Flowers Of The Night

Flowers of the Night

Men, murder, and makeup.

What could go wrong?

 

Chapter One – Fuck

 

Broken dolls. Glitter. In the dim tavern lights, dark blood pooled over the floor.

Fuck!

 

One hour earlier…

 

Brock locked the hotel room door behind him, then frowned at the sagging curtains, stained ceiling, and thread-bare carpet. “Fucking dump.” He tried not to imagine what a black light would reveal.

He pulled one comforter off and tossed it onto the extra bed. At least the sheets looked clean.

Brock sat on the bed and got his phone out — his real phone. And there was the speed dial icon for Sarah, taunting him.

This was going to hurt. He took a deep breath and made the call.

“Hey,” his sweet wife answered. “You make it okay?”

Fuck, she picked up. Leaving a voicemail would have been so much easier — a coward’s wish. “Yep, I’m in the hotel room now.”

“Oh, good. Is it nice?”

“It’s all right,” Brock lied, cringing at the drab aesthetics. The place was stuck in the 70s, maybe the 1870s, and hadn’t been dusted since.

“So, tomorrow morning is the trade show?”

“Bright and early.” Lying to her churned his stomach. “Tonight, I’m going to take a swim in the hotel pool before bed.” No way did a hotel like this have a pool, but once again, the lie helped maintain the ruse that he was obsessed with swimming, and it would explain why he wouldn’t answer his phone if she called later.

“Oh, that’s a good idea,” she said. “It will help you get to sleep. You have a long day tomorrow.”

“Yep.” He could barely look at himself in the vanity mirror — an evil man lying to his wife, again. He needed to confess. Soon. Not tonight, but soon.

“Did the flooring guy show up?” Brock didn’t really care, but it was important to her, and it changed the subject.

“No, he said there’s another delay.” Her tone lowered. “But don’t burden yourself with it. You’ve got enough on your plate.”

There she goes again, being sweet. Fuck. He felt nauseated, but kept his voice firm and confident, his greatest strength — a commanding tone that he’d used to frighten his subordinates and civilians when needed.

“I’ll talk to the guy on Monday. We’re either getting a refund or he’s finishing the job by next week.”

“Thank you.” She sighed. “I do hate dealing with him.”

This helped. Brock was defending his woman, making her life easier. He was a good husband, he assured himself. A good husband. A good… lying bastard of a husband.

“Have fun tonight and tomorrow. But not too much fun,” she teased. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” He meant it, but it felt like another lie. If he loved her, why was he deceiving her?

He took a deep breath and tucked the phone into the suitcase’s side pocket, zipping it closed. Too bad he couldn’t do that with his whole life. Zip it up, hide it away. Not look at it. Not hear it.

In the mirror, he followed the seams and angle of his suit. It was a decent suit. Not too expensive, but not cheap. “A suit makes a man.” He cringed. In his case, a suit hides what he really is — a liar inside of a lie.

Fuck. Brock hated liars.

He straightened his posture. “Don’t fucking say fuck so fucking much,” he scolded himself. Vulgar habit. His father’s habit. His commanding officer’s habit. How about frick, or poop, or darn, or dang nab it?

Eyes closed, he sucked in the room’s stale air. Held it. Counted to four. Forced it out along with his guilt — just for tonight. There was plenty of time to face Sarah’s justified wrath; to face his family’s cold judgment; to face his so-called friends at work; to admit he was a liar; to admit he was no longer the pure man everyone thought he was. But that was another day’s problem.

Tonight, he was a flower. A night flower, like the night-blooming cereus, a species of cactus flower that only blooms once a year and is rarely seen in the wild. That was him.

He double-checked his security. The Do Not Disturb sign was in place, the door was locked, the sagging drapes were closed, and his real phone was tucked away.

Time to bloom.

Eagerly, Brock stripped, laying out his clothes so there wouldn’t be any wrinkles. He’d rather burn the clothes, but that was not the reality of his life. He’d need the clothes to continue his facade when he went home to be the good man everyone thought he was.

Standing naked in front of the bathroom door mirror, he held up one bicep and flexed. His regular swims, his brief stint in the local CrossFit cult kept him toned. He was all man. In fact, with his blond hair and blue eyes, he could probably be a model for an Aryan propaganda poster.

