Ben Ryder - Englishmen 3 - Released Read online

  She started off lightly, referring to me as “this twink who must still be tight.” She threatened to throw me to the pack

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  of bearded bears huddled together so they could loosen me up. The audience roared with laughter, but I felt the blood rush to my cheeks. It was like she could smell the fear. The more my flushed face showed under the spotlight, the more personal the questions became.

  She asked if I was a top, bottom, or a “versatile little whore, eager to please the masses by giving them whatever they wanted for five pounds and a lollipop.” She asked who I’d fucked in the audience and then held the microphone out to the crowd to ask who wanted to fuck me. I wanted to bolt but couldn’t move my legs. Her unkempt wig and thick, dark eye makeup made her look insane. To me, she was a demented clown that had pulled me into a nightmare. When she exhausted her barrage of insults, I was released in a torrent of applause, laughter, and dizziness. Audience members slapped me on the back for being such a good sport, but I just wanted to vomit.

  Sometimes I wondered whether that experience was why I was so good at my job. It’s easy to review entertainers, artists, and performers in the public eye, because all of the attention is focused on them. Many do it for the love of their craft and are what I consider true artists in their field. But others do for the attention they need or believe they deserve. Those are the really difficult people, since their desperation for recognition often eclipses their talent. I haven’t actually written that in an article, but I have come close a few times.

  So, fixed with the crushing memory of abject humiliation by a drag queen in London, I took one of the high-top tables at the back of the Beacon and settled in with my beer. I was close enough to get a decent view, but far enough away that I was unlikely to be a target for any insult missiles. As I waited, I looked around the bar and took in the

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  atmosphere. A semicircle of chairs and tables arced around the front of the stage for those who wanted to have a frontrow experience—who I would call “the foolish gluttons for punishment.” There was a gap in the middle of the tables large enough to accommodate standing room for the patrons who wanted to hand dollar bills to Madam Flamé in appreciation.

  I retrieved a pen and pad from my backpack and jotted down a few notes about the bar’s décor, location, and layout. The barback walked past with a tower of empty glasses and gave me an odd glance, which I suppose made sense. I probably looked like a plainclothes health and safety inspector. I quickly realized this might bring unwanted attention my way—the last thing I wanted—so I stowed the notepad and tapped my notes into my smartphone instead, as if texting a friend.

  As I looked around, a familiar handsome face caught my eye. It was Alex. He was laughing heartily with two men, who, judging by the way they were draped over each other, appeared to be a couple. There was an empty seat next to Alex, who looked to be the third wheel in their group. A few minutes passed, and he hadn’t spotted me. I should have gone over and said hello, or maybe texted him to let him know I was in the bar. But the seat next to him remained unoccupied, and their table was too close to the stage. I was terrified that he might ask me to join them, and I knew I’d only appear rude when I refused. I decided to admire from a safe distance.

  As the lights went down, everyone’s attention drifted to the stage. An ample-figured black drag queen crept into the spotlight as the opening bars of “Natural Woman” played. She was absolutely flawless, from her jet-black hair, styled

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  like a Dreamgirl, to the black patent leather stilettos. Then, to my surprise, she opened her perfectly painted lips. Unlike the majority of drag queens who lip-sync their performances, this diva was a rare find. Not only was she singing live, she was knocking the classic out of the park. The soul behind her voice came through as she channeled Aretha Franklin. I was mesmerized along with the rest of the audience.

  As she wound down her song, she gravitated toward the crowd for a little interaction. She wasn’t looking for prey to humiliate with uncouth language. She wasn’t there to shock or horrify. Instead, she brought kind charm and tenderness to her fans. Throughout her performance, during the gaps in the lyrics, she called out to members of the audience by name. If she didn’t know a name, she simply said, “Thank you, baby,” as she collected the bills held out for her.

  It was how I imagined the performances of gay yesteryear. Scores of deeply closeted men in the 1950s huddled together in private clubs, taking strength from a supportive community. Her performance blew me away, and I lamented the idea that such a talent was accepting dollar bills in a small bar in New York when she easily could have been holding her own on a stage with the divas whose songs she sang.

  She performed several numbers, demonstrating remarkable range. When she belted out her final note, she graciously bowed and soaked in the much-deserved adoration from the crowd. She sauntered off the stage, occasionally glancing back to blow a kiss to her fans. Once the stage was empty, the house lights rose, but only a hair. This was, after all, still a gay bar.

  75I tapped out a few more notes into my phone, then put it

  away and finished my beer. I couldn’t see Alex anymore, so I assumed he and his friends must have left right after the show. I gathered my bag, left a tip on the table, and headed for the door. Just before I reached it, a hand tapped my shoulder.

  “Hey! I didn’t know you were coming tonight,” Alex said, looking pleased to see me.

  “Oh, hey there! I was just leaving, actually. I was here to do a quick article on Madame Flamé. She was amazing.”

  Alex turned to stop his two friends, who were heading toward the door. “Graham, Joe, this is Dominic, the guy I was telling you about. We’re going rafting this weekend.”

