Second You Sin (35 page)

As always, Tea and Strumpets was crowded. I saw Freddy at a table in the back. “Hey.” I waved.

Freddy beckoned me over. As I walked back, I saw two guys I knew from my gym. I nodded at them and brushed past, intent on getting to Freddy.

“Dude,” one of them said, grabbing my arm. His name might have been Ralph. Or Roger. I’d spotted him on the bench once, and rejected his advances in the steam room shortly afterward. He and his friends were a bit of a clique, harmless enough, but more in love with themselves than was strictly necessary.

They were big boys, with the kind of heavy gym muscles that looked good, if a bit overdone. I’d bet money that at least some of that bulk was built by steroids.

I didn’t real y go for show muscles like theirs. Sure, they looked impressive, but ask them to help you on moving day and you could be sure they’d be claiming a bad back.

He was at Tea and Strumpets with another guy I recognized from the gym. They weren’t hot enough for the amount of attitude they carried, but such is the Chelsea boy’s burden. They wore the kind of hip, stylish clothing that announced good incomes and bad taste.

Ralph/Roger waved his hand up and down at my outfit. “What happened? Did a JCPenney throw up on you?”

I smiled and tried to pul away.

“Naw,” his buddy said, “I think he’s just seen the softer side of Sears.” I looked at him and realized I’d shot him down once, too, right in this very café. On this night, he was wearing a distressed T-shirt that read “9.5.” Probably meant to be a reference to his dick size.

Having seen him in the showers, I knew he was rounding up. By five.

I looked at him and his friend. Their glassy, diluted eyes told me they were on something that might promote them from harmless annoyances to genuine irritations.

Ralph/Roger grabbed my ass. “Wel , the packaging may be different, but the fruit’s just as ripe. Mmmm, sweet. Wouldn’t mind splitting those melons.”

Oh, please.
Helen Kel er could have pegged this demented faggot as a total bottom. “Hey, it was nice seeing you guys, but I have to . . .”

Ralph/Roger—or maybe it was Ron—pul ed me closer. My face mashed against his hard chest.

“What do you say I take you home and we get you out of al that polyester, baby?”

Mr. Doubles-His-Size moved behind me and pressed against my rear. “Or, I could come over, too, and we could have a real party.”

Great,
I thought.
A meatless sandwich.

“Al right, boys,” I said, my voice sounding weaker than I would have liked, muffled as it was against What’s-His-Name’s prodigious pecs. “I real y have to go.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I think you want to play with us. You just need a little convincing.” I real y wanted to end this before it turned into a scene from
The Accused.

“Listen,” I said, “I’m trying to be nice about this, but

. . .”

“Fucking little tease,” his friend said from behind me.

That tore it. I stepped into What’s-His-Name’s embrace and brought my heel down on his instep.

“Ow!” He stepped back, giving me enough room to pul my arm forward and back, driving my elbow into Multiply-By-Two Boy’s solar plexus. He stepped back, too, grabbing his chest and wheezing for air.

I slipped out from between them. “Nice seeing you boys,” I said.

Unable to put his weight back on the foot I’d stamped on, an unsteady What’s-His-Name reached out to grab me again.

I caught his hand and bent his fingers back. His eyes widened with pain. “You put one hand on me again,” I said sweetly, “and I’l shove it so far up your ass that you’l be able to jerk off your boyfriend
while
he’s fucking you. You feeling me, Chesty?” He nodded vigorously. His friend looked at me terrified. “And you,” I advised, “should real y lose that T-shirt before you’re sued for false advertising.” If anyone observed our little scene, they didn’t say anything, except, of course, for Freddy. “Ah, darling,” he greeted me as I reached his table. “Always making friends, I see.”

“Some help you were,” I harrumphed.

“Like you needed any,” he answered. “Anyway, I might break a nail.” Truth is, Freddy could have taken those two and half the other guys in here, too.

I saw two drinks at Freddy’s table, one of which he held. Nice of him to order for me. I sat down and grabbed the other cup.

“Uh-uh-uh,” Freddy said, waving his finger at me.

“Swiper, no swiping.”

