Chapter Thirteen
May
The End of the Season Extravaganza Bonanza Spectacular is my baby, my pride and joy.
For one perfect, unhinged night each January, the Sleigh Queen is transformed into the queer, glitter-drenched, chaos-fueled heart of Sleighbell Springs, packed wall-to-wall with every local, lifer, and half-buzzed tourist who survived the avalanche that is the holiday rush.
It’s part fundraiser, part reunion, part excuse for grown adults to wear sequined onesies and get drunk on peppermint martinis. For me, it’s…everything.
And tonight, I want it to be perfect.
Let’s pause here for a moment of honesty.
Perfection is not a thing that exists at Sleigh Queen, or in my life, or, frankly, in any establishment where the VIP seating is literally a repurposed church pew, and the prop closet is held together by a prayer and three yards of duct tape.
But I have standards, dammit, and tonight, my standards are sequins and joy and maybe, if the universe is feeling generous, a moment where I get to look out across a screaming room and feel like I built something that matters.
What I’m not expecting, as I check my makeup for the third time in the green room mirror, is the gnawing anxiety curled up in my belly like a feral barn cat.
I know what it’s about, of course.
Miles isn’t here.
Oh, the rest of my drag family is out there.
Felix is already in full gremlin mode. Dee is doing last-minute touch-ups on her hair and “accidentally” spilling foundation on any surface that isn’t nailed down.
Anna taking slow, meditative sips of tequila like a queen about to go into battle.
Even Patti, with her cackle, her caftan, and her ability to wrangle a room of three hundred with nothing but a raised eyebrow and a mic, is in rare form tonight.
But not Miles. He was supposed to meet me backstage for a pep talk, maybe a quick grope behind the curtain, but as the house lights dim and the DJ cranks the first song, there’s still no sign of him.
I’m not panicking. I’m not. I’m absolutely not thinking about the fact that I haven’t seen him since last night and haven’t heard from him all day, which hasn’t happened since we reconnected. Nope. Totally chill.
By the time I make it backstage, the swish of my powder blue “widow who recently lost her husband under suspicious circumstances” robe, with white fur trim and a long red wig of soft curls, helps me settle into myself for the night. I’m May North, and I am here to motherfuckin’ slay.
Patti is already working the crowd, her voice booming over the speakers when I get backstage. “Ladies, gentlemen, gentle-thems, and everyone in between, are you ready for a night of depravity and holiday cheer?”
The answer is deafening.
I close my eyes for a beat, centering myself. Deep breath. Shoulders back. Chin up. Lips curled into the smirk I keep in my back pocket for exactly this occasion.
When I step out onto the stage, the noise triples.
I soak it in. The heat of the spotlights.
The roar of applause. The blur of familiar faces in the front row.
There are the regulars from the bakery, the B&B crew, half the volunteer fire department, some of the teens from the GSA with faces painted in Pride flag stripes, even the ancient grandma from the library who claims she’s only here for “the community engagement” but tips twenty dollars every time she orders a seltzer.
My home. My people. My family.
I let the crowd go wild for a moment, then throw both hands wide and flash my biggest, baddest smile.
I take a breath and let my voice loose, rich and syrupy and full of promise.
“Hello, my lovely little chickies! Welcome to Sleigh Queen’s annual End of Season Extravaganza Bonanza Spectacular!
” The crowd roars, the walls thrum, and I nearly choke on my own laugh.
I work the room for a minute, shamelessly reading fashion choices and teasing the regulars until they’re clutching each other with laughter.
I glance over the first row of tables, peering through the spotlights.
My heart gives a pathetic thump when I realize I don’t see Miles.
Not at the bar. Not crammed into a booth with Mal and Hawk.
Not even loitering by the stage with a drink and that damnable half-smile.
There’s an empty stool at the far end of the bar, and the sight of it lodges under my breastbone. He said he’d be here. He promised.
I keep my voice steady. Keep my lips moving. Keep the show alive.
The first number is pure spectacle, a lip-sync by Dixie to “Let It Snow” mashed up with “Bad Romance,” complete with Felix and Tucker as backup dancers in snowman drag and a prop snow machine that works overtime until I’m nearly blinded by foam.
The crowd eats it up. I flirt with the front row.
I crack jokes about the mayor’s toupee. I make three grown men get up onstage and do the can-can in cheesy reindeer antlers.
I’m in my element. The house is electric, the sound system thumping.
Carlyle and my niece Ara, home from college for the weekend, are behind the bar slinging cocktails like they were born for it.
Between numbers, I keep one eye on the door.
After the first hour, the crowd is tipsy and rowdy, and I am running on nothing but adrenaline and pure, stubborn spite. Miles is still nowhere to be seen.
I try not to dwell. I do. I fail miserably.
By the time we hit the midway mark, I’m starting to sweat for real, and not just because of the stage lights. The pit of my stomach is a clenched fist of nerves. This isn’t just a big night. It’s the night. The one I want him to remember. The one I want to remember, for all the right reasons.
Felix sidles up backstage, smirking, completely hidden in a thick brown robe for some ungodly reason. “You look like you’re about to pass out, boss.”
