Chapter Seven
May
To the surprise of absolutely no one, it takes less than a week for Miles Dalton to worm his way under my skin again and, if we’re being honest, right back into the soft, gooey center of my heart.
But I’m determined to do this differently this time.
No grand gestures, no falling for the first self-effacing apology and a crooked smile. This time, we’re going to do it right.
Which is why I’ve spent all week on my best behavior. Almost. A closet blowjob is technically the opposite of “best behavior,” but in my defense, the man should not be allowed near a supply room with that mouth if he doesn’t want to be jumped. But otherwise? Practically a paragon of restraint.
We’ve met for coffee every morning at the corner bakery before I duck into the chaos that is Sleigh Queen by noon.
Little moments stolen in the alley behind the Brew House, where the hot press of his hands makes everything else fade away.
During the day, my phone buzzes with a new text from him every time I so much as blink.
Every night, he’s there at the bar, eyes on me, full of that old Miles mischief and something new, a kind of hope I don’t remember from before.
I told myself I’d keep it light. That I’d be the queen of boundaries, impervious to dimples and sweet-talk and the way he looks at me like I hung the moon.
I am not. Not even close.
But tonight? Tonight, I’m going to do the thing. Talk about the past. Get it all out on the table, ugly and unvarnished, and see if we can actually build something real here. No pressure. Just the future of my heart at stake. Perfectly casual.
I’m taking a break from the glitz and the spotlights.
Patti is handling emcee duties for the night, and I’m floating around as Mason, still dramatic, obviously, but with the drag dialed down and the gender dial…
somewhere in the middle, as always. My black shirt has sheer, billowing sleeves and is unbuttoned halfway down my smooth, freshly waxed chest. My gold jewelry is slightly excessive, and my bald head is buffed to a glossy perfection that would make RuPaul weep.
I’m wearing my favorite glasses, the ones with the cartoonishly thick black frames, and a subtle smoky eye that says, “I’m not trying to seduce you, but if you’re already undressing me with your eyes, I won’t complain. ”
Patti’s voice booms over the sound system. “Alright, you beautiful chickies, are you ready for a night of sequins, songs, and some questionable audience participation?”
The crowd howls. The floor vibrates with energy.
My found family, all gathered under one roof.
I love this place. Every sticky, sparkling inch of it.
Which is why my palms are sweating right now, even though I’m technically off duty.
Because tonight isn’t about the show. It’s about being Mason.
And finally talking to Miles Dalton without the protection of a crowded bar or the plausible deniability of a flirtatious text.
Did I mention I’ve been stress-cleaning my apartment for two hours? Because I have. There’s not a speck of glitter anywhere. Even the succulents look nervous.
I check my phone for the tenth time in as many minutes as I pace in the upstairs lounge, attempting to work off some of my nervous energy as I wait.
Miles: On my way. Should I bring snacks or just my devastating good looks?
Me: The latter. I can’t compete with snack foods tonight.
Miles: Not true. You and jalapeno kettle chips are tied in my heart.
Me: Are you flirting with me or the chips?
Miles: Both. But the chips don’t look at me like you do.
Me: Gross. Now I’m blushing. Hurry up and get here before I lose my nerve.
Miles: Already outside. Look up.
I glance down through the upstairs window.
Sure enough, there he is, talking with Joel under the rainbow icicle lights, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, beanie pulled low over his ears.
He’s smiling. Even from up here, I can see that slow, slightly crooked, completely unfair smile aimed up in my direction.
My heart does this…thing. Like someone’s taken a fistful of confetti and jammed it into my ribcage.
There is literally no reason to be this nervous.
We’ve been swapping texts, sharing our most embarrassing Spotify Wrapped stats, and making out like teenagers in every available supply closet all week.
I’ve had my tongue in his mouth and my hand in his pants…
well, technically my knees on the mop bucket and my dignity somewhere in the HVAC system, but who’s counting.
Yet here I am, bracing myself against the doorframe, trying to remember whether I put on deodorant and whether my breath smells like Altoids or the seven coffees I stress-drank while cleaning all day.
I do a quick check-in with myself. Am I nervous?
Yes. Am I pretending not to be nervous by fidgeting with my rings and adjusting my collar every six seconds?
