Chapter 3: A New Game Begins
The silence after Kirk left was a tangible thing, thick and used-up. Mike stayed on the floor, the rough texture of the carpet imprinting itself on his kneecaps. The oil had dried tacky on his skin. Sherie lit a Virginia Slim with a slow, deliberate scratch of the match, the flare briefly illuminating her satisfied, tired face.
“Up,” she said, exhaling smoke. “It’s not bedtime yet. We have an appointment.”
She rose, tightened the sash of her kimono, and walked toward the hallway without checking if he followed. He did, of course, his body moving on a dull autopilot. They didn’t go far. Just down the hall to the master bedroom.
She flipped the switch. A floor-to-ceiling mirror on the far wall blinked to life under a line of cold, clinical bulbs. It reflected the rumpled king bed, the closed curtains, and then the two of them in the doorway—her, regal and rumpled; him, a naked, oil-smeared casualty.
“Close the door,” she instructed, drifting toward her vanity. He obeyed, the click sounding hollow in the quiet room. “Stand there. In the center.”
He moved into position, facing the mirror. His own reflection was a shock. The remnants of last night’s mascara were dark ghosts under his eyes, blended now with the sweat and stress of the afternoon. His hair was a mess. The coconut oil gave his skin a weird, glistening pallor in the harsh light. He looked like a ruined mannequin.
Sherie settled on the plush stool at her vanity, its surface a chaotic landscape of glass pots and slim tubes. She studied him in the mirror’s depth, her gaze analytical, detached.
“Kirk was impressed with your stillness today,” she began, uncapping a jar of cold cream. “Once you settled. It’s a start.” She smoothed the cream over her face with practiced strokes, wiping away the day. “But tomorrow requires a different presentation. A more… dedicated aesthetic.”
Mike’s stomach twisted. Tomorrow.
She wiped her face clean with a tissue, revealing skin that was remarkably unlined, formidable. Then she turned her attention to him. “Come here. Kneel.”
He walked the short distance and knelt on the plush carpet before her stool, facing the mirror. Their reflections were stacked now—her above, him below.
She took his chin in her hand, turning his face side to side. Her touch was cool, impersonal. “We need a fresh canvas. The tears and the sweat… it’s passé.” Reaching for a makeup wipe, she began to clean his face. The wipe came away grey and black. She worked methodically, erasing the evidence of Marcus, of Kirk, of his own misery.
His skin felt raw and exposed when she finished. She leaned back, assessing.
“Kirk is bringing a friend tomorrow. Leo.” She said it casually, selecting a foundation bottle and shaking it. “He’s new. Curious. Wants to see the… operation.”
She squeezed a beige dollop onto the back of her hand. “Your role will be expanded. Hospitality for two. Service for two.” Using a sponge, she began to dab the foundation onto his face. The sensation was absurdly familiar, a grotesque parody of care. “You’ll wear the peach sundress, finally. It’s frivolous. Leo will like that. The blonde wig. Open-toed heels. You’ll make the drinks, pass the canapés, and you will be agreeable.”
Mike watched his own face transform in the mirror. The uneven tones of his skin vanished under the matte coating. His features began to look softer, blurred.
“Agreeable to what?” The question escaped him in a whisper.
Sherie paused, her green eyes meeting his in the glass. A slow smile touched her lips. She picked up a compact of blush. “To whatever they find amusing. To whatever I instruct you to do for them.” She swirled a large, fluffy brush in the peach powder. “Leo is particularly interested in the… participatory aspect of our arrangement. Kirk has told him all about you.”
She applied the blush to the apples of his cheeks, sweeping upwards. The color was alarmingly vibrant. It gave him a false, feverish glow.
“He wants to understand the psychology,” she continued, her voice conversational, almost girlish. “Why a man would choose this. I told him it’s not a choice, really. It’s a discovery. Like finding out you have a taste for a food you thought would disgust you.” She switched to an eyeliner pencil, sharpening it with a tiny razor. “Hold still.”
The pencil point was a precise, terrifying threat. He locked his muscles. She leaned in, her perfume enveloping him—floral top notes over something darker, musky. With unerring skill, she drew a thick, black line along his upper lash line, then smudged it with her fingertip. She repeated it on the other eye. His eyes, now framed in black, looked larger, perpetually startled.
