Campo Royale #4
Will the love they once shared reignite or will this goodbye truly be the last?
Leroy Marx has been performing as Clarice Patel Coco for years. Ever since that fateful summer when he was a young and foolish man touring Europe before heading to a religious college in the Deep South. That trip proved to be a time of great joy as well as crushing sorrow. He found love on that grand tour in the arms of an arrogant, beautiful young man who was sowing his wild oats amid the lavender fields of France. That great passion was not to last for many reasons, one being the untimely death of Leroy’s parents in a car crash. The same crash that put his twin sister in a wheelchair for life. Leaving that young lover behind, he divided his time between his job and caring for his sibling. Leroy never dreamed that he’d be face-to-face with the man who had won, then trampled his heart all those years ago. The years have been incredibly kind to Nate Abrams but no matter how sweet that voice or how alluring those eyes are, Leroy is not about to offer up his heart again.
Nathan Abrams has it all, or so people say. Nate himself would say that as well and has numerous times. He’s a proud and out gay man who has an uncanny knack for knowing when to buy and when to sell. Anything. Stocks, houses, artwork, bonds. Nate has a keen sense of when to walk and when to hold tight. The only time he’d ever been wrong about his instincts was that glorious summer when he’d been eighteen and had met a reserved sweetheart of a man named Leroy Marx. He’d fallen hard for Leroy, the wild and impetuous headiness of first love overwhelming him. To the point that he’d feared the deep emotions ablaze in his chest. He’d run from that romance and into the arms of countless lovers, but he’d never been able to purge the tender memories of that love from his heart. Now here he was fifteen years older, and it seems none the wiser because he cannot seem to win back the man who has haunted his dreams no matter what he tries. He’s at his wit’s end but is too stubborn to give up and lose Leroy for a second time. Nate is ready to do whatever it takes to fix the biggest mistake of his life if he could just figure out what exactly he has to do and how to go about doing it…
The Financier and the Sweetheart is a second chance romance with a rich banker, a proud and independent queen, a past that both prayed would never be seen or heard from again, go-go boots, world travel, loving sisters, bell bottom love, and a glitteringly gorgeous happy ending.
ONE
Leroy
I turned over another bill.
Overdue.
I flipped over another bill.
Overdue.
I prayed a little then opened yet another bill.
Overdue.
“Well shit.” I sighed, rifling through the stack of notices, trying to decide which one was the most vital. Electric for sure. Water and sewer. Uhm, yes, please. There was no way this queen was shitting in a bucket. When I got them all sorted into order of most import, I found the tax notice lying like an adder, hidden, waiting for some bitch to find it unawares. “Not today, Satan,” I whispered, shoving the real estate taxes to the bottom of the pile.
The tax collector’s office gave us a few months before the first installment was due. I’d be able to make enough to cover the first third of the bill by the end of August. I’d just have to start touring and working the pageant circle. Which I hated because that meant I’d have to leave Laila alone. Not that my sister couldn’t take care of herself, she could, and quite well, but I’d been tending to my baby sister for so long now it was hard to stop. Did one ever stop worrying about the only family they had left? Doubtful.
“Knock, knock.” I glanced up from the mound of unpaid bills as Laila rolled into the kitchen fresh from her shower. Her short hair was damp, her smile wide. She was the prettiest thing I had ever seen, and yes, that was totally biased. She was wearing a bright yellow sundress that looked amazing against her dark skin. Her legs were thin, incredibly so, but she was not scared to let them be seen even if they were bent and frail. We’d just given her a home pedicure last night, so her tiny toenails were sunflower yellow to match her dress. The child had no fears. That had served her well over the years. “You planning on making lunch soon?”
She rolled her wheelchair to the sink, lowered years ago with the tiny bit of life insurance our parents had left us. The kitchen was old but functional for a paraplegic. As was the bathroom we’d had installed on the first floor. We’d turned the old dining room into her bedroom and mine remained on the second floor of our 1940s minimal traditional home. The upstairs had two small bedrooms, one that had been ours as kids, and one that had been our parents’. There was also a bathroom that one couldn’t turn around in without bumping one’s shoulders, but it was mine, cramped and in need of an overhaul like the rest of the place.
