreciated that Ronnie had invited him to the ritzy party. Being a worker on Fire Island had been making him feel like a second-class citizen. It was fun to pretend he was just one of the wealthy summer people, able to walk into a fancy store and not think about the price of a shirt or shoes and just buy them because, hey, he liked them. But then the next moment, he felt annoyed again about buying something he really couldn’t afford.

“Why was your rich boyfriend so adamant about pastel colors again?” Joe asked. “I hate light-colored shirts. I never make it a month before they’re stained. Navy blue is way safer.”

“Trey says it’s all about pastels this year. If you wanna be a successful gay, you gotta look the part. Oh, and by the way, don’t use the boyfriend word in front of Trey. Too soon. I’m in phase one: playing distant. Yesterday he called me at ten in the morning, and I didn’t return his call until two. I didn’t even apologize. He was totally pouty. It was so cute!”

“Hard to believe someone who owns the Taj MaHomo is shy.”

“Don’t call it that,” Ronnie warned. “I don’t think Trey would like it.”

Joe was growing weary of how Ronnie was behaving about this Trey guy. “Howie says everyone is calling it that.”

“Figures a low-class queen would say that. It’s so common .”

“Howie isn’t common,” Joe said. “Please stop saying stuff like that.”

“Sorry. I don’t mean to insult your disco witch housemaid freaks.”

That did it. Joe had had enough. “Why are you being such a dick about them, Ronnie? Sure, Howie and Lenny are a little weird with all their magical woo-woo crap, but it’s just their way of coping with loss. They have good hearts. I had a really good talk with Howie today. He’s helping me a lot. I bet if you took a little time and got to know them, you might like them.”

“No thanks. We become who we hang out with. And I, for one, do not want to become like them. That’s why I’m taking you to this party. You’ll meet the very top of the rich, gay food chain.”

Ronnie went on to list the famous fashion designers and record executive billionaires that would be in attendance. None of whom impressed Joe all that much. He, of course, was hoping Gladiator Man might be among the A-list guests. He hadn’t seen him since that awful night of the Knockout punch delirium.

“I heard Madonna might show up at the party,” Joe offered enthusiastically, trying to get his mind back into a more positive mood.

“I don’t know about that,” Ronnie said, “but one of Trey’s friends is Lorna Luft’s accountant, so she might be there. The important thing is we need to differentiate ourselves from the rest of the working trash on this island. That’s why you need to study the guys you meet today. These fellas want to date class acts. So, copy their behavior, but don’t say anything too brainiac—it’s not hot. Just nod your head and give half smiles. Full-on smiles make you look desperate. Just do it like this.” Ronnie stopped walking and pretended he was listening to some classy guy talking to him. He nodded his head, his eyes half squinting, and gently lifted the corners of his mouth.

“It looks like the sun is hurting your eyes,” Joe said.

“No it doesn’t. It’s my sexy and slightly disinterested look. It makes me look hot but mysterious. You try!”

Joe tried it himself, the squint, the partial smile.

“You look like you’re taking a shit,” Ronnie said.

“I’m trying,” Joe said, frustrated with his willful facial muscles and with himself for caring so much about Ronnie’s sometimes nonsensical flirting techniques. But still, Ronnie was the expert in the hookup department.

“Try harder,” Ronnie commanded, “but make it look easy.”

Joe made another attempt, but whatever he did made Ronnie groan.

“Not to be mean, but your smile is way too working-class friendly. Rich guys want a hunk who’s quiet, elegant, and someone they can take anywhere. Your goal is to become the human equivalent of a Gucci loafer. It goes with everything, looks valuable, and doesn’t distract. Be a crazy-expensive loafer, Joe.”

Just as Joe considered what it meant to be a loafer, expensive or otherwise, a tall, shirtless runner turned the corner onto Fire Island Boulevard and ran smack into Joe.

“Hey!” Joe shouted as he stumbled back.