“What are you, drinking for two?”

“It’s for him,” Freddy said, pointing his chin to the pastry counter, where Cody was walking over with a tray of pastries and another cup.

“Hi, Kevin,” Cody said. “Freddy said you like this.” He put a chai tea in front of me and placed the snackage in the middle of the table.

“Hey, Codes,” I said, getting up and giving him a big hug. He sat down next to Freddy, who put a hand on his thigh.

They looked cute together.

Freddy studied the pastries as if they might reveal the secrets of the universe. His hands hovered over the tray like the pointer on a Ouija board before settling on his unlucky victim.

“So,” I said, “enough suspense already. What’s going on?”

Freddy mumbled something, his mouth ful .

“What?” I asked.

“Cannoli here,” Freddy said, pointing at his pastry.

“Priorities, darling.”

“I just ran down here from—”

“OK, OK.” Freddy threw up his arms. “Don’t whine!

I surrender.” He turned to Cody. “Shal we show him?

Cody wrinkled his brows in concern. “Maybe we better tel him, first, Freddy. I mean . . .” Freddy put a finger to Cody’s lips. “Shush now.

Daddy knows best.”

“Knows what,” I asked, annoyed. “Would you just . .

.”

Freddy held up his other hand to shush me, too.

“Come on,” he said, standing up. “Let’s go to the videotape.”

Freddy walked us over to the far side of the room, where a row of iMacs sat on a long shelf that ran the length of the wal . Although it was hard to believe these boys didn’t have Internet access at home, people stil loved to come here and surf the Web, cruise Craigslist, or write The Great American Novel.

Every station was taken.

Freddy walked over to a thirtysomething guy wearing a flannel shirt and baggy cords. Sexy in an English-professor kind of way. “Excuse me,” Freddy said, “would you mind if I just used that computer for five minutes? It’s real y important.”

The guy didn’t look away from his screen. “Sorry, buddy, but . . .”

Freddy leaned over and put his soft, ful lips up to the man’s ear. “Please . . .” he whispered. He put a strong hand on the guy’s shoulder and squeezed gently.

The guy pushed away from the computer and gave Freddy a startled, smitten look. “Um, sure. Yeah. I’l just get another cup of coffee. I’m, um, Charlie. Can I get you something, too?” He stood up eagerly.

“No, dol ,” Freddy said, snatching Charlie’s stool and settling into it. “But thanks!” Freddy started typing and Charlie drifted away.

“How does he do that?” Cody asked me quietly.

At times like this, I thought of Freddy as The Cock Whisperer, but seeing as he and Cody were just starting to date, I thought saying so might be over-sharing. “He’s just a charmer,” I said.

“Would you two stop whispering and get over here?” I stepped closer and saw Freddy was on the ViewTube homepage. He stood up and maneuvered me into the stool. “You better have a seat, darling.” I did as he said and Freddy reached around to drive the mouse. He scrol ed halfway down the page to “Most Popular Videos.” There were links to “Al Time,” “This Month,” “This Week,” and “Today.” Freddy clicked on the last category.

The page loaded and Freddy pointed with his finger to the fourth featured video.

“No fucking way,” I said.

“Way,” Freddy answered from behind me. I could hear the evil grin in his voice.

“Don’t . . .” I began.

But it was too late.

Freddy pressed play.

37

I’m the Greatest Star

It was painful the first time I watched this scene from twenty feet away in Andrew’s trailer.

Seeing it here was worse.

Someone had uploaded to the world’s most popular videosharing site an edited video of my mother and Yvonne’s confrontation at my mother’s beauty shop. It was cut down to five minutes, but it stil had al the highlights of their exchange.

And when I say “highlights” I mean “lowlights.” The 550,673 people who’d already viewed it were treated to Yvonne sharing her innermost thoughts, like “faggots just can’t control themselves,” “the only people worse than the fags are the Jews,” and “take my audience—a bigger bunch of morons you’ve never seen. I want to throw up every time I have to stand in front of those idiots and losers.” The video went through my mother’s unveiling of Yvonne’s bald head, and her cal ing Yvonne “an insufferable, homophobic, anti-Semitic poser with bad implants and a worse attitude!”

