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"Eighteen minutes. That's how long you've got to hold 'em. For eighteen minutes you've got to make them forget that they're getting older. And that they aren't where they want to be in life. And that it's probably too late to do much about it. It's only eighteen minutes. Not long at all. But there's a way to make it seem like forever." — Stephanie 'Tanqueray' Johnson
Claire was three drinks into forgetting the dead lead that had brought her to New York when she saw her. There was a drag show tonight, which Jill had decided was the perfect way to decompress from what had turned into a very expensive pit-stop. Naturally, Claire knew nothing of this until she set foot in the dive bar. If the doorman knew Claire wasn't twenty-one, he didn't care, judging by the fifty dollar bill Jill had slipped into his palm.
"It's 9:47. I thought the show started at 9:30," Claire complained, hoping to divert Jill's awful friends away from the bachelorette party they were currently barking at, catcalling, and grabbing their crotches towards. For lesbians, they sure were acting like men, which was probably why this gaggle of straight women was eating it up.
"It's drag time, honey. Who knows," the leader of the butches replied, just before the bride sank to her knees to take the blowjob shot nestled in her lap. By the time she wiped the whipped cream from her mouth, the host had announced the show would start in fifteen minutes. Jill explained that in drag time, this meant another thirty.
Forty-five minutes later, Claire was halfway through a margarita when a woman—no, a drag queen—stepped on the stage to the opening strings of MacArthur Park. She pulled a pin from her updo, letting that golden hair cascade down her back in a wave, and Claire caught herself sniffling at the thought of everyone she'd left behind in the wake of her fruitless search for her brother. Elza. Sherry. Hell, even Leon. Goddamn it, why did all of them have to be blond?
The drag queen's gown was a peculiar, shimmery shade of green or blue, depending on how you looked at it, and suddenly, Claire was back to being nine years old, watching dragonflies skim the surface of the lake where Chris liked to go fishing. Rhinestones glimmered at the hem, catching the light like the edges of stained-glass wings in the sun. Claire had never been able to catch one. She didn't know what was more tragic: that, or how fleeting their little lives were. How, like everything else in Claire's life, they too succumbed to the fall.
Claire sucked down the rest of her marg and held out a dollar bill, which she'd folded hot-dog style. A shiver ran down her spine as the queen's satin-gloved hands brushed against her fingers, accepting the tip. Their eyes locked. Hers held a perpetual sadness that made Claire wonder whether she was the type to cry when she came. She wanted to find out. Wanted to inhale her cigarette smoke, taste her tears, shove her in whatever bathroom stall or broom closet she'd gotten dressed in tonight. Her face flushed red at the thought.
"Oh, no," Donna Summer belted, which Claire agreed with as she squeezed her thighs together.
Jill took the vacant seat and flagged the bartender down for two waters. Claire dropped her chin to her hand and looked at her.
"Why did you bring me here?"
She went through the Rolodex of Jill's probable answers. I was hoping I could talk you out of flying out, for one, but she knew Claire was too stubborn for that. Backing down would require her to think it was her idea. Chris wouldn't want to see you running yourself ragged like this. Too late for that. The bastard had always been a shit communicator.
Jill must have still seen her as some heartsick kid, some romantic so hopeless each breakup felt like the end of the world, because what she settled on was, "Oh, Claire. She does look a lot like her. I'm sorry. I had no idea she'd be performing tonight."
"It's fine." Claire shifted in her seat at the mention of her former lover and college roommate, then at the thought of kissing down that queen's neck, unfolding those legs and burying her face between them. The whole fantasy must have been written in bold letters across her forehead, because Jill's friends quickly chimed in—he's a dude who fucks other dudes, it's pathetic, and Claire should keep her tongue in her mouth.
Deep down, she knew they were right. She'd certainly seen enough of her straight friends fall for gay guys to know how it ended, and her own track record only proved that point in reverse. Elza had spent the past three semesters using Claire as a loophole for that pesky 'no premarital sex' rule. According to her and the Bible's definition of marriage, whatever they did together didn't count in the eyes of God. Claire had expressed her disagreement by destroying Elza's engine the night before her wedding. After all, Elza had said it herself: a little sugar in the gas tank didn't count.
Please be bi, she thought, watching the queen lower her sleeve and lick her bare shoulder in a flirtatious gesture. Please be trans. Please be anything. She was too beautiful for this place, its patrons too undeserving to be in the same room as her. Or him. Or them. Whatever the case, this person had stage presence enough to leave Claire entranced for the next seven minutes, or however long this suite had left.