Frick. A lifetime spent obsessing over being as manly as possible. What a waste.

He lowered his gaze to the bulbous appendage dangling in front of him. His “manhood,” as his wife’s steamy romance novels called it. He squinted; it looked a bit like a fat Leccinum Aurantiacum mushroom. Thin grin. He didn’t dislike having a penis, but it certainly was in the way tonight.

“Goodbye, Brock.”

The transformation began with a shower to wash off his cologne. Next came a careful shave — his chin, his arms, his legs, everything. Good thing his exaggerated interest in swimming helped justify the random body shaves to the wife.

Back at the vanity, he powdered everything. The fresh scent helped his shoulders relax. The delightful smell was derived from the Queen of the Night flower. How appropriate. The more he relaxed, the more he realized how tense every inch of him had been. It was like he was peeling off medieval armor.

His phone buzzed. His other phone, in a sparkly pink case — the phone his wife didn’t know about. He dug it from his suitcase.

The name LaWanda appeared in bright letters on the display. Brock smiled, remembering how they’d met. Who knew holding someone’s fake hair while they puked would lead to such a wonderful friendship?

“Hey,” Brock said in a high tone, amazed how quickly his brain could switch gears. He checked the time. “I’m in my room, but I still need to put on my face.”

“Good to hear, sweetie,” LaWanda said, her voice much higher than his. “I worried you were gonna chicken out again.”

“I’ll be there.” He was nervous, but he wasn’t about to back out.

“Okay. Just hurry. Vickie is sick, so we need help with the decorations. Oh, and good news: Kelly brought Happy Candy.” LaWanda giggled like a little girl. Well, like a six-foot-four brawny man pretending to be a girl.

Happy Candy? Molly or MDMA Brock presumed. He resisted the urge to be a sourpuss, questioning the legality of having such drugs.

Instead, Brock said, “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’ll hurry.” The sassy banter was fun. It helped smother his last remnants of masculinity.

“Just remember,” LaWanda’s tone grew sharp, “if you stand me up, girl, I’m hunting you down.”

“I know, I know. You’ll beat me with your feathered boa. See you soon.”

Brock tucked the private phone into his clamshell purse and returned to his reflection.

Time for the hard part. He pulled a small fishing tackle box out of his suitcase and flipped back the lid. Makeup. Lots of makeup. With thin brushes, he followed every line of his lips, his eyes, and his eyebrows. Using larger brushes, he added soft colors for shading.

The work demanded complete concentration. He couldn’t think about bills, lies, politics, anger, past mistakes, his childhood, or anything. With every stroke, every brush dab, a sense of peace and love flowed over and through him. His perfect masculinity faded away and he felt… human, whole, complete — as if he found the yin to his yang. Or something like that.

Maybe that was why he hadn’t confessed to Sarah yet. If he couldn’t adequately explain it to himself, how could he explain it to her?  All he knew for sure was that this mental vacation seemed essential now.

Sitting up to check his progress, his smile broadened. Almost done. He squirmed like a kid waiting for Santa to deliver a pony.

With several held breaths, he squeezed into his Spanx and slid on his long red dress. Even without his wig and custom-size ruby shoes, he could see a new him was emerging, and the new him was a her.

With puckered lips, he added another red layer of Daring Dorothy lipstick.

“You beautiful bitch.” He laughed, inspecting himself. The muscles were still there, of course, and his Adam’s apple. He wasn’t trying to fool anyone, and he didn’t want to actually be a woman, just a beautiful man pretending to be a woman. A flower that bloomed just for a night.

From the thin gap between the drapes, flashing red-and-blue lights splashed the room.

Brock leapt to the window. A cop car had parked below. Sheriff’s department, by the look of the decals. Hard to be sure at that distance. Then the emergency lights blinked off. The glow of business lights revealed shadows of two people heading away from the car, towards the tavern next to the hotel. His angle didn’t allow him to see anything else.

He stepped back. “Frick.” Joe’s Tavern… Ho’s Tavern when reserved for drag parties.He was supposed to meet his new friends their, his girlfriends. There he would dancing, drinking, laughing, and karaoke — his latest favorite, Girls Just Wanna Have Fun) And he would feel balanced, no matter how much he stumbled in his heels.

