Page 25

epilogue

“We’re on a one-way train to Sodom, Darren,” the sassy motherfucker says to me, as if this is all my fault somehow. “Look at that man. Why the heck is he wearing a leather mask that looks like . . . is that supposed to be a dog?”

I sigh and swing an arm around Miles’ shoulder. “Puppy play. It’s all terribly innocent.”

“There’s so much skin everywhere.” Miles turns his head and stares in horror as a man in assless chaps walks by. He swallows thickly before looking at me, color steadily draining from his face. “Maybe we should leave. I wasn’t prepared for this.”

I wag a finger in his face. “You were absolutely prepared. We must’ve watched at least six hours’ worth of Pride clips on YouTube.”

He arches an eyebrow at me. “Allegedly. You can keep saying it all you want, but I don’t remember a single second of it.”

“And whose fault is that, huh? I’m not the one who stupidly decided to take one of his sleeping pills last night, potentially ruining what’s supposed to be your first time at Pride. Why do you even still have them? You know what they do to you.”

“They work really well, Dare. You have to give credit where credit’s due.”

“I most certainly do not. And you don’t get to freak out and make us leave early. It’s not my fault you blacked out on barbiturates, you goddamn lush. So, no. I’m not letting you miss this. Cope. Too bad, so sad.”

“They’re not barbiturates. You know it’s just Benadryl, bergamot zest, and—”

I cover his mouth with my hand. “Don’t you dare leak Meadows’ recipe. It’s the only thing he’s prouder of than Pet. I think he would literally saw our heads off if the formula got out.”

“Formula,” he scoffs. “Regardless, it’s the only thing that helps with my insomnia.”

“Well, it doesn’t help my asshole. I mean, my God, you practically fucked me into the floorboards last night. I’ve still got splinters.” I stare down at my leg and pout. “Probably gonna get gangrene. Might have to have it removed.” I look up at him cheekily. “Would you still love me?”

He rolls his eyes, and gone is his worry. Gone is the look of scandalization on his face. He’s just my Miles. The side of Miles the rest of the world rarely gets to see. Well, a few of them get to see it now, thanks to his new podcast, Miles to Go: A Journey Back From the Other Side of the Rainbow . Is the title lengthy? Yes, but so is Miles’ cock, and you’re welcome to suck it if you don’t like it. Actually. No. Scratch that, because I’ll slit the throat of anyone who tries.

I know he would argue that it’s actually our podcast, but becoming a media personality was always his dream, not mine. It’s like I keep telling him, if I want to give my boyfriend the spotlight he deserves, I’m going to fucking do it. End of discussion.

“Goofball,” he says with a chuckle. “Of course I would still love you. They could amputate your penis and I’d still love you.”

I gape at him. “How dare you speak that into existence? You know what? Screw you, Miles Brooks. How about you lose your penis? How’s that for your stupid little hypothetical world?”

Rather than respond, Miles sighs and scoops me into his arms. “Put your legs around my waist.”

“Or what?” It’s not that I don’t want him to carry me—because I do—I just kind of like pushing his buttons. “What if I don’t? What are you gonna do about it, Daddy?”

Miles leans in and whispers the most obscene sexual acts I’ve ever heard. I didn’t even know he could bend his legs that far. And I think it would take a super-strong core to be able to hold the position without falling.

“You can suck your own dick?” I whisper.

He winks at me. “Be a good boy and maybe you’ll find out.”

I wrap my legs around his waist, because yes, please.

“You know you can’t fuckin’ whisper,” Meadows barks from behind his camera. Well, from behind Miles’ phone, I guess. He’s been using it to film us for the last hour or so. “How the fuck are they supposed to hear you?”

I asked Meadows to tag along with us to document Miles’ first time at Pride for his podcast. Did I realize that would entail him barking orders like a goddamn drill sergeant? No, but it could work in our favor if Miles’ internalized homophobia rears its hideous head. He’s getting better, day by day, and that’s what counts.

