Twinkle, Twinkle (Naughty or Nice) (2 page)

“Huh? You broke someone’s ribs?” That was ridiculous. You only had to look at the man to see he quite clearly wasn’t the type. Not an ounce of violence in him. Vince never could understand why he trailed around with those thugs at school like a lost puppy.

“It’s unavoidable sometimes when giving CPR.” Tom sighed, his gaze darting around the room.

“So you’re saying if my heart had stopped, you might have broken mine? I should count my lucky stars, then. Don’t reckon we’d be sitting here now if you had.”

Tom’s brow furrowed, and an awkward silence descended.

Bloody hell
, Vince thought, he just kept putting his foot in it, didn’t he? He glanced at his watch. He only had to keep Tom talking for another half an hour or so, anyway, as he absolutely couldn’t be late for his show. Not when everyone had pledged so much money. Not when it was for Justin. Vince took a long draught of beer and ransacked his mind for an innocuous subject.

Tom beat him to it.

“What happened to you? Back at school, I mean.”

Oh yeah, that. Hardly innocuous, but it should probably be gotten out of the way if they didn’t want it to sit between them like an unwelcome guest who’d just farted at the dinner table.

“You mean why I didn’t come back after Christmas?”

Tom nodded. “We thought you’d been seriously injured. Carl made us all promise we weren’t to say a word to anyone about it.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Carl. Right little shit, he was. What on earth was a nice boy like you doing hanging around with the likes of him?”

That made Tom blush, all right. It was cute, kinda like he was back in his school uniform being teased by Carl again. Oh yeah, even when you were in Carl’s gang you didn’t escape the bullying.

“I didn’t any more. Not after that Christmas,” Tom said, his voice low. “I felt too bad about what we did to you.”

Vince stared at him. “What you did? You didn’t do anything, unlike your so-called friends.” His mind insisted on replaying the moment after he’d been pushed to the floor and Carl had ground the heel of his size nines into his glasses. Vince had still been wearing them. Just thinking about it made his eyelid flutter. He remembered the way the Christmas tree lights above had fractured into a spider web of sharp lines, the roaring of blood in his ears. For years after, he’d start having palpitations whenever he was surrounded by fairy lights. Made every December a right bloody nightmare.

“You’re wrong. I came back. I was going to tell them to stop, but I couldn’t. I just watched them kicking and kicking and—”

“For fuck’s sake, Tom. Look, I’m all right, aren’t I?” Vince held his hands out. “They didn’t do any permanent damage. It ended up doing me a favor in a weird kind of way. I started running, and the weight fell off. Never wanted to be that defenseless again.” Or wear specs, hence the contact lenses.

“Huh.” Tom sipped his beer, but when he looked up the guilt had been replaced by something even less welcome. “So why didn’t you come back to school and finish your A-levels? You realize I’ve spent the last twenty-five years blaming myself for what happened?”

Vince’s blood started to heat up. He was fucked if he was going to let Tom shift the blame onto him. “Yeah, well maybe you should have stood up for yourself instead of trailing around with that nasty little thug like you didn’t have any backbone.”

“I’m not going to sit here and listen to this shit.” Tom stood, slamming his hands down on the table and slopping his drink. “I’ve spent my whole career patching up people who’ve been injured and saving lives, and I don’t need to earn the approval of an electrician, thank you very much.”

As Tom stormed out the front door, Vince couldn’t help but admire the way he moved. So the guy did have some balls after all. Shame he hated Vince’s guts, though. And the electrician comment stung like a bastard.

Vince downed his pint, checked his watch, and tried to put all thoughts of frustratingly attractive yet uptight doctors out of his mind. This was Justin’s night, and Vince owed it to him to concentrate on his memory. Yeah, screw Tom. He could forget him. Easy.

T
OM
pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply. The night air was clean and sharp, washing his lungs and throat clean. He should go home and rest after his long week. God knew he was tired enough, but seeing Vince had given him the jitters. It had cost him so much effort not to stare at the bulge of Vince’s pectorals beneath the thin fabric of his T-shirt. And then the way Vince had spoken to him….

Tom shook his head. It was too much to think about now. Up ahead, at the end of the High Street, the rainbow windows of the Dog and Sixpence beckoned. Signs outside announced a Christmas Cabaret fundraiser for the local hospice. Drag queens and amateur vaudeville: just what he needed to take his mind off Vince and their pointless argument.

