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When he returned a minute later, Patrick was perched on the end of the bed, a breastplate in his hands. He turned it this way and that, tilting his head as he did so, as if trying to comprehend the physics of the thing.
“I’m sorry,” he exclaimed when he caught Will watching him in amusement. “This is probably some major faux pas. Touching a queen’s fake boobs. Like going through your underwear or something.”
“At least they’re not wonky this time,” Will said, handing him a second beer.
“Sorry?”
“Never mind.” Will sat down next to him on the bed. “It’s a shame you can’t come out tonight. The drag on a Sunday is usually all kinds of wonderful. And weird. And occasionally grotesque.”
“I wish I could,” said Patrick wistfully. “The closest I get to live drag back home is watching RuPaul’s Drag Race in my apartment with takeout.”
“So you can’t even go to a drag show because you’re not…out?”
“Pretty much.” Patrick shrugged. “Captain Kismet doesn’t go to gay bars, and according to my contract, neither do I.”
“That’s shit.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I know I’m lucky. So lucky. To have this career, these opportunities. I’m not playing the violin, you know?”
“I know,” said Will. “But?”
“Yeah.” Patrick sighed. “But.”
Patrick held up his beer, and Will clinked their bottles together. He’d seen the fiasco with his own eyes last week, the way people forgot how to behave the minute they spotted a celebrity, and figured that Patrick had good reason to steer clear of situations like that. It hadn’t occurred to him that the choice wasn’t entirely his own. As somebody whose living was largely made in gay bars, Will found it hard to wrap his head around the idea that being seen in such a place could affect somebody else’s.
Of course, being seen was one thing. Being recognized, on the other hand…
Patrick took another swig of beer, then noticed the way Will was staring at him askance, head pulled back to take all of him in. “What?”
“Nothing, just…” Will looked him up and down. “Out of interest, what size shoe do you wear?”
Chapter 14
“And I thought the Captain Kismet costume was tight,” Patrick wheezed. He had no regrets about the second serving of lasagna he’d eaten at Margo’s the night before, but even with an extra forty minutes of cardio this morning, he was feeling it. And being squeezed into drag—drag!—only made him more aware of his own body’s every last bulge and bump.
“Don’t be such a baby,” said Will, before signaling to the taxi driver that he could drop them off just here, thank you. “Pain is beauty, and you look great.”
“Thank you,” said Patrick. He tried batting his eyes coyly, still growing accustomed to the heavy false lashes, and was rewarded with a burst of laughter.
He still couldn’t believe how quickly he had agreed to the idea, why he had agreed at all: to let Will dress him in Grace’s clothes, to disguise himself beyond all recognition, so that it wasn’t Patrick Lake going to a gay bar, but someone else entirely.
“Nervous?” Will asked.
“Terrified.” An understatement. He was risking everything. If he was found out, it would be game over. The star of Kismet caught in full drag in a gay bar. What the hell was he thinking? How had he allowed Will to talk him into this?
Except Will hadn’t needed to. Patrick had jumped at the suggestion, enticed by the prospect of being able to go out incognito, but also by something else: the way Will’s closet had beckoned like a kid’s dressing-up box, promising that same sense of magic and possibility that had made him want to be an actor in the first place. The chance to step into a character, to be someone else entirely, even if just for a little while. To step into Will’s world and see life through his eyes.
Damn, those eyes.
Patrick took a deep breath, and then, before he could change his mind, threw the car door open. “Come on, then. Take me to church.”
Will led him through the pub and toward the packed garden, where at least fifty people sat on benches drinking and smoking, facing a small stage that had been set up against the back wall. A twink in a crop top went from table to table selling bright pink shots from a tray, while a young woman with a high ponytail stalked through the rabble holding a bucket for cash donations to a local LGBTQ+ charity.
He followed Will slowly, unsteadily into the crowd, ankles trembling in the uncomfortable, precarious heels, keenly aware that a single wrong move would send him sprawling across the floor like Bambi.
“Racy Gracie!” a queen called out to Will, even though he wasn’t presently in drag. Patrick was still unclear on the etiquette.
“Faye!” Will air-kissed the queen, then turned to introduce her to Patrick. “This is Faye Runaway.”