With the agility of Bruce Lee, the runner quickly grabbed Joe’s arms so he wouldn’t fall. It was only then that Joe registered the shirtless runner was Fergal the ferryman, looking agonizingly sexy with sweat pouring down his face and chest. The sight of his blue-blue eyes, the smell of his musky odor, and the warm touch of his rope-callused hands reminded Joe of everything he had felt that morning they’d kissed—the morning when Joe had ruined everything. For a quick second the two young men silently and awkwardly looked at each other while Fergal’s hands remained wrapped around Joe’s biceps. Then, as if he’d only just realized who he had been touching, Fergal abruptly released his grip and stepped back. Joe swore he saw repulsion in the ferryman’s eyes, so he scowled in return. Fergal gave a small, annoyed click of his tongue, then shuffled around the two men and jogged away.

“Hey,” Ronnie said to Joe, “wasn’t that the bi deckhand who almost fucked you Memorial Day weekend?”

“Shh!” Joe whispered angrily. “He might hear you.”

“Only if he has superman hearing.” Ronnie chuckled. “Boy oh boy, that one clearly has some strong feelings toward you.”

Joe felt his face redden. “No, he doesn’t.”

“I didn’t say they were necessarily good feelings,” Ronnie said.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Joe mumbled.

“Mm-kay. Well, no great loss. Sure, he’s got those knockout eyes, a pretty sweet bod, and that hot Long Island blue-collar thing going for him. But trust me, it won’t age well. He’ll hit his forties, get bloated from beer, and start hitting the piano bars, ruining all his macho value. Forget him.”

“I already have!” Joe snapped. “So can we just stop talking about him!”

“Sure, sure,” Ronnie said. “Take a chill pill.”

As they continued down the Boulevard, Joe couldn’t stop thinking about how lame he had acted with Fergal. I should have just pretended like I barely remembered him. Or maybe I should have said something like, “Hey there, Fergal. What’s up? Good to see ya. Nice day for a jog. Me? Well, I’m just headed to another swanky party, and I haven’t even noticed how much you hate me, or that you’re not wearing a shirt and you look so goddamn cute in those jogging shorts with those sexy, sweaty hairy legs, while I’m standing here barely able to speak in this douchebag mint-blue polo that I nearly bankrupted myself to buy and …” Ugh! Joe wished he hadn’t ever agreed to go to the stupid party. Then he never would’ve run into Fergal. He should have just stayed up his attic room and slept. But five minutes later, when they arrived at the massive gateway to the Taj MaHomo, his attitude shifted.

“Holy shit,” Joe said, his eyes widening at the sheer size of it.

“Not bad, huh?” Ronnie said proudly. “Remember, class acts say things like, ‘You did a lovely job’ or ‘I saw a chaise like that at Bloomingdale’s.’ ”

The huge property was surrounded by extremely tall bamboo trees and a twelve-foot-high wooden fence, creating a lush and mysterious barrier. The only hint of a house seen from the boardwalk was the Japanese-style wooden shingles atop a widow’s walk that towered over the other surrounding houses.

Ronnie announced himself through an intercom. A moment later the door opened automatically. The verdant bamboo garden surrounded a massive, three-story beach mansion, most of which was made entirely of glass, with a central core created from (according to Ronnie) aged koa wood from the Big Island of Hawaii. It was the most beautiful and elegant house Joe had ever seen. Wooden walkways through the trees crossed a series of artificial waterfalls and small ponds roiling with hundreds of koi, their bodies speckled orange, white, and black.

“Wow!” Joe said. “This is incredible. Or, should I say, um, he did a lovely job.”

“Yeah,” Ronnie said, the color draining from his face.

“Are you okay?” Joe realized that since Trey had been staying at a friend’s condo during construction, Ronnie hadn’t fully understood until then just how opulent the house would be or just how rich of a “rich boyfriend” Trey actually was. But now, he did. Trey was really, really, really rich.

“Yeah … I mean it’s a nice place,” Ronnie said, his voice catching nervously. Then, back to his old bravado. “I’ve seen bigger.”

“I haven’t,” Joe whispered.

They followed the little wooden path around the house to the sprawling back deck that featured an elegant, cerulean-tiled pool. Although he saw no sign of recognizable celebrities (unless Frankie Fabulous qualified, since he was everywhere) there were plenty of pastel-wearing, Rolex-sporting men in their forties and fifties who looked like they might have starred in aftershave commercials in their youth. He and Ronnie were the only working stiffs at the party—minus the guys actually working, who all had been shipped in from Manhattan. Then Joe noticed something strange.

