Fic: Community Rules for Hauntings AU 4/6
Apr. 11th, 2010 11:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
samanthahirrTitle: Covington Marshes Bylaws, Section 13.D: Community Rules for Hauntings
Fandom: American Idol
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 50,000 [complete]
Warning: Horror
Disclaimer: Total fiction. No infringement on the rights of real people intended. Not profiting in any way.
Playlist: Read and download the playlist.
Summary: "You're sleeping in your car."
"...yeah," Kris tries not to sound defensive.
"Outside a gay bar at 2 a.m."
"Yeah."
"You really don't have any place to go, do you?"
"No, I do, I just. I can't go back there at night," Kris admits softly, unable to meet Adam's eyes.
Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
He's relieved when it's finally time for Adam's last set. Kris follows Adam out to the club and heads for the packed bathroom. Almost 10 minutes later he finally makes it back to the stage where Adam is covering the Stones with a sneer and a perfect Mick Jagger shimmy-and-swagger. And Kris starts getting hard all over again, and that is so not acceptable after spending the last two hours with blue balls. He hits up Julie for some more bottles of water and heads back to the dressing room.
"Oh, hey, sugar," Daisy smiles when Kris opens the door. "Come on in."
"I got you some water," Kris holds out one of the chilled bottles and sits in Adam's chair.
Daisy twists off the top, takes a long swallow, Adam's apple bobbing in his slender throat, and smacks his lips. "My hero. So you're not gonna watch his set?"
Kris grimaces. "It's like...watching a strip tease for hours and hours."
"No happy ending?" Daisy nods, sympathetic.
"Not yet."
"Well, I could give you a hand..."
Kris's eyes fly up to Daisy's purple contacts, he catches the predatory expression. The absence of a laugh. "What?"
"It's just as much a strip tease for me when I'm up there, you know."
"I don't think-"
Daisy spins his chair to lean toward Kris, and Kris's gaze slips helplessly down to the very real cleavage displayed by the corset. Daisy rubs his hands up and down his own stockinged thighs, fiddles with the garter fastenings. "I just get all worked up. I'll pretty much go for anyone once I come down off that stage."
"Yeah, I'm not...I'm good, thanks. I'll just wait for Adam to finish."
Daisy leans back and puts a foot on Kris's lap, the stiletto heel pressed against his inner thigh. It's a good thing he'd dressed to the left. Kris drags his eyes away from Daisy's bloomers, the black satin bulging oddly where he'd taped himself back. "Suit yourself. But you did buy me those drinks, and I'd hate to seem ungracious."
"I didn't buy anything tonight; all your drinks were free. I just...wanted to help out."
Daisy smiles again, less sultry, more friendly. "Like I said, a gentleman."
"I guess," Kris shifts in the chair, wishing there was a gracious way to get away from that dangerous shoe.
"So what's the deal with you and Adam?"
Kris fidgets. "He's my boyfriend." It comes out more like a question, because they aren't even dating, really. And Kris has never had a boyfriend before, has just had hookups, some lasting longer than others. He's in uncharted waters and every time he stops to think about it, he gets nervous.
"You fucked up his makeup," Daisy says, studying Kris. "Adam never lets anyone fuck up his makeup." He sounds maybe...admiring?
Kris considers what Daisy's just said. Adam gave him unprecedented permission, access. He's gotten closer than Adam's friend has ever seen anyone before, and that's a compliment and a half. If Daisy actually likes Kris, maybe he'll help Kris get a better bead on where Adam's coming from. "And people have tried?" he prompts.
"'Course! Adam's the butch one in the act. There's dozens of guys he could get with every night, and some of them get a little pushy about it."
"Is that what Chuck's for?"
Daisy rolls his feathered eyes. "Adam doesn't need Chuck to take care of him."
Kris hesitates before asking something really personal but Daisy seems pretty relaxed and Adam won't be back for at least another 15 minutes. "Um. Adam doesn't really talk about himself. It's kind of hard to get to know him. Is it just me, or..."
"Krissy," Daisy laughs, "that boy's a performer. And all us performers use mystery to build suspense. It's just part of who we are."
"So you think he's.... he mentioned that he doesn't like to talk about his past. He's from California, that much I've figured out, but I don't even know how long he's been in New Orleans."
Daisy ignores the unspoken question. "If he doesn't like to talk about it, then maybe you shouldn't ask."
"No, I...I think I need to know. Is there some kind of trigger he's worried about? I mean, I'm not gonna run away or hate him or anything."
"I'm not your relationship counselor-"
"I know," Kris cuts him off rudely, his worries getting the better of him, "but if you could just tell me something about him, it might be a big help-"
"I'm not your relationship counselor," Daisy repeats, snapping now, "I'm Adam's friend. And I don't go talking about my friends behind their backs. So step off, little man, and stop trying to use me to worm yourself deeper into his life."
Daisy retracts his foot, crosses his impossibly slender legs, and turns his chair away, fluffs his wig some more.
Stunned, Kris sits in shamed silence, wishing he could redo the last few minutes. That was not the kind of impression he'd wanted to make on Adam's friend. Daisy had seemed to approve of him before he stuck his foot in his mouth.
And then Daisy turns on him again, face hard. "You're the reason he was out last night, aren't you?"
"What-"
"Simon was on a real tear about it. He was talking about firing him. Now, I've known Adam for a long time, and he's never been a flake about work. He loves this place, okay? He needs it. But suddenly he meets you, and you're driving him to his favorite places and getting him to skip work, and he's acting all codependent around you all over the club. And that's got me tripping because that's not Adam, and no twink is that good. So what the fuck are you doing to him?"
"I don't want him to get fired," Kris blurts, guilty and confused.
"Of course not. Then you'd lose your free-drink pass."
"That's not-"
"Save it!" Daisy gives him that stupid talk-to-the-hand gesture and yanks open a makeup bag, apparently done with Kris.
Kris hesitates, wants to defend himself, to explain that he's not trying to hurt Adam or fuck up his career or anything, but what the hell could he say? He heads out to the main room and lets Julie give him a Diet Coke and puts his head on the bar and tries not to connect the rotten, guilty feeling in his gut with Adam's beautiful, silky voice coming through the sound system.
Adam swans off the stage long before Kris has gotten over the disaster of his last conversation, but Kris sucks it up and meets him at the performers' door. He avoids Daisy's eyes as they pass in the hall, and if Adam notices, he doesn't say anything about it. He probably didn't notice, though—too busy copping a feel on Kris's ass as they walked.
Adam strips off the vest in the dressing room and Kris helps towel him off, rubbing the grease paint from his skin. "Shower's gonna feel fucking amazing," Adam sighs happily.
Kris doesn't comment. He feels like he's being a jerk, but he's just not up for flirting.
"You okay?" Adam asks as he pulls on his jeans. "You wanna stay for another drink or something?"
He shakes his head. "I'm just wiped, I guess. And I've got that early appointment tomorrow..."
"Yeah, we'd better get to bed," Adam agrees, sliding his arms into his jacket, his chest bare. Kris picks up Adam's makeup case for something to do, and Adam guides him out the back exit whispering, "Although I don't think I'm gonna let you sleep just yet."
Traffic is sluggish on the expressway at 9:20 the next morning, but they make it downtown by quarter 'til. The underground parking lot of Theresa Mordeau's building seems dim and a little creepy, as though her voodoo vibes reach all the way from the 3rd floor to the subbasement. Kris gulps, glad Adam's by his side as he presses the sooty button for the elevator next to the big G2 painted on the cement walls.
There's no music in the elevator, and the cramped metal box creaks and crawls like it's begging for repairs.
Perhaps sensing Kris's nervousness, Adam clears his throat and reads aloud from the voodoo shop flyer he's been poring over all morning. "Get this. With voodoo, you can give your enemy a headache just by turning a picture of him upside down."
Kris's mouth twitches. "Sure you can."
