1. Jeffrey

Chapter one

Jeffrey

I always wondered what it might be like to be the real me.

But I'm still figuring out who that is.

"Introduce yourself, Madame Mattie!"

I kick my leg out from behind the wall where I'm hiding, and the hollers and whistles that follow make my heartrate quicken.

"Our seamstress for the evening!" Cas emphasizes the loaded word, and her raspy alto nearly sands smooth the stone walls of the underground. "Don't worry, folks. She's no stranger to entertaining this many at once."

The crowd laughs, as I shimmy into view, shaking my behind with my back to them. There is a reason the midnight tours—starting at seven, eight, nine, and ten respectively, with none actually at midnight—is for eighteen and over only.

"Our story begins, dear dashing and distinguished guests, one hundred and thirty-five years ago!" Cas ends with my lead-in, and I flourish my lace and feathered fan with only the barest hint of my profile peeking at the crowd.

Cheeks rouged, hazel eyes heavily lined, and lips painted red, I am a knockout like this, and I know it. Blond waves cascade down my back, shoulders bare from the straps of my dress having purposely fallen, and a powder blue corset cinches my waist. When I spin to face the crowd with all but my eyes hidden behind the flutter of my fan, my skirt is bustled high enough to show milky thighs and the lace of high-cut bloomers.

My name is Jeffrey, by the way.

"And what have we here?" I announce in my naturally deep voice, sweeping aside my fan to reveal a flat chest and prominent Adam's apple. "I might be the wealthiest woman in this town, but you fine folks look talented enough for me to teach you the same tricks."

The crowd laughs harder since it is obvious now that their "seamstress" is in drag. To be fair, I was teased plenty for being pretty long before I knew how to use a contour brush. But in costume as Madame Mattie, I thrive off the applause.

"While I am certain you are all aching to learn how I made my millions, and let's be honest…" I use my fan to point out people in the crowd who are most responsive to the act, whether laughing or looking flushed with interest—like the college boy about my age whose buddies just pushed him in front of them. "As a seamstress, I know my way around bobbins and buttonholes. "

That gets a laugh too, every night, even if it only sounds dirty.

"But first! A little history lesson on when your favorite madame came to this city—and I am always honest about when I've come." I blow a kiss to the blushing college boy, and he darts his eyes downward, while his friends chuckle.

"What's the real story, Mattie?" one of them calls. "Heard you sold your soul to the Devil."

"Me? Go against the church?" I feign a swoon, fan fluttering wildly. "Perish the thought! Although there has been talk of a certain gentleman caller with a forked tongue." I flick mine out between two fingers, and the crowd howls.

The real Madame Mattie was Matilda Swaine, and she was a freaking queen. Ruthless and conniving and not someone to trust serving you a drink if you even thought you might be on her bad side, but a queen, nonetheless. Her seamstresses serviced every high-profile man in this town once, and though she died young from syphilis—no surprise there—she made enough to give every employee a retirement plan.

For as long as they avoided syphilis too.

"But! We'll get to my many benefactors later," I continue, strutting in front of the crowd packed into the tunnels beneath the city, the only still working entrance being the one under Mad Madame Mattie's Underground Tour. The building was the brothel itself, but the tunnels go all throughout the neighborhood and used to have entrances into almost every establishment—including St. Mary's church .

They bricked that one up first.

"I arrived by boat in 1883—and boy did those sailors disembark happy."

Another laugh. I do care about the history, but it's the performance I really love, because only when I am Madame Mattie do I feel like I am almost, maybe, me.

"I bought the building above only two years later, and if you believe the stories—and you should always believe mine—these tunnels weren't manmade but discovered by yours truly after taking refuge in the sewers to escape a very misinformed policeman." I stop in front of the college boy still keeping his eyes averted and tilt his chin up with the tip of my fan. "Come along, darlings, if you'd like to explore my passages."