“So tomorrow,” she whispered, her breath warm against his ear as she worked, “you will help with his research. You will be his case study. If Kirk tells you to kneel at Leo’s feet, you will ask how high he’d like your head. If Leo wants to test your… obedience… in a specific way, you will thank him for the opportunity.” She leaned back, admired her handiwork, then selected a mascara wand. “Look up.”
He tilted his head back. The wand swept through his stubby, greying lashes, coating them, clumping them. It felt alien and heavy.
“And if I…” he began, then faltered.
“If you what?” She coaxed, now selecting a lip liner. “If you refuse?” She let the concept hang, ridiculous, in the air between them. She traced the bow of his upper lip with a dark red pencil, the pressure firm. “You won’t. Because the alternative is irrelevance, Mike. And that is the one thing you cannot bear. Being forgotten in your own home. Being left out of the story.”
She filled in his lips with the pencil, then took a tube of lipstick, twisting it up. The color was a glossy, triumphant red, a match for her own. She applied it carefully, molding his mouth into a perfect, garish cupid’s bow.
“There,” she said, finally capping the lipstick. She turned his face back toward the mirror. “Look.”
He looked.
A stranger stared back. A sad, overly-made-up clown of a person with Sherie’s sharp color palette stamped onto his features. The blush was too bright. The eyes were hollow pits defined in kohl. The mouth was a vivid, red gash. It was a mask of exaggerated femininity, but also of utter vacancy. The person behind the makeup was nowhere to be found.
“You see?” Sherie murmured, resting her hands on his shoulders. Her reflection hovered behind his, a queen consorting with her jester. “This is the face of agreement. This is the face that gets to stay in the room. That gets to serve.”
She let him look for a full minute, letting the image sear itself into his mind.
“Tomorrow at two,” she said, standing up. Her knees cracked softly. “The sundress is in the closet. I expect you to be dressed, made up, and ready by one-thirty. You will prepare a pitcher of martinis. You will arrange the cheese plate. You will smile with this mouth.” She tapped his red lips with a sharp fingernail. “And you will show Leo exactly how devoted you are.”
She walked away, toward the bed, stripping off her kimono. “Now clean this up,” she said, gesturing vaguely toward the makeup on the vanity. “And sleep. You’ll need your energy.”
Mike remained kneeling before the mirror. The reflected clown continued to stare, its expression a blank question. The scent of powder and wax and her perfume clung to him, a new skin. He thought of Leo, a stranger, studying him like a specimen. He thought of Kirk’s possessive grin. He thought of the peach fabric, waiting.
Slowly, he pushed himself up. His joints ached. He gathered the used wipes, the scattered brushes, moving with the quiet efficiency of a ghost. He did not look in the mirror again.
When he finally slid into bed, lying stiffly on his designated edge, Sherie was already breathing the deep, even breaths of untroubled sleep. He lay awake, the makeup feeling like a plaster cast on his face, a drying, tightening shell. In the dark, the promise of tomorrow was not a threat, but a destination. It loomed, concrete and inescapable. The story had its next character. And he had his lines, his costume, his face.
All he had to do was say yes.
The makeup slept on his face like a second skin, cracking at the corners with every stiff twitch toward dawn. He rose at seven, moving through the silent house to scrub it all away with a washcloth that came away stained peach and red and black. The face in the bathroom mirror was his own again, pale and tired, but it felt like a temporary loan.
He spent the morning in a fog of meticulous, silent chores. He vacuumed the living room, erasing the ghostly impressions from the leather couch. He polished the glassware until it sang. He arranged the cheese plate with geometric precision, each cracker angled just so. The peach sundress hung from the closet door, a soft accusation.
At twelve-thirty, he stood before the bedroom mirror once more, the tube of red lipstick cold in his hand. His reflection was clean-shaven, bland. The transformation back into the other person—the useful, agreeable person—was about to begin. He unscrewed the lipstick.
The doorbell rang.
His head jerked up. The clock on the nightstand read 12:47. His heart, a sluggish thing all morning, kicked into a frantic gallop. Kirk wasn’t due for over an hour. Leo wasn’t due for over an hour. The dress was still on the hanger. His face was bare.
“Mike!” Sherie’s voice, sharp with surprise and something like delight, cut through the house. “The door!”
He stood frozen, the lipstick poised an inch from his mouth. This was wrong. The script was off.
“Mike, now!” Her tone brooked no delay.