"And there are wizards that take werewolf-form and fly around at night, so you have to make sure all your windows are locked before you go to sleep or they'll come in and get you."
"Seriously? Werewolves?"
"Flying werewolves," Adam corrects him, glancing up from the brochure as the elevator doors slide open.
"You'd better stop reading that—it'll give you nightmares." Kris steps into the hall and then stops in his tracks. Adam goes just as still next to him.
They're standing in a freshly-painted white corridor, spacious, opposite a large glass wall that looks in on a bustling, sun-filled, cream-colored office. The words "Delta Psychiatric Clinic" shine in big brass letters above the receptionist's desk.
"That son of a bitch," Adam hisses.
They stand and stare, Kris's hands tightening into fists as he spots the etched numbers on the doors confirming that the clinic is the same #302 Michael Dee had scribbled on the flyer. There are a handful of patients sitting in comfortable-looking chairs along the side walls, soothing watercolor paintings mounted above their heads, a receptionist in a suit sitting at the big oak desk. No one notices the two of them rooted in the outside corridor.
Fuck it, Kris thinks, rage an ugly beat in the back of his tired head. He's too mad to be disappointed—too mad to turn away. He squares his shoulders and marches up to the glass double doors, pulls the right one open with a sharp jerk, and advances on the unsuspecting receptionist.
"I have an appointment with Theresa Mordeau," he says, polite only in that he isn't shouting and scaring the entire waiting room.
The pretty little receptionist looks up from under her perfectly domed bangs and smiles at him before checking her computer screen. "Good morning! Just a moment.... Mr. Allen?" Her eyes slide to the left and Kris knows Adam has followed him inside; he's breathing heavily at Kris's shoulder like he's having a hard time not shouting, too.
"That's me, Kris Allen," Kris tells her firmly.
"Great. I'll let Dr. Mordeau know you're here. Why don't you have a seat?" Her smile gives nothing away as she gestures toward a bank of chairs. She's already picking up her phone.
Kris spins on his heel and stomps to the far side of the room so he doesn't have to hear her warning the doctor that her psychotic patient with the paranormal-delusions is here. He can't bring himself to sit, though. He ends up stationed in front of the blue plastic water-cooler, arms crossed over his chest and jaw clenched, shoulder to shoulder with Adam, neither of them speaking. Which is for the best, because if Adam suggested they leave, Kris might bite Adam's head off.
Less than a minute later the receptionist stands and calls to him, "Mr. Allen, right this way?"
She heads down the corridor off the waiting room, stopping and knocking on the third door on the right before opening it and sticking her head in. Then she steps out of their way, eyeing Adam again with a surprised wrinkle to her smile, leaving them to push the door the rest of the way open.
Kris walks in with a purpose, leaving enough room for Adam to enter and close the door behind them in the shallow office. His arms still crossed, fists still burrowed under his armpits, he stares down the middle-aged black woman sitting at the neat desk and snaps, "Doctor Mordeau."
"I am," she nods solemnly. "You're Mr. Allen?"
"Doctor of what?"
Her dark brown eyes don't leave his as she smiles slightly and tips her head toward the plaques on the wall next to the desk. "Cognitive behavioral therapy. Treating panic disorders, primarily."
"Panic disorders," Kris snarls, but his rage is inevitably dulling to nausea. He'd seriously been sent to see a shrink. Had he seemed that freaked out—or that freaky—last night? He glances at her wall and reads the med school certificates, licenses to practice. There's even a god damn leather couch behind him on his right. He hates his life. He hates it.
"Would you like to sit down, Mr. Allen?"
"Where? On your couch?"
"No, how about in the chair in front of you. Your friend can sit on the couch, if he'd like." She finally acknowledges Adam, her eyebrows raised, waiting for the introduction.
"Adam Lambert," Adam mutters when Kris doesn't volunteer the information.
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Lambert. You're welcome to stay as long as Mr. Allen needs you here."
She's subtly exerting her will, showing that she's the one in control of this appointment. Kris's hackles rise, but when she looks at him with disapproving eyes he automatically takes the two steps necessary to sit on the leather armchair in front of her desk. He looks over his shoulder and sees Adam taking an uneasy perch on the arm of the couch.
"Thank you," she says, as though they've made some kind of concession. Kris really doesn't like her. "Now. Would you like to tell me about what brings you here?" Her voice is thick with the native drawl, a rich Creole accent that compliments and contradicts the tight bun of her black hair, the freshly-pressed yellow blazer and cheerful, striped blouse.
"Why?"
"Because I'd like to know how I can help you."
"Help," Kris sneers. "How? By convincing me I'm crazy? That it's all in my head?"
"What's all in your head, Mr. Allen? And may I call you Kris?"
"The fact that my house is- Fine, whatever. My house is haunted with something that's trying to kill me."
"Thank you," she says again, like getting permission to use his first name was important. Kris twitches. She's fucking good at getting under his skin. "Do you think about it a lot?"
"About...which part?"
"Any part of it. The killing part."
"Yeah, sure. Last few weeks I was thinking about it all the time."
"But not lately?"
Kris hesitates, catches his eyes trying to slip over to Adam, sitting just beyond his line of sight. He looks back to Dr. Mordeau's steady gaze. "I've had better things to think about lately."
She smiles encouragingly. "That's good; changes that break the cycle of worry are very good. I'm happy for you." Her smile includes Adam, and Kris is responsible for giving that away, but he's still indignant that she knows that much about him, about Adam.
"Whatever."
"Have you been having panic attacks, Kris?"
"Yes," Adam says when Kris hesitates again.
The doctor ignores Adam, waits for Kris to answer her himself.
"Maybe," he allows. "I don't know what officially-"
"They were definitely panic attacks," Adam says quietly.
When the hell did Adam switch sides? Kris's gratitude that Adam came with him evaporates.
"Were they triggered by anything specific? A sight, sound, smell? A memory? A person?"
"Thinking about that thing," Kris admits, takes a deep breath to stop the familiar quivering in his diaphragm.
"So, a memory?"
"I guess. Sometimes."
"Having a specific trigger for the attacks is a good thing, Kris; it makes them much more manageable."
Her calm, caring voice is soothing, reassuring. And insidious. It's drawing up feelings of vulnerability and uncertainty and those are not what he came here for. "You know," he says, standing up brusquely, "I don't know why we're even talking about this. Michael Dee got me here with a bullshit story about you being some big time voodoo priestess who can fix my ghost problem. I don't like getting bullshitted, and I'm definitely not interested in getting psychoanalyzed. So if that's all, we're leaving, and you and that dickhead can go fuck yourselves."
"Michael wasn't bullshitting you, Kris," she says mildly.
"Ha." He turns to go, looking for Adam to join him.
"My mother was a respected voodoo priestess. And I know what she knew. But I don't think that's the solution you need."
Adam's eyes widen as he and Kris process what she just said. Kris turns back around and looks her over, looks at the plaques on the walls. "You seriously know voodoo?"
"Of course. But I don't think you do."
"Obviously, or I wouldn't be here."
Dr. Mordeau flutters her eyelids as though trying to avoid rolling her eyes at a patient. She eases back in her chair before asking, "Tell me, Kris, do you believe in voodoo?"
"No," he says honestly.
She shakes her head. "Voodoo only has power if you believe in it. You. It can't help you if your mind is closed."
"I'll believe in anything if you tell me it can get rid of this thing."
"That's not how this works," she argues.
"I don't care how it works," Kris interrupts. "This thing's been driving me crazy for weeks and I just need somebody to get rid of it, any way, any how."
"Tell me what you do believe in. Heaven, Hell, God? Saints? Ghosts?"
"God...I think. I mean I used to." It's been a while since he's prayed. Longer since the pastor asked—told—him not to come back.
"And the rest?"
He shrugs.