For the last eight months, I’ve lectured our church, and Miles, about queer history. We’ve had a few missteps along the way, but I know he wants to do better. To be better. The rest of the congregants have been hit and miss. Most have been talked down from believing gay sex is a sin worthy of death to believing maybe it should just be a fine. I’ve told them several times if I ever get charged a fine for fucking my boyfriend, I’m taking it out on their faces. They probably thought it was my way of threatening them with severe battery via fist, but I was thinking of a glitter cannon. Something that would scare the ever-loving hell out of them without gravely wounding anyone, since Miles has forbidden me from assaulting people again.

There have been a few surprise turnarounds, though, and each time it happens, it feels like I’m Moses, walking all those sweaty, stinky (I mean, probably. It’s not like they had a whole lot of chances to bathe.) bastards through the desert. It feels good to lead them to the light. I can see why Miles enjoys it.

“Now,” Meadows says, as an unmasked, ungagged Pet approaches. “Can we film this fucking thing already? Benito’s been bugging the shit out of me all week, wanting to watch one of the drag shows.” He points a vicious finger at me. “If my boy doesn’t get to see an elderly man dressed as Liza with a Z, performing All That Jazz , I swear to God, there won’t be a hole deep enough for you to hide in. I’ll never hear the damn end of it.”

My eyebrows fly up in surprise. Not from the death threat. From what he just called Pet.

“Benito?”

Meadows nods, blushing. “He insisted I take him on a date. A real one.” He looks over at an approaching Benito, scowling. “He’s a good boy these days, and I decided to treat him. The fuck do you care for? Focus on your damn selves.”

I bring my hands to my chest and clasp them. “You’re in love!” Meadows couldn’t be more obvious if he tried.

“I’m not gay.”

“Jesus Christ. Give it a rest,” I say. “It’s getting old, Meadows. If I had a dime for every time you denied your queerness, I’d have enough to buy a gun to shoot you with.” I eye him up and down. “And maybe if you don’t just fucking come out already, I will. It’s Pride. Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Pet-slash-Benito stalls in front of Meadows, blushing furiously. He’s holding a cone of cotton candy in one hand and a caramel apple in the other. The corner of Meadows’ lip curls into a smile when he spots the apple.

“Got it for you, sir,” he whispers. “I used my allowance. Wanted to do something sweet for you.” His smile stretches to an impossible length, every tooth in his head visible. “A sweet for my sweet.”

Meadows’ eyes flash with fire. “Fuck.” His hips arch forward like he’s seeking contact. Thankfully the only thing he’s fucking is air. “Good boy. That’s a good fuckin’ boy, baby.” He tosses Miles’ phone over his shoulder, and thank God my reflexes are fast, because I manage to catch it before it falls to the ground and shatters. “Film your own fucking podcast. My boy needs me.”

“Daddy,” he whines as Meadows picks him up. To my surprise, Meadows leans in and gives him a full-on kiss. It isn’t heavy or harsh, the way I would expect Meadows to kiss. It’s gentle, like Pet is made of porcelain, and Meadows is afraid he’ll crack. Their lips part, and Meadows tongue darts out of his mouth.

“Fuck,” I whisper, looking over at Miles. “Okay, that’s really fucking hot.”

Miles licks his lips and nods, dazed. “Look how easily he’s holding him up. That takes a lot of strength.” He sighs. “I don’t know why you would fall for a man like me when you could easily have someone like him. Someone who can protect you better. Carry you around on his hip all the time. Did you ever think of . . .? You know. With him?”

“Never.” I tap his shoulder, and when he glances over at me, I look down at the arm he’s using to hold me against his waist. “You’re just as strong as he is. I don’t need some hulking behemoth. I need this. I need you.”

“I need you too.” He gives me a quick kiss but breaks it just as fast, looking around like he’s trying to make sure the coast is clear. He’s still not big on public displays of affection, but I don’t think it’s from shame as much as his fear of the wrong person seeing us. He doesn’t want me to get hurt, but not sharing my love for the town to see hurts more than their fists ever could. I love him, and he’s mine, just like I’m his. I’m proud of that, and I want to show it off.