He set the lipstick down, his hands trembling. He was in grey sweats and a plain t-shirt, the uniform of his invisible morning hours. He padded down the hall, his bare feet whispering against the hardwood.
Through the frosted glass of the front door, he could see the distorted shape of a man, broad-shouldered, holding what looked like a bottle. Not Kirk’s shape. This one was taller, leaner.
He opened the door.
The man on the porch was maybe fifty, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and sharp, inquisitive eyes behind stylish glasses. He wore a crisp navy shirt, sleeves rolled, and held a bottle of expensive-looking bourbon. He smiled, a quick, assessing thing.
“You must be Mike,” he said, his voice a warm, confident baritone. He extended his free hand. “I’m Leo. Kirk’s friend. Hope I’m not interrupting, I got my wires crossed on the time.”
Mike stared at the offered hand. He wiped his own nervously on his sweatpants before taking it. Leo’s grip was firm, dry. “N-no. Sherie’s… she’s here.”
“Leo!” Sherie materialized in the hallway behind Mike, her smile brilliant and instantly in command. She’d changed into a sleek emerald green wrap dress. Her makeup was fresh, her lips a perfect matte red. She looked like she’d been expecting him for hours. “You’re early. How wonderful.”
“My fault entirely,” Leo said, stepping inside without waiting for further invitation. His eyes swept the living room, taking in the clean ashtrays, the arranged glasses, the cheese plate. They lingered on Mike’s sweats, his bare face, his bare feet. “I was just telling Mike here, I mixed up the plans. Kirk said one, I had it in my book for one, but he swears he said two. Men, right?” He chuckled, handing Sherie the bottle. “A peace offering.”
“You’ve brought the good stuff,” Sherie said, examining the label. She didn’t seem upset at all. She seemed energized. “Consider peace made. Mike, take Leo’s jacket. Then get us some ice, would you? Let’s have a drink while we wait for Kirk.”
Leo shrugged off a light linen jacket. Mike moved automatically to take it, his fingers fumbling with the material. It carried the faint, clean scent of sandalwood.
“So this is the famous living room,” Leo said, walking over to the couch. He didn’t sit. He ran a hand along the back of the leather, right where the sounds had originated the day before. He turned and looked directly at Mike, who was hanging the jacket in the closet by the door. “Kirk’s told me so much about this room. Says it has… amazing acoustics.”
Mike felt his cheeks burn. He kept his head down.
“Oh, it does,” Sherie purred, gliding to the bar cart. “It’s our favorite stage. Isn’t it, Mike?”
“Yes,” Mike mumbled to the closet door.
“Ice, Mike,” Sherie reminded him, her voice light. “And maybe put on some coffee, too. Leo, how do you take yours?”
“Black, please. Like my sense of humor.” Leo finally sat, crossing one ankle over his knee. He watched Mike shuffle toward the kitchen. “Don’t go to any trouble on my account, Mike. Really.”
“It’s no trouble,” Sherie answered for him. “He lives to serve. It’s his love language. Isn’t that right, honey?”
From the kitchen doorway, Mike paused. He looked at Sherie, then at Leo, who was watching him with an open, fascinated curiosity. It wasn’t the hungry, possessive look Kirk had. This was analytical, like he was noting every flinch, every hesitation.
“Yes,” Mike said, his voice barely audible. “It is.”
He escaped into the kitchen, the cold of the stainless steel fridge a relief against his palms. He pulled out the ice tray, his mind racing. He was exposed. The makeup, the dress, the wig—they were his armor, his costume. Without them, he was just a sixty-three-year-old man in sweatpants, utterly defenseless.
He heard their voices, low and conversational, from the other room.
“He’s… not what I expected,” Leo said.
“Without the finishing touches?” Sherie laughed, a low, glittering sound. “The canvas is primed, Leo. The art comes later. You’ve just gotten a peek at the underpainting.”
“Fascinating,” Leo murmured. “The duality. The man versus the… role.”
Mike cracked the ice tray, the cubes scattering in the sink. He scooped them into a bowl, his hands shaking. He wasn’t ready. The pitcher for the martinis was still in the cupboard. The peach sundress was a wisp of fabric in the other room. The blonde wig was in its box.
He had nothing to say yes with.
He carried the ice bowl out. They were sitting closer now on the couch. Sherie was pouring bourbon over the rocks he’d just delivered. Leo was leaning forward, engaged.
“Here we are,” Sherie said, handing Leo a glass. She didn’t make one for Mike. “To new friends. And to punctuality.” She clinked her glass against his.
