“I must have missed that one,” Dom says. “And I don’t quite know if they were real cops.”

“It’s all about the fantasy, baby doll,” Sandy says. “And you are eight feet of living, breathing, ridiculously ripped fantasy. I simply must make you part of my show tomorrow night at the club. Tell me, are you comfortable enough in your heterosexuality to take off your shirt and pants on stage and be completely and salaciously objectified by dozens of screaming homos? I’m pretty sure I have a sparkly pair of boy panties you can wear. Though I will say, if your cock is as big as the rest of you, you’ll probably be poking out. But, incentives, of course. I’ll make sure you’re in for a cut of the tips, which will probably amount to six dollars and forty-two cents.”

“That much, huh?” he asks with a smile. “How could I say no to that?”

“You filthy whore,” I hiss before I’m able to stop myself. And there’s the image of the sparkly boy-panty thing that needed to go away, like, yesterday. I’m not into that sort of thing. Well, at least my mind isn’t. My penis thinks it’s a grand idea. Stupid fucking penis.

Everyone stares at me, but not before Sandy and Kori exchange a look that makes me want to kick out their kneecaps. “Um. I said let’s go indoors. Isn’t it too hot out? It feels too hot.”

“Of course,” Sandy says coyly, like the evil host that he is. “I’m so used to it, I didn’t even notice. You poor little twinkie. I’m going to take such good care of you in Casa de Helena that you won’t ever want to leave.” He winks at me knowingly, and I almost run screaming in the opposite direction.

Knowing my luck, I’d trip and fall into a cactus.

THE INSIDE of Sandy’s house is delightfully kitschy, yet surprisingly tasteful (I know, I know. I just thought there’d be piles of wigs all over and a three-foot black dildo on the coffee table or something—apparently I don’t know many drag queens). There are splashes of colors everywhere, from the green couch to the blue-and-red walls. The floors are hardwood, covered here and there with thick white rugs. There’s a stain on one, hidden back toward the corner of the living room.

“Yes,” Sandy says with a frown. “That.”

“What’s it from?” Kori asks.

“The hellhound known as Wheels,” he says with a look of extreme distaste. “Paul’s dog. I love the little mutt to death, but he is not normal. I’m quite certain he vomited there on purpose, because I wouldn’t let him go outside when it was raining. Trust me when I say that Wheels is a vindictive creature with malice in his heart.”

“Why Wheels?” I ask. “That’s an odd name.”

“He was hit by a car when he was a puppy,” Sandy says. “Lost both back legs and his tail. He has a little cart hooked up to his butt so he can run around. Paul adopted him that way and gave him the name.”