Claire made the mistake of looking up towards the tail end of the number, and was surprised to find the drag queen looking back at her from across the bar. All these sweaty, writhing people, and their eyes managed to cross paths a second time. Jill's friends had migrated to the next room over to play darts, which did nothing to make this any less humiliating. She tore her eyes away and ordered another shot.
"You sure you don't want to play?"
Claire reached for the water and took a sip, more so to pacify Jill than to quench her own thirst. "I'll pass."
"Well, cool it on the drinks, at least," Jill replied, not unkindly, then leaned in for a hug. "I love you. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."
Which, coming from Jill, was a blank check.
She could leave. She should leave. Her flight to Paris would come early. She could check-in to the hotel across the street, email Jill proof of life, and make herself come until she sweated the entire evening out of her system. She'd still be hungover as hell, but it was nothing an airport cheeseburger wouldn't fix.
The lemon drop went down easy, which was the problem with lemon drops. She'd lost count of how many she'd had by the time the host announced intermission. She sat her glass down and found a bottle of Yuengling waiting for her.
Claire hiccuped. "I didn't order that."
"I know. Your friend did, but I don't see her around," the bartender shrugged. "Her loss."
Claire stared at it. Chris's beer. Chris's stupid, predictable, never-deviated-from-it-once-in-his-life-beer, which she knew because she'd swiped plenty of them every time she visited. She picked it up and stared at the eagle on the label.
Liquor before beer, you're in the clear, she thought. Or as Chris used to say: beer before liquor, you'll be fine, don't be a coward. She tipped the bottle back and chugged, making her brother proud in her mind.
The bartender reappeared and set down a coupe glass with a sugared rim, filled with something of chilled amber, a twist of lemon rind resting on the edge like a yellow crescent moon. He slid it toward her with two fingers, like it was something precious.
"Oh, I definitely didn't order that."
The bartender nodded across the bar where the drag queen sat by herself in a corner booth, drinking the same concoction.
"No way."
"Way," the bartender winked and turned away.
Claire examined the glass like it was a loaded gun. The sugar caught the light, almost artisanal in its placement. Cognac, lemon juice, and something else she couldn't place. Whatever it was smelled expensive—too expensive for a dive with a bumper sticker on the bar top that read Jesus Loves You. Everyone Else Thinks You're An Asshole. She took a sip.
It was exquisite. That was the word for it: exquisite, and she hated herself for thinking of it in the first place. Hated the feeling of being vaguely condescended to by a cocktail. The drag queen was watching her now. Finishing the drink in one gulp and giving the old Irish goodbye was not an option for this tax bracket.
Claire slid off the bar stool before she could change her mind. The floor wobbled beneath her a bit, but she picked up the glass and crossed the bar, rehearsing what she'd say in her head. Thanks for the drink, she'd say. You look amazing, she'd say. I love Donna Summer, which was a half-lie, because she only knew of her by her association with Freddie Mercury. Fuck me, she most definitely would not say.
The queen's eyes tracked Claire the entire way. Her makeup was even more immaculate up close, like she'd spent ages studying the bone structure of a female face to get her contour right. Her wig probably cost more than Claire's ticket to Paris.
"It's called a sidecar, darling." The drag queen spoke first, which completely sabotaged Claire's chances at delivering a smooth line. British. Of course she was British. Claire steadied herself at the edge of the table to stop the floor from doing whatever it was doing.
Without thinking, Claire asked, "And what makes you think I want a sidecar?" Brilliant.
"Perhaps I know what you like." The queen pinched the garnish on her own drink between her fingers, holding it up as if it were a jewel. "A fair assumption, I might add, seeing your fondness for citrus."
Claire's face ran hot, flushed from liquor. "You—"
"Come. Sit, before you embarrass yourself further." She caressed the velvet cushion with a satin hand, patting it gently like the redhead was a prize-winning dog she was trying to coax. "You've had a remarkable evening."
Claire obeyed, because suddenly, being someone's bitch didn't seem so bad. Neither did cock or cunt or strap or whatever was waiting for her beneath the foam padding. She took another sip of the sidecar, and found herself annoyed that it tasted even better the second time. She swallowed, and the warmth of the cognac traveled through her torso until it pooled low in her belly. God, it had been forever since she'd last gotten laid.
"You were watching me."
The queen scoffed. "It's not my fault you caught my attention. One must know their audience, after all." She smoothed her gown, which now read purple under the bar's red light. "So at the risk of sounding crass, are you a lesbian or what? Because with the way you've looked at me all night, you should be the one buying me drinks."
Claire almost choked on her drink in surprise. When she could speak again, her voice was rough. "I'm a college student," she managed.
