1. Hudson Burrow

CHAPTER 1

Hudson Burrow

Tristan

My best friend's naked ass was low on the list of things I wanted to see before I had my coffee. "Dude," I sighed, turning away from Roman, who was standing flamingo-style on one leg, the other lifted to pull the underwear over it. A wet towel was on the floor of the living room, and Rome's clothes were scattered around.

"Don't kill me," Rome said, bouncing on one foot ridiculously to maintain his balance. I was only glad that he was facing away from me because I didn't need the sight of things flapping up and down this early in the morning.

Rome's foot thumped against the dark, chipped, laminated floor, and the shushing of fabric over legs made me look at him more freely than in short glances. He released the waistband of his dark blue boxer briefs, and they slapped his lower back just above the thick curve of his ass—again, not a thing I was interested in inspecting, but living with four guys made mornings like this far more common than you'd think.

"Is it flooded again?" I asked. Rome could have dressed in the bathroom the five of us shared unless the drain got plugged and water covered the tiled floor.

My friend turned around, arms a little wide in exasperation. "Do you think moonshining you was on my bucket list?"

I exhaled a long breath of air. We couldn't scrape by for a plumber, but YouTube was free. It was also why our plugged drain was a recurring problem. "I'll take care of it."

"You will?" Rome asked, eyebrows rising. "You are a saint, Tris."

I rolled my eyes and shook my head, turning away from the tiny living room section of this one snug area of the apartment. Daylight poured in through the windows facing east, rays of sunshine slanting and filtering through cheap white curtains. The kitchen occupied a quarter of the common space, fully open to the round dining table with six chairs surrounding it. That thing alone took up more space than we could afford, but we had to eat somewhere. The only mark that separated the kitchen from the rest of the common room was a few square feet of tiles replacing the laminate.

"After I've had a lick of coffee," I told Roman.

"Thanks," my friend said, lifting two T-shirts to choose from. "What do you think?"

I inspected them both quickly. "What's the occasion?"

"They're trying to close the youth's art center on Perry Street," Rome said with an edge in his voice.

"The black one," I replied, pointing to the T-shirt he held in his right hand while using my other hand to search for a coffee filter in the cluttered cupboard. "There's no need to look slutty, but it'll still show off some muscles."

"Yeah? Nobody's gonna mess with me," Rome said, picking the idea and running with it. He tossed the light cream T-shirt that normally revealed his lower abdomen. He pulled on the black T-shirt over his head. It was snug but not too tight. His physique was hard to miss, even when you didn't want to check him out.

I replaced the coffee filter and counted the scoops while Roman finished dressing. Sporty white socks, intentionally torn jeans, and unintentionally torn sneakers. He strapped on a fanny pack that contained his ID, not enough cash to bail himself out, and pepper spray in case he attracted unwanted attention. I knew the contents of his fanny pack because I had forced him to carry these things since he insisted on carrying his head in the bag.

Coffee dripped into the pot, and I leaned back against the small kitchen counter, arms crossed on my bare chest, gaze scanning Roman. "You're ready," I decided.

"Hell yeah," Rome said.

"Don't get yourself killed," I warned him. He still owed me this month's rent. "And give 'em hell."

Roman saluted me. "Sir, yes, sir." With a twirl, he faced the door and marched away.

I washed the dishes from last night's dinner while reminding myself that Roman was just being Roman and that nothing bad was going to happen to him. He'd gotten into scruffs with people countless times, but it had never stopped him from handcuffing himself to a door and refusing to move until someone met with the protestors. He'd returned home with a split lip or a bleeding nose more than once, brushing it off as the price of doing the right thing. I wondered how many right things he still had left in him. Would one of them cost him more than just a black eye?

The cramp in my stomach clearly came from my vivid imagination. He was old enough to take care of himself. He's also dumb enough to lie in front of a bulldozer , I thought. Or brave enough, but I wasn't going to tell him that.