"Kris," she tries again, "I'll be honest with you; it seems highly unlikely to me that someone who does not believe in voodoo, or God, or ghosts, would find themselves in your position. That simply isn't how the spirit world works. Spirits are all around you, everywhere you go, yes, but if you're blind to them, they can't affect you. So you have to understand why it is far more likely that your mind has created conditions that are putting you in this perpetual state of fear-"
"What I understand is you're refusing to help because...I'm not the spirits' type? I'm not enlightened enough for them?"
"I'm saying I think I can offer you a different, more appropriate kind of help, if you're willing to work with me."
"Lady," Adam growls, standing up behind Kris, coming a step closer, "you're dead wrong. I thought Kris was crazy, too, but I spent Saturday night in that place, and I watched something freeze him in place, knock lamps over, and throw a hammer at my head. So unless the Invisible Man did all that shit, you'd better believe that Kris's ghost is real, and really pissed off."
Kris could kiss his boyfriend. He definitely will, later.
The doctor's eyebrows shoot up, fingers steepled under her nose as she considers the two of them. "Alright," she says. "I'm not denying that the possibility exists."
"But?" Adam prods, belligerent.
"Again, it is highly unlikely." She sighs and closes the blank notebook in front of her. "If you'll have a seat.... I'm willing to hear you out."
Kris and Adam cautiously return to their previous positions.
"Start at the beginning and tell me everything that's happened."
Over the next half hour, Kris recounts his move to Covington, the slow start to the manifestations, and the sudden escalation in frequency and violence. And above all, the things it's communicated to him; the anger and threat it poses; what it wants to do to him.
Dr. Mordeau only attempts to hijack the conversation twice, focusing in on the recent, stressful upheavals in Kris's life, like his divorce and crisis of sexual identity. Adam quickly and firmly puts her back on topic each time, and Kris is damn glad Adam's got his back. His own testimony clearly wouldn't have been enough.
When it's almost 11 a.m. she finally looks at the clock, looks at them, and says, "Alright. I can't commit to anything, but it might help if I took a look myself. Depending what I feel at your home, there may be some spiritual remedies I can help you with."
"Great," Kris pounces on the offer. "How soon can you come?"
"Noon is best. I have an afternoon appointment I'll have to bump, but I can fit in a trip to Covington today."
"Today?" he echoes.
"Yes. I was under the impression you needed this handled quickly?"
"Yes, yes, absolutely. Noon is great. Uh...here's my address," he leans over her desk and scribbles directions and his number on a sticky note, shocked and thrilled that the appointment has turned out so well. "We'll meet you out there?"
"Just before noon," she confirms. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to make that phone call..."
Adam opens the door and Kris follows him down the hall. He beams at the receptionist and at the new batch of patients in the waiting room, unable to contain the goodwill he feels toward all humans. He's got a voodoo priestess coming to check out his condo and tell him how to kill his ghost. He feels like the luckiest man in the world.
At 11:45, Kris & Adam sit in his car in the Covington Marshes parking lot finishing their Chick-fil-A waffle fries with a honey mustard sauce that Adam keeps licking off his fingers. Kris backed the car into his parking spot so he wouldn't have to look at the building he hates so much. This gives them a clear view of the road into his cul-de-sac, and they exchange a glance and a nod when Dr. Mordeau's black BMW pulls into a visitor's spot next to the tennis court.
Adam stuffs their lunch trash in the takeout bags, brings the garbage with him when they get out of the car and head over to meet her.
Dr. Mordeau stands on the asphalt looking around her, studying the buildings and the tennis courts, the trees, the birds, the cars in the lot. Her smile is only surface-deep when she greets them and Kris worries that she's changing her mind already.
"Did you have any trouble finding it?"
"I used my GPS, it was fine," she says shortly, checking her watch. "Which is good; we want to be in there at exactly noon."
"Why?" Adam asks, tossing the bags under-hand into the trash can on the sidewalk.
"Noon is a powerful time for the spirits."
"But it's never done anything during the day," Kris protests.
"That doesn't mean it can't be felt. Noon is a special time. At noon, you don't cast a shadow; that means your soul is absent. When that happens, the spirits can take over your body—possess you, if they're so inclined."
Adam scoffs, "You don't actually believe that, do you?"
She levels a cold glare his way. "Mr. Lambert, I'm here to help. Questioning my beliefs prevents me from helping."
He puts his hands up in a low, apologetic gesture. "Okay. I just meant...um, you don't actually think that's gonna happen here."
She exhales through her nose impatiently. "No matter what you say you've seen, I have strong doubts there is actually any kind of threat here. Is it possible? If there's an aggressive spirit in there, something more dramatic could happen, yes. But do I actually believe it will? No, or I wouldn't be taking Kris in there."
Kris looks up at the windows of his second floor condo and thinks about what she said. When was the last time he was in there at noon? More than two weeks, now. It's gotten stronger, more determined since then. Could it be strong enough to take him over? He remembers its fury, the prickling of his skin, the tightness in his chest, the adrenaline rushing through his veins, and he can't go back in there, not at noon, god not ever.
"Kris?" Adam says, stepping closer.
"I can't go in there," he says, gasps. His pulse is pounding in his ears. He's just going to sit down right here on the curb and wait while they go handle his problems, because if he goes in there it'll find him, turn on him.
A bony grip pulls him onto the sidewalk, pushes him down onto the bench in front of the tennis courts. "Kris- Mr. Allen, can you hear me?" the doctor says clear and loud next to him.
He nods, hunched over his knees, trying to catch his breath. The sun is warm on his shoulders and he's shaking with chill.
"Nothing is hurting you right now. Nothing is hurting you. It's just a memory. And you can control your memories. I want you to tell yourself to stop thinking about it."
Adam is sitting on his other side, rubbing his back with a big hand. Kris's skin and muscles are so tense the contact feels sharp, painful.
"You're going to say the word 'Stop' out loud now. Forcefully. Shout it, if you need to. And when you say it, you're going to stop thinking about that memory and you're going to think of something positive."
"Babe," Adam whispers in his ear, "you played me the Lovers Waltz last week. How does it go—I can't remember."
"Tell yourself to stop, Kris. Say 'Stop.'"
"Think about the melody, Kris."
His gut aches and he's getting lightheaded from hyperventilating. It's all in his head, he knows that; he's outside, he's nowhere near it, but it's right there across the street, and he just knows it's waiting for him, waiting to kill him.
Dr. Mordeau's voice is intense. She sounds so certain when she says, "Tell yourself to stop. Control your thoughts, Kris, break the cycle. Order yourself to stop."
He wants to stop thinking about it—he wants to stop so badly. "Stop," he says weakly, his teeth clenched.
"Say it again, Kris, and think of something else."
"Stop," he says again, but he thinks about the absolute helplessness he felt when Adam was in the room with it last time, when Kris couldn't do a thing to protect him, when it was saying Adam was dead, that it had killed him and Kris would be next.
"Give me the melody," Adam pleads.
It's a beautiful melody, one he knows by heart. Kris takes a deep breath for strength and says, loud, "Stop," and it's almost enough, but he can feel his thoughts backsliding. He purses his lips and hums the opening bars, his hands shaking on his knees. He loses the thread and starts over, pictures the finger positioning and consciously relaxes the right side of his chest to feel the bowing pattern, the flex of muscles as he extends his arm in memory.
"He plays the viola," Adam explains quietly, pulling Kris's left wrist off of his knee and turning his hand upside down, in position.
Kris twitches his fingers along with the notes, opens his eyes and sees the neck in his hand, the strings vibrating. His fingers are stiff and shaking a little, which will ruin the sound, so he consciously relaxes those, too, smoothing out the notes.
"That's good, that's excellent, Kris," she says after he's hummed all the way through the first chorus, her voice warm and cheering like sunlight, like the yellow of her blazer next to him. "You're not afraid right now, are you?"