The faintest smile crept across the queen's face. "How delightfully evasive," she exclaimed, clasping her hands together, then extended one out to Claire. "Well, 'college student.' You may call me Alexia."
"Claire. Claire Redfield." Even through the glove, Alexia's grip was firm, and Claire couldn't help but wonder how good it would feel at the base of her ponytail instead. She needed to get it under control. Or maybe someone needed to grab her by the choker and control it for her.
"Claire," Alexia repeated. "So what brings you to New York? You don't look the type to enjoy disco, let alone be here."
"Just passing through. Looking for someone."
"Aren't we all," Alexia chuckled. "And who, pray tell, are you looking for?"
Claire turned the coupe glass by the stem, watching the lemon oil seep into the sugar. "My brother."
"I see." Something shifted in Alexia, eyes wide and solemn, and Claire felt her gaze against her skin like a razor. "Well, I guess that means we have something in common."
Claire raised an eyebrow. "Come again?"
"I had a sister."
Had. Claire looked up. "I'm sorry."
"A twin, if you'd like to get technical," Alexia supplied. "Not a day goes by where I don't think about her."
"Yeah, I know the feeling."
"She was—extraordinary," she continued. "My father always said she was my better half. I could never live up to her. That's probably why I-" Alexia made a grand gesture, encompassing the wig, the gown, the makeup, the everything.
"That's… healthy," Claire said, then immediately wished the floor would've taken her earlier. But Alexia didn't seem offended. If anything, she laughed—genuinely laughed, all that careful composure cracking into a glittering hairline.
"You're awfully blunt," Alexia smiled. "It's quite refreshing. Most people are too afraid to say what they mean in my presence."
"I'm not most people."
"No, you are not," Alexia agreed, studying her intently. She tipped the rest of her sidecar back.
"So tell me, Claire." She reached across the table and plucked Claire's own glass from her hands, setting it aside like she was making way for something more important. The gesture was so proprietorial that Claire's mouth went dry. "Would you like to get out of here?"
Claire's throat worked. "Yeah."
Alexia stood in one fluid motion. She didn't offer Claire a hand to help up, just hooked two fingers beneath her chin and tilted it up. Once she was certain those blue eyes were fixated on her, she muttered, "Good girl," and Jesus fucking Christ, if Claire didn't feel that right between her legs.
A cold drizzle peppered her cheeks as they stepped outside. They were silent during the two-block walk, but New York spoke enough for the both of them. Music bumping, taxis honking, the buzz of streetlights casting gold onto the wet pavement. When they gave pause at a stoplight, Alexia lit a cigarette, taking a slow drag between her lips.
She watched Alexia's smoke mingle with her frozen breath. She needed it, needed her like the December air, and decided she couldn't wait any longer, sliding her mouth over the drag queen's in a frenzied kiss.
They'd barely cleared the living room, heels and boots hitting the floor with a thunk when Alexia crowded Claire up against the sofa, tongue swirling in her mouth. Claire sucked down on it until Alexia moaned, reached up to squeeze her breast until she pulled back.
"This is mad," Alexia breathed. "You realize that, right? Absolutely fucking mad."
Alexia was right. This was reckless, even by Claire's standards, but the nineteen year old could not bring herself to care. She didn't give a shit about mad, or the differences between flesh and silicone, or the drag queen's apparent obsession with her dead twin. With everything she'd survived in the past year—or the past three months—it was all a drop in the bucket.
"Fuck it. Kiss me again."
Claire surged forward the second the words left her lips, and Alexia let out a startled laugh before pushing her back and tipping her over the arm of the sofa. The drag queen wasn't tall by any means, but goddamn, did she know how to work with what she had. She crushed her into the cushions, and Claire kissed her like she'd done it a thousand times—because in her mind, she already had.
She could feel her hard against her jeans, feel the jump of her pulse in her hands as they moved to her neck. She tangled her fingers through Alexia's wig and was surprised to find it was human, the same color and feel as fresh corn-silk.
Alexia's fingers shot up and stilled Claire's, trailing up her neck as she held her there. "We should take this elsewhere."
Claire's breath hitched at the feeling of that five o'clock shadow prickling against her. She'd be red and rashy in the morning, but all she could think about was locking her fingers in between Alexia's and letting her drag her to the bedroom.
Oh, God. I'm in her—his bedroom. The thought excited and petrified her all at once. It wasn't like she was some trembling, inexperienced flower on prom night. She'd fucked plenty of dudes throughout high school, but once she'd left her backwater hometown and discovered that college girls were also on the table, she'd demoted men from the end-all-be-all to a casual plaything, a placeholder for her pleasure—which was ironic as far as Elza was concerned.
