Chapter Thirty-Eight
Trey
Alive – Madden
Iknow something is wrong the moment my fingers brush my ear and I’m met with nothing but dead silence, because there should be at least a crackle of static, some indication that the line is still alive, that Chace is still there on the other end holding this whole thing together, but instead there is only the muffled roar of thousands of voices pressing in from all sides, and I force my expression to stay neutral as I adjust the earpiece again like I’m just another man in the crowd trying to hear the sermon better, when in reality I am standing blind in the middle of enemy territory with no way of knowing if the plan is unfolding the way it’s supposed to.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath as I lift my chin, trying to catch a better glimpse of the stage through the shifting mass of bodies.
Theodore doesn’t swear…get in character, fuckface.
It feels wrong in a way I can’t quite explain, like I’ve stepped into something I don’t control, like I’m a wolf standing in the middle of a pen full of sheep with no way to hear my pack, cut off from the only people who are supposed to have my back in a situation like this.
I am a lone wolf, awoooo…
Maybe Theodore can howl?
The silence presses in harder than the noise.
The air is thicker than it should be for a February evening in Los Angeles, cool at the edges but heavy where bodies pack together, clinging to my skin beneath the layers I’ve been forced into wearing, crawling under the cotton like my body is rejecting every part of this disguise.
Cotton. Fucking cotton.
It’s definitely not because of nerves and me shitting myself.
The fabric drags against my legs with every step, the pink polo pulling in all the wrong places.
What sort of Sunday best perverts wear polo shirts like this…fucking degenerates.
Then there is the canary yellow cardigan—Jesus Christ, the cardigan—tied around my shoulders like I’m about to ask someone if they’ve seen my fucking yacht keys, threatens to slide off every time I move.
It’s all a part of my perfect “Theodore” disguise.
I adjust it again, jaw tight, already knowing that if a single photo of me in this outfit ever hits the internet I will deny it until my dying breath, and it won’t matter how much proof exists because this version of me does not exist in any reality I’m willing to acknowledge.
Post a hundred thousand pictures of me fucking my wife’s tight little asshole...but none of me in the shitshow.
My fingers twitch at my sides, missing the familiar weight of rings, the cold bite of metal, the ink that usually tells my story now buried under layers of makeup, my piercings stripped back to almost nothing, and the irritation that simmers under my skin sharpens as I roll my tongue against the inside of my cheek.
With my tattoos hidden I am a blank canvas.
What would Theodore have for a first tattoo? A heart with “mum” in it? A lion and a clock on his arm with something in Latin about loyalty or power…nah, too out of character. If he was faux-manly alpha, maybe. Hmm…maybe a Disney character? Still, at least I left my most important piercings in.
Not that anyone here is getting close enough to check.
Though, if all goes to shit…I do regret not cloning my dick into a silicone mold so my wife can always have me with her.
Oh, my fucking God. A thought occurs to me.
If I got a casting made, I could name it Lucille, like Negan’s barb wired club…
I should have been fucking Negan. Not Theodore.
Fuck.
Shit. Next time?
My eyes burn with every blink, the brown contacts scratching just enough to keep me aware of them, the glasses perched on my nose already pushing my patience to its limit, and when I think about my hair slicked back so hard I look like I’m losing it, I have to fight the urge to laugh.
Stay in character.
Good evening, my name is Theodore, the clitoris is a myth.
The thought makes my lip curl.
Sera’s face hits me without warning, not from earlier when she tried to hold herself together in front of everyone, but from last night when she couldn’t anymore, when her hands clutched at my shirt and her body shook against mine, when her tears soaked into my skin as she begged me not to leave her, her voice breaking in a way that carved itself into something permanent inside my chest.
I shove the memory down before it can take hold, because there is no room for hesitation now, not when I’m already standing in the middle of this, surrounded by people who would gladly see me burn if they knew exactly who I was.
I keep moving.
I force my way forward through the crowd, shoulder to shoulder with people who believe every word they’re about to hear, letting the signs they hold catch my attention just enough to blend in while I read them without really wanting to.
THE LORD SEES ALL.
Even when I am balls deep?