He doesn't want to stop playing, but a niggle of thought points out that what he's doing must look stupid. So he sits up straighter and shakes his head. "No." And relief flows in, overriding the blooming embarrassment. A voodoo psychiatrist just short-circuited his panic attack; she's possibly the most competent, incredible woman he's ever known. Why the hell was he so opposed to having his head shrunk?
Adam squeezes his shoulders in a hug and the doctor is beaming at him. "So your trigger is that specific memory. I want you to keep using that technique any time you feel the panic cycle starting. Just tell yourself to stop and think about something else."
"That was amazing," Adam says.
"Thanks, Dr. Mordeau." Kris manages a smile for her.
She smiles back, looking proud. "You're in control of your own thoughts; believe that and be strong. Now, this was just a start. You haven't stopped being afraid of that memory, but you can make your mind steer clear of it. Diffusing the power of the memory is the real challenge. And when you're ready to tackle that, I'll be there to help you."
Kris is grateful enough to actually be considering that offer when Adam says pointedly, "Before we start negotiating your appointment fees, how about we work on killing the ghost so he never has to think about the damned thing again?"
The doctor's smile melts into a sour frown directed at Adam. She checks her watch and sniffs, "Alright. It's 11:55. Do you feel ready to go inside?" Kris tenses up at the suggestion, but Adam takes his hand, and she says calmly, "You can handle it. Just tell yourself to stop if that memory comes back. Say it out loud."
Kris shoves the memory and the nervousness away. What's he afraid of? He has Adam and voodoo on his side. And it's just a condo. If he can concentrate on those things, maybe he can get through this. He nods, and they start across the street.
When Adam offers to take his keys, Kris declines, steps forward to undo the deadbolt and the door lock himself. He pushes open the door, humming that sweet melody under his breath, and stands back in an inadvertently gallant gesture, letting Dr. Mordeau go first. She smiles and thanks him and steps inside, her gaze alert, looking all around her as she moves.
Adam puts his hand on Kris's shoulder, waits for Kris to cross the threshold next. Kris hesitates. And then the door behind them opens and they both turn and stare at his neighbor, standing in her doorway in a hot pink track suit. Glaring suspiciously.
"Uh, good morning, Mrs. Mitchell," is as far as Kris gets before Adam shoves him into the condo and hurriedly closes the door behind them. "Dude," Kris hisses, "that's hella rude."
"Hey, you have your triggers, I have mine. Dr. Mordeau?" Adam calls. "Can I ask your opinion on witches?"
Kris elbows him in the gut and then realizes he's standing in his condo. He gets goose bumps and his stomach drops out a little, but he's just standing there and nothing's happening. He clears some space in his head where he can fit the word 'stop' if he needs to and takes a deep, slow breath. Everything looks pretty good, pretty much exactly how they'd left it Sunday morning. And Adam'd done a good job cleaning up the place so he doesn't have to be embarrassed about inviting the doctor into a mess.
There's a smell, though, like something rotting. "Is that..." he heads into the kitchen, lifts the lid on the garbage can. "Ew, God!"
"Oh, nasty. You're taking that out today. Hey, you should probably empty your fridge while we're here."
Adam grabs more garbage bags from his storage closet while the doctor continues her tour, muttering to herself, eyes closed half the time. She hasn't spoken to them since she came in, and they talk in quiet voices while they go through the fridge, trying not to disturb her.
After about 10 minutes she joins them in the kitchen. "I'm done in here," she informs them.
"What do you think it is? Could you feel it?" Kris asks anxiously. He hasn't felt anything from it today, but maybe she's more attuned somehow.
"Walk me to my car," she says and heads for the door, big purse tucked under her arm.
Kris and Adam look at each other but pick up the garbage bags and follow her out. Kris makes sure to lock both locks behind them this time. Mrs. Mitchell's door doesn't open again.
They catch up to the doctor in the parking lot. The psychiatrist slows down and waits for them with a solemn expression. "Kris, I have to tell you, I didn't feel anything in there."
He isn't surprised, but he doesn't know what she's made of it.
"I know that isn't what you wanted to hear."
"I was here Wednesday night and it didn't do anything," Adam tries to argue.
She nods but doesn't otherwise acknowledge him. "I'm not completely closed off to the idea that something's in there, but if there is, it isn't a ghost in the traditional sense."
"So what is it?" he presses.
"If I had to guess, it's possible your home has attracted the attention of a loa."
"Loa?" Adam repeats.
"What can you do?" Kris asks, because the last thing he wants to hear after getting this far is 'nothing.'
She looks at her watch and says, "There are some rituals you can do to send the spirit away. I can give you the list of supplies you'll need, talk you through them-"
"Wait, we.... We don't know voodoo, we can't....
"They're straightforward. I'll give you the prayers to read, the ingredients to mix. You just put some faith in the process, and the rituals will work fine."
They talk over each other frantically: "This is bullshit-" "Shouldn't you do it; I mean, you're the priestess-" "You're gonna just leave us with that-" "I'm not going back in there on my own-"
"Gentlemen," she cuts them off sharply. "You're perfectly capable of conducting these rituals on your own. As the expert here, you should believe me."
"I really don't think we can do it," Adam disagrees.
"Yeah, I mean, I never would have gotten across that parking lot without you. There's no way I can be in there conducting rituals on my own." Kris hopes his expression is as desperate and pleading as he feels. "Please, ma'am, Doctor, don't leave me like this."
She presses her lips together, clearly not pleased. "Mr. Allen-"
"What do you want? Payment?" Adam tries. "Kris to agree to therapy?"
"Mr. Lambert," she cuts him off, "I have a life. I have a job, I have appointments with patients who need me. I can't spend my nights out here conducting your rituals for you."
Adam persists, "Oh come on, that's- It wouldn't take much time, would it? Look at us, we're desperate. We're begging you."
Kris begs with his eyes and his heart.
She purses her lips again, tosses her head, and sighs, "I'll think about it."
"Thank you," Kris gasps, reaching to shake her hand.
She takes a step back. "But right now I'm late for my lunch appointment. I'll let you know later what I decide." She gives them a parting glare that screams 'disappointment' and ducks into her car, leaving Kris and Adam standing in the parking lot with Kris's Hefty bags, watching her drive away.
Kris's phone rings at quarter to 3 that afternoon, and at first he assumes it's his mom, belatedly remembering the Sunday call he'd missed. Again. But he doesn't recognize the number. He sets his guitar aside and flips open the phone. "Hello?"
"Kris, this is Theresa Mordeau."
"Oh, hi! Doctor," he adds for Adam's benefit as his boyfriend pushes his way into the bathroom, sweaty from the apartment building's fitness center. Adam pauses and lurks in the doorway to listen.
"I'm calling to let you know that I've reconsidered; I'm willing to conduct the rituals for you."
"You are? Seriously?!"
"But there's a condition."
"Uh." As far as Kris is concerned, everything was already going to be on her terms. "Sure, whatever."
"A friend of mine, Dr. Joseph Kielce, is working on a book on voodoo artifacts. I mentioned your situation and he thinks it would be valuable research for him to attend some rituals. Now before you say anything, I'm only doing this because he's asking; if you don't want him there, I won't be there either."
"No, no, that's fine. I don't care who you bring."
Adam tiptoes out of the bathroom and sits down on the couch next to him, watching Kris's face for hints of how the conversation is going. "Well?" he whispers.
"She wants to bring a friend, but she'll do it."
Adam dismisses the condition with a hand wave. "Awesome, right?"
"Right," Kris agrees. "Dr. Mordeau, that's totally fine with us."
"Really?" She sounds surprised. "Okay, good. We can start tomorrow evening."
"Yeah, Tuesday's great! What time?"
Adam's nodding. "This is fucking awesome," he sings in Kris's ear. "We're gonna kill this fucking thing tomorrow..."
Kris misses the next thing Dr. Mordeau says, distracted by the realization that... "Adam, you're not coming."
"What?"