I huff. “It’s called suffering for my art, Felix. Look it up.”
He grins, sharp as a blade. “Well, buckle up. My number’s next. Who knows, maybe something interesting will happen.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m grateful for the distraction. In my show notes, Felix’s act is just three ominous question marks and a scribbled “TBD.” Normally, I’d be annoyed, but tonight, I’m just relieved it’s not my job to wrangle whatever disaster is about to unfold.
I snatch the mic from Dee, who’s still fanning herself from her performance, and sashay back to center stage. “All right, darlings, let’s keep this party rolling! Up next, the only king in town with more attitude than eyeliner, everyone’s favorite go-go boy. Give it up for Felix!”
The applause is immediate, loud, and hungry.
I step offstage, catching my breath, fanning myself with the set list. The house lights dim, the familiar hum of anticipation prickling over my skin.
Then the speakers blast out the opening chords of “I Hate Everything About You” by Three Days Grace.
The crowd goes silent for a beat. Then Felix stomps onto the stage, dressed as the Grinch in full green body paint and a Santa jacket, every movement campy and exaggerated.
He sneers at the audience, shoves over the prop snowman from the holiday set, and does a death drop that nearly takes out the front row.
The audience is in stitches, and the whole club is suddenly alive with confusion and delight.
I stand frozen for a second, hand over my mouth, unsure if I should laugh or run for cover.
But then there’s a clatter on the stairs. And I see him. Miles Dalton, in a fitted crimson suit with a green waistcoat and a red top hat, coming down the center aisle like a man on a mission.
My heart stops. My brain tries to reboot.
I wonder if I’m hallucinating from stress.
He doesn’t look at the stage. He looks straight at me and grins.
The rest of the room parts like the Red Sea as he strides forward, the spotlights catching on the glint of his tie, the gloss of his boots, the glitter someone, probably Patti, has dusted into his beard.
He walks to the foot of the stage, waits for the cue, and then Felix, the damn traitor, throws out a hand in a grand, melodramatic gesture.
Miles climbs up the steps without missing a beat and joins Felix in the middle of the stage.
I’m not prepared. I am, for the record, never prepared for Miles Dalton to do anything, but this is a new level of surprise.
They have a whole routine worked out. It’s silly, it’s campy, it’s two men in holiday drag fake-brawling over a present, and then Felix climbing my man like a Christmas tree and attempting to use him like a stripper pole.
Felix plays the heel, mugging for the crowd, and Miles gives every ounce of himself to the bit, stomping, twirling, even attempting a high kick. He almost lands it.
When the song hits the final chorus, the DJ, god bless him, cross-fades into “I’m Too Sexy” by Right Said Fred, and the lights go full disco.
Felix rips off his Grinch coat, revealing a sequined crop top and hot pants that make even the gym rats whistle.
They strut the stage together, a duet of absurdity and confidence, egging each other on.
At one point, Felix drops to all fours, and Miles uses him as a footrest, reclining in his suit like a conquering hero.
The queens backstage are losing their absolute shit, shrieking and pounding the walls.
Miles, that absolute maniac, is doing a striptease number on my stage in front of half the town, and he’s not even a little bit subtle about it.
I’m frozen in the wings, hand over my mouth, only partially to keep from shrieking with laughter.
Then Miles, the absolute lunatic, the love of my life, the disaster in Santa drag regalia with a perfect ass in tight pants, struts to center stage and starts…
well, it’s not quite a runway walk, but it’s committed.
The queens backstage are screaming. The college kids are screaming.
I’m screaming, internally, externally, metaphysically.
He’s ridiculous. He’s perfect.
I actually double over, catching myself on the velvet curtain.
He’s terrible at it, and yet somehow it works.
He’s all chest, all attitude, shoulders back, channeling every beefcake model he’s ever seen on Instagram, and it’s glorious.
He gets about halfway across the stage before he nearly trips, and instead of panicking, he milks it, stumbling theatrically and then catching himself with a deep, showy bow.
He locks eyes with me, and the look on his face is pure, unfiltered joy.
He’s having fun. Not just playing at it, not faking it for the crowd, but living in the moment, letting himself be seen, be ridiculous, be beautiful.
I feel something unspool in my chest, a tightness I didn’t even know I’d been carrying, and for a second, I have to blink hard because I’m going to ruin my mascara if I’m not careful.
Felix, bless him, plays the perfect hype man, flanking Miles and trading campy poses at the back of the stage.
When the music hits the chorus, they synchronize a little shoulder shimmy, and I hear the bellow of the firefighters in the corner losing their shit.
The number builds, and as the bridge hits, Miles saunters to center stage, pausing for effect.
He makes a big show of reaching for his jacket buttons, fumbling them open one by one.
He’s red in the face but never breaks character, even when he gets stuck on the third button and has to rip the rest open with a two-handed yank.
The jacket and the vest underneath come off in one dramatic whoosh, exposing the white shirt beneath.
The women at the front table lose it, one of them actually pounding the table in excitement.
Someone throws a handful of dollar bills.
Miles, in a moment of pure inspiration, picks one up and tucks it into his own waistband, then blows a kiss to the table.