Nice.
Nice.
REPENT OR BURN.
I mean, that could be a sign for smart sexual health. Don’t get the clap. Bag it up or feel the burn!
THE LOST WILL BE CLEANSED.
Oh, well, at least they will be found and cleaned. That’s nice. Charitable.
My gaze shifts, catching on another.
TREY BAKER = SIN.
Fuck, yes! I am going to make that into a t-shirt. That is fucking hilarious.
I look to the left.
TREY BAKER — THE DESTROYER WALKS AMONG US.
Destroyer of pussies and assholes…fuck. I shouldn’t be walking around this crowd with a semi. Then again… that’s like religious rapture.
I am hard for God. I bite my lip. Do not laugh. Do. Not. Laugh.
You are going to hell.
A laugh almost breaks free before I can stop it.
I bump into the guy holding it, deliberate enough to throw him off balance, and when he scowls at me, I nod toward the sign like we’re in on the same joke.
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my tone casual. “He’s the worst. Hot piece of ass, though.” I say with a wink.
His expression twists in confusion, and I don’t give him time to respond before I keep moving.
More signs blur past, messages about obedience and salvation and belonging stacking on top of each other until they all start to sound the same, until they stop meaning anything at all, and then one phrase hits differently, something about lost lambs returning whether they want to or not, and something cold slides down my spine because I know exactly who that message is meant for.
Fucking hell…all these people…all this hate…seems miserable.
The stage comes into view as the crowd thickens, security tightening.
I scan without turning my head.
Oh my Lord, is that Logan fucking Dale… in costume no less.
He’s giving college dropout vibes—hemp, blonde hair piece, fake goatee. He looks like he should stink of weed and patchouli.
Sam is off to the side with fake hair. He actually looks good, which is odd to say considering I’ve only ever known him as a fucking cue ball. The man shaves his head twice a week; I imagine if he ever let it grow out for a month he’d look like a goddamn spider plant.
Which means Chace is nearby… right? But I don’t see him. He’s a freaking ghost haunting the place.
According to Chace and his rapidly assembled plan of infiltration, with a little help from my dad, the program that fuckstick Gideon has in motion will call a specially selected few members of the audience up on stage to receive blessings and some backstage bullshit to bask in his presence…
probably while he gives himself a holy, deeply unholy handy.
Unless, of course, this is all some elaborate setup by my dad for me kicking the shit out of him for being a big old piece of shit…
I reach the barrier and grip it, ignoring the protests behind me as I take the space I need, because there is no turning back now, not that I would anyway, since I’ve never exactly been known for making smart decisions and this one is no different, except this time the stakes are higher than anything I’ve ever walked into before.
But it’s fine, because I am not Trey Baker. I am secret agent Bond—Theodore Bond—with a license to wear shitty polo tops, cardigans, and fucking chinos.
“Sorry, please make way, chosen one coming through,” I say, nasally. Sam and Logan are a few spaces back, or as they look in my head right now, Johnny Bravo and Shaggy. They clock me causing a scene and roll their eyes.
The shift in the crowd happens all at once.
If you can’t find joy in the most tense situations, then why even dress up?
Except the more honest thought follows right behind it. Maybe because they don’t want to stand out. Don’t want to be recognized. Don’t want to be seen.
You fucking idiot.
Oh… yeah. Fair.
But fuck it. Theodore doesn’t care about that. He cares about looking preppy and getting on his knees for Jesus.
Gideon Cross steps onto the stage with his arms raised, and the reaction is immediate and overwhelming as the people around me erupt, hands reaching toward him like he’s something divine instead of just another snake oil salesman, selling promises of salvation for a nominal fee.
It’s strange standing on this side of it, because I’m used to being the one up there, the one feeding the energy and shaping it, and I can see exactly what he’s doing, the way he moves. He’s working the crowd, but that’s because he is saying what they want to hear, playing to their prejudices.
It would almost be impressive if it wasn’t so fucking dangerous.
He’s dressed in black. You might think he looks more like a demon than a brother of the cloth, with a half-smiling presence that suggests he is completely getting off on being the head of this herd of haters.