I wiped my hands on my pajama bottoms when the dishes were clear. After pouring myself a big mug of coffee, I grabbed the plunger from under the sink and headed for the bathroom. Rolling my pajamas up, I stepped into the puddle of water and began the grueling process of unplugging the shower drain. Our bathroom was as small as everything else in this place, but it was just enough for us. A toilet, a sink, a ceiling-tall cabinet with enough storage space for five guys, and a single piece of glass separating the shower. Luckily, the floor was at enough of an angle for water not to leak into the rest of the bathroom. Unluckily, the drain was a bitch.

By the time the tiny flood was resolved, I was in desperate need of showering, but my head throbbed with a hint of a headache. I washed my hands, dried my feet, and returned to the kitchen to enjoy my coffee in silence. The other guys were either out already or sleeping off a graveyard shift. My day was only just starting, and it had all the makings of a banger. Whatever troubles came along in the next twelve hours, I had at least a party at Neon Nights to look forward to .

Holding my mug, I walked to the kitchen window, pulled the curtain aside, and opened it to air the space out. Sitting on the windowsill, I looked at the street two stories below me. Framed by brownstone and redbrick buildings on either side, the narrow, one-way Washington Street met the narrower stone-paved Charles Lane at the corner just under my window. Warm air washed over me. People hurried up and down the street, some slipping in through the doors of Neon Nights across the street, which was a perfectly tame and friendly place during the day.

Once my mug was empty, I got ready for my morning run. It was an excellent way to save money on a gym membership, especially with the newly constructed outdoor exercise equipment on Pier 46 on the Hudson River. It was the shorter of the two piers claimed by the residents of Hudson Burrow, and a hard push from the locals got it converted into a place for exercise, leaving Pier 45 to function as a park for families enjoying sunny days on the river.

I was quiet as I got ready and left the apartment, comfortable sneakers on my feet and running clothes sticking to my body. As soon as I descended to the ground floor, ignoring the elevator that had gotten shut down way before my time, the scents of a new day in Hudson Burrow filled my lungs. Freshly baked bread and buns, sizzling hot dogs, roasting corn on a cob, coffee, donuts, the dust of dry streets, sweet summer sweat, cars, and a slightly fishy scent of the river nearby were only just the surface. Hudson Burrow was awake and brimming with people hurrying about their business. Deliveries arrived at cafes, bars, and restaurants, and people shouted, complained, and protested. They laughed, whistled, sang, and greeted you when you walked by.

As I looked around, a figure emerged from Neon Nights. This was a person you'd be hard-pressed to miss in any crowd. Tall, broad, and glamorously curvy, Lady Vivien Woodcock was the stuff of legends in Hudson Burrow. Wearing her tall, purple wig and the finest dark crimson sequin dress at eight in the morning, Mama Viv struggled to hold the phone in her hand, the acrylic nails nearly as long as her fingers.

The grin I put on as soon as I spotted her was wiped away when I realized that mascara was running down her face. Glancing once to my left where the traffic was coming from on Charles Street, I crossed in a hurry. "Mama Viv?"

"…ordered them seven days ago and called yesterday to confirm the delivery time," Mama Viv cried into the phone, her other hand trembling. "What do you mean it was misplaced? Well, how soon can you have it? You do have it? Then what on Earth is the problem?" With a dramatic wave of her free hand, Mama Viv looked at me. She blinked softly as if to signal that everything was alright, but her eyes glimmered with more unspilled tears. "My brunch is starting in two hours. I absolutely cannot welcome guests without them. Will you and will you not deliver these goddamn cupcakes?" Her lower lip quivered. "I see." Mama Viv looked at the screen of her phone, then tapped the red button several times until the call disconnected. "Oh, what a rude man," she said as she leaned over with one arm over my shoulders, hugging me. "Good morning, darling."

"What's up?" I cut to the chase.

"Just the cupcakes for the bar, darling. Their delivery girl is overbooked and won't be able to bring them. I don't know what to do." Mama Viv spotted someone behind me and lit up a little. "Hello, Zain," she said. "Just put them over there, darling. I'll handle the rest."