  “Oh, so this is Dominic,” said Joe. He turned to Alex with a nod and a smile. I couldn’t be sure, but it almost looked like a nod of approval. “Graham and I have to get home, but you guys enjoy the rest of your evening. So glad to meet you,” he said to me before turning to hug his friend good-bye. The crafty wink he threw Alex wasn’t lost on me.

  “Actually, I should be heading back home myself,” I said, shifting the strap of my bag higher onto my shoulder.

  “Can’t you stay? Just for one?” Alex asked as he waved his friends away.

  “Sure, but I have to be up early in the morning. I’ve got a pretty full week, including my tattoo at lunchtime on Wednesday.”

  We took seats at the bar and ordered a couple of beers. It was odd to see him outside the office environment. He was just as sexy in a casual shirt and jeans as he was in a suit. And I couldn’t help but notice that he filled out a pair of jeans nicely.

  76“How’s your story coming along? Did you get anything

  from your trip to DC?” I asked.

  “I think so. I have a source that has hard evidence of

  Johannson making payments to a senator in exchange for

  votes. He’s a little skittish about giving it to me, though, as

  the guy taking the cash is his boss.”

  “It sounds much heavier than writing about drag

  performances and jugglers.”

  “The problem is the documents—the smoking gun, if

  you will—originally were given to my contact to be shredded.

  He wasn’t even meant to read them, let alone keep them. But

  curiosity got the better of him, and he looked. It was smart

  to keep them, but he’s young and ambitious. He thinks that,

  if it leads back to him, his career will be killed.”

  “That’s understandable.”

  Alex rocked his head from side to side and chewed on

  his lip in thought. “Maybe, but what he does and what he

  says are completely at odds with each other. He clearly

  wants a career in politics and talks to me about how he feels

  like he was destined for a life of public service. Every time

  I’ve met with him
, I’ve listened to how he hopes to advance

  through the ranks and become someone of influence,

  someone that can change the government and country for

  the better. But how can someone talk like that and turn a

  blind eye to corruption? It makes me wonder if he’s

  trustworthy.”

  “Have you seen whatever these documents are?” “Not the originals, only scanned copies he keeps on his

  iPad. The stuff is absolute dynamite. He won’t show me the

  originals, and I can’t push him for them yet. He knows he’ll

  have to give them to me sometime for the story to be written.

  But at the moment he’s paranoid I won’t protect him.”

  77“Well it sounds like a big story. I hope it all works out.”

  “Me too. I’ve worked far too hard on this and spent far too much time to walk away with nothing. Not to mention that Clive would be pissed.”

  We both took another swig of beer.

  “What about you? How’ve your first few weeks been?” he asked, turning less serious. “So far, so good. I have an interview with Mason Russell tomorrow, which should be interesting.”

  “Mason Russell? You lucky bastard! He’s one hell of a man.”

  “I know. I just hope he lives up to the hype.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In the past, I’ve interviewed people I admired or found really interesting. Meeting them in the flesh can either make you love them even more or leave you hating them. The down-to-earth ones usually win out. No acting involved. But then there are the egomaniacs. They’re just hard work and horrible to be around. Though I have to admit, it does make me appreciate their acting skills a little more, since they somehow manage to portray themselves to the public as decent people.”

  “Ah, the magic disappears.”

  “It sure does. But I hope Mason will be okay.”

  “Oh, Mason?” Alex teased. “I didn’t realize you were on a first-name basis already!”

  “Oh hell yeah. Mason and I, we are like this,” I said, crossing my fingers.

  78“Then Mason’s a lucky guy,” Alex said before,

  thankfully, chugging the rest of his beer so he couldn’t see me blush. I finished my drink, and we nodded in agreement that it was time to head off. As we left, we realized we were headed in different directions.

  “Good to see you, mister,” he said, and he gave me a quick hug. He also left me with a kiss on the cheek that seemed friendly, but I wondered if it didn’t linger a moment too long.

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  Chapter Six

  Tuesday, May 9, 2017

  “WHERE are you interviewing the action man?” Jackie asked

  as she surfed travel sites on the Internet for some inspiration. “The Four Seasons. I’m not usually bothered about celebrities, but I must admit, I’m looking forward to this one.”

  “An hour in a hotel room with Mason Russell. What’s not to love? And I know all about your penchant for hot men in hotels,” she added with a sly wink.

  I ignored the bait. “What are you working on?” “Nothing quite so entertaining, my love. Wedding destinations for blushing brides who wish to take their nuptials on a beach. I can see the attraction, but in my experience, these things never quite play out the way they are meant to, and it inevitably leads to disappointment.”

  “I thought you married in New York.”

  “Oh, I did, but I’ve seen many a beach wedding on my travels. The bride and groom stand on a sandy beach under a wooden trellis decorated with tropical flora. The bride’s hair flows from the light ocean breeze as the light from the sunset catches her face. Their friends and family sit in white

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  wooden chairs to watch their loved ones have one of the most important days of their lives. It’s all very romantic.” Jackie batted her lashes mockingly.