His hair is greasy, slicked back, and the distance in his eyes is what really unsettles me. It gives me the heebie-jeebies in a way I can’t shake, like I’ve seen it before somewhere I wish I hadn’t.
A documentary. Charles Manson. Another vicious liar warping people’s views, whipping them into a frenzy.
Another culty-cunt motherfucker.
My gaze flicks to the side where a man in a sharp suit stands near the barrier, I don’t need confirmation to know Galina’s people are here.
Of course they are.
Gideon’s voice carries across the crowd, smooth and controlled.
Logan taps me on the shoulder. I look to him eyes wide after looking at the slimeball on stage for too long. He gestures at the spot my earpiece is in, tapping it a few times. I mouth the words.
“It’s fucked.” He understands and winces. I don’t know what I was missing out on, but I was in the right place…or I was in the right place? Has the plan changed? It’s gone so well so far.
“My children… tonight, we honor the faithful.”
Ah…fucking hell. I have to listen to this surreptitious piece of shit from up close, while getting blasted from expensive speakers?
Fuck. Me.
Also, I don’t know if “surreptitious” is the right word… but it sounds good…
The crowd leans in, desperate for more.
“We bring forth those chosen…to be blessed…anointed… reborn in His grace.”
Oh, shit, this is supposed to be me.
Hands shoot up around me, voices rising, the energy shifting.
“Those children selected will be guided forward…to receive His touch.”
I Try to stay in character, smiling as Theordore.
Man just said he wants to touch kids…
My pulse kicks.
A figure appears before me, clasping me by the shoulder.
“Okay, Theodore.” I recognize the voice and try not to jump out of my skin.
Chace. Had he been there the whole time? Sharp suit, controlled posture, blending so perfectly into the environment that no one would look twice.
Ninja ass motherfucker.
I almost pissed myself.
“Hope you’re ready to get on your knees.” He says with a smile.
Ah, see. He gets it. You gotta have fun.
I snort under my breath.
“I promise to work the shaft and balls. Maybe slip a finger in.”
His lips twitch, just barely, before one of the guards signals.
Showtime.
The barrier opens, and Chace grips my arm, guiding me through. The crowd cheers, so elated for me.
Everything changes on this side.
I’m placed in line behind two women who already look like they’ve convinced themselves this is something sacred instead of something staged. When I know for a fact it’s staged as to get “selected” Chace had us donate to the cause. I roll my shoulders.
“Oh my goodness, I am so happy to be chosen with you!” I say, putting on my best eager, harmless expression.
They glance back at me, eyes bright with adulation, faces flushed with devotion.
Shit.
It’s how some fans look at me when I perform, that same glassy intensity, that same desperate kind of joy.
The first woman goes up to screaming and praise, Gideon placing his hand against her, speaking words that are meant to feel personal even in front of thousands, and I watch carefully, taking in every detail, every movement.
She doesn’t kneel.
She does, however, disappear backstage with him.
The second follows, same deal.
Same pattern.
Are the curtains gonna be pulled back on a dunk tank of holy water?
Shit, is this an orgy?
Then it’s my turn.
As I step onto the stage, everything sharpens, not because of the lights or the crowd, but because I am now standing face to face with the man who has threaded himself into my life in a way that cannot be undone.
Gideon turns to me, his expression smooth, unreadable.
No flicker.
No hesitation.
I hold his gaze.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Theodore.”
His smile deepens.
He steps closer, lifting his hand to my temple in a gesture meant to look like a blessing, and as he speaks about cleansing and restoration, I feel it in the way his attention locks onto mine.
When it’s over, I step back and turn, walking off the stage like nothing has happened, but the moment my foot hits the ground a man in a suit is already there, ready to escort me.
I follow.
The noise fades as we move through the corridor, swallowed by walls and distance, until the door to the side room closes behind me and silence settles in, heavy and waiting.
I barely take two steps before his voice comes from behind me.
“Did you really think I wouldn’t recognize you?”
A slow smile spreads across my face as I remove the glasses and turn to face him fully.
“Actually,” I say, meeting his eyes without anything left to hide, “I was counting on it.”