Leo took a sip, his eyes never leaving Mike, who stood awkwardly by the armchair. “So, Mike. Sherie says you’re in charge of hospitality today. What’s on the agenda for a couple of thirsty guys?”
Mike’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The carefully memorized schedule—martinis at two, canapés at two-fifteen—was ash.
“Well,” Sherie interceded, saving him with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Since you’re here early, we could start the tour. Show you the… facilities. The green room, so to speak.” She took a long, slow sip of her bourbon, her gaze locking with Mike’s over the rim of the glass. “Why don’t you go get ready, sweetheart? Leo would love to see the transformation process. Wouldn’t you, Leo?”
“I’d be absolutely captivated,” Leo said, setting his glass down with a soft click. His expression was one of genuine, eager interest. “A behind-the-scenes look. That’s even better than the show.”
Sherie’s smile widened. “Run along, Mike. Don’t keep our guest waiting. And remember,” she added, her voice dropping into that intimate, thrilling register she used for promises and threats. “Smile with the mouth I gave you.”
Mike turned and walked back toward the bedroom. The hallway seemed longer now, the walls narrowing. He could feel both their eyes on his retreating back—Sherie’s commanding, Leo’s curious. The peach sundress waited. The lipstick waited. The wig waited.
Leo was here. The story had jumped its track, and he was stumbling to catch up, completely unprepared. All he had to do was say yes, but the word was stuck in his naked throat.
All he had to do was say yes, but the word was stuck in his naked throat. He stood in the bedroom, the peach sundress a soft, taunting heap in his hands. The fabric smelled of floral detergent and, faintly, of the closet’s cedar lining. From the living room, the low murmur of voices was a constant hum, a reminder that the audience was already seated, waiting for the curtain to rise on a performer who hadn’t finished applying his greasepaint.
His fingers fumbled with the dress’s side zipper. He stepped into it, the chiffon whispering against his legs like a secret. He pulled it up, managing the zipper halfway before it caught. He left it, the metal teeth gaping open over his spine. The wig box sat on the dresser. He lifted the blonde curls, the synthetic hair cool and unsettlingly smooth, and settled it over his thinning hair, tucking strays behind his ears.
He faced the mirror. The man in the peach dress and blonde wig was a fractured image, the undone zipper a jagged fault line. He reached for the lipstick. The tube was still warm from his earlier grip. He applied it without looking, by memory, the waxy red filling in the outline Sherie had drawn. It felt like sealing an envelope.
The bedroom door clicked open. Sherie leaned against the frame, holding her bourbon. She surveyed him, her head tilted. “The zipper, Mike. It’s not a suggestion.” She walked in, set her glass down, and spun him around. Her fingers were quick, yanking the zipper up with a decisive rasp that pinched his skin. “Better. Now the shoes. The open-toed ones.” She returned to her drink while he sat on the edge of the bed, buckling the delicate straps around his ankles. The heels were a ridiculous three inches. Standing again, his balance shifted forward onto the balls of his feet.
“He’s intrigued,” Sherie said, not looking at him, studying her reflection as she refreshed her own lipstick. “Leo. He thinks this is some complex psychological negotiation. Thinks you’re getting something nuanced out of it.” She snapped her compact closed. “We’ll let him keep thinking that. It’s more fun for him. For now.”
She came close then, adjusting the neckline of his dress, her fingers brushing his collarbone. Her perfume was a dense cloud. “You’ll go out there. You’ll offer to refresh his drink. You’ll ask if he’s comfortable. You’ll be sweet. You’ll be the perfect hostess. And when Kirk gets here, you won’t say a word unless spoken to. You’re set dressing that serves bourbon. Understood?”
He nodded, the wig slipping slightly.
“Use your words, Michael.”
“Understood,” he whispered.
“Good.” She took his chin, her thumb smudging his lipstick slightly at the corner. “A little imperfect. Makes you look earnest. Now come on. Showtime.”
She led the way. The walk down the hall was an exercise in absurdity, the click of her heels a confident staccato, the wobble of his an uncertain echo. The living room air seemed thicker, charged with a new kind of attention. Leo watched him enter, his analytical gaze sweeping from the blonde curls down to the strappy shoes. He didn’t leer. He observed.
“Wow,” Leo said, a slow smile spreading. “That is… a transformation.”