“Ronnie?” Joe whispered. “Everyone is staring at us and whispering.” He glared at his friend. “We were actually invited, right?”

“Yes, we were invited,” Ronnie said. “Geez. We’re just younger and good-looking. They’re older and richer. Just act like you don’t notice and be cool. That’s it.” A minute later he elbowed Joe’s arm. “Don’t look, but that guy by the giant fern works for the mayor of New York City. I said don’t look. The guy talking to him is this big artist out in the Hamptons, and the one over by the punch bowel is …”

As Ronnie kept pointing out the bigwigs, Joe did his best to both look and not look. “What about him?” Joe tossed his chin toward a shorter man holding court with a bevy of men surrounding him. “Who’s that guy?”

“Are you serious? He’s that record producer who’s, like, best friends with Tom Cruise and John Travolta. Worth millions. We flirted once. But he was dating this hot Olympic diver.”

Ronnie explained that the men at the party were the sort who spent their summers visiting each other’s newly renovated beach houses for supper parties, or pool lounging, rarely rubbing elbows with the less affluent renters—certainly no bartenders or hotel porters. Catching himself staring too much, Joe looked over at the catering table piled high with shrimp cocktails, caviar, giant wheels of cheese, salamis, quiches, olives (with and without pimentos), and tropical fruits. Nothing had been touched. It seemed to Joe as if everyone was waiting for some elegant bell to ring so they could dig in.

“Jesus!” Joe whispered to Ronnie. “Look at that spread. I’m starving.”

“Don’t you dare.” Ronnie grabbed Joe’s wrist. “We can’t eat until everyone is eating.”

“Can’t we grab just one shrimp or something—”

“Trey!” Ronnie cried out, waving his arm to someone several feet behind Joe.

“Ronnie!” the man called back, with a jovial New England drawl. “There you are!”

“Remember,” Ronnie hissed at Joe, “don’t gush and don’t touch the food.”

Trey Winkle bore little physical resemblance to Ronnie’s description. Sure, Joe conceded, he was handsome enough, with perfect, Vitalis-slick, salt-and-pepper hair, blindingly white teeth like sculpted Chiclets, and a surgically perfect nose, but there was an uncanny quality to him. While Trey was reportedly in his mid-forties, he looked to Joe like some high school class president done up in old-age makeup for the Spring production of Arsenic and Old Lace .

“There they are!” Trey greeted Ronnie with a firm handshake and lingering kiss on the cheek. It was as if he wanted to demonstrate possession but didn’t want to be tawdry about it.

“Trey, this is my best buddy I told you about.” Ronnie slapped Joe on the back as if they were football players in a Catalina porn video. “Joe Agabian.”

“I certainly have heard a ton about you!” Trey gushed, shaking Joe’s hand firmly. “But Ronnie didn’t do you justice. Look at that sexy smile—and those eyebrows! He says you’re from Philadelphia?”

“Well, really I grew up just outside Philly,” Joe said.

“You don’t say!” Trey said. “The Main Line?”

“Langhorne,” Joe said. “It’s in Bucks County—”

“I know the area well! My cousins went to George School, and we summered once in New Hope. I’m not sure Ronnie told you, but I went to Wharton for my MBA. Awful neighborhood of course. But I had a place in Society Hill. We’d play lacrosse in Fairmount Park on weekends. Play any sports out there?”

“Not really,” Joe said, but then, sensing Trey didn’t like that answer, he quickly added, “I mean not team sports. I did some intramural gymnastics my first semester at Temple. I lived in Northern Liberties with my boyfriend before he—” Ronnie started coughing loudly. Joe got the message: “No dead boyfriend stories.”

“Before I broke up with him and moved back to Bucks county,” Joe finished.

“His bad luck!” Trey interrupted. “Look, I’m dying for you to meet someone.” He waved beyond Joe’s head. “Ace! Ace, you handsome old bastard! Come over here!”

