Chapter Eighteen

Loncey

"Fuck," I grunt as I thrust up.

"Shit," I hiss as I lower.

"Fuck," I groan again as I lift my hips once more, the bar pressing into my hips. Maybe this weight was a bit too much for me. Maybe I should have warmed up my hips more. Maybe I should have skipped weights completely after burning over 500 calories on the stair machine.

"Argh," I moan as I lower for the fifteenth and final time. I should do another set of fifteen reps, to go for failure like I normally do, but I'm exhausted. My legs are shaking, my glutes are burning and sweat is dripping into my eyes.

Reaching for my towel, I wipe my face thoroughly and then move it around to the back of my neck. Staying seated, I look around the hotel gym, which is all but empty apart from someone on the bike who is thoroughly engrossed in the e-reader they're reading while their legs pump a mile a minute. From the looks of their curves, tattoos and piercings, I would venture a bet that they're at the hotel for the same reason I am, for XXXCon, but I don't recognize them so I leave them alone.

Besides, it's not them I'm looking for. It's Maeve.

She must be getting in some time today. The underwear photo shoot is tomorrow and I can't pretend my stomach didn't surge when I saw her name on the final call sheet. A part of me was worried she was going to change her mind, and a bigger part of me would have very much understood and supported that decision. But there's a smaller slice of me who is pleased she didn't. I also feel this slightly unnerving sense of pride, which makes no sense. Like what right do I have to feel proud of her making this decision? Either way, I can't see her wanting to fly in on a red-eye and then go straight into that tomorrow. No, she must be here already, or getting in soon.

Not that I actually expect her to be in the gym. Of all the things Maeve and I talked about, her workout routine was so very far from one of them and in fact, I'd hazard a guess that Maeve rarely steps foot in a gym and would quickly have some witty dig to throw at me about my near-daily gym habit.

And here I go again. Thinking about Maeve.

That prompts me to get up, collecting my towel and water bottle on the way, and walk into the locker room. Twenty minutes later, I'm showered and smelling a lot fresher. As I get dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, a sinking feeling settles in my stomach when I realize I'll have to sleep in my boxers tonight.

Would Miko and Harley think anything about me sleeping in the lingerie that I like to wear? No, almost certainly not. They wouldn't give a flying fuck. They'd probably understand better than most, and yet, I've never shared this side of myself with them, and I certainly don't plan on doing so now.

Even with the cameras off, I didn't feel comfortable enough to show them the feminine side of my character that I indulge in. Albeit that side of me only exists in the darkness of night, in the privacy of my own home – or rather, cabin – despite it being a side of me that has roots in my bone marrow, in my atoms, in my stardust.

And how can it not? I was raised by a strong Black woman who made it her sole purpose in life to understand and get closer to the divine feminine energy she was born with. Through books, through meditations, through art, through movies and songs and conversations that my house was full of growing up, aside from the stars in the night sky, the main spiritual power I knew about was female. I understand this as clear as day, but it's hard to explain to others, especially when I have dressed up my non-binary identity as something free from any kind of socially-constructed gender.

It's even harder to share it with others and risk their… reactions. Whether it's a scathing comment from someone I loved and trusted, or whether it's society's judgement that my masculine-looking body wearing so-called feminine clothing is deemed a threat, there's just too much at risk.

So I never felt comfortable enough to share that side of myself with Miko and Harley, or with the rest of the world, on- or offline. Apart from one incident that I refuse to revisit, I haven't felt comfortable enough to share it with anyone other than my mom and sister who didn't even blink when I sat down for breakfast one day wearing a silk camisole. They only want to know why I don't wear such clothes more often, but that's a question I don't have an answer to yet.

I hurry back up to my hotel room. As I cross the lobby, I can't help but look around for Maeve, possibly checking in at one of the desks, or sitting and having a drink on one of the couches, but there's no sign of her. As I push the button for the lift, I berate myself for doing even that. I really do need a distraction, and I am pleased that Miko and Harley are waiting for me in the hotel room. It's already early evening so I wonder if they'll want to go get something to eat, or maybe even go down to the hotel's casino and try our luck on a poker table. But as I use the card to open the door and walk in, even before seeing them, I get a sense of a strong, tense energy in the room and I know it's very much the wrong time to make any such suggestion.

It's confirmed by what I hear; Harley's heaving sobs. And then I finally see them. Harley's curled up in Miko's arms and he's leaning back against one of the bed's headboards and his expression is one of both thunder and lightning.

"What's happened?" I ask as I drop my bag.

"Another fucking message," Miko spits out the words over Harley's head.

"A death threat?"

"Yes," he replies. "With photos, again."

"Fuck."

Harley falls quieter, although her chest still racks with crying.