Alexia kept the light off, and she flinched when she felt Claire toying with the hem of her dress, her hands sliding up her thighs and hips. Claire registered, with a modicum of surprise, that Alexia had chosen not to tuck. And, Jesus, no padding either. That ass was all her.
"This isn't what you want," Alexia muttered, and she sounded somewhat ashamed as she pulled Claire on top of her. Her fingers stilled on the button of her jeans.
"And what makes you think you know what I want?" Claire purred, reaching between Alexia's legs. Cupping her, teasing her, encouraging her.
"I-I'm not-"
It was at this moment that Claire realized Alexia was still performing, still bent on keeping that fantasy alive, though Claire wasn't sure for whom. If it was for her, it would be the most romantic gesture anyone had made in a very long time.
"That's sweet, Alexia," Claire whispered, caressing the bulge through that expensive fabric one last time. "But I'm not a lesbian."
The words must have struck something in Alexia, because she let out a frustrated little growl as she popped open the button of Claire's jeans with a satisfying yank. The zipper hissed down like it had been aching to be undone all night. Her cock practically begged for its own release, and Claire happily obliged, leaning over Alexia, licking into her mouth, Claire's hands sliding beneath her underwear.
"Fuck. Oh, fuck," Alexia gasped, her back arched, fabric pooling into the small of her back as Claire's soft hand wrapped around her cock. She bucked into Claire's palm when she twisted on the upstroke just right, using her thumb to further lubricate it. Her hands migrated from Claire's spine to her hips, gripping and shimmying the denim until the jeans were off and the queen's fingers dipped beneath Claire's waistband.
Claire was so wet that arousal teetered on pain, and she almost shrieked when Alexia rolled her clit between her two fingers as if it were the lemon twist from the bar. She found herself grinding against the hand and its added friction, a syncopated push-pull as they worked each other.
But it wasn't enough. She needed proximity, needed skin-to-skin, needed that stupid fucking glove to be anywhere but between her legs. Be that as it may, Claire was still going to come any minute, judging by the ache in her ribs and the sickles of her feet. Between the thin walls of the apartment, the neighbor's alarm clock ripped through the chorus of panting and begging on the other side. Dawn was on the verge of breaking, and so was she.
Alexia must have sensed this, because she withdrew her hand right before Claire seized up, holding her fingers in front of her mouth like were royalty and Claire her knight, deemed worthy of kissing her hand.
"Open up."
Claire didn't hesitate. She grazed her teeth against the satin fingertips, hard enough to feel the fabric strain but not rough enough to tear it. Alexia pulled her arm back in a theatrical flourish, and stuffed the glove in her mouth. A thrill shot through her at the dominance of it, at the taste of her own pussy lingering on her tongue.
The rest was a blur. Claire on her elbows, back arched like a cat, her panties pulled down to her knees. Alexia's lips to her spine, her hands on her hips—her fingers inside of Claire.
"Ohh God, ah- haah- mmph-" Claire panted, muffled by the makeshift gag, moving her hips back and forth, fucking herself on Alexia's fingers.
"You are so fucking beautiful," Alexia rasped, her free hand leaving behind the meat of Claire's ass to take her cock in her hand. She jerked her hips faster, faster, the wet slap of her hand on her cock keeping time as she twisted her fingers inside that slick velvet.
"Just a little more, darling. Do you think you can handle that? Can you do that for me?"
Claire's breath hitched, and when Alexia hooked her fingers, she made a sound that was pathetic at best. "C'mooon," she whined, spitting out the glove, reaching between her legs for Alexia. "Fuck me; fuck meee…"
Claire had no idea what time it was when she woke up. She blinked against the lamplight, willing her eyes to focus, and the room came together with a gaudiness only the stupid-rich could achieve after they'd run out of things to spend their money on. Wallpaper the color of dried blood, gray damask for carpet, a music box and other gorgeous trinkets forgotten by time. The bed beneath her was an absurd thing, powdery blue and gilded, the upholstery and bedspread matching the frame like it was a child's idea of what royalty slept in.
And there, sleeping against a mountain of pillows, was him. Not Alexia—him. Claire startled before it registered that this was the same person she'd left the bar with. Her jacket was draped over the back of the vanity chair, the rest of her clothes neatly folded and stacked on top of the seat. She hardly remembered taking them off, let alone where they'd been discarded. He must have gathered them for her while she slept, which was mortifying in its own right.
