Free Killer Queen: A Painted Faces Novel by L.H. Cosway

tea.
    “I had to go bare bones because I haven't yet hired
a dresser. I'll let you in on a little secret — I'm awful at choosing costumes
and doing my own makeup. I've always had an assistant to do it for me.”
    Can you see where I’m headed with this? Yes, I
thought you would, you clever madams.
    “Wow, there must be money to be made in the
drag-queening business if you can afford an assistant,” Fred teased me.
    I kept my expression neutral because I didn’t want
her to guess I was lying. “Not really. I inherited a lot when my father passed
away. It's caused me to accumulate expensive tastes. I should probably be more
frugal.”
    That was another lie. The only expensive tastes I
had were for alcohol, dresses, and procuring women’s shoes in men’s sizes.
Other than that, I hardly spent a penny on extravagance.
    “Is that what you're doing by living here? Any sane
person with cash to splash would run a mile from this dump.”
     “It's not so bad. I think it's got character. I've
always tended to select my living spaces in older buildings. Places that feel
lived in are oddly reassuring to me.” That one was true. I loved the feeling an
old building could give me, relished wondering what kinds of people might have
lived there in times gone by, what stories their lives had been.
    Fred made me laugh when she responded, deadpan, “If
by ‘lived in’ you mean an aged whore with cracked skin and some sort of
downstairs infection she can't get rid of, then you're right — this building
has plenty of character.”
     I found myself smiling at her fondly again. “You
have a wonderful way with words, Fred. Disgusting, but wonderful.”
    “Why, thank you. So tell me more about this
assistant predicament. I thought you looked amazing tonight. You can dress and
do your makeup fine. What's the problem?”
    “I've just gotten used to having somebody else do it
over the years. I suppose you could call it a combination of habit and
laziness. I'm also terribly disorganised, if you hadn't noticed.” I indicated
my haphazard attempt at arranging the furniture in my apartment.
    “Ah, now we're getting to the crux of the matter. I
think I should stage an intervention. No longer will Vivica Blue require the
services of an assistant/dresser/makeup artist. From here on out, she will do
it all herself. You need to learn to get organised if you want to survive in
the cutthroat business of gay nightclub performance. Harry tells me the gays
can't abide by clutter.”
    I eyed her for a long moment until she was fiddling
with the hem of her dress in her lap and asking self-consciously, “What?” She
stared at me from under her lashes. It made her look shy yet sexy, and I
enjoyed the view.
    Taking my time, I brought my tea cup to my mouth and
mused, “You're something of a job collector. How would you feel about a third?”
     “Are you asking me to be your assistant?” she said
in surprise.
    “I might be. How are you with makeup?”
     “I get by.”
    I allowed my gaze to wander over the pretty dress
she was wearing. “And what about fashion? You seem to have good taste. I like
the whole ’40s vintage thing you've got going on tonight. Yes, there's
definitely potential. How about a two-week trial period?”
    For the next few minutes she tried to convince me
she wasn’t the woman for the job, but I was determined. After all, it wasn’t
about the job. It was about getting to spend time with her. Oddly enough, I was
looking forward to hanging out and bantering with her back and forth perhaps
even more than I was looking forward to bedding her. I hadn’t met a woman I’d
enjoyed shooting the breeze with this much in a really long time, if ever.
    Finally, she agreed to be my assistant, and we shook
on it. I could tell that, despite her initial protestations, she was just as excited
about this venture as I was.
    After Fred left that night, I crawled into bed,
thinking of her and smiling to myself. I was going to have to send