"Jesus." I sigh.

"So fucking sick," Miko mutters.

"You've got to go to the police, Harls," I say as gently as I can even though it feels like lava is pumping through my veins.

I watch her shake her head on Miko's chest.

"She doesn't want to," Miko explains and I can't tell what he thinks about this. I can understand Harley's reluctance. We've already hired a private investigator to try and find the source of the emails and images that occasionally land in Harley's inbox, no matter how many times she changes her email address. It came up with nothing, so it's unlikely the police will be able to do much more. And that's even if they open up a case. As Harley rightly pointed out the first time it happened, how likely is it LVPD will want to help a Black trans queer sex worker? And if they actually did want to help, how likely is it they'll show her respect and dignity in the process?

"We can talk about it another time, when you've calmed down," I say as I sit down on the edge of the bed.

"No!" Harley turns her head. Her eyes are bloodshot and moisture covers her cheeks and upper lip. "I just want it to stop. I just want it to go away. Going to the police… it will dig it all up again."

"But it will keep happening if we don't try and do something," I say as gently as I can.

"I said no!" Harley raises her voice.

I hold my hands up. "Okay, I hear you. Okay."

"It always happens after we post a video of her fucking me," Miko says pensively. "Maybe we shouldn't post content like that anymore."

"That means, it's definitely one of her subscribers, or one of ours." I think out loud.

"Oh, it's definitely one of mine," Harley sniffs. "Sick fucks paying fifteen dollars a month just to torture me."

A shiver slithers up my spine. It's so fucked up that this is our reality.

"Have you deleted it?" I ask Miko.

"I've saved it with the others. But it's hidden away from Harley. And she won't be seeing her emails for a while now. I'll check it."

"I can help with that too," I offer.

"Oh, God." Harley groans and she turns and buries her face in Miko's chest again. "Make it go away, Miko. Make it all go away."

"I wish I could," Miko says and he wraps his arms around Harley again.

That feeling surfaces again. Like I'm intruding. And I suppose that's because it's exactly what I'm doing.

"Do you… do you want some space?" I offer.

The silence that follows my question is enough of an answer so even before Miko says, "Maybe, just an hour or two, until she's a bit calmer." I have already decided to go.

"Of course," I say. "Do you need anything?"

They both shake their heads. I stand and pick up my bag, finding my phone and wallet and sliding both in my jeans' pockets.

"Sorry, Loncey," Miko says as I start to walk toward the door. I look back and see them tangled in each other's arms and then look down at the floor.

"Sure," I reply. "I'll text and check how you're both doing in an hour or so."

And then I leave. But I don't go far. I take a moment to lean against the closed door and sigh. The anger that was pulsing through my body has now dulled to a simmering rage that doesn't make me want to hit or kick something but rather, it makes me want to burn everything down. Because it's a deep and desperate, all-encompassing hopelessness. I feel powerless. I feel like nothing I do will make this go away like Harley wants. And I hate that feeling.

I can at least help her by giving them space. I can also give them the hotel room for the next few days. Yes, I will go back in an hour or so and I will pick up all my bags and I'll head back home. I'll navigate the traffic to go to the shoot tomorrow, then Maeve's keynote speech the day after and that's all I really need to be around for. I was only half-interested in the networking events and I'd much rather be useful at home, keeping Jessica company and being around to make her and Mom food, even though I've already left the fridge full for them.

With something like a plan in mind, I decide to go down to the lobby. I'll pass the time answering comments and DMs and also call Mom and Jessica to make sure they're okay.

And maybe I can also do some research to find another investigator, someone who can find out who's been sending Harley these threats and sick, sick photoshopped images that are impossible to forget no matter how hard you try.

That's what I start to do as I descend the elevator, opening up my phone and going through the first page of search results that show up. I don't look up again until the elevator makes a pinging noise and the doors open.

Except we're not at the hotel lobby. There's a figure waiting for the lift and I look up briefly to see we've gone up, not down, to the 18th floor. I look back at the person waiting to get in and I see a tall, slim feminine figure dressed in tight yoga pants and an oversized sweatshirt. There's long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail that sticks out of a baseball cap that has been fixed low on their head, hiding most of their features – a narrow nose, pink pouting lips and distinguishably pointed chin – except it's not enough to hide who I'm looking at.

It's Maeve.

Her green eyes – a bottomless bottle-green that's almost luminescent in the artificial lighting above us – widen as they land on me, and I know she recognizes me too. I open my mouth to say hello, and I think she does the same, but then her lips snap shut, and she turns and runs.

Maeve runs away from me.

I step out of the lift, following her, and turn the corridor to see her form flying away from me.

"Maeve!" I call out.

