Dragged Page 11

  My entire body angles up off the table. I scream as agony cascades in violent spasms from one sensitive spot to the next—crotch, rib, shoulder.

  What the Hel has Freddie gotten me into?

  Brianna smiles down at me flailing and pitching and squirming.

  “This is a place of torture and death,” I hiss between ground teeth.

  “And you’re doing great, honey,” she coos.

  Another plop of lava scalds my nethers. Another rip. Another scream.

  It gets worse.

  When Brianna’s rubbery fingers pry my arse cheeks apart, some obscure part of me—pride, I guess—dies. I didn’t even know I had hair up there.

  It goes on like this for eternity. Traveling from my crotch, to butt, to legs, to armpits—they even go after my eyebrows!—Brianna and her assistant take turns skinning me alive. With each tear, I curse Freddie’s name until I lay in a pool of sweat, shivering, in excruciating pain, and hairless as a newborn naked mole rat from the neck down.

  “I’m applying serum to minimize ingrown hairs, and then we’re done,” Brianna says as her gloved fingers smooth cool liquid over the active volcano that used to be my pubic area.

  Not a moment too soon. I’m seriously contemplating murder right now.

  “Your boyfriend is going to love it down here.” Brianna giggles as if she just created a masterpiece and can’t wait to unveil it for the world. “Have a look.”

  She holds up a wide hand mirror, giving me an intimate view of something I never wanted to see: a naked, red-splotched bodyscape that looks like someone took a hatchet to it.

  “I’m bald,” I lament, remembering the woman with whom I traded clothing in the Iceland airport bathroom. She was bald too, though her skin was much smoother. “Is this … appealing to men?” Because as a former man, it’s not appealing to me at all, though my tastes are more in line with those from my time.

  “Give it a few days to heal, and yes. I promise he’ll thank you for it.” Brianna strips off her gloves and pitches them into a waste bin. She offers me a hand up. I accept.

  Was Saga Leifsdóttir’s “lady garden” pruned thusly? What about Gunnar Magnusson’s old girlfriend?

  I’m not sure how to react to this.

  The desk clerk taps on the door, sticks her head in, and says, “Your friend is here to pick you up. He sent these clothes for you to wear.” She holds out a neat stack of gray fabric for Brianna, who sets the pile next to me.

  I nod my thanks. With assistance from Brianna, I climb into the suit Freddie sent. My crotch is on fire. Great, now I can add yet another item to my growing list of suffering.

  Brianna helps me out of the torture chamber. I can hardly walk. When I stumble into the reception area, Freddie is waiting.

  “You,” I seethe. I’m going to kill you. “I’m not going to kill you.”

  Freddie tosses the magazine he was reading aside and stands. He hikes up his pants at the waist and stretches his arms over his head in that lithe way of his. A bit of man fur peeps out from the hem of his shirt. Reminds me of Gunnar Magnusson humping the floor this morning.

  “How’d it go?” he asks, grinning. “You look great.” The smug bastard.

  I limp over to him. “You would think this is funny. How could you be so cruel?”

  “Hey, a clean beaver gets the most wood,” he quips with a snicker. I don’t get the joke. “You’ll be thanking me in a few days.”

  “Why? What happens in a few days?” I ask, worried. I only have until Tuesday to live, and I just wasted what little precious time is left getting butchered by a sweet-talking charlatan with a doctorate degree in professional torture techniques.

  “Once you’re feeling better in the rib and shoulder areas, you can turn your attention to luring Gunnar back into your bed. And when he sees the carpet has been tidied,” he flicks his gaze below my waist, “you’ll be applauding me for all the nice things I do for you.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds with a whisper, “And hopefully disclosing my true identity so I can live happily ever after. You still have my rune, don’t you?”

  I resist the urge to pat the bag at my side. “Yes. But after this stunt, I’m not sure I should give it to you.” Finally, I have something to hold over him after foolishly revealing he’s a former Norse god.

  Freddie tosses a laugh and nods to Brianna as he shuttles me toward the exit. “Thanks, Bri. Don’t spend that tip in one place.”

  She waves a Ben Franklin at him and blows a kiss. Why do I get the feeling he orchestrated this entire scene to pay me back for not giving up his rune?