Joe turned and saw an older man approaching the group, holding two freshly poured cocktails that had been dyed a deep, deep grenadine red. The man was tall and lean, in his late sixties, with slicked back, silver hair. He wore a yellow button-down, tan slacks, and a pricey-looking gold wristwatch that glinted in the sun.

“Ace.” Trey put his arm around Joe’s shoulder and shoved him toward the man. “This is Joe. He went to George School in Bucks County! It’s a very prestigious Quaker school.”

“No I didn’t—” Joe attempted to clarify, but it was no use.

“I just adore a literate Quaker!” Ace’s thick, syrupy accent sounded like he was a character from Gone with the Wind —one who’d drunk one too many mint juleps. He looked Joe up and down. “And, my dear, you look extremely literate.”

Joe blushed as all the surrounding men sniggered.

“Gentlemen,” Trey said to Ronnie and Joe, “this is my dearest friend Ace Dandridge, who happens to be a painfully successful entrepreneur back in Atlanta, and an even more painfully successful sodomite everywhere else!”

This set the group to laughing again. Joe joined in, grateful the focus was off him.

“Oh, stop, Trey Winkle, you honey-mouthed Yankee!” Ace cooed. “I might take offense if that comment hadn’t come from a man whose derri è re has been exploited by more stock brokers than a Morgan Stanley expense account!” More guffaws.

Trey grabbed Joe’s hand and pulled him closer to Ace, almost like he was the guest of honor, which seemed odd to him since Ronnie, after all, was Trey’s new boyfriend.

“So, Ace,” Trey said, his hands sliding onto Joe’s shoulders, “Joe here works at … what’s the name of that bar again?”

“Asylum Harb—” Joe started to say.

“That’s right! That quaint little bar no one ever goes to behind the Promethean.”

“Is that foul-smelling petri dish still open?” Ace asked with an exaggerated gasp. “I believe the last time I was there was back in ’78, when I lost my William and Mary class ring up the backside of this hot little Puerto Rican.”

“That’s the place,” Trey sniggered. “It was a different bar back then. Less petri, more dish. But Joe wouldn’t know about that since he’s only twenty-four !”

A smirk from Ace. Knowing giggles from the crowd. Joe so wished he hadn’t told the lie about his age. He realized that if he did meet someone he really liked that summer, he’d have to eventually tell them the truth. And why had Trey mentioned his age anyway? The whole ceremony felt like a hazing, like he and Ronnie were being put under the microscope of a group of elderly frat boys.

“This is Joe’s first summer in the Pines,” Trey continued. “Can you imagine?”

“It appears the stock price of chicken will be going way up this year,” Ace joked.

This caused yet another eruption of laughter, including from Ronnie. Joe attempted one of his non-smiling smiles, which was even more difficult because he didn’t fully get the joke. Then, from the corner of his eye, Joe noticed guests filling up plates from the food table. He didn’t want to miss his chance. He figured he’d eat enough shrimp cocktail to offset the cost of the expensive outfit. He just needed to make his move.

“You look thirsty, Joseph!” Ace cried. “Would you like one of my fancy Alabama slammers? I asked that Brazilian bartender to mix in extra grenadine with his muscular finger! It’s so red, isn’t it? I like to pretend I’m drinking his blood!” He made a ridiculous face, lapping at his deep red drink like a vampire bat.

The entire crowd around Ace erupted into groans and guffaws. Ace laughed as well, doubling over, causing his two Alabama slammers to splash their grenadine bloodbath all over Joe’s brand-new mint-blue polo.

“Hey! My shirt!” Joe cried.

“Oh, shoot! I am so very sorry there, Joseph! Let me get that for you!” Ace started exaggeratedly rubbing at Joe’s chest and groping his crotch with a cocktail napkin, expanding the crimson stain to his new jeans. Furious, Joe grabbed the napkins from Ace to try and clean himself. All the A-listers laughed. Joe knew that each of them could have bought two, or even ten of those polo shirts, and it wouldn’t have meant a thing to them. But there he was exposing just how big of a deal it was to him.

“No biggie.” Joe tried to stem a desire to cry or scream. “I’ll just go rinse off. I have to take a leak anyway.”

“I’m sure Ace would love to help you!” Trey roared.