Inside the place was heaving, and Tom had to excuse himself several times as he bumped into guys on his way to the bar. He’d never have guessed that High Wycombe would have concealed such a large queer population; mind you, there were a fair few women here tonight as well, and some suspiciously straight-looking couples seated at the tables. He found a pillar to lean against which gave him a direct view of the stage and tried not to dwell on being alone when everyone else had someone.

The acts were better than he’d expected: a talented four-piece band accompanied a parade of bear ballerinas, torch singers, and bitchy comedians. One enormous man belted out a fantastically filthy reworking of a medley of Gilbert and Sullivan classics. Tom laughed, surprising himself. Even the curtain of silver plastic strips at the back of the stage looked glamorous, shimmering in the artful lighting.

And then the compère was back.

“Thank you, gentlemen, and ladies. It’s now officially Christmas Day, but don’t go rushing off to get the turkeys in the oven, because we’ve saved the best for last. Before the gorgeous Valentina makes her stage début, I’d like to remind us all of what we’re raising money for tonight. The Dashwood Hospice has been helping local people to spend their last days in dignity for over thirty years now, and many of you will remember Justin Crossman-Draper as one of their shining lights, first as a nurse, then as a patient. When Justin finally lost his long-term battle with cancer, his husband set up the Crossman-Draper Memorial Fund to help finance the ongoing costs of running the hospice. So please, let’s all dig deep in our pockets and help Vincent Draper raise as much as he can in Justin’s memory.”

The compère continued with his pleas for generosity, but Tom had stopped listening. His ears still rung with the sound of that familiar name. He was too dazed to unscramble the sentence and make sense of it, and he barely noticed as the collection bucket passed him by and he threw in a twenty on autopilot. Vincent Draper. Was he here?

He scanned the room for Vince, but couldn’t see him anywhere. He’d be at the front. Of course he would. He moved between the tables searching for a large man in a white T-shirt and was standing in the center of the room, exposed, when the lights dimmed. He ducked, finding himself a seat at a nearby table behind two huge men who blocked most of his view.

Valentina strode onto the stage to a chorus of hoots and wolf-whistles. She was far too butch to be convincing as a woman, and the hairy chest didn’t help, but it still took Tom a moment to process the auburn beehive, slinky red dress, and fake bosom. However, when Valentina opened her mouth there was no disguising Vince’s rumbling voice.

“Thank you all so much for your support. I think I need some.” Vince hoisted on a bra strap, and pouted. “I first met Justin when he came to help look after my mum in her last few months. Little did I imagine that the ‘lovely young man’ my mum adored moonlighted as Twinkerbell, the dirtiest fairy in town. Oh, you remember her, do you? Then maybe some of you remember her nagging me for never being man enough to put on a dress.” There was a chorus of laughter and a few shouted agreements. “Well, it’s a shame it took Justin dying to make me realize that I had nothing to fear, but I know he’s watching over us all tonight. And Justin, sweetheart
—
” Vince lifted his eyes to the ceiling and winked. “
—
here’s one of your favorites.”

Vince launched into his first song, Wham’s “Last Christmas.” He may not have been the most feminine of drag queens, but he had a decent voice and did a passable impression of George-Michael-in-a-dress, working in plenty of hip rolls and eyelash flutters to keep the audience happy.

Tom shrank into his seat, but as Vince’s eyes roved over the audience they snagged on him. Vince faltered for a moment, losing his place in “I Will Survive,” but he regained it with a flourish. Tom’s heart started hammering. He didn’t want to be beaten up by an enraged drag queen—the humiliation would probably kill him.

But then Vince met his eyes again and winked.

“Do I have time for one more?” Vince asked. He conferred with the band leader and stepped back onto the stage. “Okay then, folks. That was going to be it, but there’s someone very special to me in the audience tonight. He doesn’t know it, but I used to fancy the pants off him at school, and then this afternoon I had the shock of my life when I saw him again. I wasn’t expecting it to be quite so literal, but we’re talking two-hundred and forty volts here.” Vince brandished his bandaged hand to a chorus of sympathetic laughter.

Tom’s head spun. Surely… he couldn’t mean… him?