What the fuck?

I know I shouldn't chase her. I know what it will look like. I know what the potential consequences could be. So I don't run after her, but I do watch her go.

It's a long-ass corridor and Maeve has made some progress down it, but there's still a dead end ahead. She has to stop there at the very least, unless…

She stops at a door about thirty feet ahead of me, digs into the pocket of her hooded sweatshirt and retrieves a keycard.

"Maeve! Wait up," I say, and I start walking toward her.

She gives me a nervous look as she holds the keycard to the door and then pushes down on the handle.

"Maeve!" I try again. "It's me, Loncey."

"No… just no!" is all she says before she opens the door, slips inside and slams it shut.

Confused and too damn curious for my own good, I walk to the door.

"Maeve," I say loudly enough for my voice to travel through the door. I laugh a little, hoping that shows her my intentions are entirely innocent. "What the fuck was that?"

I don't expect an answer. The woman just ran away from me at high speed. The last thing I expect is an answer to a very rhetorical question. But she does respond.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

I pull back, astonished to hear her voice so clearly through the door. She must be right on the other side.

"I told you I'd be staying in the same hotel," I say.

"But you weren't supposed to see me… like this."

"Like what?"

"Like… like I'm about to board the hot mess express."

"What does that even mean?" I frown at the door.

"I'm not wearing any make-up. My hair's a mess. I'm wearing athleisure, for Christ's sake. I've not showered in over twenty-four hours. And I've got nap breath and was about to go out and buy a toothbrush, because, yes, I'm the eejit who forgot her toothbrush."I blink, taking it all in. "I still don't know why that would make you run away from me?"

There's a pause. A long pause.

"Because you don't know me well enough for me to look… like that. You know me as something else."

"The person in the videos? The one all made up and performing for a camera, is that what you mean?"

"Yeah."

"Maeve, would it break your heart if I told you that I don't think I do know that person? I don't really know who I know. We've never met before. There was this cool woman I was chatting to for a while, and we spoke on the phone once, and that was really nice, but then she disappeared for the best part of three weeks, until I saw her running away from me down a hotel corridor. So I have no idea who it is I know, but I don't think it's that person with her perfect hair and perfect make-up for the camera."

I hear a soft thud.

"I called Reception, but they didn't pick up," Maeve says and she sounds a little further away. I wonder if she slid down to sit on the floor. "And I really need to brush my teeth."

"Would you like me to go and get you a toothbrush from Reception?"

Another pause. This time a little shorter.

"You would do that?"

"I just offered, didn't I?"

"But I literally just ran away from you."

"Yes, you did. And you ran really fast. I didn't have you down as a runner."

"I'm not. I think I gave myself a stitch."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a yes. Please."

"Okay." Then I reply slowly, "But I'm doing this on one condition."

"What's that?"

"That you promise not to put any make-up on or change your clothes or do anything other than just sit and wait for me to come back."

"And I still have to open the door to you when you come back?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely."

A third pause, this time a little longer again.

"Fine," she finally replies curtly.

"Good." I smile at the door between us. "Stay here, Speedy Gonzales. I'll be back in five."

*****

And I am back in five minutes, armed with a vanity kit and the shadow of a smile. I knock on her door.

"It's me, Maeve."

"Loncey?"

It's the first time I'm hearing my name in her voice and it takes me by surprise. The way her tongue curls around the L and her Irish accent lifts the second syllable.

"Yeah," I say after an unintentional pause.

I hear the click of the door opening and it moves back. An inch. It moves back only an inch.

"Promise me you won't judge me for not wearing make-up."

I sigh softly. "If it makes you feel better, I'm not wearing any make-up either."

I hear the smallest laugh, but it's like she swallows it down because it's gone just as quickly.

And then she opens the door.

I see her more clearly now. The cap is gone and her hair is down around her face, but it's more tossed around than styled and I smile at the thought that she tried to make it look better for our meeting. But she stayed true to her word and her face remains make-up-free. Although I can't imagine why anyone would want to cover up any of what I'm seeing. Her skin is pale but has a natural glow, a pinch of pink in her cheeks. On the crest of her left cheek is a small round dark mole than I didn't notice before. Her nose is longer than I realized, and her jawline is stronger too. And those eyes, those dark green eyes are a color I've never seen before. I want to study it, study them, for fear I'll never see that color again.

I take her in, pull in a deep breath, as if to punctuate the moment. And then I lift my hands and cover my eyes.

"Argh, my eyes! My eyes!" I say. "They can't cope with the atrocity before them!"

I feel a light strike on my elbow.

"Shut your mouth. And give me my toothbrush!"

I lower my hands and hand over the vanity kit. Maeve has a hand over her mouth as she takes it and then immediately turns around.