His friends erupt again, and one grabs his shoulders to shake him in encouragement, then pushes him after me when I start to lead the tour. We're only a few blocks from the queer district, so they're probably headed to the bars after this, like The Manhole or The Rainbow Lounge. This neighborhood is the last stretch of old city that's still behind the times. Behind in building codes mostly, but once in a while a group of college boys might mean trouble. Usually though our harassers are pearl-clutchers or men with confederate flags on their hats.

They don't like hearing about a woman running this city anyway.

I tell the tale of that wayward entrepreneur, while my coworker, Cas, takes up the rear. She herds the stragglers and keeps an eye out for five-finger discounts, both of the pickpocket variety and those thinking they can pilfer a souvenir rather than pay for one in the gift shop.

Each section of the tunnels has a display of what something really looked like in Mattie's time, from bedroom depictions that actually would have been upstairs—and still are; I should know, since I live there—to sewing machine stations for inspection days, and dressmaker dummies wearing outfits like mine. It's a fascinating story of a self-made millionaire who ran more of this city than its mayor. The tunnels have no origin before Mattie found them, a cave system probably. The stone bricks and wooden girders to fortify the passageways were added later, but these caverns are as ancient as before the city had a name.

Mattie got away with everything short of murder, maybe even that, with all the police and politicians she had in her pocket, and just as often in her bedchamber. Officially, she and her employees were indeed documented as seamstresses, but it was no secret that any pumping going on wasn't done with a sewing pedal.

The most fascinating part of Mattie's story credits her success to her supposed deal with the Devil. It's my favorite part of the tour because I tell it right at the end, in an area of the tunnels with the lowest ceilings. Down here it's cramped and creepy at the best of times, with cold stone walls, old broken beams, and dim lighting, but there is something special about this particular spot where one of the stone blocks fell inward, and all you can see beyond is black.

"Some say he sleeps in the walls to this day."

"The Devil?" a woman asks with a chuckle.

"Perhaps." I flutter my fan again and drag my fingers down my neck to the top of my dress. With the straps drooped, it hangs low enough that you can almost see the tops of my nipples. I watch College Boy's eyes follow my fingers. "Though most say he was an incubus who lent me his lustful powers for a price. Maybe my soul. Maybe… yours?"

A roar sounds from the opening in the wall, and the patrons jump.

"Anyone daring enough to go delving into my hole?"

There is nervous laughter now, but no surprise, College Boy's friends volunteer him with another shove, and he is a bashful mess the whole way. I'm right beside the hole, so we are only a few inches apart when he steps up to reach inside it. He is facing me while he does, which is just what I want to keep up the game.

"Find anything you like?" I whisper.

Cas grabs his hand from the other side of the wall, and he screams. No one ever notices when she slips away. After he yanks his arm free and stumbles backward, Cas's hand comes out to wave. The crowd laughs. College Boy laughs too, blushing harder as he tries to make eye contact with me and… does. He is grinning now and looking right at me.

Shit .

Cas comes out from behind the wall. "Guess you'll have to save finding the real incubus for next time, folks. This way! Keep it moving! You know you all want some Mad Madame Mattie merch before you go." As she herds them into the gift shop, it's my turn to take up the rear.

Only College Boy doesn't move, letting others pass him, letting his friends playfully pat his shoulder and leave him behind—so he can talk to me alone.

Why couldn't he just stay bashful?

During the chaos of the crowd moving, with thankfully only one pair stopping me for a selfie, I am able to duck away before College Boy sees where I went. From behind the wall, I watch him through the hole. He looks so confused when he realizes I'm gone. I don't relax until he gives up and dejectedly walks out of view.

In the dark, I don't feel much like Madame Mattie anymore and slump against the wall to wallow.

I am such an asshole.

"What the hell are you doing?" Cas blocks what little light spills here from around the bend.

"What?" I straighten. "Shouldn't you be in the gift shop?"

"Mr. B can handle it." She approaches with both hands on her hips. "But if anyone should be in there, it's you. Never know when someone might want another pic with Madame Mattie."

