Chapter 2
Chapter
Two
ROONEY
If pressed, I wouldn’t be able to tell you if it was the fried shrimp or the shrooms that got me. Either way, I’m locked in my bathroom, bent over the toilet with drool dripping down my chin. Along with some other stuff I’m not okay with interrogating.
To make matters worse, the drugs are still doing their thing, leaving my head spinning and colors flying.
Now, I’ve been in some pretty gross situations.
I work at a strip club, and mystery fluids aren’t unknown to me.
However, hugging cold porcelain while the party rages outside my bathroom door is less than ideal, because I don’t know who’s planted their pimpled ass on the seat I’m currently resting my cheek against. Unfortunately, my chest hurts too much to move, and the pack of wet wipes I keep for these situations is a foot and a half out of reach.
As another contraction of my abdomen makes me heave bile into the foul-smelling bowl, I find myself wondering: is this what rock bottom feels like?
No, probably not. I can go lower.
Seventies flower power aesthetics in garish disco colors whirl behind my eyes like a naked bore on a car after its wheels and rims have been stolen.
I risk reaching for the wipes, but moving immediately makes my stomach lurch, so I wrap my arms around my middle and groan in defeat.
I could die like this and no one would find me until they desperately had to shit and decided to bust the lock in.
It’s flimsy. Flimsier than my connection with every single person infesting my apartment right now.
They only come over because I don’t give a shit what they do here, and I only host these shindigs because I can’t afford groceries after spending all of my jock strap money on rent.
People bring drugs, alcohol, and snacks in exchange for admittance, and I can eat their offerings for the night and maybe get laid.
Win-win. Except for when I get got by a foul batch of fried seafood, of course, though it’s not the first time and I guarantee it won’t be the last. I can’t afford to be picky.
“If I die like this,” I mumble to myself, “at least I won’t have to see this retro shit anymore.”
“I’d entreat you to avoid death as adamantly as possible,” a voice says to my left. I squint enough to see the blurry shape of a male hand plucking the package of wipes from the floor. The owner of the hand continues in a smooth baritone: “The world’s light would be greatly diminished without you.”
Blinking tears out of my eyes in hopes of seeing him better, I mutter, “The fuck it would.”
The man doesn’t respond. He removes a wipe and gently, carefully, adjusts my head so he can dab at my mouth, wiping away the sick. Then he tosses the wipe into the plastic bag I use for trash and produces another. “You’ve made a proper mess of yourself, Rooney.”
“At least it’s just shrooms and shrimp, rather than a needle,” I slur. “How did you get in here?” That should have been my first question.
He only hums.
I allow him to clean the rest of me, distantly wondering about the ease of my acquiescence.
Allowing intimacy like this isn’t usually my thing; I hate it, and run from any man who tries to “take care” of me, especially if he’s gotten it into his head that I need saving.
From this city, from my life, from myself.
No, I’m fine. Well. Not right now, but usually.
As the mystery man brushes damp bangs out of my eyes and re-ties my ponytail, I sense my nausea beginning to ebb.
By the time he’s finished straightening my clothes it’s disappeared entirely, and the chewed-up technicolor peace signs I’ve been trying to ignore have given way to blooming fractals in a spectrum of blues.
It’s refreshing after the drug-induced assault of visual—and physical—vomit.
I feel brighter than I have all week when I turn to study my helpful stranger, only for concern to lodge in my chest when I notice him looking a bit green.
Maybe the smell is getting to him. Quickly closing the toilet lid, I flush and attempt to stand.
He assists me in rising to my feet, but when I tilt my chin upward, finally trying to get a clear picture of my unexpected rescuer, he turns away.
“Hey,” I say softly. I bite my lip, debating on whether to thank him or not. I’m a rude person by nature, and I don’t play nice with other kids, even the kinder ones. Still, there aren’t many guys out there willing to clean up a burned-out stripper’s puke.
Still blocking my view with his impressively wide shoulders, the man paws through a cluttered shelf until he finds mouthwash, then fills the cap.
When he hands it to me I am rewarded with the proper look at his face I’d desired.
What I see has my mouth tugging into a perplexed frown.
The handsome face looks familiar, but I can’t place it.
That’s when I become aware of his clothes—a well-fitting business casual shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and speckles of yellow bile staining the subtle cornflower blue.
No one who attends my parties has any excuse for showing up wearing that.
Irritation surges in my chest, burning almost as bad as my stomach acid did, but before I can make a point of demanding the sorely out-of-place man’s name, he takes my hand and levers the cup of mouthwash to my lips.
I have no choice but to part them or risk a river of bright green spearmint down my front.
Stinging fluid floods my mouth, and I glare at him while I swish.
He watches me with a half-smile. When I bend to spit, I feel his thumb ghost down my neck.
I come up for air ready to cuss him out like a hissy stray cat, but he’s no longer in my peripheral.
Spinning, I find he’s no longer in the bathroom at all.
Somehow the bastard slid out without me noticing, and didn’t spare me a parting word.
True anger heats my nerves, and I storm across the bathroom, seizing the doorknob with intent on pursuing him, but stop when it refuses to turn. I jiggle it a few times, then move my palm to inspect the mechanism, wondering if the latch got stuck. But no. The lock itself is still engaged.
How the fuck did he get out without me hearing the door? Without unlocking it? And somehow magically re-locking it from the outside? It doesn’t fucking make sense.