I’d taken over the room my parents had slept in for wigs, costumes, and my sewing tables. My beloved old Singer that had been my mother’s sat waiting for me. If I were going to start competing again, I’d need new outfits. Which meant more money spent. Which sucked big, old, hairy balls. If only I didn’t need to eat, I’d be rich.
“Sorry, baby, I was paying some bills,” I replied, crossing one leg over the other as she pulled a frying pan out of the dishwasher and set into making something delicious.
Paying? More like trying to decide how to rob Peter to pay Paul, girl.
Preach.
“It’s fine. I know you closed last night. Was it busy?” Laila asked as she rattled around in the fridge looking for some ingredients. “You know if you let me get a job—”
“Nope, we’ve have discussed this until we’re both blue in the face,” I answered immediately. I heard her sigh all the way over here, and that’s saying something the way the damn hot water heater rattled behind the wall.
Lord, please bless that water heater and whatever part inside it that’s clattering so damn loudly. Oh, sorry about the damn. Hally-Loo to quote Shangela.
“At least let me get a job while I’m on summer break,” she said, turning in her old chair on a dime to give me that hangdog look she had perfected so well over the years. “It would really help us financially.”
“We’re just fine financially.” I lied like that old rug in the hallway. It was a gritty lie too, kind of like the runner. Someone should beat that rug, but who had the time? Probably if I did take it to the line in our little back yard, it would fall apart at the first whack. I could relate. “I want you to focus on your summer courses. Imagine you being able to graduate early! You’re the first child in this family to have ever completed their studies and earned a degree.”
“I’ve not graduated yet,” she replied as she always did. As if her earning that degree in political science wasn’t a given. My little jewel might be a diplomat someday! Imagine that. Traveling to visit her in some beautiful foreign country. I sighed internally. I’d always wanted to see the world. And I had just gotten a taste of international travel before heading off to attend King University in Tennessee. Thanks to being a good essay writer, I’d flown to France. It had been one hell of a summer. I’d learned so much about myself. Too much as it turned out…
“You’ve got that sour face. I don’t mean I won’t graduate, just that I haven’t yet. I don’t want to jinx it. It’s only two classes. I can handle two classes plus a job at the senior center.”
Oh, how I wanted to give in. Those big brown eyes of hers always undid me. But no, I had to stay firm. I’d promised God that I would ensure this precious child—who he had let live when everyone thought she would perish along with my parents—would fulfill her dreams. The Lord did not give out blessings randomly. I’d willingly changed my plans to ensure Laila’s would come true. In all fairness, a queer Black boy who liked to wear go-go boots and eyeliner probably would have a bad time of it in the Deep South. Better to stay here in Delaware, tend to my baby sister and our old house, and perform on the stage. I’d come to love my stage persona deeply. And the people at the Campo were my second family. And yes, there were some rough times and money was tight, but Laila was thriving. That was all I had ever wanted. A flash of a memory from the summer in France popped up to tease me. Those eyes, that mouth…
“You just study. I’m going to spend the summer hitting the pageants so there will be money flowing in,” I assured her.
“Oh? So you’re going to be gone?”
“Just for the pageants. Little road trips. Are you okay with that?”
“Leroy, I’m twenty years old. I think I can handle a few days here and there by myself. I do live on campus when I’m not here and I’ve not starved to death yet.”
“You’re being sassy,” I tossed out with a fake little scowl. “Yes, I’ll be gone. And you’re to work hard at those summer courses. No distractions. No men.” She frowned, blew out a breath that made her cheeks round, and then mumbled something about hardheaded brothers before going back to preparing what turned out to be fried egg and cheese sandwiches. “I have a few hours before I have to go to work,” I said as we ate our lunches. “Want to go to the fabric shop with me? I’m going to need some new costumes.”
“Oh yeah, that would be great! Can I get something for a new dress? I saw one on Etsy the other day, but it was super expensive.”
“Of course, Buttercup.” I reached over to give her slim fingers a squeeze. She beamed at me, her smile so pure and sweet it stole my breath. Yes, I would do whatever it took to make sure she was always this happy. I’d beg, borrow, and steal to ensure that. The good Lord knows I’d done two of those three things enough times already. I’d not resorted to the third, and I prayed I would never have to, but if it meant keeping Laila happy then I’d rob the King of England of the Crown Jewels if need be. Whatever it took, I would do for that child.
“Serving ’60s hot pants realness in here!” Gigi shouted as I exited the bathroom in the queens’ dressing room.