"I'm pictured out tonight. Long day. And um, you know— "

" Jeffrey ." Cas really has that mom tone down. Not older sister. Definitely mom vibes. She leans against the wall next to me, and I can see more of her face with the light hitting it. Cas is blond too, pale platinum. Some people have thought we were siblings, and on more than one occasion that I was the sister and she the brother, until one of us spoke. She's usually in coverall jumpsuits and combat boots, so she loves it when that happens. Me… I don't know. "You should see the devasted pout on tonight's target."

I cringe. "I saw it." He's not the first one I've seen it on either.

"Why do you lay it on so thick if you run the moment one of them wants to ask you out?"

"I enjoy it in the moment! But he doesn't want to ask out dull as dirt Jeffrey. He wants Mattie. You know I'm not really like that. If you think he looks disappointed now, imagine if he got to know me."

I'd made that mistake before. Now, I hide.

Because I'm not Madame Mattie. I'm not confident. I'm not witty. I'm not sexy.

I'm just Jeffrey.

"When was the last time you got laid?" Cas asks.

I cringe again because I honestly can't remember. "We don't all have gorgeous girlfriends to dote on us, you know."

"If you had a girlfriend , I'd be really worried. "

At least that makes me laugh. "It never works out when someone approaches me after the show. The real me is a hopeless dork."

"Who slays ."

"When I look like this."

"So look like this."

"I can't go out in public this way!"

"Says who? Although you could maybe lose the bloomers and corset." Cas ruffles the lace of my bloomer short-shorts. She doesn't get it though. She tries. But if even I don't get it, how can I expect someone else to?

"Besides," I say, "you think it's cringe we play it for laughs that I'm a boy in a dress."

"Because it is. No one would think it was funny if I was the one in that getup."

" I would!" I laugh.

She smacks my arm. To be fair, my very butch lesbian friend with the asymmetrical pixie cut and one side of her head buzzed, has never once been seen in makeup, or wearing anything resembling a skirt or fitted top. It would be funny.

I know it's problematic that the joke is a boy in a dress, even if history well records that I am hardly the first one in the depths of these streets. Madame Mattie employed men too! I don't care how cringe-worthy it is though, because even if I could never have the confidence to look or act like this outside these tunnels, I love getting to step into Mattie's shoes for a while and pretend like I could .

"Guess I'll go see if those college boys are still waiting on Mattie." Cas pushes from the wall. "Care to tag along?"

College Boy was pretty cute. But if I like him, it'll just hurt more when he's disappointed by the real me. Whoever that is. "Not tonight."

I wait behind the wall until I can hear that the patrons have all gone. I'm sure College Boy's friends will cheer him up. I just hope I didn't ruin too much of his night.

"There you are, Jeffrey! Sounds like everyone loved you as always," Mr. Bevilaqua greets me from behind the gift shop counter when I finally surface.

The tour starts upstairs in the brothel building, and then loops around and winds through the underground until finishing here, which connects back to the same set of stairs the patrons come down. I live on the second floor of the building above, courtesy of Mr. B, who lets me stay rent-free, since I keep the building clean and lead all the midnight tours. He does pay me, but it's never been much.

He used to lead most of the day tours himself, but Cas and I both know he's looking to retire, and he's been having her lead more and more of them.

"I aim to please!" I say, but when I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror for when patrons try on costumes, I am not exuding Mattie at all anymore. My shoulders are hunched, my expression pinched, just dorky Jeffrey playing dress-up, like the younger me who used to sneak into Mom's closet to try on skirts and heels .

My parents were not surprised when I came out.

I'm 5'7", slender, and in makeup, you really can almost ignore the Adam's apple, but it doesn't look right without the pizzazz, the mask of being someone else. I straighten my posture and shake back my hair. I curl it for performances but only loosely, giving it that harlot on a romance cover look.

Nope, still Jeffrey. Still wrong somehow if I'm not pretending to be Mattie.