Mal walks up a few minutes later, walking side by side with someone she must have met earlier when she was exploring. I insisted she stay with us, but she wouldn’t hear it, telling us she bought a new outfit for today, and she’d be damned if she didn’t use it to land her a man. Strange, considering she’s walking hand in hand with a woman.

The woman is really pretty. She’s got long, blonde hair that reaches halfway down her back, just like Mal. She’s wearing a trans pride tank top and a pair of magenta shorts. She can’t be much taller than five-five, and she has to slightly tilt her head up to look Mal in the eyes. Each time she does, it looks like hearts are forming in both of theirs. They’re kind of adorable.

“Guys, this is Bee.” She points at Miles. “That’s him. He’s the one I was telling you about.”

Bee smiles kindly at Miles, tucking her long, blonde hair behind her ear before taking his hand and shaking it. “I hear you’re a writer.” She has a lovely English accent, which piques my interest. I think she may be the first Brit to ever step foot in Tallulah.

Miles blushes. “I dabble.”

“Dabble, hell,” Mal argues. “He’s released ten books, and each one is beautiful. He has a voice like you wouldn’t believe.” Mal beams at Miles. “This is one of Phillip Firecracker’s friends from London.”

“I don’t know who that is,” Meadows says as he squeezes Pet-slash-Benito’s ass.

“Don’t worry,” Bee assures him. “No one else does either. Not after his boy band split up in the early 2000's, at least. I met him when I was starting my transition. He followed my journey on social media for ages, liking all my posts and replying with pink heart emojis. I've been a fan since I was a kid, so it was like Christmas had come early each time I saw him in my notifications. It took me half a year to work up the nerve to message him. He may not have a lot of fans, but I'm one of the biggest. He’s a good man. An asshole, but a good man.” She looks across the city square and gazes fondly at Mayor Rivera and his husband. Phillip may have been in one of the biggest boybands of all time, globetrotting endlessly, but here, in Tallulah, Texas, he seems happy enough living as the city’s First Gentleman. “He told me The Spice Girls were reforming for one night only. If I knew he was talking about a group of rollerblading drag queens called The Spice Whirls, I would have declined the invitation.” She smiles at Mal, and then at their interwoven fingers before adding, “I’m very glad I didn’t.”

Mal blushes. “Me too.”

Bee looks up at Miles and reaches into her pocket. “I’m Phillip’s literary agent. We’re working on his memoir, and your ex-wife was telling me about you and your new book. Give me a call next week, once I’m back in the office. I’d love to hear more about it.”

Miles’ eyes bulge, and I’m pretty sure mine do too.

Mal stares at us, the way Miles is holding me in his arms, then she turns and looks at Meadows holding Pet. I can see the thought forming in her mind when she turns to look at Bee. Mal gives herself a nod, then, without warning, picks Bee up and places her on her hip.

“There. That’s better,” she says.

The look Bee gives her is equal parts adoring and absolutely unhinged. “Mallory,” she says, her voice coated in a new tone that could put a phone-sex operator to shame. It’s whiny and full of need. “Please?”

Jesus Christ, did she just roll her hips?

Mal pats her ass and whispers, “Good girl.” They share a quick kiss, and seeing Mal this way fills my heart with joy. She deserves to be cherished, just like Miles.

Twenty minutes later, the city square is packed with Tallulahns. Mayor Rivera is supposed to make a speech soon, and as we wait for him to take the stage, I look around, spotting a sea of familiar faces. Miles’ former-sexologist, current-therapist, Nate St. James, is standing in front of the stage set up on the courthouse lawn. I know his boyfriends are at work because he’s been harping on to Miles about how nervous they are in crowds, and that they were scared of attending. How do I know what was said in Miles’ therapy session? I stitched a hidden mic into his coat, obvi. Don’t worry, Miles knows. It was his idea. He wants me to hear all the parts he’s kept hidden, but he can’t bring himself to say them to my face. That’s okay. I know trauma is a relentless uphill battle, and I’ll give him however much time and space as he needs.

