15. Drag and Dragged
DRAG AND DRAGGED
Drag show brunch was a socially acceptable excuse to get wasted in the middle of the day and there wasn’t anything anyone could say about it.
Savannah was finally on the tenure track, and we were celebrating. Hard. So hard I knew I’d regret it come tomorrow morning.
Twatzilla was doing her set to the song Get Ur Freak On by Missy Elliot. The drag queen was currently shaking her ass on a bald, nondescript white man while I was on number who knew how many mimosas of the afternoon.
I felt lighter than I had in a long time, my lips as loose as my wallet as I held out a twenty dollar bill. Twatzilla, the icon that she was, shoved my hand down her cleavage as she shimmied her ass to the beat and pretended to spit in my mouth along with the song.
The three of us could barely stop laughing as they announced it was intermission and to help ourselves to more food before it was gone. The french toast, berries, and bacon did nothing to soak up the alcohol in my system.
Chelsea holds up her champagne glass, and me and Savannah did the same. “To Sav! We’re so proud of you, sweetie.”
“We really are. This is incredible. You’re incredible,” I nearly slurred.
But she was incredible. My friends were the most beautiful and perfect women in the world and I wanted to sob into my champagne with a splash of orange juice over the fact they were the most perfect angel babies on the planet.
“I want to do something awesome. Something big. I was thinking—a sexy photoshoot,” Savannah says, wiggling her eyebrows.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You’ve let me take pictures of you before. You’re perfect. You could be my model along with some hot ass stud we find,” Savannah says, giving me puppy dog eyes.
“I’m not getting naked in front of students.”
“No, something tasteful, like leotards, or maybe that panty set you bought last year at Cline’s.”
“I’ll think about it,” I tell her, not wanting to make a drunken promise.
“Have you been fucking any hotties who might be interested?” she says, talking with her hands, the drink spilling over her knuckles.
I try to take a sip of my glass and ignore her question, but Chelsea points a manicured finger at me.
“What happened at the sex club, Dr. Morely?”
Savannah puts her drink down and rests her hand on her palm. “Yeah, what happened? In very explicit detail.”
“Do you remember the night we went out to the marina bar?”
“Carlson’s?” Chelsea so helpfully adds. “The very fucking hot bartender who popped your divorced lady cherry.”
I glare at her, but then nod. “Yeah, that one. He also has a membership.”
“He must make a lot of tips. I mean, he’s ridiculously good looking, but even so,” Savannah says.
“He owns the place.”
“Holy shit. What’s his name? Aiden? No, that’s the baseball player one.
God, have you seen him?” Chelsea slurs, pulling out her phone and typing this man's name all wrong, but finally some images pull up.
“Look at that tight little ass in those baseball shorts. But he has to be what? Forty-five now?”
“Ben is mid thirties, that must be his older brother. I wonder if he’s the one who got in the car accident.”
Savannah and Chelsea both squint at me in confusion, like they’re trying to follow my story that is making little sense.
“Alright, let me start from the beginning.”
Five salacious drag show performances, too much alcohol, and my current sexual history later…
“Why are you paying so much money when all you want to do is fuck this one guy? He sounds perfect, your little freak match,” Savannah says with a hiccup.
“You really went there every night this week to see if his brother is alright, and didn’t take up any of the other guys offering their willing dick on a platter?” Chelsea says, her eyes completely glazed over.
“I don’t have his number, and I felt bad. And okay, yeah, I wasn’t interested in anyone else there, just him.”
Savannah boops my nose. “You little sweet fucking perfect idiot. You know where he works.”
Chelsea snaps her fingers. “Right! You should just go there, check on how his brother’s doing and maybe I don’t know, peg him and come back and tell me what it’s like. Alex gets weird even if I grab a butt cheek,” she says, wrinkling her nose.
“Who would have thought our little Kate would wind up being the least innocent out of all of us? I agree. Go to his job and find out what’s going on. At least you won’t be going to that club all night just waiting around.”
“Isn’t that crossing some sort of boundary?” I ask, nibbling on my lip.
Maybe it’s the champagne sloshing around in my brain like a ship in Drake’s Passage, but this idea has some merit to it.
“I’ll think about it,” I say and Savannah looks irritated but nods, anyway.
“Are you sure you don’t want Alex to drive you home?” Chelsea asks as I sign our check and we walk out of the restaurant.
