Drag Me Up (Manor Drive #2)
Chapter 1
1
ERIC
“Have a good night, Sass!” Stacey’s voice calls out from the hallway. Stacey is one of the dayshift bartenders, so she doesn’t usually see the worst of what we can get at night. Plus, with her being assigned female at birth and identifying as cisgendered, she doesn’t really understand what we go through to have someone recoil when they realize you have a cock between your legs. Nothing kills the mood like finding out your date is actually a dick-phobic bigot, probably so deep in the closet he’s found a set of platforms with dead fish in the heel.
I wave absently in the direction of the door while I work on finishing the blending I need to do for my makeup. My look must be perfection . I will allow nothing less. The masculine falls away as the woman in the mirror emerges. Eric and all of his problems dissipate with each and every swipe of a brush or sponge across my face.
“Sassy, you’re up next,” Cleo says as she saunters into the dressing area, breaking through my thoughts. “We’ve got you starting out with Britney tonight, since the elder millennial hooligans in the audience wouldn’t appreciate the newer stuff. Betty and Cici are doing Gaga and Mariah. We’re not touching any songs not old enough to drink tonight.”
Cleo Lee DeStarr is my Drag Mother. She brought me in, gave me a job, and showed me how to be my most fabulous self. Outside of the club, he is Clarence Wilson, my frenemy to the extreme. Clarence kind of saved my life by introducing me to Cleo and the world of drag. But it still doesn’t mean I have to like him…
Nodding to the queen in the mirror, I pull on my pigtail wig and stand to shimmy my way into the school girl outfit for the number. My makeup is already good enough to pull off two of the five Britney routines I can do, so I’ll glam it up for the finale after the second number while the other girls are doing their routines.
Tying the knot in the shirt to reveal my navel, I feel the calm settle into me. Performing is the only way for me to relax these days. The last few months since the trial have been harder than usual, but being on the stage means I’m Sassy… and she doesn’t have those memories.
Cleo blows me a kiss, and I flip her off before I flip my hair. I can’t help but notice the concern in her eyes, and it pulls me out of the tentative headspace I managed. I force a smile on my face, hoping she doesn’t recognize how fake it is. If she pulls me from the rotation tonight, I’m likely to go do something stupid to bury the memories again .
“Break a leg, Sugar,” she whispers to me as I sashay out the door to head to the stage.
After my second individual number, I wave to Tyson behind the bar when I come off the stage. I need a fucking drink. Friday nights are generally good nights when it comes to the clientele in the Monarch Room Dance Revue and Gay Club, also known as the Mr. Drag Club. Tonight must be a full moon or something because the tips are flowing like a stream in the Sahara, and the audience is full of dickheads with their borderline bigoted catcalls.
Walking the floor is not going to be happening tonight. Most nights, I get a thrill and a much-needed dopamine rush from the cheering and adoration of the crowd. These guys, however, are more likely to send my mood six feet under like Lizzerati’s unfortunate bedazzled recorder routine. Malcolm is a fantastic dancer and choreographer, but a musician he is definitely not.
Plopping my slightly padded ass into a folding chair backstage, I grab the battery operated fan off the shelf. I wish I could just go back to the dressing room to change and go trolling, but I still have to do the group number to close out the show. Usually, I would go do a wardrobe change and show off my most fantabulous self for the grand finale. This sea of cocknozzles does not deserve my best after how they’ve been treating each of us on stage.
“You sticking around to play afterwards or are you going to head over to Pegasus?” Tyson asks as he sets my usual Sprite with a slice of lime on the shelf. “If you’re sticking around, maybe we can…”
I wave hurriedly at him to stop the question before he can fully say it. I’ve been flirting pretty heavily with the new bartender since he started in October, but I never shit where I eat. He’s proven that he is a great mixologist, and I can’t fuck things up again for the club. The last bartender rage quit during a huge bachelorette shindig after he figured out that I am not the kind of person who will do relationships. I told him we weren’t exclusive, but he somehow thought his cock was a magical cure-all for my issues or something. Cleo had to take the stage in order for Nick to tend the bar. The bride was not happy that Betty Whiteclaw didn’t take the stage.
“I don’t mess around with coworkers, Ty-baby,” I croon to him, trailing my nails down his very muscular and tantalizing arm.
Don’t fuck coworkers, Eric. You can’t afford to lose this place, not now.
“As for where I’ll be,” I glance through the side of the curtain at the edge of the stage and spot Lucky, Spencer, Scott, and Toby cutting their way through the unruly crowd. “My guys just showed up, so I’ll be around if you want to hang out a bit. But only as friends.”
Tyson isn’t fast enough to hide his disappointment before he nods and heads back out to his post behind the bar. Betty staggers off the stage while I’m still staring at the baby gay’s ass moving through the crowd. Part of me really wants to give him a ride he will never forget.
Don’t fuck coworkers, Eric.
I know it’s a bad idea, but a rather large portion of my brain doesn’t give a flying fuck about consequences. Sometimes it really sucks being bipolar with ADHD. Being responsible is getting more and more difficult. I probably should get my meds adjusted again with the recent stress, but I keep forgetting to make the appointment. I’ll do it tomorrow.
“…not even worth it to do the finale with this group. They’re not gonna settle and they’re making the stage downright dangerous with their spills. It’s like they are on a mission to get us out of here.”
Catching the last bit of Betty’s whisper to Cleo, I am shocked. We always do the finale. Even if there are no paying customers, we will do the full show. I’ve never seen Cleo allow less, and I’ve been working here for almost four years. Hell, I’ve been coming here for longer, ever since my father ran me out of his house.
“I’m calling it,” Cleo announces and pulls out her phone. After tapping a message, she grabs the wireless microphone from the shelf in front of me. Cleo becomes Clarence for a second, twisting her head from side to side. I hear the crack of her neck before she adjusts her posture from black-belt Clarence to her usually regal self and saunters onto the stage in the sudden silence when all the music is killed.
“Ladies, Gentlemen, and everyone in between,” Cleo announces from center stage, her voice booming through the sound system. “Unfortunately, our finale performance for tonight will not be happening. It’s time for our little butterflies to transform yet again, so please return next month for our new show here at the Monarch Room.”
Next month?!
I can’t take a month without performing! Not now. I need the distraction, especially with the trial bringing it all back to the surface a few months ago.
I race back to the dressing room and rip off my wig. I grab my phone out of my locker with one hand while I rush through tearing away the clothing, padding, and costume jewelry associated with Miss Sassy Frass. I’m leaving the makeup for now since it will work better to keep me anonymous when I pick up some nameless cock to ride for the night.
Kink Manor Queenie:
Going out. Don’t wait up.
I hit send on the message to Spencer and turn my phone off before he can reply. Spencer might be my closest and oldest friend, but he would only try to tag along. I don’t need the boy scout Daddy with his adorable ace little cock blocking me. I need to get railed hard tonight if I’m facing a month without performing.
“What are you doing, Eric?” Cleo’s sugary voice calls out to me as I finish typing my code into the time clock to punch out. “It’s only nine o’clock and you’re on the schedule until eleven.”
“Fuck off, Clarence,” I grumble as I turn for the door. He doesn’t get to pull my safety net out from under me and then give me grief. I can find another fucking job if I have to. Hell, I don’t even fucking need to work. Flipping him off over my shoulder, I head for my Mini-Cooper and race toward the South Side.
Fuck my meds. Fuck my job. Fuck all the people who claim to give a shit. I’m going to feel alive for a fucking change and to hell with anyone who gets in my way.