"You're not coming tomorrow."
"Wait, is that bitch saying I'm not allowed to-"
"You have to work," he reminds him.
Adam blinks and frowns. "I'll call out."
Which is exactly what Kris doesn't want. He turns his head back to the phone. "Dr. Mordeau, can you hold on for a minute?"
"If you're concerned-" she starts saying, and Kris pulls the phone away from his ear, covering the receiver with one hand.
"You're not allowed to miss work for this," he tells Adam firmly.
Adam recoils a bit. "Fuck work-"
"No," Kris interrupts. "No, babe. Daisy said you're 'this close' to getting fired from Simon's cause you called out on Saturday."
"Daisy needs to stay the hell out of my business," he mutters.
"But was he right?"
"Everyone's 'this close' to getting fired at Simon's," Adam rolls his eyes. "And besides, tomorrow night's the Wyndham."
"Even worse—you love the money there. Why are you gonna skip that?"
Adam throws his hands up, looks at the wall instead of at Kris, says with a lot of energy, "Cause I wanna be there for you. You're dealing with this massive thing and I wanna make sure you're okay."
And that's beyond sweet; that's pure Adam right there. He looks frustrated that Kris would try to shut him out, take back any of the personal space Kris has given up around him. And Kris doesn't even want to, not really, but he knows he doesn't have any other choice. "I want you to be there," Kris admits. "But you're not gonna fuck up your life for my ghost problems. I'm not gonna let that happen."
"It's my life," Adam argues.
"And it's my condo, and you can't come if I don't let you."
"What, am I a vampire now?"
"I mean it, Adam. You're not missing any more gigs for me."
Adam puts his hands on Kris's shoulders like he wants to shake him, grits his teeth against something angry, but suddenly drops his head and shakes it. He laughs a little, which makes Kris feel better even before he says, "Oh my god, how fucking Twilight is this?"
Kris doesn't follow.
Adam looks up with an embarrassed grin and says, "We can sit here all day arguing about who loves who more, and who's gonna sacrifice what for who...or we can just hold the fucking séance on Wednesday."
Kris stares at him and then feels a relieved giggle start at the bottom of his lungs and work its way out. "Oh my god. You're a genius."
Adam leans in and gives him a peck on the lips. "I know, right? So ask her if it's cool."
Kris holds the phone up again. "Dr. Mordeau, we can't do it tomorrow. Are you free on Wednesday? You and your friend, I mean."
She sighs in his ear, but doesn't sound upset when she answers, "Wednesday is fine. 8 p.m.?"
"8 o'clock," Kris agrees. "See you then." He snaps the phone shut and looks at Adam with narrowed eyes. "I can't believe you're gonna be the voice of reason in this relationship."
Adam grabs him, drags him up against his sweat-stained t-shirt, clutching Kris's head to his chest in a big hug. "Baby," Adam croons, petting his hair and rocking them side to side, "let's never fight again."
Kris shoves against his ribs a little before hugging him back, still laughing.
Simon's is half empty on Monday night. It's mostly tourists, Adam points out as they order drinks at the bar. The vacationers are the only ones crazy enough to party on a weeknight in September. Even still, the bar is doing a good bit of business.
Daisy doesn't look happy to see Kris, but fakes it as long as Adam is in the room. Kris can read the vibes, knows they're gonna be having it out once Adam's on stage, and he's actually looking forward to it. He knows where he stands with Adam, and he needs to make Adam's friend understand that he isn't a threat to Adam's job.
Kris watches the first half of his boyfriend's set from side-stage before heading back to the dressing room to chat with Adam's friend.
"Krissy, you're still here," Daisy greets him in a grating falsetto when he slips in the door.
Kris shoots a look at Frankie, who's just suiting up, fastening a complicated bra with shaped foam inserts. "Hi Frankie, Daisy."
"Little Kris!" Frankie exclaims, winking at him. "Back for more?"
"Like I never left," Kris agrees.
Daisy compares a close-up photo of his own face with his reflection and lifts the eyebrow pencil for a few sharp strokes. "And how long are you staying?"
"I don't know. Maybe a real long time," Kris wonders if their entire argument is gonna be done in code for Frankie's benefit. He thinks he recognizes the dance beat Adam's got going outside. Lady Gaga?
"Aww, that's so cute," Daisy says, thick with sarcasm. "That's just the kind of indecision we all love to have around."
Apparently, it is. "Daisy," Kris starts, leaning on the back of Adam's swivel chair in between the two drag queens, "I know you're Adam's friend, and I know you don't know me-"
"Oh no, Daisy, you didn't," Frankie cuts in, pointing a red nail at the other star. "Kris, has this little Chihuahua been trying to scare you off its territory?"
Kris gapes a little at Frankie, but takes in Daisy's affronted and—yes—embarrassed face.
"Stay out of this, Frankie," Daisy mutters, throwing down the brow pencil and rubbing blush across his cheeks with furious swipes.
"Oh, you so did!" Frankie grins and shakes his head. "Krissy, on behalf of everyone at Simon's, let me apologize for Daisy's behavior. She has a habit of getting a tad overly possessive—" Frankie shoots Daisy a pitying look, "of everyone. Bitch has cock-blocked me more times than I can count."
"I do not," Daisy hisses.
"Oh honey, you know you do. You've gotta start checking your abandonment issues at the door. If I wanna hookup, I'm gonna hookup. If Steve wants to get in Joe's pants, it's gonna happen. And if Adam wants to get himself a boyfriend, he's allowed. I promise: it doesn't mean he loves you any less."
"Fuck you," Daisy mutters.
"Grow up," Frankie shoots back, shifting the bra around a bit and posing in the mirror.
"Just cause you don't give a crap about your friends getting hurt-"
"Sugar pie, I think you need a hug. Kris, hug the bitch."
That sounds like a bad idea. Daisy glares at him and Kris amends that to very bad. "Uh, no thanks."
"You don't know the shit Adam's been through," Daisy spits at Frankie. "The last thing he needs is some asshole stringing him along for the fun of it."
Kris's ears perk up.
Frankie laughs and shakes his head, reaches for a white dress with a poofy skirt sprinkled with oversized pink and red polka dots. "He doesn't need to tell me—I'm not stupid. It's obvious he's damaged goods. But Kris," and huge, smoky eyes with white highlighter under the brows turn on him, "doesn't seem like the malicious type."
Kris shakes his head, denying the charge. But damaged goods, what the fuck?
"And he's not gonna go leading Adam on for the fun of it. Cause if he did, he'd have to answer to me."
"Right," Kris says faintly.
"So you, my darling, are going to have to back off and let Adam make some decisions for himself." Frankie shimmies into the dress, brushes past Kris on stockinged toes, and bends to kiss Daisy's forehead. Frankie's hand is tender where he brushes the bangs aside, and Kris looks down at the tubes of lipstick on Adam's table, trying not to be angry at Daisy, at Frankie, and at Adam.
Part 5
Fandom: American Idol
Pairing: Adam/Kris
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 50,000 [complete]
Warning: Horror
Disclaimer: Total fiction. No infringement on the rights of real people intended. Not profiting in any way.
Playlist: Read and download the playlist.
Summary: "You're sleeping in your car."
"...yeah," Kris tries not to sound defensive.
"Outside a gay bar at 2 a.m."
"Yeah."
"You really don't have any place to go, do you?"
"No, I do, I just. I can't go back there at night," Kris admits softly, unable to meet Adam's eyes.
Part 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6
He's relieved when it's finally time for Adam's last set. Kris follows Adam out to the club and heads for the packed bathroom. Almost 10 minutes later he finally makes it back to the stage where Adam is covering the Stones with a sneer and a perfect Mick Jagger shimmy-and-swagger. And Kris starts getting hard all over again, and that is so not acceptable after spending the last two hours with blue balls. He hits up Julie for some more bottles of water and heads back to the dressing room.