"Hello" was all the reply, spoken in a quiet, timid tone. I glanced at Zain, floppy black hair falling over his brow, big brown eyes looking away from me. He carried two carts of fresh produce from his father's little store on the edge of the neighborhood. Zain showed up here every morning with fresh fruits and vegetables for Mama Vivien's snacks, brunches, and burgers, but I never saw him around other than that. He was of average height, skinny, and unmistakably pretty. Dropping off the carts, he handed Mama Viv a paper to sign, then waved shyly and disappeared.

"That is how it should be done," Mama Viv exclaimed. "See that?"

"He's very reliable," I agreed. "What's with the cupcakes?"

"It's a disaster, darling," Mama Viv spoke as she picked up one of the carts. It only contained lettuce, but the nails still got in the way.

"Let me," I said firmly enough for Mama Viv to obey. She held the door open while I picked up the carts and carried them through. There were many, many days when I did odd shifts at Neon Nights when I needed extra cash and Mama Viv needed helping hands. Roman, on the other hand, practically worked here, even if his arrangement was as noncommittal as mine. "I can't be tied to one place," he always said.

Inside Neon Nights, the preparations were underway. Though it had been open for an hour already, the few guests having their coffee were unbothered by the two guys and a girl decorating the place for brunch. The interior was much dimmer than the outside; all the windows facing the street were small and cluttered with decorative stuff. Wooden tables and mismatched chairs were scattered around, and the door leading to the private terrace tucked between buildings was wide open. Servers hurried back and forth. I could see that there weren't any spare hands to deal with the cupcake debacle. "Why don't I pick up the cupcakes, Mama Viv?"

Our matron's eyes grew big with gratitude and relief. "You'd do that?" Mama Viv asked, one hand on her fake large breasts. "Darling, you would save the brunch."

"Of course I'll go," I said. I hadn't exactly had big plans for the day. Besides, it might earn me a free drink tonight at the party. I carried the carts into the busy kitchen, dropped them off, and got a big hug from our favorite queen of drag. Mama Viv ushered me out and handed me the car keys. It was an old Toyota parked in the alley on the other side of Neon Nights, which I knew well since I ran errands for Mama Viv often enough.

She gave me the address of a pastry shop in the Bronx and assured me it was already paid for. "I will call that horrible man and tell him to expect you. Oh, and darling, are you joining us for the quiz at three?"

"I keep telling you, Mama Viv, I'm not a Tina Turner fan," I said with my best grin.

Mama Viv waved that off as irrelevant. "Everyone's a Tina Turner fan. They just don't know it yet."

I was still chuckling when I started the engine and forgot all about my morning plans.

Cedric

I cursed the morning for sneaking up on me. As if jet lag hadn't kicked me hard enough, my first night here was plagued by dreams of running down endless hallways, picking doors at random, and finding myself in identical corridors once again. It was a maze of my own making and very fitting, if I may say so.

The ghastly single bed had not been my friend, either. Its frame creaked every time I turned, and the coarse fabric of the pillowcase that had been washed but not softened had irritated my face enough to wake me up in the middle of the night. That and the nightmares.

I got up, my lower back protesting, my eyelids drooping. I dreaded the mirror, so I avoided looking at it. This small room on the seventh floor was the only place I could find on such short notice without attracting attention. Do not be seen. Do not be recognized. And whatever you do, don't let them know where you are . I repeated the mantra I had been reciting to myself for the past seven days. At face value, this room had appeared perfect for my very specific set of needs and circumstances, but I had overrated my ability to adjust.

Maybe Alexander was right. Maybe I was meant for my life exactly as it had been going . That thought was sour enough to make me double desperate to brush my teeth. I hadn't exactly traveled with a valet to account for all my needs, but it seemed, upon the inspection of the small bathroom, that the staff of this establishment had predicted some of those needs. A toothbrush was packed into a plastic wrapper and left on the narrow shelf above the sink. This mirror was unavoidable, and my weary, exhaustion-reddened eyes gazed back at me. They were normally blue, but the days of traveling without being noticed had faded away some of their brightness.