“So, Tom, you may have acted like an arrogant arsehole earlier, but I was probably just as bad. This is my way of saying sorry.”

Tom sat there, stunned, his mouth hanging open. He didn’t really have a big man in a dress singing “Let it Snow” to him, did he? When Vince stepped down from the stage to thunderous applause and walked over to him, he was still seriously contemplating running away. But it was too late, and Vince held out a hand. Tom took it, and he was swept away.

V
INCE
kept sneaking glances at Tom as they walked the silent streets to his house. He should have pinched himself to make sure this wasn’t some crazy dream, but he wasn’t willing to take the risk. He checked himself; nope, he’d taken the time to change back into his normal clothing which was a good sign. Probably not a dream, then. If it was, he’d still be in the dress, or worse yet, his pajamas. It was all just too bizarre for words, though, having Tom walk back into his life on the very day he’d promised himself he’d let go of Justin’s memory. Not that he’d ever forget him. Never could.

Tom hadn’t spoken much, other than to agree to coming back with him. As they turned into Arnison Avenue, he halted. Vince walked back to him, his insides twisting like a bag full of cabling. Was this when the spell broke? Was the doctor going to chicken out and run away like he always used to?

“Penny for them?” Vince asked.

It didn’t seem like Tom was going to answer. His jaw twitched, eyes darting here and there. Then it blurted out, stark in the night air.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“Tell you what?”

“About… Justin. Being gay. All that.”

“Do you tell everyone you meet?”

The answer was written on Tom’s face. He’d make the worst poker player in the world, going around with his feelings written all over him in that bloody adorable way.

“No, Christ, no. Sorry. It was just such a shock. I’d have liked some preparation.”

“We’ve both had our shocks today.” Vince took hold of Tom’s hand, and when he didn’t resist, stepped closer. Tom’s breath gusted warm against his face. He pressed a soft kiss to Tom’s lips, the static sparking between them and leaving his mouth tingling.

Tom made a soft sound that was almost a sob, but then grabbed Vince hard with greedy hands. So, he did have a bit of passion in him. Vince smiled to himself. Oh yeah, it was always the quiet ones you had to watch out for. Well, except for Justin, who could talk the hind leg off a donkey and had still been a kinky devil in the sack.

“Wait.” It was tough to push Tom away, but it would be better than doing it standing outside the deserted chip shop. “Want you to see something. We’re nearly there.”

The house seemed empty now. That fleeting remnant of Justin’s presence didn’t greet him at the door. Vince paused for a moment, waiting for it, but perhaps Justin really had gone for good now. Shit, he was going to miss him. He led Tom through to the sun room, and turned to watch his face as they entered.

“Oh!” Tom’s eyes grew round, sparkling with the reflections of a thousand tiny lights. “Oh, how beautiful!”

He smiled, watching the way Tom’s slim body moved as he stepped closer to the windows. The back garden glowed with golden light, every bush and tree lit with softly twinkling bulbs.

Vince stepped up behind Tom, feeling the heat radiating from him in sharp contrast to the chill that poured off the glass. “Justin asked me to hang them there last year. We knew it would be his last Christmas.” Vince smiled, remembering how his previous objections to tacky light shows had seemed so petty when compared to death. At last he’d been able to let go of that memory of the lights splintered by his broken lenses.

Vince blinked, the lights blurring and shimmering into stars. “I set him up a bed in here so he could watch them all evening. He was enchanted.” It had cost a bloody fortune to keep it warm enough in here, but it had been worth every penny just to see that rapturous wonder on Justin’s face. “We kept them there until he died, in February. I’d stopped caring about what the neighbors thought by that point.”

Vince heard Tom sigh deeply and felt him shifting to lean back against him. He hugged Tom close.

“You must miss him,” Tom whispered.

“Yeah.”

“Could I see a picture of him?”

Vince fetched one from the living room mantelpiece. Taken before he got ill, it showed them both grinning at each other over a picnic with friends. Justin’s long chestnut hair gleamed in the dappled sunlight. He’d been having one of his “boy” phases, when he dressed in more or less masculine clothing, but as he’d often said, you’d have to prise the makeup out of his cold, dead hands. It was one of those jokes that ceased to be funny in his last months, but the stubborn bastard refused to give it up.