More hysterical laughter from a dozen men, including Ronnie. Joe forced a smile, suppressing his rage as he trudged into the house. Once inside the museum-like living room, a shirtless waiter pointed him toward the guest bathroom. It was huge, decorated in slate and glass, with three sinks and a glass shower stall big enough for a small football team. He pulled off his stained polo shirt and jeans, spritzed them with expensive-smelling verbena hand soap, and rinsed them under cold water. The stain got lighter on the jeans, but the polo was clearly ruined. All those bar tips wasted. Joe squeezed the sopping clothes in a gray bath towel, and then pulled them back on. It was then that he heard two men’s voices, just outside a high bathroom window.

“His name is Ronnie, right?”

“Does you-know-who know about him?”

Joe lifted himself on his tip toes, pointing his ear toward the open window.

“I doubt it,” the first man replied. “Trey and Bill have one of those suburban DC don’t ask, don’t tell policies. The only rule is Trey can’t fuck any disease carriers. But with all the rough-trade he’s fucking, like that Ronnie trash, they should have built a private AIDS testing facility rather than that second jacuzzi.”

The two men laughed while reprimanding themselves for being “terrible.” Joe’s face grew hot with anger. These men were just like all the other bigots he had met in his life—the straight people who told AIDS jokes or the gay guys in Philly who would warn each other about who “had it” and who didn’t. On top of all of that, Joe now knew Trey was lying to Ronnie. He had to warn him. As he was about to head back out, the men outside the window said something else.

“But what about that hot little Italian number he brought?” the first man enthused.

“I know! Mamma mia! I’d like him to deliver my pizza.”

“They say he bartends at that horrible little bar behind the Promethean—”

“You mean the Asylum Troll bar? Gross! Is he a gift for someone?”

“Well, my understanding is that Trey is trying to get Ace to invest in some South Beach property. So he asked that muscly hotel maid to provide some hot trade to put Ace in a good mood.”

“My goodness. All I get are dinners at the 21 Club. Next time he wants me to invest, I’m holding out for a free night with a wop rent-boy.”

Joe stepped away from the window and stared at his furious reflection in the huge bathroom mirror. The deep red splotch just beneath the logo of the polo made it look like he had been shot in the heart. Was what they’d said true? Had Ronnie brought him to the party as a gift for Ace? Joe stormed back out to the deck and grabbed Ronnie by the wrist.

“Hey, Ronnie, I need to talk to you,” Joe whispered more loudly then he’d intended.

“What is it, Joey baby?” Ronnie said, suddenly bug-eyed and chewing gum like a madman. “Pretty sweet digs, huh?” The words started machine-gunning from his mouth. “Was the bathroom nice? It has a huge shower, right? All these rich gays have huge showers. The fish ponds are my favorite. I love fish. Did I ever tell you that before? I love giant ten-man showers and fish ponds! I like anything in water, I guess. And to think, this is practically mine. All of it. Am I talking too much? I feel like I’m talking too much! I hope you’re not talking too much, I told you that’s not sexy—”

“What the hell,” Joe whispered. “Are you on coke?”

“Maybe just a little!” Ronnie giggled. “You want some? Hey, Trey!”

“No!” Joe growled through his teeth. “You know I don’t do that shit. I want us to get out of here. Now.”

“Are you fucking kidding me, Joey?” Ronnie rubbed his pointer finger on his gums, then licked the back of his hand to get any remnants of powder.

“I’m not kidding, Ronnie. I just heard some guys say really mean shit about people with AIDS. I’m wet and my shirt is ruined, and all these people are a bunch of assholes.”

“Keep your voice down,” Ronnie hissed before pulling Joe away from the crowd. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Joe felt trapped and angry, while ten feet away Ace and several other of the men were staring at him, pruriently sniggering. “Damn it, Ronnie, I want to go.”

“No!” Ronnie’s body twitched as he laughed bitterly through his clenched jaw. “When have you even been to a party like this? I’ll answer that—you haven’t. Ever. You need to see your opportunities, baby Joey. Take that fucking wet shirt off, already!”

Ronnie pulled up the hem of Joe’s ruined polo. Joe yanked it back down.

“No, Ronnie.”