I unwrapped the toothbrush, wondering if the plastic would snap in my grip. The miniature tube left next to the toothbrush, white with plain black letters, must have been toothpaste, but its flavor couldn't prove it in a court of law. I gagged and spat out the white paste, washed my mouth, and splashed my face. Water drops sprayed my neck and bare chest. The bathroom's single overhead light was yellow and weak, the dark brown tiles doing the interior no favors, and the showerhead poking from the wall was as inviting as a bucket in an alley would have been. There was no separation between the shower and the rest of the bathroom. Not even a sheet of glass. Not even a curtain.

I sniffed my armpits and decided it was acceptable until I found someplace with a tad more room. I wasn't entertaining any thoughts of sleeping at the Orbit or any such establishment. I had withdrawn enough cash to last me until I figured out my next move, but I had done that before my flight, muddling the trail for my family and their snoopy spies.

Running my wet fingers through my wild blond hair, I decided not to bother with it. Besides, a perfect haircut would only make it easier for someone to recognize me. As if the airport employees in Amsterdam hadn't made enough fuss over me, I didn't need the locals in New York to catch my scent.

I stepped out of the bathroom and rummaged through my tiny suitcase. I had left my apartments back home in haste. Not back home , I reminded myself. That can't be your home anymore . My gut twisted, but I kept on searching for something to wear. Everything was a little wrinkled, but I doubted this place offered more than an ancient iron filled with glowing coal. And even if it did, ironing had never been deemed important enough for my handlers to teach me.

I gritted my teeth and settled on a somewhat wrinkled light cream shirt and a pair of universal black pants. I needed to shop for clothes, but I didn't want to spend my money fast. Every time I used an ATM, I set off a beacon for Alexander to find me and bring me to heel. His last message before switching my phone off still burned before my eyes whenever I let myself be foolish enough to close them.

You're acting like a petulant boy. Better return of your own free will, else I will be compelled to handle this matter myself. This is not the end of the world.

I had been sorely tempted to text back, telling him that he was welcome to take my place if he found this situation so light and inconsequential. But that was what Alexander had been hoping for, so I resisted the urge. Instead, I walked around with a dead phone, hoping against hope that they wouldn't trace me to a run-down room in Greenwich Village overlooking the Hudson River.

I shut the door on my way out, causing a cloud of dust to envelop me. Coughing, I waited for the elevator, then strolled out onto the street. The August sun scorched the streets here far more than it did back home on most days. My home… My former home, if I had any say in my life, was tucked between France and Germany and the countries of the Benelux, a slice of land that had stood strong for centuries, never changing, never moving forward really, and never dropping some of its sillier traditions, one of which plagued me more than most these days.

This was not a glamorous neighborhood. It was hardly beautiful in the traditional sense. It wasn't new, it wasn't even particularly clean, and it wasn't invested in by the developers that had taken New York into the clouds. Its grunge aesthetic and slightly aged architecture paired perfectly with the colorful people that populated the streets. Graffiti ranged from hateful scrawls, few as they were, to breathtaking portraits and landscapes, to street artists' signatures without any meaning attached to them. Where it lacked refinements, uniqueness made up for it. Where it seemed run-down, soul and charm gave it life. The peeling facade of one building was hidden by a mural of a grassy field, the windows of another were bright pink, and a row of windows of one fairly low, old structure displayed rainbow flags and, pointedly, a bunch of wedding cake figurines, all depicting two men or two women or couples whose distinguishing features made it impossible to assume the gender. I gazed at one figurine couple wearing tuxedos that extended into broad gowns and couldn't stop my lips from twitching into a smile.

The door of this place was wide open, and scents of fresh food wafted out. Like a cartoon child floating toward a hot pie cooling on a window, I found myself in the dim interior of this strange place. Brick, wood, mounted lamps, large, industrial lightbulbs hanging bare over the bar, and wooden tables with mismatched chairs and colorful sitting cushions were only just the beginning. Decorations were pastel and light, in stark contrast with the underground interior.