She started to roll over and apologize, but when his eyes fluttered open, she could not say anything at all. And yet, she could not bring herself to look away. His eyes were the color of storms on a lake, water going steel and slate. His hair was the same shade of corn-silk, cropped above the ears now. His face was younger looking—softer, even—now that the makeup was gone. She raised her hand up to his collarbone, and his heartbeat flitted in a way that confirmed she had dreamed up none of this.
"Good morning," he said softly, reaching up to tuck a strand of auburn behind Claire's ear.
Claire draped her leg over his because it felt natural, and the motion brought their bodies closer together. That was to be expected. What Claire hadn't expected, for whatever reason, was for his bare cock to press against her thigh. "Oh," she gasped at the contact. "Good morning…"
"Alfred," he supplied. The accent remained, but the feminine lilt was gone. He knitted his eyebrows together like he hated the sound of his voice, the taste of his name in his mouth. Without thinking, Claire pulled him on top of her, and Alfred's breath hitched like she'd done something shocking or unforgivable by taking him in her hand.
"Hi there," she breathed, her voice husky with want, their foreheads pressing together. She wanted to kiss him so badly that her stomach ached, but she didn't, just guided Alfred's cock to her center to gauge his reaction.
"Hi," he managed, gasping into her mouth at the feel of him sliding through the wetness between her thighs. "God, you really waste no time."
Claire turned her head toward the clock on the nightstand. "My flight's in four hours, Alfred. Take it or leave it."
Alfred sighed, but there was no real rebuttal in him. Nowhere to hide, no excuse worth reaching for. It was morning now, and they were both sober, and he could no longer pretend it wasn't fucking exhilarating to be wanted as himself. "So, yes?" He asked breathlessly, reaching down to line himself up.
Claire was having none of that teasing bullshit after last night's marathon. The second he asked that stupid question, she hooked her legs around his hips and squeezed, arching her neck as the head of his cock pushed inside her. The stretch felt like a burn, and she moaned as he slid in further.
Alfred looked like he was about to pass out, or at least come within the next two minutes if he didn't get his shit together. The look on his face was better than any orgasm Claire had within the past year—eyes wide, pupils blown, lips parted in a silent oh fuck as she dragged him down onto her with those strong thighs. One hand flew to the headboard for support, which THUMPED against the wall with every thrust—each one deeper than the last, eliciting a series of moans until he hit something within her that made her light up like Christmas.
"Jesus Christ," she hissed through clenched teeth, unable to stop moving her hips to take more of him. "God!" She clawed at Alfred's back, raking little red trails into his skin as he found that sweet spot again—and again—driving into her like a man possessed. Her back arched off the mattress, and the noise that followed was downright embarrassing.
Alfred could feel Claire's legs release him in the wake of her orgasm, but he didn't pull back. Not yet. He leaned over, his hands cradling the base of her skull, tangling in her gorgeous hair, rolling onto his back and pulling her with him. The change in position made his cock feel deeper somehow, leaving Claire to roll her hips and quickly burn through her second wind.
She raised and lowered herself on his cock, and she wanted desperately to touch herself but whined at the knowledge that doing so would be game over. In the end, Alfred was the one who reached between her legs, cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples and clit until she cried and moaned and begged him not to stop.
Her second orgasm came so hard and fast that she felt dizzy, and Alfred's hips began to jerk ruthlessly, his hands holding her in place before she could even think about catching her breath.
"Jesus. Fucking. Claire. Oh—"
Alfred's breath came in short bursts as he felt Claire clench around him. He wasn't going to last, didn't stand a chance with how her skin flushed, her tits bounced, her sweet little whimpers sounded every time his hips snapped up. His nails dug into her ass as he lost control completely, letting out a strangled cry that sounded more like pain than pleasure. His eyes laced tight with grief as he stilled, and Claire suddenly felt like shit for manifesting this part of him, no matter how intentional.
He opened his eyes, and her thighs worked, lifting up just enough for him to slip out of her, just enough for her to sit at the edge of the bed.
"I hope you find your brother, Claire," he finally said, his head resting on Claire's lap. He turned his head to kiss her thigh. "Truly."
Claire did not look at him; just stroked his hair absentmindedly as she stared at Alexia's wig in the corner, the lace cap hanging on the hook of the coat rack like a pelted animal. She ached everywhere, and she could not determine if it was from sex or sympathy or the sinking realization that she'd treated her own loss like an afterthought.
The walk to LaGuardia was silent. Claire's ribs felt bruised, like she'd been punched in the chest. The only sound was the traffic rushing past, and the crunch of her boots on the ice.