In the gazebo, just off to the side of the courthouse, Gray and Kent are cuddled close, holding an adorable dachshund. They share a gentle kiss, and it makes me realize how much I want this with Miles. A gentle life. A normal life. Just two men in love, going about their everyday lives.

Tatum and Scotty are here with their husbands, and there’s an elderly lady with jet-black hair, whipped up into a bouffant. It doesn’t match her denim jacket or sequined pants in the slightest, but that’s fine. She seems a bit eccentric, what with her half-arm of jangling bracelets she keeps shaking in front of Tatum’s face for reasons I don’t understand.

It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, however. Through the alleyways leading away from the square, voices can be heard echoing through, their hate speech amplified by some sort of sound system. The voice on the speaker hurls out the f-slur, and Miles’ entire body goes stiff.

“You’re okay,” I remind him. “We knew there would be bigots trying to silence us. We talked about this.”

“I know.”

“There are police everywhere. We’re safe,” I say. He wants to believe me. I know he does. He’s just scared, is all. “Do you want to go? We can.”

He quickly shakes his head.

“Do you need to put me down? I know I have to be heavy.”

He shakes his head again. “Need you here. Right against me.” His voice is small and scared, and we can’t have that, so I place my finger beneath his chin and tug until we’re eye to eye.

“Forever,” I promise.

“Tallulah, Texas,” Mayor Rivera says, pulling my attention away from Miles. “It’s so good to see everyone here today.” His sound system is loud, but it isn’t loud enough to drown out the haters. “They told us to call Pride off this year. I’ve gotten hundreds of calls telling me it would be the end of my political career if I didn’t. Well, I say, ‘to hell with that’.” He points at an alleyway, and when I glance through the gap, I can see protestors standing on the other side, holding signs and banners. They’re far off, so I can’t see what any of them say, but there’s one with a stick figure bent over, being fucked in the ass by another stick figure. The person holding the sign is a child, and his father—I’m assuming—is standing right at his side, holding a rainbow flag that looks to have been cut in half.

And they call us the groomers.

“When this is over,” I warn Miles. “I’m going snooping.”

Miles’ eyes widen as Mayor Rivera continues his speech. “Absolutely not. The last time you stalked a man, Brother McCutcheon wound up in the ICU.”

I shake my head. “He wound up in an ICE detention center.”

He closes his eyes and sighs. “Dang-it, Dare.”

“Don’t you dare judge me,” I bite back. “He’s a seventy-year-old cishet white guy. It’s about time they feel some of the fucking heat too.”

Did I have Meadows abduct him, give him the worst spray tan this side of Dallas, inject him with a tongue paralyzer, and set him loose in front of a border checkpoint? Why, yes. Yes, I did. Don’t worry, he totally deserved it. Fucky McFuckface made the grave mistake of calling Miles a faggot on his way out of church a few weeks ago. He went on to say President Flump ought to deport queer people alongside our brothers and sisters from the south. He even threatened to report Mayor Rivera and have both him and his child deported. I’ll admit, when I heard his slander, I temporarily lost control and began stalking the man. For three nights, I tracked his movements. I followed him everywhere. To a gas station where he bought three unnecessarily large bottles of vodka, cracking one open in the parking lot and guzzling it like water. Next, I followed him to a sex store where he purchased a four-inch dildo, a giant tub of Anal-Ese, and, to my horror, a DVD copy of Chesty Malone is . . . The Stepfucker . Was I disgusted? Yes, but not for the reason you might expect. I don’t mind stepcest, just don’t understand who still purchases pornography on DVD. Regardless, I pushed past my discomfort and followed him home. Once I had his routine down, I contacted Meadows, and he took care of things from there.

Luckily, once Meadows made America great again at the bonfire, Scotty’s husband, Brody, killed the man in charge of their little detention center in El Salvador, freeing all the people inside. Now, it houses Brother McCutcheon, who can fucking rot for all I care. Like Tatum always says; hope he cries, hope he dies.