Also yes. Am I going to self-destruct if this conversation goes sideways?
I’d rather not, but history suggests it is a non-zero possibility.
It’s another painfully slow minute before I hear the clomp of his boots on the stairs leading up from the main club, and another thirty seconds or so before he steps into the room.
He’s in a soft Henley under a gray wool coat, hair artfully messy, grin already locked on me like he’s got some kind of May-detecting radar.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
My heart does something I won't describe in detail, because I’m still pretending to have at least 30% chill. “Hey yourself, handsome. Running late?”
“I had a late shift at the B&B.” He smirks. “Mal and Liam tried to feed me to death. I barely escaped.”
“A tragic fate,” I say. “Death by scone.”
We stand there in the middle of the empty upstairs lounge, smiling at each other like complete doofs for much longer than I am willing to own up to.
This man scrambles my brain whenever he’s within a square mile, I swear.
Needing to move the night along before I do something completely idiotic, like dropping to my knees and recreating Monday’s scene but with the roles reversed this time as I choke myself on his cock again…
where was I going with that again? Oh, right. Moving the night along.
Clearing my throat quickly, I lean in, lowering my voice. “Come with me.”
Miles raises a brow. “Is this a kidnapping? Because if it is, I should warn you, I have very few boundaries and a well-documented weakness for men in sheer fabric.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I reply, grabbing his hand and leading him toward the door marked Staff Only behind the bar up here.
I can feel the heat of his palm in mine, steady and grounding.
We push through the door onto the small landing that serves as a makeshift supply closet, then to the battered turquoise door that leads to my apartment.
I unlock it with a practiced flick of my wrist and step inside, pulling him in after me.
My apartment is not glamorous. It’s basically a one-bedroom with a postage-stamp kitchen, a couch that’s older than some of my performers, and a lot of framed classic movie posters.
There’s a shelf of wigs in one corner, because of course there is, and a huge window on the far wall looking out the back of the building toward the mountain, frosted over with the beginnings of a new snowfall.
Miles looks around, grinning. “Cozy. I like it.”
I glance over my shoulder, suddenly unsure. “It’s nothing fancy.”
“Neither am I.” He shrugs off his coat and drops onto the couch, patting the space next to him. “I mean, I have layers, but they’re mostly flannel and emotional repression. And there is a refreshing lack of candy cane paint jobs and giant gumdrops stuck to the walls.”
I snort, kicking off my shoes and settling beside him. The couch springs creak, but it’s familiar, the kind of creak you only get from a well-loved piece of furniture, or from the knees of a forty-something drag queen after a death drop.
He laughs, a warm rumble that settles my nerves. “Can I kiss you, or is that against the house rules?”
This man. Two weeks back in Sleighbell Springs, and he’s already wormed his way back into all my soft spots. “Kitchen’s purely ornamental and off-limits, but living room makeouts are strongly encouraged.”
“Noted.”
He leans in, and I meet him halfway. Our lips brush gently at first, then greedily.
I taste peppermint and longing on his lips as our tongues tangle.
My free hand slips onto his chest, tugging him closer until he’s pressed against me and the outside world is nothing but a faint vibration through the old floorboards.
I want so badly to get lost in this kiss, to let this play out and sweep us away until we’re tangled up, panting, and spent, but I promised myself I would keep things under control tonight.
I had a plan, a checklist that I will hate myself for if I don’t at least attempt to get through it.
With great reluctance, I pull away from the kiss and scoot back on the couch, putting a little distance between us for good measure.
“So, here’s the thing,” I say, cutting through the tension. “We’re going to talk.”
He blinks, leaning back just enough to give me space. “Right now?”
“Right now,” I confirm, crossing one leg over the other and folding my hands. “You and me. All cards on the table. No more running, no more hiding, no more letting ancient history run the show.”
There’s a beat of silence. He looks…nervous but not scared. Like he’s been waiting for this, too.
“Okay,” he says, voice steady. “Let’s do it.”
I take a breath.
“Why did you leave?” I ask because I have to start somewhere, and that’s the wound that never quite closed.
He’s quiet for a second, the way he always is when he’s making sure he gets it right.