I sashayed around the room, arms over my head, as the girls hooted at my shiny yellow hot pants.
“Gurl, I am gooped. That ass is for certain!” Jo-Jo chimed in as I pounded my way to my seat, putting all my sass into my strut.
I stopped in front of my mirror, popped a hip, then slapped my backside. “And it’s all real, hunty.”
“Oh! Oh, for shits she is all kinds of femme power! Turn that shit up, bitch!” Gigi giggled and then snapped her fingers in appreciation. “Clarice’s pussy is on fire tonight. Watch out, boys!”
“I wonder if Sexy Banker Hotness is in the house tonight,” Jo-Jo tossed out as if she were not aware of Nate’s name. They all knew it. Jagger and Cord had dragged the man that I least wanted to ever see again back into my life with all the subtlety of driving a Mack truck over a dollhouse. “What? You never said we couldn’t mention him just do not use his name. I used a codename. And he does work that sexy ‘I own the world hotness’ really well.”
“Gods he is to die for. Die! I am dead. Right here, dying.” Gigi pretended to faint over the tons of makeup scattered around her table. A tube of lipstick rolled to the floor. I sighed, picked it up, and tossed it onto her table before sitting down. “I’ve died. You can have that tube of Orange Organza Orgasm, hunty,” Gigi said into a blond wig that still needed to be tamed before she could go on in half an hour.
“It’s frapped,” Jo-Jo said, then popped another gummy bear into her mouth.
Good. Maybe with Gigi dead and Jo-Jo working on a gummy bear, I could finish getting ready without another reminder of my past coming into my present like a wrecking ball.
Someone rapped softly on the door. Gigi shot up, her mug half done, and raced to the door as if her ass were on fire. I pulled on my makeup robe, leaving it open so I could work on my shoulders and cleavage. Gigi threw the door open with a high-pitched yelp of joy. Then deflated when she saw it was only Eladio and not her hulking hockey player boyfriend.
“Oh, it’s you,” she pouted, as only Gigi could pout.
“That makes me feel so warm and wanted inside,” Eladio dryly said, his gaze flitting over the madcap chaos that is a drag queen common room until it landed on me. “You have a present,” Eladio said with all the enthusiasm of a man about to be gelded.
He held out a long box, slim and pink with gold lettering. We all knew exactly where that box had come from. Vincent Pink, the elite jeweler from Philadelphia. Mr. Pink was so sought after that one had to make appointments to even discuss one having something custom-made. And all his work was custom, darling. Every last bauble was a work of art. All the upper echelons of Philadelphia society wore his jewelry. Jo-Jo raced over to the doorway, her wig in hand, her slippers slapping the floor. She and Gigi drooled over the box, giggling, and guessing what could be inside it.
“Send it back,” I announced, then turned my attention to my makeup. I had a show to do tonight.
“What?!” my sisters in drag both shrieked in perfect unison. “Send it back?!”
I nodded, then began adding some contour to my chest area. There was more to being a lady boy than strapping on fake boobies. I peeked up at the threesome in the doorway in my mirror. The girls were horrified. Eladio was bored. This went on every night that I was here, which was just about every damn night of the week.
“God give me patience, for mine is wearing really thin when it comes to Nathan Abrams,” I whispered to myself as I applied a slightly darker color above the lighter I’d just put on.
“Clarice, it’s a Pink original!” Gigi cried out, grabbing the box from Eladio, then rubbing her freshly shaved cheek to it like a cat. “It smells expensive! It feels expensive! If you don’t want it, then can I have it?”
“No, it’s going back. Give it to Eladio please,” I regally announced, my face a mask of calm indifference while my belly was churning with hurt and anger. Years of hurt and anger.
“Can I just wear it on the stage?” Jo-Jo asked meekly, working her sweet anime look for all it was worth. “This would go so well with my new blue Space Love Drop outfit.”
“Honey, you don’t even know what it is,” I parried as I half-turned on my tiny stool to find Eladio trying to wrest the pink box from Gigi. For a tiny queen, she could be tenacious. Rather like a chihuahua with a favored toy. “Gigi, girl, stop showing your trashy side. Let Eladio take it back. Tell He-Who-Shall-Never-Be-Named to return it. Or to shove it up his ass. Or to toss it into the Delaware River. Now go. We have a show to perform.”