  Once we’re outside, he turns on me, walking backward toward the minivan. “Come on, Loki. Just a hint.”

  “No,” I say, marching angrily toward the vehicle. Except the fiery attitude in my head doesn’t match the reality of my feet’s awkward tempo. The raw flesh weeping at the crux of my thighs protests each step, causing me to walk bowlegged. My tender shoulder stings. The repeated stabs at the bottom of my rib cage draw hurried breaths from my lungs.

  Freddie stops. “You’re pissed at me.”

  “Yes.” I press my elbow to my throbbing side.

  “I was only trying to help.” He sounds sincere, but I can’t tell for sure.

  “By ripping out my pubic hair, one strand at a time?”

  He grasps my elbows and looks me in the eyes. “Do you trust me?”

  I frown. “Usually, but right now …”

  “Give me a chance to make it up to you,” he says. “In addition to this kickass suit—which looks amazing on you, by the way—” he gestures to the clothes, “I found the perfect outfit for you to wear at the show. You’re gonna love it. And it’ll explain why I sent you to the crotch ripper.”

  “I’m not parading around half naked for you or anyone else—”

  “Did I steer you wrong with this getup?” he interrupts, nodding to my jacket.

  I look down. It is very stylish. “No.”

  “Trust me,” he says.

  Famous last words.

  I narrow my eyes and push past him toward the minivan. “Don’t let me down. My patience for your foolishness wears thin.”

  I realize those are the exact words Freya spoke to me after I assured her Thor and I would handle Thrym so she wouldn’t have to marry him.

  What comes around goes around, Laguz muses.

  Chapter Eleven

  The moment I find my seat in the minivan, the harassment starts.

  “Know what they call a full moon in November?” Freddie asks no one in particular as he turns the ignition and rolls the van onto the street. “A full beaver moon. It’s a two-for-one deal.”

  The guys erupt with giggles. Actual giggles. They sound like a gaggle of teenage girls in a bathroom ganging up on an unsuspecting victim. (I know exactly what this sounds like, having recently been the target of such an attack). I fidget, trying to find comfort and peace where neither exists.

  “What’s Ward Cleaver’s sex life like?” Darryl Donovan pipes up behind me.

  Who is Ward Cleaver? I wonder, and how did he get such a badass name? Sounds like a homicidal psychopath. My kind of guy.

  Darryl Donovan waits a beat for a reply that doesn’t come, and says, “I’m not always hard on the Beaver, but when I am, June lets me know about it.”

  More gusts of gale-force laughter. I study my friends, each in various states of comic unraveling. Alex clutches his stomach. Freddie wipes tears from the corners of his crinkled eyes. Darryl Donovan beams his rare, brilliant white smile. These people have lost their minds.

  “Wanted: Harry Beaver. Charged with sending unsolicited beaver shots,” Freddie croaks through another wave of hysterics. “Slippery when wet!”

  I rub my forehead. What did I do to deserve this? I thought a beaver was an oversized rodent, but maybe I’m confusing it with an emu.

  “A beaver walks into a bar,” Alex says from the front passenger seat. “Bartender yells, ‘Close the dam door!’”

  My c
racks and crevices protest as I mumble, “Ha, ha.”

  Beside me, Gunnar Magnusson meets my eyes. He’s the only one not laughing. His expression is soft, empathetic.

  “You look really nice,” he says.

  I press my lips together and lower my head.

  He pats my knee. I interpret the gesture as, I’m with you. Ignore them. They’re just being dumb. I mouth a thank you to him, shift miserably in my seat again, and lean my head against the window.

  Watching the San Francisco streets with their fascinating cable cars and steep hills and blooming cherry trees lightens some of the weight bearing down on me.

  The good news when we arrive at the venue: Skies are fair, and the temperature is pleasant. The bad news: The line outside the exhibition hall winds around two city blocks, and the wait to get inside for auditions is, according to a “wrangler” for the event, approximately six hours. My broken rib, stitched shoulder, and angry crotch do not approve.

