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“I’ve never been good at them,” he admitted.
    He’d tried once with Virginia, and she’d ended up getting sick and
    he’d had to take Tate to the restaurant instead. He and Tate had a
    very good time, and Brian hadn’t minded—even then—that people
    thought they were a couple, but it was a sad romantic gesture when
    the intended victim stayed home with the flu and the stand-in
    wouldn’t recognize that he was the real deal after all.
    The look Lyndie sent him over her iced tea was very, very
    serious. “Baby, I think you’re going to have to commit to this one
    full-out. I don’t think this kid’s got many more chances in him.”

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    P a rt V III
    Sounding Love

    BRIAN couldn’t look at himself in the rearview mirror on the way
    back down to Sacramento. It was too distracting.
    Lyndie had helped him, even breaking out her own makeup
    reserves and the E lmer’s glue and some henna dye she’d been
    saving for tinting her own black tresses. The result was someone
    he didn’t recognize in the mirror, and he real y hoped he didn’t have
    to break out of the closet ever again. He was fine with being gay,
    thank you, but he’d never signed on to be a reject from a Ramones
    cover band.
    His hair was dyed red at the ends, and spiked flat on the top of
    his head. Lyndie had trimmed it more, so that the hennaed ends
    separated like eyelashes, and the whole thing was so unlikely a
    part of Brian’s appearance that he didn’t even see it when he
    caught himself in the mirror. He had other things to worry about.
    His eyes were black. His aunt had used an entire pencil of
    eyeliner, making it look like he’d closed his eyes and someone had
    spray-stenciled a raccoon mask over his face. She hadn’t used
    powder to whiten him—his complexion was pretty pale as it was—
    but she had given him two ibuprofen and an ice cube and pierced
    his ears. Three times. And his nose. O nce—but that was plenty.
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    She’d been considering safety pins in them, but she’d gone
    into her old jewelry box instead and come up with six diamond
    studs—two of them real—and one onyx stud for his nose. She’d
    also been happy to find some peppermint oil and alcohol to soothe
    and disinfect the whole works, and he’d held an icepack to his face
    while she’d done his hair and eyes.
    His shirt was blinding.
    Neon-pink polyester. He wasn’t sure which era it was from—
    seventies, eighties, sometime in the future, he had no idea. But it
    had a wide lapel collar and black buttons, and it went real y wel
    with the black-checkered golf pants that had come out of the
    neighbor’s stash of hand-me-downs as wel . And the golf pants
    looked much better pegged (thank you again, Aunt Lyndie) and
    shortened in the crotch and stuffed into combat boots that (unlike
    the others in the club) had actually seen real combat.
    How’m I doing, Virginia? Am I sel ing it to the world?
    More importantly, would he sel it to Talker?
    He could only hope.
    It was dark by the time he got back to Sacramento, and
    G atsby’s Nick was hopping—it was crowded enough that Jed
    almost didn’t notice him until he was halfway inside.
    “Brian?” There was some shock, some incredulity, but no
    laughter. Brian put Jed on the short list of people he’d beat
    someone up for.
    “Hey, Jed.” Brian smiled weakly, and Jed cocked his head,
    seeing right through him.
    “You’re here to stop Talker, aren’t you?”
    Brian looked away and put his hands in the pockets of the golf
    pants. They were so tight he was sure Jed could probably look hard
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    and see that he’d been circumcised, so he was glad Jed didn’t
    swing his way. “Someone has to,” he muttered.
    Jed nodded. “You’re right. He’s gonna lose his job if this shit
    doesn’t stop.”
    Brian looked inside the club—lots of male bodies dancing (a
    few females, there with friends)—lots of snuggling and pressing
    together, lots of