Desire surged. I moved in, reached for her hips.
At the same moment she sidestepped and whispered, “Have you reconsidered my offer?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Then we should go somewhere else to talk.”
Despite the fiery breath melting my ear, I froze.
By “else,” she meant “safe.”
“My place,” I said. “There’s someone there you should meet.”
“We’ll leave separately.”
I texted her the address.
“How do you spell ‘Renard?’?” she said, then, “Never mind.”
She’d input me as BAD BOY.
“Give me a good name,” Tam said, and kissed my cheek, silk on stubble.
My heart got the memo a second late, after she’d gone. Still it shot straight up my throat, a bubble of pure happiness.
My dick had gotten the memo hours ago. When I moved it reminded me it was rock hard.
BAD GIRL, I typed into my phone.
The downside of being a well-built five-foot-seven guy is that you’re still five foot fucking seven in the City of Big Shoulders. I waded through hulking Midwesterners, nodded at friendly faces. Someone called my name. Girls, clasping each other. Two kissed passionately as the others squealed. They wanted my approval, I guessed, as the local prince of queerness. I tried to watch impassively but all I could think of was teenage me, lesbian tomboy, making out with girls like that. How much easier it had been when I thought the worst thing in the world was homophobia. How it always felt slightly off, slightly sad, when a girl touched my face and called me pretty.
“I’m sorry,” one girl said, “but could we get a pic?”
Smile, oblige.
Remember how hard it was growing up, Ren. How much it would’ve meant for someone older, someone seemingly strong and brave, to bestow their blessing.
I glued the smile on as they maneuvered me and jockeyed for position. Phone LEDs flashed, an endless pale dazzle. My vision went fuzzy. Someone grabbed my pec like a tit, squeezing, shrieking with laughter. Then my hands were jerked and shoved against something warm, soft. Flash flash flash. The girls convulsed, breathless. He’s so hot, they said, so strong, so well dressed. So ours.
“Gotta go,” I said, gently removing their hands. “Thanks for your support, ladies.”
One girl, red-faced and giggly, blurted, “I love you, Ren!”
“I’m your biggest fan!” someone else screamed, and, “I love watching you!” and, “Can I have your babies?”
Raucous laughter.
“Thanks. Really, thank you, everyone. Have a great night.”
On the street I leaned against the stone fa?ade, shaking.
Just girls, I told myself. Just young girls. Not predators.
They didn’t respect my physical boundaries because they saw me as safe—assigned female at birth, made of the same base parts. They fetishized gay cis men, too. Anyone who didn’t want to put a penis in them, or didn’t have a flesh-and-blood version. Nonthreatening male eroticism.
They needed that, the freedom to express sexuality without personal risk. In a world that both slut-shamed and objectified them from childhood, there was scant chance to feel normal. I could be that handsome, neutered boy they fawned over. That fetish.
My lot in the world now. Most days I coasted on male privilege. I could stand a little harmless manhandling.
If only I could stop fucking shaking.
I punched the wall and muttered sardonically, “Man the fuck up.”
My hand didn’t start hurting till I looked at it on the train. Skin shredded off the knuckles, exposing red pulp. In the sickly fluorescence it seemed an omen.
On my block, the shadow sitting on my front steps stood.
I slowed. Every nerve screamed: It’s him.
No gun on me. It was back in a locker at Umbra, and I was—
Tamsin moved into a circle of streetlight. “Ren?”
I tried to respond. My vocal cords were a noose.
“You all right?” She closed the gap. “You’re out of breath.”
When I edged around her she grasped my hand.
“You’ve been hurt. What happened?”
“Accident. It’s fine.” I made my voice gruff. “Let’s go inside.”
Dust hung in the dark spaces of the stairwell, spinning stray fibers of moonlight into luminous fabric. The floorboards creaked. At the top landing we turned and saw it simultaneously: A basket of flowers wrapped in cellophane, sitting on my welcome mat.
We moved in tandem, but while Tam drew her gun I pulled air. I fumbled, found my knife. Only sounds: wood groaning beneath our weight, the skeletal skittering of leaves clawing across sidewalks.
“Is there another way in?” Tam hissed.
I shook my head no.
She lowered her weapon. “I’ve been waiting downstairs nearly an hour. This must have—”
Metal and wood screeched. Our heads pivoted toward the apartment door.
Ingrid opened it and gasped, eyes wide.
“Get back inside,” I said.
Inge stared at Tam’s hands. Tam said, “It’s a gun, love.”
“No shit.”