“Mike is full of surprises,” Sherie said, settling back onto the couch, crossing her legs.
“Can I get you another drink?” Mike asked, the sentence coming out in a rushed, practiced chirp. He focused on the ice melting in Leo’s glass.
“I’m alright for the moment, thanks,” Leo said. He patted the sofa cushion beside him. “Actually, why don’t you sit? Tell me about your preparation. The ritual of it. It’s fascinating.”
Mike froze. This wasn’t in the script. Servers didn’t sit. Set dressing didn’t hold conversations. He glanced at Sherie. She gave an almost imperceptible shrug, a faint smile playing on her lips. She was enjoying this deviation.
“Sit, Mike,” she said. “Our guest is interested.”
Mike walked the few steps and perched on the very edge of the cushion Leo had indicated, his back straight, knees clamped tightly together. The peach chiffon pooled around his thighs. He could feel the heat of Leo’s body beside him, smell the sandalwood and bourbon.
“So,” Leo began, turning slightly toward him. “Is there a moment where it clicks? Where you stop feeling like Mike and start feeling like… this?” He gestured lightly toward the dress.
Mike’s mouth was dry. He looked at his own hands, knobby and veined, against the bright fabric. “It’s… it’s just what I wear,” he managed.
“But the makeup. The heels. The submission. It’s a performance, surely. What’s going on underneath?”
“What’s going on underneath,” Sherie cut in, her voice a silken blade, “is a deep, abiding need to please. To be of use. The costume is just the uniform for the job. The job is belonging.” She took a sip. “Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”
Mike nodded, swallowing hard. The lipstick felt like a plastic coating.
“Fascinating,” Leo murmured, not taking his eyes off Mike. “And does it please you? To belong in this way?”
Before Mike could form a answer—a lie, a truth, a choked sound—a new, jarring noise shattered the room’s intense focus.
The doorbell rang.
It was a stark, two-toned chime that seemed to vibrate in the air. Everyone stiffened.
Kirk wasn’t due for another twenty minutes.
Sherie’s eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, then to Mike. A flicker of something—annoyance, calculation—passed behind her green eyes. “Expecting anyone else, Mike?” she asked, her voice dangerously light.
He shook his head, the blonde curls swaying.
“Well,” Leo said, clapping his hands softly on his knees. “The plot thickens.”
Sherie unfolded herself from the couch. “Answer it,” she said to Mike, her command leaving no room for debate.
Mike stood, the heels making the simple act feel perilous. He walked to the door, the eyes of both Sherie and Leo heavy on his back. The peach chiffon felt impossibly thin, a negligee for a nightmare. Through the frosted glass, he could see a shape, but it was blurry, unfamiliar. Not Kirk’s bullish silhouette.
His hand, damp with sweat, closed on the cool metal of the knob. He turned it, pulling the door open.
A woman stood on the porch. She was in her late fifties, maybe, with a sensible haircut and a quilted vest. She held a ceramic dish covered in tinfoil. She blinked, her friendly, expectant smile freezing, then dissolving into a slow-motion wash of confusion as her eyes traveled from Mike’s blonde wig, down the peach sundress, to his open-toed heels.
“Oh,” she said. The sound was small, brittle.
Mike knew her. It was Carol from two doors down. The one who brought over zucchini bread in the summer. The one who always waved while walking her terrier.
“I… I’m so sorry,” Carol stammered, her gaze snagging on the smudged red lipstick. “I must have the wrong… I was looking for Sherie. I made a spinach dip.”
From the living room, Sherie’s voice came, bright and clear and terrifying. “Carol! Is that you? Mike, darling, don’t leave our neighbor standing on the porch! Invite her in!”
Carol’s eyes went wide. She took a half-step back, her grip tightening on the ceramic dish. She was looking past Mike now, into the dim hallway, where the shapes of Sherie and another unknown man were visible. The world of cul-de-sacs and zucchini bread had just collided, at full force, with the world of peach sundresses and bourbon-soaked afternoons.
Mike stood there, holding the door open, completely exposed. The street was behind Carol, ordinary and sun-drenched. The living room was behind him, a theater of shadows and secrets. He was the bridge between them, dressed in a costume that made no sense in the daylight. Carol’s shocked, pitying stare was a more profound degradation than anything Kirk had ever devised.
All he had to do was say something, anything, but the word was still stuck, now a burning stone of pure, unraveling shame lodged deep in his naked throat.