"Oh, hey, sugar," Daisy smiles when Kris opens the door. "Come on in."
"I got you some water," Kris holds out one of the chilled bottles and sits in Adam's chair.
Daisy twists off the top, takes a long swallow, Adam's apple bobbing in his slender throat, and smacks his lips. "My hero. So you're not gonna watch his set?"
Kris grimaces. "It's like...watching a strip tease for hours and hours."
"No happy ending?" Daisy nods, sympathetic.
"Not yet."
"Well, I could give you a hand..."
Kris's eyes fly up to Daisy's purple contacts, he catches the predatory expression. The absence of a laugh. "What?"
"It's just as much a strip tease for me when I'm up there, you know."
"I don't think-"
Daisy spins his chair to lean toward Kris, and Kris's gaze slips helplessly down to the very real cleavage displayed by the corset. Daisy rubs his hands up and down his own stockinged thighs, fiddles with the garter fastenings. "I just get all worked up. I'll pretty much go for anyone once I come down off that stage."
"Yeah, I'm not...I'm good, thanks. I'll just wait for Adam to finish."
Daisy leans back and puts a foot on Kris's lap, the stiletto heel pressed against his inner thigh. It's a good thing he'd dressed to the left. Kris drags his eyes away from Daisy's bloomers, the black satin bulging oddly where he'd taped himself back. "Suit yourself. But you did buy me those drinks, and I'd hate to seem ungracious."
"I didn't buy anything tonight; all your drinks were free. I just...wanted to help out."
Daisy smiles again, less sultry, more friendly. "Like I said, a gentleman."
"I guess," Kris shifts in the chair, wishing there was a gracious way to get away from that dangerous shoe.
"So what's the deal with you and Adam?"
Kris fidgets. "He's my boyfriend." It comes out more like a question, because they aren't even dating, really. And Kris has never had a boyfriend before, has just had hookups, some lasting longer than others. He's in uncharted waters and every time he stops to think about it, he gets nervous.
"You fucked up his makeup," Daisy says, studying Kris. "Adam never lets anyone fuck up his makeup." He sounds maybe...admiring?
Kris considers what Daisy's just said. Adam gave him unprecedented permission, access. He's gotten closer than Adam's friend has ever seen anyone before, and that's a compliment and a half. If Daisy actually likes Kris, maybe he'll help Kris get a better bead on where Adam's coming from. "And people have tried?" he prompts.
"'Course! Adam's the butch one in the act. There's dozens of guys he could get with every night, and some of them get a little pushy about it."
"Is that what Chuck's for?"
Daisy rolls his feathered eyes. "Adam doesn't need Chuck to take care of him."
Kris hesitates before asking something really personal but Daisy seems pretty relaxed and Adam won't be back for at least another 15 minutes. "Um. Adam doesn't really talk about himself. It's kind of hard to get to know him. Is it just me, or..."
"Krissy," Daisy laughs, "that boy's a performer. And all us performers use mystery to build suspense. It's just part of who we are."
"So you think he's.... he mentioned that he doesn't like to talk about his past. He's from California, that much I've figured out, but I don't even know how long he's been in New Orleans."
Daisy ignores the unspoken question. "If he doesn't like to talk about it, then maybe you shouldn't ask."
"No, I...I think I need to know. Is there some kind of trigger he's worried about? I mean, I'm not gonna run away or hate him or anything."
"I'm not your relationship counselor-"
"I know," Kris cuts him off rudely, his worries getting the better of him, "but if you could just tell me something about him, it might be a big help-"
"I'm not your relationship counselor," Daisy repeats, snapping now, "I'm Adam's friend. And I don't go talking about my friends behind their backs. So step off, little man, and stop trying to use me to worm yourself deeper into his life."
Daisy retracts his foot, crosses his impossibly slender legs, and turns his chair away, fluffs his wig some more.
Stunned, Kris sits in shamed silence, wishing he could redo the last few minutes. That was not the kind of impression he'd wanted to make on Adam's friend. Daisy had seemed to approve of him before he stuck his foot in his mouth.
And then Daisy turns on him again, face hard. "You're the reason he was out last night, aren't you?"
"What-"
"Simon was on a real tear about it. He was talking about firing him. Now, I've known Adam for a long time, and he's never been a flake about work. He loves this place, okay? He needs it. But suddenly he meets you, and you're driving him to his favorite places and getting him to skip work, and he's acting all codependent around you all over the club. And that's got me tripping because that's not Adam, and no twink is that good. So what the fuck are you doing to him?"
"I don't want him to get fired," Kris blurts, guilty and confused.
"Of course not. Then you'd lose your free-drink pass."
"That's not-"
"Save it!" Daisy gives him that stupid talk-to-the-hand gesture and yanks open a makeup bag, apparently done with Kris.
Kris hesitates, wants to defend himself, to explain that he's not trying to hurt Adam or fuck up his career or anything, but what the hell could he say? He heads out to the main room and lets Julie give him a Diet Coke and puts his head on the bar and tries not to connect the rotten, guilty feeling in his gut with Adam's beautiful, silky voice coming through the sound system.
Adam swans off the stage long before Kris has gotten over the disaster of his last conversation, but Kris sucks it up and meets him at the performers' door. He avoids Daisy's eyes as they pass in the hall, and if Adam notices, he doesn't say anything about it. He probably didn't notice, though—too busy copping a feel on Kris's ass as they walked.
Adam strips off the vest in the dressing room and Kris helps towel him off, rubbing the grease paint from his skin. "Shower's gonna feel fucking amazing," Adam sighs happily.
Kris doesn't comment. He feels like he's being a jerk, but he's just not up for flirting.
"You okay?" Adam asks as he pulls on his jeans. "You wanna stay for another drink or something?"
He shakes his head. "I'm just wiped, I guess. And I've got that early appointment tomorrow..."
"Yeah, we'd better get to bed," Adam agrees, sliding his arms into his jacket, his chest bare. Kris picks up Adam's makeup case for something to do, and Adam guides him out the back exit whispering, "Although I don't think I'm gonna let you sleep just yet."
Traffic is sluggish on the expressway at 9:20 the next morning, but they make it downtown by quarter 'til. The underground parking lot of Theresa Mordeau's building seems dim and a little creepy, as though her voodoo vibes reach all the way from the 3rd floor to the subbasement. Kris gulps, glad Adam's by his side as he presses the sooty button for the elevator next to the big G2 painted on the cement walls.
There's no music in the elevator, and the cramped metal box creaks and crawls like it's begging for repairs.
Perhaps sensing Kris's nervousness, Adam clears his throat and reads aloud from the voodoo shop flyer he's been poring over all morning. "Get this. With voodoo, you can give your enemy a headache just by turning a picture of him upside down."
Kris's mouth twitches. "Sure you can."
"And there are wizards that take werewolf-form and fly around at night, so you have to make sure all your windows are locked before you go to sleep or they'll come in and get you."
"Seriously? Werewolves?"
"Flying werewolves," Adam corrects him, glancing up from the brochure as the elevator doors slide open.
"You'd better stop reading that—it'll give you nightmares." Kris steps into the hall and then stops in his tracks. Adam goes just as still next to him.
They're standing in a freshly-painted white corridor, spacious, opposite a large glass wall that looks in on a bustling, sun-filled, cream-colored office. The words "Delta Psychiatric Clinic" shine in big brass letters above the receptionist's desk.
"That son of a bitch," Adam hisses.
They stand and stare, Kris's hands tightening into fists as he spots the etched numbers on the doors confirming that the clinic is the same #302 Michael Dee had scribbled on the flyer. There are a handful of patients sitting in comfortable-looking chairs along the side walls, soothing watercolor paintings mounted above their heads, a receptionist in a suit sitting at the big oak desk. No one notices the two of them rooted in the outside corridor.
