Page 43 of Slay the Gay Away, Daddy

“You’re the man I love,” I answer.

“Could you two shut the actual fuck up,” a voice booms over the speaker system. When I look up, the impatient drag queen is glaring down at us from the stage like we’ve just rectally impaled her mother with a walking stick. “I’m trying to put on a goddamn show!”

“Gosh, I wish she wouldn’t talk like that,” Miles says, except . . . it isn’t Miles. Miles is right in front of me and the voice came from behind.

Looking over my shoulder I see an elderly man—perhaps thirty-eight years of age—with a bald spot. He’s staring up at the ceiling like a rogue lightning bolt might strike down through the ceiling. It’s a look I know all too well.

As the queen saunters off, I turn to the man and eye him up and down. He’s wearing a pair of jeans that have clearly been starched to high hell, because the crease is stiff and unfaltering. Jesus. Who irons creases into their jeans anymore? It’s like we’ve entered the stone ages of 1999. God help me if Miles ever heard me call 1999 the stone ages, because he was probably a teenager back then. The point remains, this man’s jeans are far from fashionable. He’s also wearing a red-and-blue striped Polowith a white undershirt beneath. On his neck, he’s got a string of . . . dear God, are those puka shells?

The guy opens his mouth to speak, but before he gets the chance, another elderly man approaches from behind, looking like he wants to deck me in the face.

“Just where the fuck do you get off, Gray Collins?” The man screams. “I leave you for forty-fucking-seconds to grab a drink, and you’re already trying to replace me?” The man flips me off using his ring finger. “He’s married, you son of a bitch. Did he tell you that? Did he tell you we have a baby at home? Did he?”

The man—Gray Collins, I presume—closes his eyes and sighs. “She’s a dachshund, Kent.”

“She’s a good girl, unlike her father. Did you let him see your cock, Grayson? Did you let him touch your bald spot?” Tears flood the older man’s eyes. He’s cute, I guess. He’s got curly brown hair that’s shaved short on the sides, but he doesn’t hold a candle to my Miles. “Are you leaving me for a younger, hotter piece of ass?”

The other man’s eyes bulge. “I would never! You know you’re my world, Half-pint.”

“Yeah? Well, you’ve got a funny fucking way of showing it,” the other man says. “I came home for you, dammit. I came home to save my ex-gay ex-boyfriend from a ridiculous lavender marriage, and this is how he repays me?”

Ex-gay ex-boyfriend? Lavender marriage? It’s like he’s telling Miles’ life story, and that makes me nervous, because I can’t help but wonder if this is what Miles and I will be like when we’re in our forties? Sobbing dramatically during a drag number? Well, Miles will be in his sixties, but still. I look over at Miles, but he’s staring down at the soda in his hand.

The curly headed man points a finger at Miles. “Don’t look at him again. I’ll scratch your eyes out.”

“I wasn’t!” Miles insists.

Kent’s eyes narrow. “And just why the fuck not? Are you saying he’s too old for you? Is it because of his bald spot? His crow’s feet? Well, I’ll tell you something, if it’s because of his tummy, I’ll slap you in the face. That’s not his fault. I force feed him empty carbs so I don’t feel like an absolute sloth when I inhale half the kitchen in one night. His metabolism just isn’t as fast as mine. You can’t blame him for that.”

“I would never,” Miles swears. I share a look with the other man, and he seems just as resigned to the foolishness as I do.

“Well, good.” Nodding, he shoves out his hand, shaking Miles’, then grabbing mine as he adds and adds, “Glad we got that cleared up. I’m Kent Fox.”

I’m not sure why he felt the need to give us his last name, but fuck it, when in Rome. I shake his hand and add, “Darren Matthews. And this is my—” I look at Miles, needing to know how he wants me to introduce him.

“His boyfriend, I guess. Marco Bigsby.”

I furrow my brow. What the hell kind of a name is that? The other two are buying it hook, line, and sinker, so I just roll with it, nodding my head.

Wait.

His boyfriend?

Fucking swoon, much?

Suddenly, the lights go on, and when I look to the stage, the drag queen has her hand on the light switch near the end of the stage. She lifts her microphone to her mouth and barks, “Out! I’ve warned you once, I won’t warn you again.”

“It’s his first drag show,” I plead. “I’m sorry, we’ll be quiet.”

She squints her eyes at me, then at Miles. Suddenly, those squinted eyes bulge. “Oh my God. I know you.” She’s not looking at me. She’s looking at Miles. Kneeling in front of him on stage, her cock fully visible through the slit in her dress—which, by the way, nice—she snatches off his wig and shouts, “Aha!” like she’spart of the goddamn Scooby gang. Next comes the mustache, and she rips it off with all her might. Jarringly, she launches up and rushes off stage, returning a moment later holding a phone. As she walks toward us, she’s scrolling, searching for something. When she finds it, her jaw clenches. Holding her phone out for the crowd, a video plays.

My heart pounds in my chest when I see an image of Miles standing in the aisle at church. It’s a video from earlier. Someone recorded Miles’ and Austin’s confrontation. As the scene plays out, the camera pans to me, and the look on my face is one of absolute despair. The person behind the phone aims it once more at Miles, catching the moment he took Mallory’s hand. The final shot showcases me and the tear dripping down my cheek, then the camera whirls, showing a visibly irate Agent Meadows. Well, his visibly angry eyes and brows, at least. He knows better than to show his whole face, what with the whole I-co-own-a-hitman-agency thing.

Why the hell would Meadows record this? I didn’t even notice him at church.

“How did you get that?” I ask, but my voice can’t be much louder than a whisper.

The queen touches her phone screen, then holds it out toward us again. It’s been shared to social media. Fuck. When I see the view count I have to do a double take. There’s over a million views. I know Meadows offered to make us go viral with our conversion therapy videos, but I turned him down. And why would he even upload this? It’s just some sad little twink crying in the corner while a man of God takes his wife’s hand. There’s nothing untoward about it, aside from the accusations of homophobia spewing from Austin’s mouth. I mean, it’s hardly news that an evangelical pastor is low-key homophobic.

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