Chapter 9: Dumpster Confessions in Dolce
The stilettos were a problem. Not just the four-inch height, which sent a jolt of unfamiliar strain up Ethan’s calves, but the way they seemed grafted to him, a polished black extension of his suddenly very slender ankles. He tried to shuffle backward, but the heel caught on a crack in the asphalt. He wobbled, arms pinwheeling.
Jonah’s hand shot out, steadying him by the elbow. His grip was firm, warm. He didn’t let go.
“Answers,” Jonah repeated, but his voice had lost some of its edge. His eyes, in the fractured neon, weren’t just horrified anymore. They were cataloging: the precise wing of the eyeliner, the flawless matte of the lipstick, the way the silk stockings sheened under the pink “XXX” sign’s buzz. His thumb moved, a tiny, unconscious stroke against the inside of Ethan’s arm.
“I don’t have any!” Ethan’s protest came out in a voice that was still his own, thank God, though it sounded embarrassingly high-pitched to his own ears. “One minute I’m taking out the compost, the next I’m being attacked by sentient Sephora! You think I asked for this?”
“The prophecy,” Jonah insisted, leaning closer. The scent of him—laundry detergent, ink, and the faint, sweet smoke of clove cigarettes—cut through the alley’s stench. “The old woman at the bus stop. She said ‘the marked one will be remade in the glamour of the fallen court.’ You laughed. You said it sounded like a bad drag show punchline.”
“It does!” Ethan said. He tried to fold his arms, a defensive gesture, but the satin garter belt Jonah had just snapped bit into his thigh. The sensation was shocking, intimate. He flinched. “It’s nonsense. Coincidence. Maybe someone dumped a witch’s curbside pickup.”
As if on cue, the dumpster lid gave a resonant thump. Both of them jumped. Jonah’s hand tightened on his elbow.
“Coincidences don’t apply eyeliner that well,” Jonah muttered, finally releasing him to drag a hand through his own hair. He looked exhausted, exhilarated. “And they definitely don’t come with… accessories.” His gaze dropped again, flickering over the shoes, the garter, then back to Ethan’s face, holding his eyes with a new, unnerving intensity. “You look…”
“Don’t,” Ethan cut him off, heat flooding his cheeks. He could feel the weight of the makeup on his skin, a foreign mask. “Just don’t, okay? I feel ridiculous.”
“You don’t look ridiculous,” Jonah said, softly. The words hung in the damp air. He cleared his throat, looked away, the moment fracturing. “You look… expensive. Like you’re about to host a murder mystery party on a yacht. Which is, frankly, weirder.”
A strained, half-hysterical laugh escaped Ethan. “So what’s your theory, then? Since you’re the expert on alleyway prophecies and… whatever this is.” He gestured weakly at himself.
Jonah leaned against the damp brick wall, facing him. The neon from the adult bookstore across the way painted a stripe of blue across his sharp cheekbone. “I think it’s real. I think she was a real… something. And I think it picked you. The ‘marked one.’” He used air quotes, but they looked shaky. “Maybe it’s not about what you asked for. Maybe it’s about what you need.”
“I need a shower and my sweatpants,” Ethan groaned, leaning back against the opposing wall. The brick was cold through the thin, unknown fabric of his blouse. “I need to not be wearing someone else’s… lingerie.”
“You’re evading.”
“You’re staring.”
“I’m observing.” Jonah pushed off the wall. “Come on.”
“Where?”
“My place. It’s two blocks over. We can’t stand here all night. You’re going to get hit on by a drunk, or worse, someone from the shop will see you.” He said it with a practicality that brooked no argument. “We’ll figure this out. Or at least, you can try to scrub that off in a sink that isn’t next to a dumpster.”
The thought of being seen was more terrifying than the enchanted garter belt. Ethan nodded, a jerky motion. He took a tentative step. The stiletto wobbled treacherously.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Jonah sighed. He stepped forward, turned, and offered his back. “Just get on. Piggyback. It’s faster.”
“I am not getting a piggyback ride in heels.”
“You want to walk two blocks on those? Your ankles will snap. It’s physics. And magic, probably. Come on.”
The humiliation was a solid, hot lump in Ethan’s throat. But the alternative—the clicking, stumbling spectacle—was worse. He moved forward, awkwardly, and looped his arms over Jonah’s shoulders. Jonah hoisted him up with a grunt, hands gripping under his thighs. The position was absurd, infantilizing, and intensely intimate. Ethan could feel every shift of Jonah’s shoulder muscles, the solid warmth of his back. His own heels dangled near Jonah’s knees.
“You good?” Jonah’s voice was slightly strained.
“Peachy,” Ethan muttered into his collar.
Jonah started walking, his steps sure and steady. They moved out of the deepest shadows of the alley, onto the slightly better-lit sidewalk of the adjoining street. A car slowed, the driver’s face a pale blob of curiosity, before speeding up again.
“So,” Jonah said, after a block of silence punctuated only by their breathing and the distant wail of a siren. “The ‘fallen court.’ Any enemies in the drag community you forgot to mention? Owe money to a queen named Persephone?”
“My life is oat milk lattes and forgetting to buy laundry pods, Jonah. I don’t have drag queen enemies.”
“Pity. That would make more sense.” Jonah adjusted his grip, his fingers pressing more firmly into Ethan’s leg. Ethan held his breath. “It said ‘glamour.’ Not just a disguise. An enchantment.A lure. Maybe it’s not about looking like something. Maybe it’s about being seen.”
Ethan didn’t have a reply. He was too busy being hyper-aware of the steady rhythm of Jonah’s walk, the fact that his own expertly made-up face was right beside Jonah’s stubbled jaw, and the terrifying, exhilarating possibility that for the first time in his inconsequential life, something had truly seen him—even if it was a cryptic force that expressed itself in lipstick and stilettos.
They turned a corner, leaving the buzz of the main drag for a quieter residential street. Jonah stopped in front of a narrow, three-story walk-up with peeling green paint. He let Ethan slide down, the motion slow, controlled. Ethan’s feet found the concrete, the heels making a definitive click.
“Home sweet hovel,” Jonah said, fishing keys from his jeans. He didn’t look at Ethan as he unlocked the door. “Try not to wake Mrs. Giannelli on the first floor. She thinks I’m a gigolo. This,” he gestured vaguely at Ethan’s entire ensemble, “is not going to help my case.”
He pushed the door open. The hallway smelled of lemon polish and old wood. The first step on the creaky staircase sounded like a gunshot in the quiet. Ethan followed, one careful, clicking step at a time, the reality of his situation settling over him as heavily as the perfume clinging to his skin. The adventure he’d craved was here, in the most ludicrous, terrifying form possible, and it was leading him up a creaking staircase in another man’s wake, wearing another world’s idea of armor.