Hopefully, the police were just there for a noise complaint or a minor bar tussle. Maybe the officers weren’t even going into Joe’s.

He grabbed his secret phone and dialed LaWanda. She didn’t answer.

Should he hurry down and investigate? What if the officers recognized him? Brock hadn’t been in law enforcement for over a year, but this was district six. Some officer might know him.

But what about loyalty, to his girlfriends, to the people who saved his life?

Frick it. Just go.

Finally, wig on over his hairnet, shoes on, purse in hand, he was ready. He stuck his phone away, pushed up his padded bra, and marched out with a tiny stumble. “Ready or not, world, here I come.”

People in the hotel stared, of course. “Frick ‘em.” He felt beautiful, and he intended to enjoy every second. He was on vacation, from his childhood, from his father, from life’s narrow-minded expectations.

At the side exit, he crossed the alley, weaving around a puddle.

Weird. The back door to Joe’s Tavern wasn’t supposed to be locked. This was a private event, and the owner agreed to leave the back open for anyone who wasn’t comfortable using the street entrance.

He removed a clip-on earring and pressed his ear against the door.

“Sit down,” someone barked from inside. “Keep your hands on your head.”

“Where’s your warrant, bitch?” That screechy voice was Kelly, Brock was sure.

“Please don’t mouth off,” he whispered. Even in the best departments, some officers were pretty intolerant.

“Hey, watch it,” a deep voice said.

“Hands off,” another voice demanded.

Scuffling.

Breaking glass.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Those weren’t firecrackers.

Brock jolted away from the door, heart pounding. He reached at his waist. Crap. He hadn’t carried a gun since he was an officer, and even if he could, his outfit didn’t exactly leave room for one.

“Stop!” a girlish scream came from inside. More scuffing. Another series of bangs.

Brock wobbled down the alley, then kicked off his shoes to move faster, ignoring the cracked asphalt and tiny rocks stabbing his feet.

The alley seemed to extend as he ran, trying to match his speed.

Another shot!

Finally at the tavern’s front door, he yanked. Also locked.

Ear to the door.

Just mumbling inside. Nothing identifiable.

His fists pounded the wood, rattling the hinges and knocking down the ornate Reserved For A Private Party sign. His commanding voice kicked in. “Open up!”

Footsteps.

The door opened. A gun aimed at his head.

Brock froze.

“This is police business,” said a brawny man with a police cap. “Get lost.”

Past the officer’s shoulder, Brock saw several crumpled human-size dolls laying near the bar, at least four, covered in blood. A jumble of limbs and frozen faces. Shards of glass everywhere like large chunks of glitter decorating the bodies. And there were LaWanda’s thick black legs sprawled out below a table.

The door slammed closed.

He drifted back, feeling faint. “What the…” He fumbled with his purse, trying to get his phone out.

In the distance, a pulsing siren echoed. A police cruiser, he was sure. Good. The police were on their way.

Brock trembled, staring at the tavern door. But the police were already inside. What the hell happened?

“Fuck!”

 

Chapter Two – Puke and Police Brutality

 

A year earlier, in his polyester formal blues, Brock held out a ticket. “I’m giving you a public nuisance citation.”

LaWanda snatched it and tucked it deep between two obvious fake breasts. “Whatever.”

Brock had never encountered such an imposing man dressed as a woman. “So,” he had to ask, “what’s with the dress, dude?”

“Dude?” LaWanda said, chin raised high. “When I’m dolled up, I’m a respectable lady.” Eyes wide, he threw his head down and puked.

Brock lurched back to keep his polished shoes out of the splash zone.

“You will please address me as such.” LaWanda wiped her chin, stumbled a few feet, and plopped down onto the curb. “And no, I don’t detest having a penis.”

Actually, that was going to be Brock’s next question.

“Not all of us girls want to chop it off,” LaWanda slurred. “And I love my wife. I also love looking fabulous.” She tried to snap her fingers, but couldn’t. “I’m a flower, baby. Gotta be me.”