“These guys won’t mind.”

“Ronnie, listen. I heard a couple of guys talking outside the bathroom. They said mean things about you—”

“So what? Old fags talk. That’s all they got. You know that.”

“No, I don’t, Ronnie,” Joe’s face felt hot, and his head swirled with hurt rage. “And look at my shirt and pants. Over a hundred bucks down the toilet!”

Ronnie laughed. “Joey, Joey, Joey. You need to stop being so cheap!”

Joe waited for Ronnie’s crazed eyeballs to make contact, but they didn’t—they couldn’t. Did Joe even know his best friend anymore? Were they even friends at all if what he had heard was true? Was this entire summer the biggest mistake of Joe’s entire life?

“Ronnie, I need to ask you something. Did you bring me to this party to pimp me out to Ace what’s-his-name?”

Ronnie’s coke mania briefly paused as he forced a nervous laugh. He took another shaky gulp of his drink. “I’m gonna need a refresher.” He waved at a shirtless waiter. “Hey, Hercules!”

“Just tell me you didn’t,” Joe begged, feeling his anger melting rapidly into heartbreak.

“Oh, for Chrissake, Joey, I didn’t ‘pimp’ you. Yes, Trey asked me to bring someone attractive for Ace. How is flirting with some rich old queen gonna hurt? You do it all the time at your bar. And so what if maybe you let him kiss you or something? If you stopped playing the poor widow Pollyanna you wouldn’t need to worry about getting your fucking polo shirt dirty! Grow the fuck up—this is how this world works. It’s what you got inside your pocket or inside your pants. Every fucking man at this party, if he wasn’t born into money like Trey, had to sell his fucking ass one way or another to get here. You’re just pissed because I accomplished what I came out to Fire Island to do, and you didn’t.”

Joe looked out onto the ocean and the sky turning orange. A flock of seagulls swooped into the surf. Beachcombers gawked at the ritzy party to which they had not been invited. Joe was doing everything in his power to hold back what he really wanted to say. “You’re acting like such a dick, Ronnie. I’m just saying, this Trey thing isn’t what you think it is.”

“I don’t wanna hear it!” Ronnie shouted, the cocaine revving his voice an octave higher than usual. Party guests moved closer, excited to see a scene between the two young working-class hotties. “I did you a favor bringing you here. I tried to help you be something better than you are—meet people that could help you. But what’s the point? Look at yourself! You’re cute, sure, but you’re not all that.”

Seeing everyone listening, Joe’s face grew hot. He wanted nothing more than to be a million miles away. “What the hell happened to you, Ronnie?” he said, his voice low. “Doing coke? Hanging with shitheads like these? This island has changed you. You’ve always been a little full of it with all your bullshit affirmations, but you used to have some sort of integrity.”

“Bullshit affirmations, huh?” Ronnie’s voice grew louder. “You think this house is a bullshit affirmation? You think Trey is a bullshit affirmation? Maybe you should look at yourself, Joe. What do you have, with your negative thinking? You’re fucking miserable! You’re twenty-four, short, all alone, and working in the shittiest bar in all of Fire Island. Figures, the only person who ever considered dating you was fucking desperate and dying of AIDS.”

Every voice on the back deck fell silent, while Ronnie’s words ricocheted like bullets inside Joe’s brain. Or were they his own words?

He took a deep breath and pushed his face right up into Ronnie’s. “You’re a piece of shit.” He took sharp breaths in between his words to stop himself from crying. “Know what else I overheard? Seems your little rich boyfriend isn’t even single, and he plans to dump your selfish, steroid-pumped, hotel-maid ass any day now. He calls you trash behind your back. They all do. So you’re not only a whore, Ronnie, you’re like the shittiest whore on the whole island.”

Ronnie’s eyes darted to Trey and then back to Joe. “You’re just making that up because I finally told you the truth.” His voice cracked with a murky mix of anger and tears.

“Oh yeah?” Joe’s lip quivered. “Go ask Trey about someone named Bill down in DC. Go on, ask him.”

Ronnie’s face, already pale, went blank. He tightened the rubber band around his blond ponytail and with a cold, steady voice he said, “Get out of my party.”