Fuck it, Kris thinks, rage an ugly beat in the back of his tired head. He's too mad to be disappointed—too mad to turn away. He squares his shoulders and marches up to the glass double doors, pulls the right one open with a sharp jerk, and advances on the unsuspecting receptionist.
"I have an appointment with Theresa Mordeau," he says, polite only in that he isn't shouting and scaring the entire waiting room.
The pretty little receptionist looks up from under her perfectly domed bangs and smiles at him before checking her computer screen. "Good morning! Just a moment.... Mr. Allen?" Her eyes slide to the left and Kris knows Adam has followed him inside; he's breathing heavily at Kris's shoulder like he's having a hard time not shouting, too.
"That's me, Kris Allen," Kris tells her firmly.
"Great. I'll let Dr. Mordeau know you're here. Why don't you have a seat?" Her smile gives nothing away as she gestures toward a bank of chairs. She's already picking up her phone.
Kris spins on his heel and stomps to the far side of the room so he doesn't have to hear her warning the doctor that her psychotic patient with the paranormal-delusions is here. He can't bring himself to sit, though. He ends up stationed in front of the blue plastic water-cooler, arms crossed over his chest and jaw clenched, shoulder to shoulder with Adam, neither of them speaking. Which is for the best, because if Adam suggested they leave, Kris might bite Adam's head off.
Less than a minute later the receptionist stands and calls to him, "Mr. Allen, right this way?"
She heads down the corridor off the waiting room, stopping and knocking on the third door on the right before opening it and sticking her head in. Then she steps out of their way, eyeing Adam again with a surprised wrinkle to her smile, leaving them to push the door the rest of the way open.
Kris walks in with a purpose, leaving enough room for Adam to enter and close the door behind them in the shallow office. His arms still crossed, fists still burrowed under his armpits, he stares down the middle-aged black woman sitting at the neat desk and snaps, "Doctor Mordeau."
"I am," she nods solemnly. "You're Mr. Allen?"
"Doctor of what?"
Her dark brown eyes don't leave his as she smiles slightly and tips her head toward the plaques on the wall next to the desk. "Cognitive behavioral therapy. Treating panic disorders, primarily."
"Panic disorders," Kris snarls, but his rage is inevitably dulling to nausea. He'd seriously been sent to see a shrink. Had he seemed that freaked out—or that freaky—last night? He glances at her wall and reads the med school certificates, licenses to practice. There's even a god damn leather couch behind him on his right. He hates his life. He hates it.
"Would you like to sit down, Mr. Allen?"
"Where? On your couch?"
"No, how about in the chair in front of you. Your friend can sit on the couch, if he'd like." She finally acknowledges Adam, her eyebrows raised, waiting for the introduction.
"Adam Lambert," Adam mutters when Kris doesn't volunteer the information.
"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Lambert. You're welcome to stay as long as Mr. Allen needs you here."
She's subtly exerting her will, showing that she's the one in control of this appointment. Kris's hackles rise, but when she looks at him with disapproving eyes he automatically takes the two steps necessary to sit on the leather armchair in front of her desk. He looks over his shoulder and sees Adam taking an uneasy perch on the arm of the couch.
"Thank you," she says, as though they've made some kind of concession. Kris really doesn't like her. "Now. Would you like to tell me about what brings you here?" Her voice is thick with the native drawl, a rich Creole accent that compliments and contradicts the tight bun of her black hair, the freshly-pressed yellow blazer and cheerful, striped blouse.
"Why?"
"Because I'd like to know how I can help you."
"Help," Kris sneers. "How? By convincing me I'm crazy? That it's all in my head?"
"What's all in your head, Mr. Allen? And may I call you Kris?"
"The fact that my house is- Fine, whatever. My house is haunted with something that's trying to kill me."
"Thank you," she says again, like getting permission to use his first name was important. Kris twitches. She's fucking good at getting under his skin. "Do you think about it a lot?"
"About...which part?"
"Any part of it. The killing part."
"Yeah, sure. Last few weeks I was thinking about it all the time."
"But not lately?"
Kris hesitates, catches his eyes trying to slip over to Adam, sitting just beyond his line of sight. He looks back to Dr. Mordeau's steady gaze. "I've had better things to think about lately."
She smiles encouragingly. "That's good; changes that break the cycle of worry are very good. I'm happy for you." Her smile includes Adam, and Kris is responsible for giving that away, but he's still indignant that she knows that much about him, about Adam.
"Whatever."
"Have you been having panic attacks, Kris?"
"Yes," Adam says when Kris hesitates again.
The doctor ignores Adam, waits for Kris to answer her himself.
"Maybe," he allows. "I don't know what officially-"
"They were definitely panic attacks," Adam says quietly.
When the hell did Adam switch sides? Kris's gratitude that Adam came with him evaporates.
"Were they triggered by anything specific? A sight, sound, smell? A memory? A person?"
"Thinking about that thing," Kris admits, takes a deep breath to stop the familiar quivering in his diaphragm.
"So, a memory?"
"I guess. Sometimes."
"Having a specific trigger for the attacks is a good thing, Kris; it makes them much more manageable."
Her calm, caring voice is soothing, reassuring. And insidious. It's drawing up feelings of vulnerability and uncertainty and those are not what he came here for. "You know," he says, standing up brusquely, "I don't know why we're even talking about this. Michael Dee got me here with a bullshit story about you being some big time voodoo priestess who can fix my ghost problem. I don't like getting bullshitted, and I'm definitely not interested in getting psychoanalyzed. So if that's all, we're leaving, and you and that dickhead can go fuck yourselves."
"Michael wasn't bullshitting you, Kris," she says mildly.
"Ha." He turns to go, looking for Adam to join him.
"My mother was a respected voodoo priestess. And I know what she knew. But I don't think that's the solution you need."
Adam's eyes widen as he and Kris process what she just said. Kris turns back around and looks her over, looks at the plaques on the walls. "You seriously know voodoo?"
"Of course. But I don't think you do."
"Obviously, or I wouldn't be here."
Dr. Mordeau flutters her eyelids as though trying to avoid rolling her eyes at a patient. She eases back in her chair before asking, "Tell me, Kris, do you believe in voodoo?"
"No," he says honestly.
She shakes her head. "Voodoo only has power if you believe in it. You. It can't help you if your mind is closed."
"I'll believe in anything if you tell me it can get rid of this thing."
"That's not how this works," she argues.
"I don't care how it works," Kris interrupts. "This thing's been driving me crazy for weeks and I just need somebody to get rid of it, any way, any how."
"Tell me what you do believe in. Heaven, Hell, God? Saints? Ghosts?"
"God...I think. I mean I used to." It's been a while since he's prayed. Longer since the pastor asked—told—him not to come back.
"And the rest?"
He shrugs.
"Kris," she tries again, "I'll be honest with you; it seems highly unlikely to me that someone who does not believe in voodoo, or God, or ghosts, would find themselves in your position. That simply isn't how the spirit world works. Spirits are all around you, everywhere you go, yes, but if you're blind to them, they can't affect you. So you have to understand why it is far more likely that your mind has created conditions that are putting you in this perpetual state of fear-"
"What I understand is you're refusing to help because...I'm not the spirits' type? I'm not enlightened enough for them?"
"I'm saying I think I can offer you a different, more appropriate kind of help, if you're willing to work with me."
"Lady," Adam growls, standing up behind Kris, coming a step closer, "you're dead wrong. I thought Kris was crazy, too, but I spent Saturday night in that place, and I watched something freeze him in place, knock lamps over, and throw a hammer at my head. So unless the Invisible Man did all that shit, you'd better believe that Kris's ghost is real, and really pissed off."
Kris could kiss his boyfriend. He definitely will, later.
The doctor's eyebrows shoot up, fingers steepled under her nose as she considers the two of them. "Alright," she says. "I'm not denying that the possibility exists."
"But?" Adam prods, belligerent.