She turned to puke again. Brock held her fake hair out of the way. He couldn’t resist the impulse to be helpful, hoping she would elaborate. Why would someone so clearly masculine, with a wife they love, want to pretend to be… fabulous?

In between gasps for air, LaWanda asked, “Haven’t you ever wanted to take a vacation from yourself?”

Deep down, he could feel the urge to answer yes, but he couldn’t. It seemed too outlandish, too improper to even think about. But the question haunted him.

After that, Brock found himself making excuses to keep in touch. Just coffee and casual texts at first. Listening to LaWanda babble on about life was like listening to a wise monk on a mountaintop. A monk with the torso of a pro linebacker, who worked as a crane operator, grilled steaks, watched sports, and did lots of other “manly” things. But every once in a while he took a night off and pampered himself as a woman.

Weeks later, a belligerent suspect, who seemed drunk or out of his mind on drugs, unleashed a tirade on Brock.

“Eat shit, Mr. Nazi cop,” the man screamed before spitting in Brock’s face.

Other officers had to pull Brock off as he beat the man senseless. The guy needed sixty-two stitches, and it turned out the perp was having a diabetic episode — something called Hyperosmolar Hyperglycemic Syndrome that could cause hallucinations.

Brock had escaped prosecution and a civil suit, but that was the end of his law enforcement career. He didn’t care. His temper had almost killed a man — an ill one. The shame was suffocating, and he never wanted to be in that type of situation again.

LaWanda had summed it up perfectly. “Buddy, ego and testosterone shouldn’t always be at the wheel.”

With LaWanda cheering him on, Brock took community college classes on horticulture and started a landscaping company, specializing in xeriscaping for luxury properties. The work of digging drainage, building retaining walls, and excavating rotten trees satisfied his masculine side. But there was a secret perk — he worked with flowers. All kinds of wildflowers. He loved it.

For the first time, Brock was able to nurture and really care for living things. It almost made him regret that he had refused to have children. Almost — there was still a good chance he would’ve been an abusive asshole like his own father.

But working with flowers wasn’t enough. “I still feel like a robot that’s been programmed by the need to feel… macho.”

LaWanda winked. “Let’s do a little shopping.”

And soon, Brock was wearing lacy panties under his work jeans. Eventually, he followed LaWanda to a drag party. It was exactly what Brock needed — a break from himself.

 

Chapter Three – To Be or Not To Be MORE Involved

Two ambulances screamed to a stop in front of the tavern.

Brock’s heart jumped. Survivors? With all that blood on the tavern floor?

EMTs hurried into the tavern. County police and curious pedestrians shuffled around outside the tapped off perimeter. Some gave Brock wide-eyed stares, as if he were an alien — in a fake Gucci dress. Screw them.

Torturous minutes passed, then they wheeled Tiny Tina out on a stretcher. Her flaming orange hair, big hips, and voluminous fake breasts bounced like rainbow Jell-O as the paramedics loaded her into the ambulance. Her eyes were closed and an clear oxygen mask was over this ruby lips.

Brock edged in for a better look and overheard the paramedics say they were fortunate to find a faint pulse.

That ambulance left, and the crime lab and coroner pulled up.

One ambulance remained. Was there still hope for LaWanda — that beautiful, hulking black flower?

The second ambulance quietly pulled away, with no patients inside.

Brock’s stomach sank. If he had eaten recently, he might have puked, just like LaWanda had so long ago. How was he going to go on without LaWanda?

Other cross-dressers showed up, fashionably late, shuffling through the crowd. Brock hardly knew any of them, just Princess Patty who wore thick eyeliner like an Egyptian goddess. Maybe he should go talk with her, to offer and get support.

Patty suddenly screamed at the officers, demanding to know what was going on.

Then again, maybe Brock should keep to himself.

A TV van screeched to a halt behind the onlookers.

That was it; Brock could not be seen on camera. He imagined the look on his wife’s face watching the news. No, Sarah couldn’t know. She was a sweet, loving woman, but she also gave the occasional eye roll when they encountered “alternative lifestyle” stuff on TV. Brock was hoping to eventually sway her big heart to accept his new, “balanced” self. But what if she wasn’t ready yet? He couldn’t bring himself to endanger his marriage.