"How are those classes coming along, kiddo?" Mr. Bevilaqua asks. He's short and stout and balding, sort of like a classic cartoon curmudgeon, only he's more like Carl from Pixar's UP at the end of the movie when he's learned to be nice again.

He inherited the tour from his family. His parents ran it, big history buffs, who bought it from the previous owners. I heard from some of the older clubs and businesses in the queer district that as equal marriage was getting closer to federally passing, people's real colors in the neighboring streets started to show. Mr. B was one of the first to prove that his colors were rainbow. As an ally , but the simple act of a rainbow flag in Mad Madame Mattie's window told people like me and Cas that this was a safe place.

It always sounds leading now when Mr. B asks me about classes. I worry he's hoping I'm close to finishing grad school finally, so I can move on from this place. I started here to have a small paycheck and a place to stay, but I fell in love with its history, with the tours and performances. I'm supposed to be getting an MBA in finance, go on to work at some investment firm like my parents. They are both accountants, and if that doesn't tip you off to how boring the real me is, being poised to follow in their footsteps certainly should.

I'd rather keep helping with the books here.

"Classes are good. Taking my time, you know. I'm in no rush. Is Cas locking up?" I nod at the stairs out the other side of the gift shop, moving toward the counter so I don't have to see my reflection anymore.

"Yep. Not too bad for sales tonight. Not great ."

Tour traffic might seem good at a glance, but revenue has been on a steady decline for years, partially because the tour keeps getting shortened by neighboring businesses closing off their tunnel access. Being connected to passageways once used by brothel frequenters apparently doesn't sit well with gentrification. We are one of the few establishments left that hasn't been renovated into a trendy coffee shop or chain store. Contractor companies keep buying up everything else.

Like the one whose business card I spot inside the cash register while Mr. B is counting change.

"Grounded Development?" I snatch it up. "Please tell me you haven't been talking to these creeps."

"Jeffrey—"

"This is a historical landmark!"

"Not officially—"

"Then we can resubmit again! It's bullshit—"

"It's a brothel." Mr. B throws down his wad of ones. He takes a breath, and I sense a speech brewing. We've talked about what might happen if finances don't turn around, but that was always future Jeffrey's problem. "You know I love it here as much as you do, but they're just going to keep telling us the building and underground is not architecturally sound or significant enough for landmark status and, frankly, I'm tired."

"But—"

"I'm only considering an offer. Nothing is official yet. I wouldn't put you out on the street without ample warning and time to find a new place to stay."

"It isn't about that!" I snap and flick the card onto the pile of bills. "Does Cas know about this yet?"

"Know what?" She bounds in from the exit door.

"That we're halfway to becoming a strip mall!"

" What ?"

"Jeffrey—"

"They'll close up the tunnels completely! It'll all be lost! How can you even think about doing this?" I storm out, stomping back into the tunnels, and don't stop until I hit the first bend.

If I wasn't afraid I'd break my hand doing it, I'd punch a wall. I knew Mr. Bevilaqua was close to wanting out, but I figured he'd sell to someone who'd keep the place going, not let it get demolished and replaced by another chain shop like Jimmy Johns .

I'm pacing and just trying to calm down when Cas finds me.

"Can you believe that?" I thrust my arm back toward the shop.

"That you're twenty-four going on six? Frequently."

"I—" I huff when the rest of that comeback fails me. It's hard to think of one when I know she's right. Yes, I am acting like a child, but this is where Cas and I met. Where she met her live-in girlfriend. Where we became this weird but still mostly functional family. It's home! And it has been home for almost two years, in more ways than where I sleep.

"Screaming at the boss isn't usually the best way to change their mind about something," Cas says. "Though, with Mr. B, he looked more worried about you than upset you flew off the handle."

Of course he did. He's a good man.

"Look." Cas stops my pacing with both hands on my shoulders. "I gotta go meet SJ. You know, that gorgeous girlfriend of mine. So my goal here is to finish up in a half hour max. Do you think you can simmer down long enough to apologize to Mr. B so I can do that? I need to do a trash sweep still."