  However, standing in the long queue gives me plenty of time to observe the clientele. San Francisco is considered an accepting city, open and welcoming to people of all persuasions. Freddie says lots of residents are LGBTQ—lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, or queer. I’m still a little fuzzy on some of these terms, but my friends answer questions as they occur to me, and I’m getting a better handle on how to use the labels.

  The Midgardians around us are mostly men. The majority present as rather effeminate, and many wear makeup and dresses or skirts. Some of them kiss each other like I’ve seen Freddie and Alex do. Others strike powerful poses, chins up, heads tilted, eyes fierce. Everyone seems happy in their skin. So, I watch and learn, taking heaps of mental notes. I absorb the language and phrases bandying around me. Drag queens are confident. When they walk, they swing their arses in an exaggerated, playful manner. When they talk, they employ a delightfully teasing lilt. When they laugh, happiness beams straight from their souls.

  These are my people.

  “Well, look at you, Lady Madonna in a power suit,” a voice clucks behind me. At first I think she’s talking to someone else, but she grabs me by the shoulders—OWWW!—and spins me around. The queen is almost as tall as Gunnar Magnusson with inch-long eyelashes that smack her shaded cheekbones every time she blinks. Gods, that flapping would drive me crazy.

  Dragging a long red fingernail across her matching plump lips, she assesses me with detached interest, like she wants to hate me, but I’m just so damned adorable, she can’t find a good enough reason to. She flashes an oversized smile and says, “Helga Boomslang, Queen of Queer.”

  “Astrid Jones,” I reply with a nod, adopting a similar, confident attitude. “Queen of,” I look around at my friends, “these guys.”

  She cocks her head to the side, her straight black locks swinging, and admires my arse with a long whistle. “Girl, you’re good. Swear to God, I thought you were a real-live woman the way you serve that booty. And I’m gonna need the name of your surgeon. I never seen fake titties look so real. Mmm, mmm, mmm.”

  “I am a real-live woman,” I say.

  “Aren’t we all?” She laughs and tosses her hair. “For real, though. Spill me some tea. Who did your boobs?”

  I look down at the cleavage plumping my suit and shrug. “I don’t have any tea, but Brianna did my boobs. Plumped ’em up right there at the Brazilian wax shack. After digging around betwixt my thighs, she said it was the least she could do.”

  Helga Boomslang’s stance shifts, tightening into something more masculine and threatening. Her voice drops to the low pitch of a man’s. “I just asked you a simple question. Why you gotta shade me?” She makes a sucking noise through her teeth, turns on her heel, and flicks a hand in my face. “Whatever, bitch. I’ll whoop your fishy ass onstage.”

  That escalated quickly. I casually turn my head and sniff the air behind me. I don’t smell fish or arse. Maybe it’s someone else.

  Gunnar Magnusson leans close when she starts complaining loudly to her friends about me. He whispers in my ear, “Ignore her. She’s talking smack.”

  I bristle. “Helga Boomslang might be mean, but she didn’t smack me.

  “She’s jealous,” he clarifies.

  “Why?” I ask. She’s pretty enough.

  “She doesn’t have what you have, and she knows it.” He looks smug. Pleased. Proud, even.

  “What do I have that she doesn’t?” We’re basically the same. Two men trapped in the wrong bodies.

  “Confidence,” he says. “Some people like to compare themselves to others, but you … you’re just you. You don’t care what anyone thinks about how you look or act. You’re Loki, through and through. She’s … not.”

  “I should hope not. There isn’t enough room in Midgard for two of us.”

  “No, there isn’t,” he agrees.

  The mean queen continues muttering under her breath to her sycophantic friends. “Nobody disses Helga Boomslang. I’m the bitch to beat, and this meat is lean, honey.” She swats her arse. “Try finding some fat up in here.”

  “Well, if we’re talking proportions, your hips are a little wide for your height,” I say. “Maybe take the padding down a notch.”

  She straightens with a snap. “Oh, hell no.” She reaches for her huge hoop earring and wriggles it free of its hole. “Uh-uh. I’m taking this little minnow out. I’ma crush you under my size thirteens faster than you can say Shazam.”

  Kenaz flares with excited warning. The rune loves fights.