“That’s okay. I’m on the other side of town. I’ll see you guys next weekend. This was fun. I really am so proud of you, Sav,” I say, hugging her, and we both sway and nearly fall over as Chelsea’s husband, Alex, pulls up to the curb.
“Oh, boy, I see we all had lots of fun at drag show brunch,” he says with a smile.
“So much fun. Play your cards right, mister, and you might get a BJ,” Chelsea says, making Savannah and I both snicker like we’re twelve.
Alex shakes his head and clears his throat. “Are you sure you don’t need a ride, Kate? It’s not a big deal.”
I wave him off. “Nah, you guys head home. I’m putting in for a ride right now.”
“Text me as soon as you get home,” Chelsea says in her mom voice.
“Of course I will,” I say, holding up the phone, showing that my ride will be here in one minute.
Alex is herding Chelsea and Savannah into the backseat of his car as the silver Honda pulls up and I note that the license plate matches.
“Kate?” he asks, and either he’s my driver or he’s a clairvoyant serial killer.
I’m going to go with driver. “That’s me,” I say, sliding into the backseat.
“Cherry Hill Lane?” he says and I squint again.
I could just drop by…I mean, I’m not going to want to leave the house when I get back home tonight. There’s no way I can go to Avalon. I’ll just go, say hi, make sure his brother is okay, and then I’ll leave. It’s not a big deal. I mean, we had breakfast together, we’re friends, kinda.
“Actually, how far away is Carlson's Marina and Bar?”
Jo searches and I squint at his phone, seeing it’s basically the same distance to my house, about ten minutes.
“Let’s go there instead.”
“You sure?” he checks in.
“Yeah I’m sure.”
What’s the worst that could happen?
Jo drops me off at Carlson’s Bar and Marina; it’s only two on a Friday, but the place is still pretty busy. As soon as I shut the car door, Jo was off, not even giving me a second glance. Maybe I chatted too much in the backseat, whatever.
I tug my dress down my thighs and pull out my phone and fix my makeup really quick before walking into the bar.
A quick look around and I don’t see him anywhere, so I decide to sit at the bar and grab another cocktail, probably not my best decision.
When the bartender comes back with my drink, I lean forward.
“Hey, is the owner in today?”
“Which one?” he asks. He’s cute but far too young for my tastes.
“Ben,” I say easily.
“Yeah, I think so,” he says nothing else, and I find that annoyingly unhelpful.
So I sip my drink. I sip and I wait.
The longer I sit here, the more pathetic I feel. What the actual hell am I doing? Coming to the place he works, like a stalker, to see what’s going on with his life.
Big decisions such as these should not be made after drag show brunch. I leave the bartender a large tip, grab my clutch, and walk on wobbly legs out of the bar. The sun is still too damn harsh even as we trickle into the evening hours.
I’m stumbling over the sidewalk as I try to order a new ride, and I see Ben walking toward me. No wait, I see two Bens walking toward me.
My brother in Christ, how much did I drink?
“Kate?” his rich voice asks and I blink a few times, trying to combine the two Bens into one. It doesn’t work, cause one is wearing light blue, and the other is wearing white.
Not to mention the other one has a heavily bruised cheek and a soft cast on his wrist.
“There are two of you, right?” I ask, pointing between the two of them and hold up my hand in front of my face. Only one hand. “I’m not seeing double am I?”
“Shit. Kate. We didn’t want you to find out like this,” one of them says.
I blink rapidly, holding my hand over my eyes to block the sun and really get a good look at the two of them.
“Find out what? This is your brother who was in the accident. I came to see how he was and that you were alright,” I say easily and watch both of their faces fall.
“Do you think we could go inside and talk?” the one in the white shirt says, and I assume that’s Ben?
“We’d really like to sit down and explain everything,” blue shirt chimes in.
I glance between the two of them. They’re identical in nearly every way, minus the one that’s injured. What could they possibly both want to talk about?
It takes my drunken mind a few moments to piece it all together. They’re both talking to me like they know me. They both want to sit down and talk. There would be no reason for that, seeing as I was under the impression I only knew one of them.
How many times did I wonder why each time with him felt different? How fascinating it was that a man could switch from being a Dom to being so beautifully submissive, so effortlessly.
The first night at the club, he didn’t seem to recognize me…
It hits me like a slap in the face.
The dream man who’s been checking off my erotic bucket list isn’t a man at all. It’s this set of twins.
These lying, handsome ass motherfuckers have been toying with me. I take a few steps backward and one of them reaches out for me.
“Kate, please let us explain.”