"Welcome, welcome," a drag queen wearing a purple wig and red sequin dress said. A wave of anxiety rocked me as I assumed she knew my face, but then I noticed a small group of young men wearing all sorts of things, from casual suits and sneakers to crop tops and very short denim shorts and wheeling on Rollerblades instead of shoes.

"Hello, Mama Vivien," one said, glitter practically exploding from every move he made.

This is the kind of stuff I only ever saw on TV , I thought as the eclectic bunch walked and wheeled past me. I stood, dumbfounded, as the boys flocked around the curvy drag queen with intricate makeup framing her eyes.

"Out with you," the queen said. "Out, out there, in the back." She pointed a very long acrylic nail in the direction of a door leading to a hidden terrace. I spotted a stage in the back of the bar, although it wasn't lit currently. Around the interior part, pushed against the walls, weren't just tables with three or four chairs each. There was a sofa with armchairs around it and a longer table, elsewhere was an ottoman with a small, round table before it, and there were taller tables with barstools instead of regular chairs here and there.

The drag queen ushered the boys to the terrace in the back, then turned to me. "You must be here for our brunch, darling," the queen said .

"Er…no, I…" But before I could state my purpose, she lifted a hand politely to stop me talking and gazed at the door. A guy near my age stumbled into the bar, his dark hair falling over his brow and eyes, his feet tripping over one another. He carried a stack of pink boxes that made the queen exhale dramatically and get as close to a run as her heels allowed her. The young man, however, straightened bravely, the pink boxes leaning against the side of his head, his face turned in my direction.

He was breathtaking.

Dark curls had nothing on the bulging biceps that were on full display. Or maybe I was wrong. Maybe it was the wild hair over his handsome face that made my heart miss a beat. When he smiled at something the drag queen was saying, a pair of pronounced dimples emerged on his face. His shiny teeth must have been getting a better treatment than whatever bready paste I had used on mine this morning. And his gaze was as clear and sharp as lasers when he lifted it off the stone-tiled floor. "You never said there were eight boxes, Lady Vivien."

"Oh, but darling, we have a terrace full of guests. I fear eight won't be enough," the drag queen exclaimed as the young man put the pink boxes on the counter. The queen waved someone over, who hurriedly began distributing the pink boxes.

Relieved, the guy ran a hand through his curly locks, revealing his high cheekbones and perfect eyebrows. His face was glowing with heat. If he had noticed me in that one instant when his gaze had crossed the room while unloading the boxes, he didn't search for me now.

"Are you joining us?" the drag queen—Lady Vivien, apparently—asked. She produced a red fan from somewhere and flipped it open, fanning the guy.

"I'm afraid not," he said. "I'm late for my run, and it's getting hot."

"Try as you might, you will love Tina Turner," the drag queen said as though threatening the guy.

"I'll see you tonight at the party," the handsome guy said, giving the queen a kiss on the cheek before spinning away from her and facing the exit.

"You better get here before the crowd does, young man," the queen said in an oddly motherly tone. To that, the guy just laughed melodically and waved. Before his laughter died down, he was outside.

Lady Vivien smoothed her red dress, and then, turning, she remembered me. "All are welcome in Neon Nights, darling. Make yourself comfortable."

"I was just wondering," I said. "Is this a private event?"

The queer lifted her chin defiantly. "There's no such thing as privacy in here, darling."

I laughed bitterly. That was one thing I needed in my life, even if it was just a moment. I might be a petulant boy to some, but I was desperate to be away from my family, even if it was for a short few days.