  Helga Boomslang’s friends grab her arms and pull her away. “Come on, girl, you don’t want to be disqualified before we even get in there,” one says, glaring at me.

  I shrug. “It was meant as constructive criticism. I was trying to help.”

  Helga’s friend flicks a finger tipped with a long purple nail in my face, then mimics an explosion with her hand. “Don’t.”

  “Touchy, touchy,” I say and turn away.

  Our friends’ conversation snags my attention. Alex fans himself under the heat of midday sun. “I’m going for the goth girl look. Black clothing, striking makeup, and biting style with callbacks to horror movies and vampires.”

  “I need something different,” Darryl Donovan says.

  “You could be a showgirl who focuses more on stage presence and dancing,” Alex offers. “Or a fishy girl. They look the most like women and use a lot of makeup and contouring. Then there are shade queens who play their roles with attitude and sass; fashion queens, who are all about the latest styles and showing off on the runway; and camp queens who go for really over-the-top, garish styling.”

  “Girl, I’m a shade queen from top to bottom, though I prefer top,” Freddie says, pitching his voice higher. He’s already getting into character. I smile.

  “Yes, we know,” Alex quips dryly.

  “Considering what I’ll be wearing, maybe I’ll go for a maneater vibe,” Darryl Donovan decides.

  I haven’t seen any outfits other than the power suit I’m wearing, which is quite … empowering. A light gray number, my suit consists of crisply pressed woolen slacks, a vest with five buttons and two tiny pockets, and a blazer slung over my shoulders, arms not in sleeves. Brianna said businesswomen usually wear shirts under their jackets, but I don’t need the one Freddie sent because I’m sexy AF without it. Plus, my bodacious boobs might have to be called upon to sway the show runners inside the building. Hel, they’ve already caught Helga Boomslang’s attention. I’m on the right track.

  “What’s your costume?” I ask Darryl Donovan.

  “A queen never reveals her secrets until the proper time,” Darryl Donovan says with a smirk.

  “But if I’m your manager, shouldn’t I know what you have planned?” Through my heavy pants, I pick my underwear out of my butt and cringe when I accidentally pluck a bit of raw skin.

  Freddie flashes his eyes at me like a warning and points at my arse. “Behave yourself, young lady.”

  “I’m not young,” I say. “I’m over a th—”

/>   Freddie cuts me off with a slashing motion across his throat. “Zip it.”

  I stick my tongue out at him. That gets an amused eyebrow lift out of Gunnar Magnusson.

  “What about you? What’s your persona?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “How about a shield maiden?”

  Freddie waggles his finger left and right. “Mark my words, there will be at least fifty shield maidens in this crowd trying to capitalize on the Asgard Awakening theme. You’ll stand out better with something different.”

  “Is there a quiet type for the queen who doesn’t want to draw much attention to himself?” Gunnar Magnusson asks.

  “Girl next door?” Alex offers.

  “With a full beard,” I add, playfully tugging Gunnar Magnusson’s chin hairs.

  “You work on a farm,” Freddie says, drawing the scene in the air, “milking cows and bending over in your short skirt to pick up fruit you can’t seem to keep in your basket.”

  The image burns into my mind, and I try not to laugh, partly because laughing is excruciating and partly because the prospect of Gunnar Magnusson in a tiny dress is so ridiculous.

  “Y’all can call me Jacinda Juggs, also known as the Milk Maid of Mississippi,” Gunnar Magnusson says with a high-pitched drawl. To my surprise, he tosses his pretty blond locks over his shoulder, kicks up a foot behind him, and titters like a girl.

  That does it. Laughter explodes out of me and everyone else. I grab his arm with one hand to steady myself and clutch my protesting side with the other.

  “He’s totally going to win this contest,” Darryl Donovan predicts with a bemused shake of his head.

  “Agree. He’s perfect,” I say between panting coughs and giggles.

  Gunnar Magnusson’s cheeks redden a little, but his big smile puts me at ease. He seems to be taking this turn of events in stride and having fun with it. Which is the point, isn’t it? If you can’t have fun dressing up as someone you’re not, you’re not living.

  The laughter and back slaps subside. The line shortens. We head inside the building. I’m getting excited.