He slipped back into the alley, found his shoes, and crept back to his hotel room.

A lingering sense of duty told him he should stay and report what he’d heard at the back door, but who would that help? What was the value? What he heard could be interpreted in many ways, and as an ex-officer, Brock knew how bad things could look without the whole story. Like it or not, he had to accept that maybe, just maybe, it was a life-or-death situation that justified the shootings.

In his hotel room, he tossed his wig and heels aside and climbed fully dressed into the shower. He sat and clutched his knees and rocked back and forth, water blasting over him.

Or was he making excuses, too scared to speak up? Too afraid further involvement would expose his secret life? He felt like a pile of dirt that should be washed down the drain.

He jolted as the memory of gunfire echoed through him again. And the blood, the shards of glass, and the poor broken dolls scattered across the tavern floor. All dead. Their energy and love are gone forever.

He wanted to cry, but he hadn’t shed any real tears since childhood; his father made sure of that. At least the shower helped him pretend that the cascade of water over his face was the soothing release of pain he desperately longed for.

Tomorrow he would go home, in a suit, as if returning from an uneventful trade show. He would lie to his wife about seminars on the latest greenhouse and irrigation system advances. And he would never again feel whole or balanced. How could he go on with his double life without LaWanda and her hugs?

“Bring it in, girl,” LaWanda used to say, arms wide.

LaWanda was the first man Brock had ever embraced like that.

“That’s my girl,” LaWanda would say while giving a warm, deep cuddle.

Brock finally dragged himself out of the shower and started peeling off his wet clothes.

The phone rang. The private phone in the sparkly pink case. Brock lunged for it, tripping over his half-removed pantyhose.

LaWanda’s name in bright letters appeared on the screen.

Brock’s heart skipped as he fumbled to answer. “Hello?”

“This is officer Jarred Haskle with the sheriff’s department. We found this phone and we’re trying to identify the owner.”

Brock forced down a lump in his throat. “It belongs to Lawrence Davis, I believe that’s her… his name.”

“And what is your association to him?”

“Just a friend.” Brock could barely get the words out. He probably should ask where the phone was found, and feign ignorance about the situation, but he didn’t have the energy to put on an act. Besides, it was just a cop looking for next of kin, not a detective trying to drum up evidence.

“Do you have an address for mister Davis or any family contact info?”

Brock never even met LaWanda’s wife and had no clue where he lived. “No, but he drives a blue Chevy Dually, if that helps.” Mentioning that it was parked on the street would mean acknowledging that Brock was at the scene. But why admit that? It wouldn’t help.

Brock slumped, knowing full well it wasn’t the whole reason for his silence.

He added, “Lawrence told me he worked at NorthStar Construction.” At least this was a little helpful. No point in offering more, like the fact that LaWanda loved Mexican food, regular coffee, singing off-key, and cheap cherry perfume. Wonderful details, now all gone.

“NorthStar Construction.” The officer sounded like he was scribbling notes.

Brock had to ask. “Can you tell me anything about what happened?”

“Sorry, I can’t. I’m just trying to reach Mr. Davis’ family. The investigation team will follow up with you later if they have further questions.”

Brock swallowed. “Oh, all right.”

“All right, thank you for your time.”

Brock ended the call and wrapped himself in a sheet.

He could have spoken up and revealed what he saw. Why didn’t he? Was he really going to do nothing and assume the police would sort things out and the news would eventually report what happened? It was all just a terrible mistake, right? He didn’t need to ruin his own life over some terrible mistake in the tavern, right?

He took a deep breath.

The fact was, sometimes the police made mistakes. He recalled washing blood off his hands as his lieutenant informed him of what the doctors said: the suspect Brock beat was merely having a diabetic reaction.

Mistakes are made. Good people screw up.

And good people die.

“Enough,” he mumbled. He needed sleep.

He rechecked the room’s door, hit the lights, and crawled into bed, wishing the entire evening would just fade away.

But it didn’t. One word grabbed his brain.

Locked.

He sat up, looking toward the glow under the hotel door.

He’d been too upset to see it before. Why would the back and front doors of the tavern be locked?

“Those bastards!”