  “What’s not to love?” I asked.

  “Oh sure, it sounds lovely. Then, out of nowhere, scores of uninvited guests turn up on said public beach because they want to watch too. Fat tourists wearing speedos, thongs, and cheap sun hats stand around with cans of Coke and gawk at the bride like she’s a panda in a zoo.” She puffed out her cheeks and mimed a toast.

  “Hey, guys,” Alex said, walking up behind Jackie. He looked over her shoulder at the screen. It seemed he had taken to doing this more frequently of late. Jackie thought it was an excuse to talk to me, whereas I thought he just wanted a break from the stressed out journalists.

  “Hey, Alex, did you get home okay last night?” I asked, but he was concentrating on the image on Jackie’s screen. “Alex?”

  “Huh? Oh yeah, fine thanks. Just wanted to wish you luck for your interview.”

  “Thanks. It’s not until three o’clock, but I…. Alex?” Alex was staring forlornly out the window, as if in his own little world.

  “Well, I hope it goes well. I have a quick meeting with Clive now, but I’ll catch you later,” he said, snapping back to reality. He turned and walked toward the glass office.

  Jackie gave me one of her smiles. “Did he get home okay last night?”

  “It’s not what you think. I ran into him at a drag bar, and we had a drink. That’s all.”

  “Did you want it to be more?”

  81“I doubt very much he’s into me, Jackie. I really, really

  like him. He’s a great guy and as hot as all hell. But it’s only been a few weeks since Richard and I broke up. I’m not sure whether my head is in the right place, even if he was interested.”

  As if on cue, I raised my head to see the receptionist pointing in my direction. A man in a FedEx uniform strolled across the office holding a cardboard envelope. “Mr. Dominic Holland?”

  I nodded. He scanned the bar code on the envelope, and I took the stylus to sign for the delivery.

  “The papers for the house?” Jackie asked as I tore the gummed strip off the back and took out the various forms.

  “Yeah, I have to get them back to him today so I can finally be done with—”

  “What’s the matter?”

  A few seconds passed before I could respond. “That lying sack of shit.”

  “That doesn’t sound too good,” Jackie said nervously.

  “These papers aren’t for a new sale of our house. It’s a cash buyer, but they’re only buying my half of the property.” I slammed the papers down on the desk, making Jackie jump. I poked my index finger on the name printed as the buyer. “It’s his new boyfriend. Richard’s new boyfriend. He’s buying me out. They’re moving in to the house together. My fucking house.”

  “Ouch.”

  “What do I do, Jackie?”

  “If I were you, I’d sign the papers and send them back. Be done with it, take the money, and let it go. If you don’t,

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  you’ll have to wait around even longer and have even more contact with him.” She was right, of course, but it still stuck in my gut. All the time, effort, and energy I put into that house to make it a home for us, and now it was going to be their home. Visions of Tim and Richard having breakfast in my kitchen flooded my mind. But I couldn’t just stop it there. No, I had to torture myself further by imagining Tim dressed in my robe, reading my newspaper at my table, after a night sleeping next to Richard in my bed.

  “But they win if I do that.”

  “Win what? If they’re winning anything, it’s having your head screwed up as a prize. Dominic, I know how difficult it is, but you have to let it go.”

  Grudgingly, I faxed the papers to my new solicitor in London for him to double-check the details. I got confirmation that everything was in order just before lunchtime. With a reluctant hand, I signed in all the marked places. I used entirely too much pressure, giving my anger away with every indented impression of my name. Before I stuffed the papers into an envelope, ready to seal, I took a large Post-it note and wrote, “Richard, you’re a fucking coward,” in thick black marker and stuck it across the s
ignature on the last page.

  Jackie saw it and reached across our desks to rip it off. “Dominic, I promise you, it’ll only make you feel better for a couple of minutes,” she said, throwing the note into the bin. “Trust me, I was cheated on in my first marriage. I should know.”

  I knew Jackie had been through the same thing in the past. It was one of the things that bonded us so quickly. And

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  the love she sang of for her new husband and the happiness she felt proved her point. She probably wouldn’t have that happiness if she’d held on to the bitterness for her exhusband.

  I sealed the envelope, carried it to the mail room, and tossed it into the outgoing mail bin, much the same way I’d thrown all those memories of Richard into the trash box in my apartment. But my anger remained as I gathered my things to leave the office for my interview of Mason Russell.

  On the taxi ride to the Four Seasons, I chanted “let it go” over and over in my head like a Buddhist monk. Gradually, I calmed down. By the time I arrived, I was focused on my meeting, even though my mood was a little sullen.

  As I walked through the lobby, I wondered how many other people would be there. I’d had occasions when I was made to wait in line behind a dozen other interviewers just to take my five-minute turn with a celebrity. It was awkward to watch them try to find different ways to answer the same questions they’d been asked all day.

  I presented my press credentials at reception and collected a card that gave me access to the penthouse suite and headed straight up, knowing that my time would probably be limited. I walked to the double doors of the suite, took a deep breath, and knocked.