A hard knot of fear lodges in my throat as I thumb the button, which responds with ease, not sticking at all. I step out, scanning the collection of fuckheads crowding my tiny apartment. None of them look like the man who helped me. None of them even glance in my direction to ask if I’m okay.
I don’t know what I would say if they did.
I’ve been paranoid since the party. I know the kind stranger was just a hallucination, and I’d thoroughly cussed out the guy who gave me the shrooms for lying about whatever he spiked them with.
Yet I remain ill at ease, looking over my shoulder, feeling like I’m being watched.
I can’t stop wondering if the guy will appear again, that phantom cooked up by my sick brain.
I can’t use that mouthwash without shuddering, sharp spearmint reminding me of air caressing my bare throat.
My heart pumps overtime when I spot anything with that eerily familiar medley of cool blues.
I did some research on psilocybin-induced psychosis.
If I had money to see a neurologist, I might have briefly considered seeking one out, but a quick search on that confirmed that no fancy brain doctors would come anywhere near this pisshole city.
Shame. Or not, since I couldn’t go anyway. Wouldn’t? I dunno.
What I do know is: if this paranoia doesn’t fucking cool it, I’m going to go apeshit.
But it lasts past Wednesday, a quiet night at Caution, and into Friday, when it’s much busier and more difficult to ignore the sensation of being…witnessed. Guarded almost, which—fuck that. I almost hope my drug-induced stranger pops up again so I can demand he get off my jock.
During my first lap dance of the evening, I glance over my shoulder and freeze for a second, swearing I see his face at the back of a gaggle of leers.
The pervert beneath me grunts in annoyance, and when I start moving again, the face fades into a ripple of shadow.
I grind against the dude’s boner, trying not to frown as the memory of that horrid twink the other day returns to me.
He’d disappeared too, gone in the swing of a door, and I doubt he had time to hide behind one of the speakers.
Except that couldn’t have been psychosis, because the others saw him too.
Something is happening, which is an alarming thought considering I don’t—and never have—believed in spirits, a higher power, or the afterlife.
Even as a kid I understood that death is followed by nothing but shitting your pants on the way out.
Unless superpowers are real, I’m gonna have to recalibrate that metric.
I don’t usually drink on the job, but the very instant this pathetic little creep comes in his khakis, I pop up and stalk toward the bar.
While on the floor I try to tone down what a rude motherfucker I am in interest of actually making money, but right now I don’t care.
I need a shot of something stronger than Everclear.
By the time I’m up in the pole queue, I’m proper drunk.
I strut onstage with only a bit of stumble, barefoot because I don’t trust myself in heels while this slammed.
My set is…fine. I keep my eyes closed instead of flirting with the audience, peeking through my eyelashes only when I need to make sure I don’t hit the pole at the wrong angle.
That’d be more embarrassing than breaking character during a lapdance, and I’d certainly get a word from Nova about it, on top of being mocked by Sara and the other little bitches who hate me, all for very legitimate reasons.
If George was still around I’d catch an earful from him, too, so I ought to be grateful he’s gone, except our new boss is a total blind spot.
I barely remember what he looks like, since I’ve only seen him the once.
I make it through my set without any crises.
Nova gives me a suspicious look when I hurry offstage with a touch more wobble than before, but she’s up next so I arrive at the dressing room unaccosted.
Nobody inside pays me any attention. I chug from a lukewarm bottle of water, because George was too cheap to buy a backstage fridge, then change into a shimmery silver jock strap.
I have to pack the crotch because my t-dick is too small to make a proper bulge, but I’m gonna need to work a bit harder to get enough tips to buy gas.
My moped thankfully started working again after I kicked it a few times.
I raid our small costume closet, finding a slightly-too-large pair of gladiator sandals covered in gold glitter.
The silver and gold clash, but better than crashing and burning on heels; it’ll be fine in the dark.
Despite my efforts, the tips suck for a Friday, even though I let a group of patrons even drunker than me slap my exposed asscheeks at a crisp fifty bucks per swing.
Then I see him: my boss, watching with a slight frown.
We aren’t supposed to let people touch us during shifts, even with permission, and George would penalize anyone who got caught allowing it with an additional fee taken from our tips.
Reluctantly, I wave a few disappointed jerks away, bemoaning the lost income.
All said, it’s a worthless disappointment of a night, and gets worse when the bartender cuts me off after the club closes. “It’s not your fucking job to babysit me,” I inform him with a scowl, but he doesn’t budge, so I stomp my little gladiator sandals back to the dressing room to get changed.
Most everyone else is gone by the time I’m done wiping mascara and highlighter off my face.
I use a makeup remover wipe on my top scars, scrubbing off the foundation I use to hide them every night.
No one gets to know I’m trans without my say-so, and even with my undersized dick (because bottom growth isn’t that miraculous) most of the patrons have no idea they’re horny for a man with a pussy.
As I’m tugging on my jacket, a deep voice rumbles behind me: “Rooney.”
I recognize that smooth baritone. It was so relaxed last time I heard it, but this time it’s tense. A warning. The mirror gifts me the image of a frowning man in a nice suit, arms crossed over his chest.
My new boss.
“Sir?” I croak.
Displeased expression aside, Shard is handsome, tall and tanned with a strong jaw and dark waves of hair styled to sweep behind his ears. A curl lingers on his forehead, framing his furrowed brow. Like Superman. Last time I saw him, he disappeared through a locked bathroom door.
My caring stranger.
Without calling attention to my gawping stare, Shard says, “A word, please?”