The Last Guy

My head rises slowly. I don’t have a fiancée, but I do have a slightly crazy ex. She has a habit of saying we’re engaged whenever it suits her. I frown. “Skinny platinum blonde with an attitude?”

“Bingo.” She comes closer to my desk, her hips sashaying in a pair of tight black pants. “She says she isn’t leaving until you talk to her.”

I rub my face. “Fuck.”

Savannah gives me a view of her cleavage as she scoops up an empty coffee mug. “She said you might say that. She also said to tell you she’s going to be at your father’s dinner tonight.”

My jaw tightens. Baron, my father, thinks Maggie Grace is perfect for me, especially since her elderly aunt is on the board of directors at Hill Global, our family’s investment company. With Maggie Grace set to inherit her aunt’s shares, she’s part of his master plan to get me settled down with a society wife and fully ensconced in his business as in-house counsel. I also own shares of Hill Global, but I want no part in the day-to-day of the business world. Football is my life, and being the sports director is as close as I can get right now to staying in the game.

I am not Baron Hill, and I never will be.

“Want me to tell her to leave?” A glint of glee lights Savannah’s eyes.

I smirk. “Carry on, Savannah. I’ll handle this.”

“Fine.” She shrugs, her gaze roaming over my shoulders before she quietly shuts the door.

I exhale, button my jacket, and stand up from the desk.

I’ve learned the hard way that when it comes to my dad and Maggie Grace, it’s best to meet my problems head on.

Rebecca

“OH, GIRL, NO. They did not pull that ageist shit on you!” My best, technically male friend and new roommate, the fabulous Chas-say McQueen is on the couch holding a pink Cosmo in her large brown hand, pinky finger out. “That’s why you should never do anything with kids or pets. First rule of showbiz.”

“Last summer when I interviewed that professor and his thousand year-old bone, they couldn’t compliment me enough,” I grumble into my wine glass.

“Mm . . .” Chas sips, dark doe-eyes circling around our small apartment. “A thousand year-old bone. I wonder what that’s like.”

“Don’t. Make. Jokes,” I snap. “I’m pissed.”

“You’re getting there.” Chas is in full drag-queen makeup, a large blue hibiscus over her left ear. “I watched the show. Those little girls were tight. Why didn’t you at least put a little powder on your nose?”

My eyes go wide. “I didn’t have time to check a mirror! We were sent late, it was blazing hot, and Kevin didn’t even bother to tell me I looked like I’d just stepped out of a fucking steam room.”

“Kevin wouldn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground. Who’s your makeup artist?”

I level my gaze. “You know it’s me.”

“Well, there’s your problem right there.” Setting her drink on the side table, Chas goes to her bedroom, and I listen as she rakes hangers across the metal bar in her closet.

She bounces back in the room with a blue-sequined dress in her hands. “What do you think about this? Too Cher?”

“Where are you going?”

“Jazzy claims to be sick.” She rolls her eyes, “So I’m filling in for her tonight at the Pussycat Club.”

“Oh.” I sink back into the couch taking another long sip of Chardonnay. “Who are you doing?”

“RuPaul André Charles, of course!” Chas turns with a flourish, and with the makeup and wig, it’s pretty hard to tell her from her drag queen idol. “You should come. Wallowing is not good for your complexion.”

My nose wrinkles, and I pull my knees closer into my chest. “I’m not in the mood for drag.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Don’t you know drag was invented to shake off those blues? It’s about embracing the comedy in life, and flinging your burdens away in a manner that’s larger than where you are!” She throws her arms wide, and at her height, with her wingspan, it’s quite the exclamation.

“You’ve been reading Fiercely You again.”

“I’m becoming the me of my imagination. And you should too.”

“I’m becoming the me who finishes this drink and goes to bed. Partying is not going to help with my crow’s feet.”

“Girl, at this point only one thing is going to help with those crow’s feet.” Chas laughs, and I narrow my eyes. “It ain’t all that squintin’, either. You need the joy of life lighting up your face.”

She disappears back into her room, and I stare at the oversized television above the space heater. It’s our joint splurge. Chas is as big a fan of the small screen as I am, although her favorite shows fall squarely in the reality-TV zone, which is what she’d been watching when I arrived home in a funk.

I sit silently observing the reality series she has on mute. One of the Kardashians is lounging on her couch, wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. Her dark brow is lined, and she’s clearly talking about something distressing her. She holds a glass of white wine like me, and her sister K in the kitchen listens to her intently. It makes me think of Nancy and me.

We were like sisters, and while Chas has always been our big brother-ish in a sort of twisted-sisters-from-another-mister kind of way, I still miss Nan so much. She would probably make me a clean, healthy meal right now, force me to bed early, and be sure I attended my Pilates class in the morning.

The show continues with a very animated discussion where Kitchen K throws her hands up and waves them around as she shakes her highlighted head. Couch (Kouch?) K is clearly upset. She blinks rapidly, and the camera zooms in as she wipes an invisible tear away with her fingers. I gasp when she barely misses taking out an eye with those acrylic nails.

The next cut is the two Ks wearing slinky dresses and sky-high heels as they dance among the flashing lights in a club. They both hold skinny flutes of champagne, and guys and girls twist and gyrate all around them. Everyone is smiling and joyous and shaking his or her hips, and I blink at the screen a few times. In that moment, I make a decision.

Setting my wine glass on the end table I stand like a woman taking control of her destiny. Petal was right. If I want something, I have to go get it. I am not sitting home tonight and wallowing about being fat and wrinkled and possibly losing my job. Not when there is alcohol to be drunk, and I still have dance moves in me.

“Chas!” I call out. “What time are we leaving?”

A dark face topped with a huge platinum wig pops around the corner. “Whenever you’re ready, baby girl!” The rest of my roommate emerges, draped in blue sequins and skinny feathers. “I’ll do your eyes.”

Cade

I’M TENSE AS I stalk out of Luigi’s Italian Kitchen and into the warm night air. Behind me I hear the clacking of Maggie Grace’s heels as she hurries to catch up. I don’t wait for her but stride to the black and white uniformed valet and ask for my car.

My father is still in the restaurant talking to an old oil crony. At least my monthly meal with him where we discuss my inherited holdings in Hill Global is over and done. Of course, he’d insisted on sticking to our regular schedule even though this meeting falls on my younger brother Trent’s birthday.