I used my official manager’s voice. Gigi let go of the box and then stamped her tiny foot on the ground. Jo-Jo sighed forlornly. Eladio muttered something in Spanish that I didn’t quite catch before yanking the door shut in the faces of several young ladies on their way to the bathroom.
“Clarice, I just do not get it. What the hell has that man done to make you this bitter toward him? You’re such a sweetheart to everyone else on the fucking planet!” Gigi stomped over and threw herself down in her seat to stare at me openly. Jo-Jo hurried over, eager for the tea, I was sure. But there would be no tea tonight, or any other. I was not about to sit down and kiki over being dumped like a used condom many years ago. A bitch had her pride, after all.
“Never mind me. You two just mind your own selves. Now get ready. The place is packed and people want a show,” I stated in pure managerial icy coldness.
If Nate Abrams thought he could buy my forgiveness with a trinket, he was sadly mistaken.
After I was painted and corseted to perfection, I made my way to Sitka’s office for some peace and quiet. She and her lover boy had the night off, a rarity for them, but it was sorely needed given how miserable Mother’s back had been last night. I’d told her to let one of the bouncers fetch that case of scotch, but oh no, she couldn’t dare to do that. The bitch was stubborn. Dear Lord, was she stubborn. So now she was home resting with a heating pad and Yampier to fetch for her. Bless that poor boy. That right there is true love. Putting up with a cranky aging queen with a sore lumbar. Yampier should get a medal for his duty in the trenches tonight.
Slipping in, I went to her desk, sat gingerly because I was cinched to the motherhumping gods, and did a little online search. My internet at home was experiencing a slight interruption in service until I paid the bill. Which I had to do online. I signed into my banking account, grimaced at the meager amount in my checking, and moved the last hundred dollars from my savings to my checking. There, that should cover the past due on the internet as well as the overdraft charge. Someone, please explain to me how a person who does not have enough to cover their padded backsides is supposed to pay an overdraft charge. I mean, hello corporate, if I don’t have the cash to cover my checks how the hell am I supposed to have enough to pay that damn fee?
“I hate being poor,” I mumbled to myself, took the deepest breath that I could, and then went in search of the Ms. Gay Continental pageant website. The page was explosive, filled with bright colors and images of happy queer queens holding scepters and/or big checks. And when I say big, I mean large amounts of zeroes as well as sheer size. The winner could take home a hundred thousand dollars. My sister and I could do so much with that kind of bank. But first I had to scrape up the entry fee of a thousand dollars and then, somehow, figure out how to travel to the international sites listed for each leg of the pageant. “Good Lord.” I sighed after scrolling through the past winners. Big name queens all of them. Many had gone on to be on TV shows or starring in Vegas productions. And here I sat in an outfit that I’d had for over five years and a wig that had lived through the Clinton administration. A true second hand rose if ever there were one was I.
I shut down the webpage, closed my eyes, and whispered a prayer for guidance. Or insight. Maybe a little bit of both. When nothing popped into my head, I grabbed a jar that Sitka stored her pens in, dumped them into her top desk drawer, and made a small sign that read: DONATIONS GLADLY ACCEPTED—FLY A BITCH AROUND THE WORLD FUND and taped it to the jar. Begging for money was not new to me. I’d do whatever was needed to get that prize money.
You know someone who would pay your way around the globe.
“Oh, great, when I ask for insight, I get nothing but out of the blue you pop off about that son-of-a-bitch,” I huffed as I got to my heels. “I’d sooner starve than give that man the chance to humiliate and hurt me again, thank you very much.”
Inner Clarice fell into sulking. Outer Clarice threw back her shoulders and exited Sitka’s office with her chin held high. And a begging jar in her hand.
Monday Musical Melody
V.L. Locey loves worn jeans, yoga, belly laughs, walking, reading and writing lusty tales, Greek mythology, the New York Rangers, comic books, and coffee.
(Not necessarily in that order.)
She shares her life with her husband, her daughter, one dog, two cats, a flock of assorted domestic fowl, and two Jersey steers.
When not writing spicy romances, she enjoys spending her day with her menagerie in the rolling hills of Pennsylvania with a cup of fresh java in hand.
EMAIL: vicki@vllocey.com
The Financier and the Sweetheart #4
Campo Royale Series
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