The queen extended her arm in the direction of the terrace. I shrugged to myself and followed the way she pointed for me. With her trailing me, I stepped onto the terrace that was framed by the walls of different buildings, light pouring from above, shielded by a net canopy from which colorful lanterns and lightbulbs hung. The red brick-paved ground was cluttered with many tables and various kinds of chairs. Some tables, those that were pushed closer to the walls, were long, wooden ones with benches accompanying them; others were wrought iron and glass. There wasn't a matching pair of anything in this place. Potted plants enriched the surroundings, many of which towered taller than I would have imagined.

"And what would you like to drink, darling? We have bottomless mimosas, sparkling rosé, Drag-tinis, rainbow slushies with vodka…" She counted each on an acrylic nail.

"Is Lavander Lemonade alcoholic?" I asked after glancing at the menu.

"Unfortunately, no," the queen apologized.

"I'll have that," I said with a smile, barely able to stifle a laugh. "And there's food?"

"This is your first brunch?" Lady Vivien asked. When I nodded, she beamed a welcoming smile. "I can bring you the menu, but I would recommend Quiche Lorrainbow, Benedict Royale, Avocado on Toast Extravaganza, or fruit salad." She put emphasis on "fruit" as if signaling a deeper meaning. It took me a moment to understand the pun.

My stomach growled, and I picked Quiche Lorrainbow, whatever that might be.

"It's on its way," the queen said. "I'm so pleased to have you in my little establishment. And if you need anything else, just cry for Mama Viv."

My lips stretched into a smile on their own as I nodded my gratitude. Then, just before the queen turned away, I inhaled. "Did I hear it correctly? There's a party here tonight?"

"There is," Mama Viv, or whatever her name was, said mysteriously. "We're never far from a party around here, darling. "

I nodded, bending my leg over my knee and watching the queen glide away. She moved with enough grace to be on any stage, commanding the space around her as much with her sharp gestures as her immense aura.

While I might have been on the run, I had no better plans for the evening. And a party here might earn me another look at that handsome guy from earlier. He had promised to be here early.

Around me, queer people chatted and laughed. For all the progressive thinking and policies back home, I had never been allowed near a bunch like this. It wasn't my family's homophobia but their snobbishness that had kept me separated from our people. Our people , I thought bitterly while waiting for my Lavander Lemonade and my Quiche Lorrainbow. But even that thought failed to entertain and distract me from the problem at hand.

Sooner or later, I was going to run out of place to run and hide. Sooner or later, they would find me. Pretend as I might that it could be any other way, the second-born son of the Valois Montclair dynasty couldn't go missing forever. The fact that Crown Prince Alexander allowed me to blow off some steam was all well and fine, but I couldn't outrun him forever. Not without suffering some major consequences.

I know I have to return eventually , I thought grimly.

Whenever I directed my mind to the prospect of returning home, my stomach filled with ice. As though I wasn't already sick of having to act all royal and fine for the people of Verdumont. As though it wasn't enough that I had to have my handlers coming after me to all my flings and hookups with nondisclosure agreements. My family now requested—no, they never requested; they demanded—the ultimate sacrifice. But that wasn't even the worst part.

It wasn't just my life they wanted to doom. It would wreck Marchioness élodie de Beaumont's life as well if I allowed this silly arranged marriage to happen. But Father and Alexander didn't see it that way. Our line had married French nobility for centuries, and sexuality had never been an issue. In their eyes, it hardly mattered who I wanted, even if it was a completely different gender I was attracted to. Even if I would sell my crown for another glimpse at those clear, precise eyes and that dimpled smile.

I'm not going back , I told myself, sounding much more like the petulant boy Alexander had named me. To hell with him. There was never anything beyond or aside from duty for Alexander Louis Valois Montclair. But that didn't have to be the fate I shared.

For once in my life, all I wanted was to have a choice.

My Lavander Lemonade arrived in the hands of a young server with a red sheen in his black hair. He offered help if I needed anything else but otherwise didn't seem to have the faintest idea he was speaking to a prince.

Good , I thought. At least I can keep that much privacy .

And with the first sip, I let go of all the nightmare mazes that yanked my attention this way and that. Here, now, for a moment longer, I was just another gay guy enjoying his Saturday brunch.