“Explain what?” I snap, feeling a deep simmering anger build up in my throat. It’s either anger or vomit, and the last thing I need is to toss my cookies on the front step of their bar, even if they deserve it.
“Can we just go up to the office and talk this through?” the injured one asks.
“Were you the one who fucked me over the desk, or was it you?” I point at blue shirt, who looks like he might throw up too.
“That was me,” blue shirt admits. “Gavin,” he says.
“So you’re the one responsible for the faded bruise on my ass, and you?” I cross my arms, staring up at the other twin. “I’m guessing we got breakfast and you got off on me telling you what a fucking good boy you are? Well, I take it back!” I nearly shout.
I turn on my heel, stomping on the pavement. My heel hits a divot and I go tumbling down in what feels like slow motion. The palms of my hands and knees eating concrete as I hit the hard surface and wince.
“Ouch. Fuck,” I hiss, turning to sit on my ass.
I look up at the sun and curse every man who’s ever breathed near me as two identical faces block the fierce light.
“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” Gavin says and I glare at him, pulling my arm back.
“Fuck you. You two rats in a trench coat sex club parent-trapped me. Do you know how fucked up that is?”
Ben winces and goes to hold out his arm again. “Kate, your knees are bleeding. You’ve clearly been drinking. Let us get you cleaned up and home safely.”
“Oh, I’ve clearly been drinking, huh? Don’t touch me,” I snap as he goes to grab my arm.
“Do you have someone that you can call to come and pick you up?” Gavin asks, his tone irritated.
Oh, he’s irritated? The man who lied to me? I understand we weren’t in a relationship, but trust and honesty are huge pillars of kink. What is it about me that’s a magnet for liars?
God, I’m tired, my knee stings, and so do my palms. And maybe tears are welling in my eyes and there’s nothing I can do about it. Except to set the record straight.
“I’m not crying because you’re assholes who tricked me. I’m crying because my knees and hands hurt, just so you know,” I say, even though nobody asks.
“Alright, fuck,” Gavin says, scooping me up over his shoulder like a limp doll.
“Put me down,” I say weakly, my head feeling fuzzy.
Deep, vast regret over the amount I’ve drunk today hits me as my stomach sloshes and my head pounds.
There’s a chirp of a car lock as I’m laid down in the backseat. I don’t know which twin drives and the other sits in the passenger’s seat. I just know they ask for my address and I stupidly give it.
Maybe I cry in the backseat. I can’t confirm or deny.
Hopefully, the blood on my knees stains the tan leather of the backseat. Maybe I rub it in a little, I also can’t confirm or deny that either. I also, maybe consider sliding my fingers down my throat to throw up in their backseat, but decide against it.
Maybe I need to talk about my petty streak the next time in therapy.
My head is pounding and all I want to do is take a hot shower, cry some more, and re-watch an unrealistic romance show.
Instead, one of these assholes is digging through my clutch, taking out my house keys, and carrying me inside.
I’m placed on my kitchen counter, and I glare at the man in front of me.
“Where’s your first aid kit?” he asks.
I point to the cabinet on top of the fridge, and he grabs it. The other twin takes a paper towel and cleans off my palms and my banged up knees. I hiss when he does and he whispers a hushed sorry.
“What exactly are you sorry for?” I ask, glaring down at where he’s at on his knees.
“Everything. For lying, for not coming clean sooner.”
I use the back of my hand to wipe my face. I just don’t have it in me to hear his explanation right now.
Frida, my calico cat, comes sauntering into the kitchen and hisses at the two men.
“She hates men,” I say plainly.
Maybe I should be more like Frida and write men, sex, relationships, all of it off. It’s done nothing but hurt me.
For fuck’s sake, the entire point of Avalon was no strings attached, and yet somehow I managed to find two men who made a very complicated web of bullshit before me.
“I can bandage up my knees. I’d like for both of you to leave,” I say, not looking at either of them.
“Can we talk when you’re feeling better?” Ben asks, and I just stare at him, not giving him an answer.
I wince as I slide off the counter and usher them out of my house, Frida hot on my heels like she can’t wait for the testosterone to get the fuck out either.
I’m about to slam the door and hit them on the ass on the way out as Gavin places his good hand against the door. “For what it’s worth, neither of us went into this with the intention of lying or hurting you. We’re sorry. I hope you feel better tomorrow,” he says.
He doesn’t wait for me to reply, and I shut the door.
As soon as they’re gone, I take a very cathartic tear-filled shower and finally allow myself to throw up.