Page 18 of Wicked

Revolver flashes him a smile that’s so obviously fake, I wonder if quitting his job as an escort made him lose his touch. “I guess Candlewick decided to show up.”

Lester turns to me. I try to hold my head high, but shame pools in my gut. This is the man who painstakingly trained the Midwest out of my mannerisms and speech, the man who gave me a family and a home when I had no one else in the world. And I abandoned him without an explanation.

I had to or he would have tried to extricate me from Dorian’s grasp with or without Buddy in tow.

He gives me a curt nod. “Candlewick. Or is it Isaiah now?”

Candlewick was the name I was given the night my training was complete. All of the weapons in Clue were already taken, so I couldn’t be Lead Pipe, Wrench, or Rope. Candlestick argued that they should start using the names of the characters in Clue, and the other guys wanted to call me Colonel Mustard because of my hair. But Revolver tilted his head and narrowed his eyes before declaring that I would be named Candlewick instead.

“Candlewick? That isn’t a weapon, that’s a tiny bit of thread,” Candlestick argued.

Revolver just smiled. “Exactly. He isn’t a weapon. He’s a light. He’s… well, he’s fucking pretty, that’s what he is. Prettier than any of us.”

I tried to interrupt, but Revolver pressed his fingertip to my lips. “Hush. Let me say it because it’s true. You’re the prettiest guy here. We have a thrall, but you also have that face. It lights up any room you enter. Like a candle.”

The following week I got a tattoo of a chandelier lit up with candles on my lower back. It felt liberating to embrace the power of my thrall and my face. I finally realized I’d been holding back to make everyone around me more comfortable. With Revolver, I never had to do that. He was confident enough in his own skin to let me shine.

“It’s still Candlewick,” I say.

They changed me. I’ll never be Isaiah again.

Revolver turns away from me. “Get in here already. We can’t let the neighbors see your mate’s horrible clothing. Jesus, Candlewick. We have standards.” His voice fades as he walks into the apartment.

A part of me knew he would never turn me away, but that doesn’t mean things will be okay between us.

I left my family. At some point I’ll have to pay the price for that.

Manny slides his arm along my shoulders and pulls me close as we step inside Lester’s apartment. The gesture fills my heart with warmth. I’m grateful I don’t have to do this alone.

Lester’s apartment is still every bit the stylish haven it was when I worked for him. He leads us to the kitchen instead of the living room, which is a good sign. He always entertained clients next to the fireplace with an endless supply of pinot noir and pistachios, but he brought his boys into the kitchen where he kept the good vodka and chocolate that he only got out when we needed to gossip about a repulsive client. He’d listen to our whole story before asking us in earnest, “Should I take him off the list?” Meaning his list of clients. If we said yes, he’d never schedule an escort with that client again, no exceptions. But more often than not, we’d say no. We just wanted someone to listen. He was good at that.

Lester opens the freezer and grabs the vodka, but Revolver takes it from him, and slides it back into its place next to the gelato. “No.”

Lester stares into Revolver’s eyes for a few moments, but he doesn’t protest. I wonder if I’m at the same status as a client right now—if Lester will cross me off his list.

“Tell us what happened,” Revolver says. “All of it. The shit with Dorian, how you met taco-cat guy, the whole thing.”

I swallow hard. Where do I even start?

“Okay. A couple of years ago, I found a plastic man in Dorian Gray’s hall closet.”

Revolver leans back against the countertop. “A what?”

“At first, I thought he was a sex doll or something, but he… was so afraid of me.” In the end, that was what convinced me that Buddy was more than a receptacle for Dorian Gray’s spunk. That and his eyes. They weren’t plastic like the rest of him or even glass. I still don’t know what they’re made of, but the fear I saw in them was one hundred percent real.

“It was some kind of spell. Dorian Gray paid twenty-five years of his life to bring this guy to life. But he wasn’t what Dorian expected, so Dorian punished him by keeping him naked in a closet. I think he was in there for years. Maybe decades. I don’t know.”

When I think about how long Buddy suffered alone before we met, it breaks my heart.

“And this led you to leaving us for Dorian Gray because?” Revolver asks with an edge to his voice.

“Because I had to help Buddy escape. And… Dorian Gray is scary. He knew things about me he shouldn’t have. Like where I’m from and that I had no family. I was worried he’d come after the people I loved if Buddy went missing.”

Revolver scoffs. “So you just sacrificed yourself? We could have helped you—”

“He could have killed you. He almost killed me, okay? Lots of times. I couldn’t take the risk that he’d find out how much you meant to me and use you against me.”

Hadn’t he seen crime shows? If the body of a sex worker washes up on the Jersey shore, the cops don’t care. It’s considered business as usual. If we’re found stabbed in a dark alley, it’s just another Saturday in New York. Dorian Gray could do whatever he wanted to the people I loved, and because of their jobs, no one would take the situation seriously.

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