Chapter 56
Brett didn't sleep.
He lay curled against Lance's back all night in their little rental on 3rd Street, listening to the radiator clang at 2 a.m. and then at 4 a.m., watching the thin Montana light start to creep around the edges of the cheap blinds, his left hand with the platinum band pressed over Lance's heart where it beat slow and steady and trusting.
By six, Lance's alarm went off — the harsh buzz of his phone on the milk-crate nightstand. Lance groaned, rolled over, and pulled Brett into his chest automatically, his big work-rough hand sliding under Brett's oversized t-shirt to rest on the bare skin of his back.
"Morning, Mrs. Sullivan," Lance mumbled sleepily into Brett's hair, his voice still rough with sleep. He kissed Brett's temple, his forehead, the tip of his nose. "You sleep okay? You were tossin' all night."
Brett's throat closed. He hadn't slept at all. He'd spent the night memorizing the feel of Lance's arms, the smell of his skin, the way his stubble scraped gently when he nuzzled close — because in less than ten hours he was going to let Richard Sullivan's stylist wax him and paint him and turn him into something to be used.
"Fine," Brett whispered, his voice lower than it had been in Singapore, the testosterone creeping back making it crack on the word. He cleared his throat quickly. "Just... weird dreams."
Lance pulled back just enough to look at him, his blue eyes soft with concern, his thumb stroking over Brett's cheekbone. "You sure? You've been quiet lately, baby."
Brett forced a smile, the same smile he'd practiced in the mirror for pageants back when he was still trying to be Brielle full-time. It felt brittle on his face.
"I'm fine," he said again, and the lie tasted like copper. "Actually... I was thinking..."
Lance waited, patient, his hand still warm on Brett's back.
"Nico texted last night," Brett said, the story he'd rehearsed at 3 a.m. spilling out too fast, too rehearsed. "While you were asleep. She... she wants me to come stay over tomorrow night. Girls' night. At her place in Kalispell. Wine and... face masks and stuff."
The name Nico felt like a betrayal in his mouth. Nico, who'd walked him down the aisle at CHIJMES, who'd held his train, who would never forgive him if he knew.
Lance's eyebrows lifted slightly. "Nico? Since when does Nico do face masks?"
Brett laughed, a high, nervous sound that wasn't like him at all. "Since... since I told her I was feeling down. She wants to cheer me up."
It wasn't completely untrue. Brett was down. He was depressed and self-conscious and sliding back into a body and a mind that felt male again, and he couldn't stand the way his breasts felt under Lance's hand right now, couldn't stand the "girl parts" that Richard had sneered at.
Lance studied his face for a long moment, his blue eyes searching. Brett held his breath, terrified Lance would see straight through him, would see the folder from Richard hidden under his side of the mattress, would see the shame pooling in his gut.
Then Lance smiled, small and tired and so damn loving it nearly broke Brett in half.
"Good," Lance said softly, pressing a kiss to Brett's forehead. "You should go. You've been cooped up here with me and my work boots too long. You need your girlfriends."
Girlfriends. Plural. Like Brett still had a tribe. Like he still was one of the girls.
Brett nodded, his eyes burning. "Yeah. Just... one night. I'll be back Sunday morning."
"Take the truck," Lance said, already sitting up, already reaching for his Carhartt pants. "I'll get a ride to the site with Mike. You stay as long as you need."
The generosity of it — the absolute, unquestioning trust — made Brett want to vomit.
"Lance?" Brett said suddenly, grabbing Lance's wrist as he stood.
Lance turned, half-dressed, his chest bare, his hair mussed from sleep. "Yeah, baby?"
Brett opened his mouth. The truth clawed its way up his throat: Your father wants me for twenty-four hours. He'll give us five million dollars if I let him use me like a pet. I'm going to let him because I can't afford my hormones and I'm turning back into a man and I don't find you attractive anymore and I'm scared.
What came out was: "I love you."
Lance's face softened completely. He bent down, cupped Brett's face in both his big hands, and kissed him slow and deep and reverent, the way he had on their wedding night.
"I love you too, Mrs. Sullivan," Lance whispered against his lips. "Always."
Brett kissed him back desperately, clinging to his shoulders, memorizing the taste of him, the feel of his stubble, trying to burn it into the part of his brain that was still Brielle before the testosterone took it completely.
When Lance left for work at 6:45, lunch pail in hand, he blew Brett a kiss from the doorway.
"Have fun with Nico," he called. "Don't drink too much wine."
"I won't," Brett lied, his voice breaking.
The door closed.
Brett stood in the middle of their tiny kitchen in Lance's old t-shirt and nothing else, listening to the truck pull away, and then he sank to the cold linoleum and sobbed — great, heaving, silent sobs that shook his whole body, his hands fisted in his unwashed hair, his breasts — his hated, tender, shrinking breasts — heaving under the cotton.
He cried for the girl he was losing without estrogen. He cried for the husband he was about to betray. He cried for the lie that was already sitting heavy on his tongue.
At 3 p.m., he showered.
He followed Richard's instructions exactly. He shaved everything — legs, chest, arms, face, even though his beard was barely coming back yet. He stood under the hot water until his skin was red and raw, scrubbing at himself like he could wash off what he was about to do.
He didn't look at his body. He couldn't.
He put on the cleanest clothes he owned — plain black leggings and a hoodie, no bra, no panties, nothing that felt feminine because he couldn't stand it anymore.
At 3:30, he texted Lance from the truck: Headed to Nico's early! Love you!
Lance texted back instantly: Love you more. Have fun baby.
Brett stared at the words until his vision blurred.
At 3:55, he pulled into the private terminal at Glacier Park International. The black Gulfstream with the tail number N1RS was already waiting on the tarmac, stairs down, a woman in a sharp black suit waiting at the bottom.
"Mr. Anderson?" she said politely, not unkindly. "Mr. Sullivan is expecting you."
Mr. Anderson. Not Mrs. Sullivan. Not Brielle.
Brett got out of the truck, left his phone in the glove box like he'd been told, and walked toward the plane on shaking legs, his wedding ring the only thing shiny on his whole body.
Behind him, in Kalispell, Lance Sullivan was pouring concrete in the August sun, thinking his wife was drinking wine with a girlfriend, trusting completely.
Ahead of him, the plane door stood open like a mouth ready to swallow him whole.
Brett took the first step up the stairs, and whispered to no one at all:
"I'm sorry."
The lie was complete...