“I can have them all abducted. Ship them off to El Salvador.”

Miles spanks my ass, making me whine. “No! Bad boy. Bad, bad boy, Dare-bear. Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into you. Your thirst for vengeance is starting to worry me.” I shrug, because I don’t know what to tell him. If someone hurts Miles, they’re going down, and they’re going down hard.

There’s commotion behind us, and when I turn to look, there’s a protestor storming the stage. He’s got a large sign with a poorly painted depiction of . . . is that film and television’s Tracey Ullman? How? And why?

“It’s Adam and Steve, not Ethel and Eve!” he shouts, making no sense whatsoever. “The lord thy God will not be mocked.”

“You’re literally wearing a t-shirt with President Flump cheesing at the camera while being crucified,” Mayor Rivera’s young son, Beau, points out from his place on stage next to Phillip. “You’re mocking him right now.”

“He is a strong, virile man!” He points a judgy finger at Beau, and Mayor Rivera is staring at it like he wants to snap it in half. “The gay agenda has no place here.”

“Your receding hairline has no place here,” Beau retorts before looking up at his balding stepfather. “Sorry, Phillip.”

Phillip Firecracker scowls at him.

“Sorry,” someone from the crowd shouts. Making her way through, to my surprise, my mother aims a finger at the man. “Now, you get your behind back here, Dewayne. I warned you once, I won’t warn you again.” She marches up the steps leading onto the platform and grabs Brother McGoFuckYourself by the earlobe and walks him away from the microphone, pausing when she spots me. I know she wants to say something, but I also know she won’t. She’s giving me space, and she’s trying to prove herself.

Of all the congregants, my mother has changed the most. She’s no longer the baby-voice submissive wife she was eight months ago. While she hasn’t completely found her voice, it’s getting louder, and I’m proud of her. I’m not ready to forgive, and I’m certainly not ready to forget all the times she let Dad scream at me, or ignored all the times he tossed me around our home like a ragdoll, but I think I want to. If not for her, for me. I don’t want to hold space in my heart for anger. Not where it’s filled with love for Miles, and for my newly found family of murder daddies and their delulu boys. For Mal, even.

We’ll get there, I think. And I think she knows it too.

I lift my hand to give her a wave, and she’s looking at me like I just gave her the world. She gives me a decisive nod before dragging Brother McGoFuckYourself away from the square, spanking him along the way. A difficult feat, considering she has to use her right hand, as her left is still latched to the man’s ear.

“Hate has no place in Tallulah,” Mayor Rivera announces. “It did once, but those days are over. This is our town. Our sanctuary. And as a strong, powerful woman once said: we are not going back.”

Scotty untangles his legs from around Brody’s waist and pinches his arm, making the taller man wince, loosening the grip he has on him. Scotty kicks his legs a few times before he finally touches pavement again, and when he does, he makes his way toward us. I’m feeling a little nervous, because Scotty is unhinged, and he genuinely terrifies me.

“Darren,” he says, cocking his head to the side and eyeing me up and down like a piece of meat. I won’t lie and say it doesn’t disturb me, because it does. “You don’t really fit in here.”

“I’ve lived here all my life,” I say, holding onto Daddy a little tighter.

“No. Here . In the agency. In this silly little game of Murder Daddy . I don’t know you, and you hardly have any connection to the core four. But you’re cute, I guess. You have that unhinged-twink look in your eyes.” He chews his cheek, seemingly lost in contemplation. Eventually, as Mayor Rivera harps on about equality and inclusivity, Scotty nods. “I approve. Welcome to Murder Daddy.” Standing on his tiptoes, he places a kiss on my cheek, and I already know what’s coming. It’s written all over Brody’s face.

“You,” he growls, pointing right at me as he marches forward. “If my boy ever kisses you again, I’m cutting your goddamn lips off.”

I blink at him. “Why would you cut my lips off? Mine haven’t been anywhere near him.”