Her room looks to have a similar layout to mine, and I watch her disappear into the bathroom.

I stay where I am, clueless whether that's it for our interaction and debating if I should go or if she expects me to stay.

"You can come in, you know," she finally calls. "I may look like I've been dragged backwards through a bush, but I did make my bed."

I walk in and see Maeve's right. Both of the beds in the room are made, although one doesn't have quite as tight corners as the other, so it's clear which one she's slept in. Glancing around, I can see that Maeve's unpacked and what items she has out are neatly organized. I smile, thinking about that birth chart video and her second house being in Virgo.

I'm about to comment on how tidy she is, but then I spot something on her nightstand. It's a little puddle of soft salmon pink with a number of holes and ragged edges. It's a blanket, or rather, it was once a blanket but now it's just a scrap of a blanket. A baby blanket.

Maeve has a comfort blanket and I don't know why but seeing it takes my breath away. I close my mouth, not saying anything.

Instead, I sit on the end of the neatest made bed, with my back to her bed and the blanket, and I wait.

She comes out a few minutes later, her tongue running across her teeth.

"That is so much better," she says. "Thank you, again."

I stand up and realize that she's taller than I expect, falling only a few inches shorter than me. "Don't mention it."

"Where were you going? In the lift earlier?"

"After you bolted faster than a gazelle?"

We both laugh, her with shy embarrassment and me with some relief that the joke landed.

"Yeah, then. Were you on your way to your room?"

I wince slightly. "No, I was actually on my way to anywhere but my room."

"Oh?"

"I'm sharing my room, with some friends who are also going to the conference, but they don't have sponsorship. And they… they need some privacy."

Maeve's expression is blank, until it's suddenly not. "Ah, I see."

I know what she thinks, and maybe I should correct her, but the thought of sharing the horror of the reality makes my stomach twist and turn. There's no need to have her feel something close to that feeling.

"I was going to hang out in the lobby, maybe go for a walk."

"I could go for a walk," Maeve surprises me by saying.

"Really?"

"Yeah, I just slept for nearly four hours. If I don't do some sort of exercise and try and exhaust myself, I'll be awake all night. And that won't be a good look for the shoot tomorrow."

"Yeah, I saw that you're on the call sheet," I say. "That's cool."

She nods thoughtfully. "Yeah, I thought about changing my mind but in the end, I figured it wouldn't be a terrible thing for the world to see an asexual in their underwear. It sort of challenges compulsory sexuality head on, don't you think?"

I smile at the confidence in her voice. "I think it does. What time is yours scheduled?"

"Nine-thirty. So yeah, I have to get my beauty sleep."

I almost tell her she doesn't need her beauty sleep. Her rosy cheeks and clear complexion are plenty beautiful enough, but I stop myself. I will not reduce this conversation to be just about her looks. I will not reduce my opinion of her to that.

"Wanna walk together? I could show you the chaos that is the Strip?"

"You'll be my own personal tour guide?" she asks and her tone is almost playful, teasing. Almost.

"I guess, although I know very little about what's actually on the Strip. It's been years since I was here."

"But you live in Vegas?"

I narrow my eyes on her. "And how often do you go to the Guinness Museum in Dublin?"

"Fair point." She shrugs. "Although it's actually called the Guinness Storehouse. I know that much. But yeah. Let's walk. Give me five minutes to just—"

"Nope." I step closer. "We go right now. No make-up. No change of clothes. I want you looking just how you are."

The words made sense in my head but now they're out in the open they seem to take a different, bigger and clumsier shape. But I don't take them back. I don't want to draw any more attention to them than they're already demanding.

Maeve studies me for a moment, pursing her lips in consideration.

"Fine," she says. "But if anyone recognizes me and paps me and shares shocking make-up-free photos of MaeBae on social media, it's all your fault and I will sue your arse."

"Take me to court," I sing the words in the style of Hozier's Take Me to Church.

Maeve squints at me a little. "Did you, like, brush up on famous Irish people and landmarks since we last spoke?"

I laugh at that. "No, Maeve," I say. "But you could give me the CliffsNotes on our walk."

"CliffsNotes?" She gives me a puzzled frown.

"I see we'll be starting at Level One for US references."

And then she smiles. Really smiles, and I'm glad there's no make-up on her face. Otherwise I'd possibly miss the way her nose scrunches up or the way a single dimple deepens in her right cheek. I'd be oblivious to that little mole that feels like an important discovery. Make-up would hide the way a little cluster of lines pinches together in the corner of each eye, and mascara and eyeliner and eyeshadow couldn't possibly do more to emphasize the almost emerald glow in her green eyes as they come alive with her smile, like a match being lit.