"I'll just get worked up again. Let me do the trash sweep so I can clear my head. Then you can go meet SJ, and I'll try to apologize before Mr. B leaves for the night."

"Even better." Cas gives my shoulders a pat. I figured she'd be as upset as I am about losing this place, but when she turns to head back down the tunnel, she says, "We were never going to be doing this forever."

Part of me wanted to.

Trash sweeps are routine after each tour, since someone always manages to leave behind a gum wrapper or can of soda, despite us explicitly asking them to not throw away or leave anything down here. There are only so many lights lining the tunnels, so alone, it can be quite creepy. I've always liked it though. If there are any old ghosts haunting the underground, they don't seem to mind me.

Unless there really is an incubus in the walls.

Maybe I'm being neglectful, too distracted to look hard enough, but I don't find any trash. I work my way through the tour backwards, but when I end up at the start, I don't exit to the stairs in case Mr. B is still on the other side in the gift shop. I'm not ready to apologize yet. I know I should. Yelling at him was not the mature option, but this is the only part of my life that is at all interesting. It's when I can be the only version of me that is almost right. I don't know what I'll do if I lose that.

It's not dank down here like you might think. It's... okay, a little musty, but more like cold, clean stone instead of dust or mold, like the best parts of an old library. The wall I make my entrance from for tours is not much more than an alcove, and I walk all the way to its dead end and lean against the stones in partial darkness.

Maybe it's weird idolizing a woman who eventually died of an insanity-inducing venereal disease, but at least Madame Mattie lived out loud and never apologized for who she was. I apologize for being the person bumped into. I'm the doormat, the eternal dumpee in any breakup. Every one of my exes broke up with me first, and for a lot of the same reasons, like being too timid, too predictable, too tedious to deal with.

Basically, too boring.

It doesn't help that I am really, really horny now after Cas had to go and remind me of how long it's been since I got laid. A year? It can't have been that long, but I know it has to be close, because that was Tyler, who, and I quote, kept feeling worse about himself after being with me because I always seemed to be a little unhappy.

I thought everyone was always a little unhappy.

Sucks to be me, I guess. Or around me.

I slip my hand under the bustle of my skirt and brush my fingers over my bloomers. College Boy was really cute, and I am kicking myself for not at least trying to see if he could have liked the non-Mattie version of me. A dopamine hit would make it easier to calm down and go apologize to Mr. B. Although actually getting off down here, in costume, would mean leaving behind something worse than a trash sweep could fix, or I'd have to make a mess in my bloomers, and I would never be able to face Mr. B like that.

My cock twitches as I brush my fingers over the lace again. That feels really good. But nope. No way. Apology first. Then I'll change. Then definitely getting off in the shower .

"How did you do it, Madame Mattie?" I grumble and push from the wall.

A clunk sounds from behind me.

When I look, the stone I was leaning against is gone, pushed in , where it must have clopped to the ground inside the wall. I don't usually come all the way back here, so I never knew that stone was loose. Inside where it disappeared is completely black, and… nope. I am not reaching inside. Maybe if I had a flashlight.

What I can see, on top of the next stone down, is what looks like a glittering gold necklace with a purple gemstone pendant. Amethyst? Maybe more like costume jewelry, but knowing Madame Mattie's millions, it could be real. Maybe she hid a fortune behind some of these walls and just told people it was an incubus to keep them from looking.

I pick it up, and it somehow doesn't look dirty at all. It's beautiful, sparkling like it emanates its own light, and definitely with the weight of real gold and a Hope Diamond-level purple stone.

This will be one hell of a way to apologize to Mr. B.

I turn away to worry about the hole later—we make people sign waivers to take the tour for a reason; it is a crumbling underground with some areas too dangerous to go in—and I make it about half a step.

Before a hand grabs the back of my neck.

Odai

Freedom.

Finally.

I am so… very…

Hungry .