“Don’t matter. You got a kiss on the cheek from my boy. No one feels his lips but me.”

Miles reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bottle of travel-size anointing oil, uncapping it with his thumb before flinging most of its contents directly into Brody’s face, making him hiss when it hits his eyes.

“Son of a God Da—”

Miles flings more at him, and this time it lands in Brody’s mouth. “I rebuke you in the name of the father, the son, and the twink in my arms.” He flings the bottle forward, hitting Brody in the middle of his forehead.

Scotty gasps dramatically, flinging his hands in the air like an absolute cliché as he shouts, “You killed him! You killed Daddy.” He flings his body over Brody’s and weeps. “I’ll keep your memory alive,” he sobs, though there are no tears falling. “I’ll carry you with me in my heart.”

“The fuck?” Brody asks, rubbing his aching head. “What are you talking about, Freakshow?”

Scotty presses their foreheads together. “Don’t worry about me, Daddy. I’ll be okay. We’ll all be okay. It’s alright to let go.”

“Ah, for God’s sake,” Brody groans. “Dammit, Scotty. I ain’t dead, he just smacked me on the head.” He pauses, chuckling at himself. “That was a cute rhyme.”

Scotty shakes his head, his voice cool and calm as he says, “Not as cute as you think it was.” Then the fake tears are back in full force as he wails, “Go into the light, Daddy. It’s okay.”

In one fluid motion, Brody stands, lifting Scotty onto his hip before pointing at me. “Keep your cheek away from his lips. I won’t say it again.”

Once they’re gone, Miles and I spend the next three hours celebrating with our closest friends. As the party dies down, he stares at me as I sit in his lap. “Are you ready to go home, baby?”

I nod, feeling a little sleepy, even though it’s only six in the evening. He carries me across the square, saying goodbye to all our friends and telling Mal we’ll see her and her new friend at home.

Once we make it past the alleyway, a long police barrier holds back at least one-hundred residents, all holding signs with various hatefully, hurtful words scribbled across. Just ahead, right in front of me I see the boy I spotted from earlier. He looks about thirteen or fourteen, and he’s wearing standard evangelical garb. Khakis. Tucked-in Polo shirt. A hideous woven belt. Shoes that sparkle like diamonds in the sun. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, and I can understand that. I lived it myself until I moved away. He’s got the same vacant expression I used to get when my father would drag me to protests. I know how much it hurts to hear your parents demonizing people just like you. As we walk past, I notice his father isn’t paying any attention, so I get Miles to pause and I look down at the kid, trying to force a smile.

“I promise,” I whisper, wanting my words to be heard by only him. “It gets so much better.” We share a knowing look, and his jaw trembles a little, but I swear to God, it’s like I’m staring at a mini-version of myself, because he quickly hardens his expression the same way I used to. Hiding himself away to keep himself safe. I get a gentle nod, and just the slightest hint of a smile out of the exchange. I wish there was more we could do for him. Maybe one day, provided he makes it to ‘one day’. I know exactly how low God’s love can make you feel sometimes. The kid quickly turns his attention away from us, probably not wanting his father to catch us conversing.

As Miles carries me down the side street, wedged between buildings and protestors, autumn leaves fall from the trees above. I snuggle my face into Miles’ neck, done with seeing their hateful faces.

“Dare?”

“Yeah, Daddy?”

“I’m seeing a lot of signs about the gay agenda. My dad used to talk about it all the time too. What is it?”

“The gay agenda?” I ask.

“Yeah.”

Reluctantly, I pull my face away from his neck and give him a gentle kiss, ignoring the sounds of revulsion coming from the crowd.

“This,” I say, cupping his cheek. “Me and you. Our little life. That’s the gay agenda.” A smile spreads across his face, and he breathes out a shaky breath, touching his forehead to mine. He chuckles to himself. “What?”

“Nothing. Everything. It’s just . . . Dare, I’m here, I’m queer, and I think I might be getting used to it.”

“Slay,” I whisper, and the look he gives me radiates Pride.