It ended on a wild-eyed Yvonne cal ing my mother a
“cunt”
and my mother’s dismissive, “Fuck you, Kojak.”

I appeared on screen for a couple of seconds, but luckily, my face was never turned toward the camera.

Thank God for smal favors.

I didn’t realize while I was watching it, but Freddy had the volume turned up to max on the iMac’s speakers, and at my mother’s parting words, the room behind me erupted in applause. I turned around and saw that most of the café’s patrons had been watching my mother’s horrifying display. They were al talking at once.

“Did you see that?”

“Holy shit, I can’t believe what came out of Yvonne’s mouth!”

“What a bitch!”

“Unbelievable!”

“Wel , her career’s over.”

“Girlfriend got
owned.
”

“Next.”

“I loved that other woman, though.”

“Hawwwwtt!”

“ I
have
to put that up on my Facebook—did you get the address?”

“Fuck Yvonne. I want to watch more of that woman who told her off. What show is she on?” Freddy leaned over whispered in my ear, “Shal I tel them she’s your mother?”

“You do,” I hissed, “and I’l kil not just you but everyone who looks likes you.”

Freddy kissed the top of my head. “Come on.” I got up from the stool and my place was immediately taken by a skinny kid with a lightning bolt shaved into his crew cut. “Let’s see that again,” he shouted. The crowd cheered as he pressed play.

Our table was far enough away that I was able to escape my mother’s voice over the speakers and the murmurings of the crowd.

I had already told Freddy about what happened the day my mother taped Yvonne’s show, and he’d fil ed in Cody. “But what we don’t know,” Freddy said, “is what the hel it’s doing on ViewTube.”

“That makes three of us,” I said. “But I think I know who does. Would you guys excuse me for a minute?” I went outside and dialed Andrew Mil er. “Did you see it?” he asked by way of greeting.

“Uh, yeah,” I said.

“What did you think?”

“I don’t know what to think. How did it wind up online?”

“Didn’t you get my messages?”

“I haven’t had a chance to listen to them yet.” Andrew explained that, as promised, Marc was able to hack into the studio’s data banks and retrieve Gabe’s video of my mother’s fateful encounter with Yvonne. Andrew wanted to use the footage to blackmail the show’s producers into giving him the freedom to leave the show, but Marc had other ideas.

“After seeing what a nightmare she was,” Andrew explained, “Marc suggested we post the footage on ViewTube. Expose Yvonne for what she is.”

“How does that help you?” I asked.

“Are you kidding?” Andrew asked. “I don’t have to worry about working for that horror show for one more day. With that tape out, there
is
no more Yvonne. I already got an e-mail that the show was shutting down production for an ‘indefinite period.’

Not only am I free, but the producers are going to have to buy me out of my contract. It’s going to cost them, too.”

“Can’t you get into trouble for leaking the tape?”

“Your friend, Marc, handled it al . He posted the video with a fake user account he created. There’s nothing that leads back to me, or to him. The guy’s a genius. He even had some kind of algorithm or script or something that moved the video up to ViewTube’s homepage. Once it was there, it didn’t need any help staying there. Did you see how many people have viewed it?”

I told him I had. “But I’m worried about my mom. Is this going to create problems for her?”

“Problems? She’s going to be a national hero, man. Five minutes ago a link to the video went up on Perez Hilton. He cal ed your mom his favorite person in the world.”

“What if Yvonne takes legal action? The tape makes my mother look like a worse threat than Saddam Hussein. She actual y had and used chemical weapons.”

“Who cares? You think any lawyer’s going to take that case? Try to build sympathy for Yvonne after she insulted gay people, Jews, and her own viewers?

You’re not getting it, Kevin—Yvonne is over. Oh-vah.” I thought about what Andrew was saying. Although it al came as a shock, I had to admit he was right.

“You real y think this is it?”

“Nope,” Andrew said. “I think it’s going to go on, Kevin. And it’s just going to get better and better.

Ding-fucking-dong, Kevin, the wicked witch is dead.”

“Huh.” I wasn’t absorbing al this.