"Again, it is highly unlikely." She sighs and closes the blank notebook in front of her. "If you'll have a seat.... I'm willing to hear you out."
Kris and Adam cautiously return to their previous positions.
"Start at the beginning and tell me everything that's happened."
Over the next half hour, Kris recounts his move to Covington, the slow start to the manifestations, and the sudden escalation in frequency and violence. And above all, the things it's communicated to him; the anger and threat it poses; what it wants to do to him.
Dr. Mordeau only attempts to hijack the conversation twice, focusing in on the recent, stressful upheavals in Kris's life, like his divorce and crisis of sexual identity. Adam quickly and firmly puts her back on topic each time, and Kris is damn glad Adam's got his back. His own testimony clearly wouldn't have been enough.
When it's almost 11 a.m. she finally looks at the clock, looks at them, and says, "Alright. I can't commit to anything, but it might help if I took a look myself. Depending what I feel at your home, there may be some spiritual remedies I can help you with."
"Great," Kris pounces on the offer. "How soon can you come?"
"Noon is best. I have an afternoon appointment I'll have to bump, but I can fit in a trip to Covington today."
"Today?" he echoes.
"Yes. I was under the impression you needed this handled quickly?"
"Yes, yes, absolutely. Noon is great. Uh...here's my address," he leans over her desk and scribbles directions and his number on a sticky note, shocked and thrilled that the appointment has turned out so well. "We'll meet you out there?"
"Just before noon," she confirms. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have to make that phone call..."
Adam opens the door and Kris follows him down the hall. He beams at the receptionist and at the new batch of patients in the waiting room, unable to contain the goodwill he feels toward all humans. He's got a voodoo priestess coming to check out his condo and tell him how to kill his ghost. He feels like the luckiest man in the world.
At 11:45, Kris & Adam sit in his car in the Covington Marshes parking lot finishing their Chick-fil-A waffle fries with a honey mustard sauce that Adam keeps licking off his fingers. Kris backed the car into his parking spot so he wouldn't have to look at the building he hates so much. This gives them a clear view of the road into his cul-de-sac, and they exchange a glance and a nod when Dr. Mordeau's black BMW pulls into a visitor's spot next to the tennis court.
Adam stuffs their lunch trash in the takeout bags, brings the garbage with him when they get out of the car and head over to meet her.
Dr. Mordeau stands on the asphalt looking around her, studying the buildings and the tennis courts, the trees, the birds, the cars in the lot. Her smile is only surface-deep when she greets them and Kris worries that she's changing her mind already.
"Did you have any trouble finding it?"
"I used my GPS, it was fine," she says shortly, checking her watch. "Which is good; we want to be in there at exactly noon."
"Why?" Adam asks, tossing the bags under-hand into the trash can on the sidewalk.
"Noon is a powerful time for the spirits."
"But it's never done anything during the day," Kris protests.
"That doesn't mean it can't be felt. Noon is a special time. At noon, you don't cast a shadow; that means your soul is absent. When that happens, the spirits can take over your body—possess you, if they're so inclined."
Adam scoffs, "You don't actually believe that, do you?"
She levels a cold glare his way. "Mr. Lambert, I'm here to help. Questioning my beliefs prevents me from helping."
He puts his hands up in a low, apologetic gesture. "Okay. I just meant...um, you don't actually think that's gonna happen here."
She exhales through her nose impatiently. "No matter what you say you've seen, I have strong doubts there is actually any kind of threat here. Is it possible? If there's an aggressive spirit in there, something more dramatic could happen, yes. But do I actually believe it will? No, or I wouldn't be taking Kris in there."
Kris looks up at the windows of his second floor condo and thinks about what she said. When was the last time he was in there at noon? More than two weeks, now. It's gotten stronger, more determined since then. Could it be strong enough to take him over? He remembers its fury, the prickling of his skin, the tightness in his chest, the adrenaline rushing through his veins, and he can't go back in there, not at noon, god not ever.
"Kris?" Adam says, stepping closer.
"I can't go in there," he says, gasps. His pulse is pounding in his ears. He's just going to sit down right here on the curb and wait while they go handle his problems, because if he goes in there it'll find him, turn on him.
A bony grip pulls him onto the sidewalk, pushes him down onto the bench in front of the tennis courts. "Kris- Mr. Allen, can you hear me?" the doctor says clear and loud next to him.
He nods, hunched over his knees, trying to catch his breath. The sun is warm on his shoulders and he's shaking with chill.
"Nothing is hurting you right now. Nothing is hurting you. It's just a memory. And you can control your memories. I want you to tell yourself to stop thinking about it."
Adam is sitting on his other side, rubbing his back with a big hand. Kris's skin and muscles are so tense the contact feels sharp, painful.
"You're going to say the word 'Stop' out loud now. Forcefully. Shout it, if you need to. And when you say it, you're going to stop thinking about that memory and you're going to think of something positive."
"Babe," Adam whispers in his ear, "you played me the Lovers Waltz last week. How does it go—I can't remember."
"Tell yourself to stop, Kris. Say 'Stop.'"
"Think about the melody, Kris."
His gut aches and he's getting lightheaded from hyperventilating. It's all in his head, he knows that; he's outside, he's nowhere near it, but it's right there across the street, and he just knows it's waiting for him, waiting to kill him.
Dr. Mordeau's voice is intense. She sounds so certain when she says, "Tell yourself to stop. Control your thoughts, Kris, break the cycle. Order yourself to stop."
He wants to stop thinking about it—he wants to stop so badly. "Stop," he says weakly, his teeth clenched.
"Say it again, Kris, and think of something else."
"Stop," he says again, but he thinks about the absolute helplessness he felt when Adam was in the room with it last time, when Kris couldn't do a thing to protect him, when it was saying Adam was dead, that it had killed him and Kris would be next.
"Give me the melody," Adam pleads.
It's a beautiful melody, one he knows by heart. Kris takes a deep breath for strength and says, loud, "Stop," and it's almost enough, but he can feel his thoughts backsliding. He purses his lips and hums the opening bars, his hands shaking on his knees. He loses the thread and starts over, pictures the finger positioning and consciously relaxes the right side of his chest to feel the bowing pattern, the flex of muscles as he extends his arm in memory.
"He plays the viola," Adam explains quietly, pulling Kris's left wrist off of his knee and turning his hand upside down, in position.
Kris twitches his fingers along with the notes, opens his eyes and sees the neck in his hand, the strings vibrating. His fingers are stiff and shaking a little, which will ruin the sound, so he consciously relaxes those, too, smoothing out the notes.
"That's good, that's excellent, Kris," she says after he's hummed all the way through the first chorus, her voice warm and cheering like sunlight, like the yellow of her blazer next to him. "You're not afraid right now, are you?"
He doesn't want to stop playing, but a niggle of thought points out that what he's doing must look stupid. So he sits up straighter and shakes his head. "No." And relief flows in, overriding the blooming embarrassment. A voodoo psychiatrist just short-circuited his panic attack; she's possibly the most competent, incredible woman he's ever known. Why the hell was he so opposed to having his head shrunk?
Adam squeezes his shoulders in a hug and the doctor is beaming at him. "So your trigger is that specific memory. I want you to keep using that technique any time you feel the panic cycle starting. Just tell yourself to stop and think about something else."
"That was amazing," Adam says.
"Thanks, Dr. Mordeau." Kris manages a smile for her.
She smiles back, looking proud. "You're in control of your own thoughts; believe that and be strong. Now, this was just a start. You haven't stopped being afraid of that memory, but you can make your mind steer clear of it. Diffusing the power of the memory is the real challenge. And when you're ready to tackle that, I'll be there to help you."
Kris is grateful enough to actually be considering that offer when Adam says pointedly, "Before we start negotiating your appointment fees, how about we work on killing the ghost so he never has to think about the damned thing again?"
The doctor's smile melts into a sour frown directed at Adam. She checks her watch and sniffs, "Alright. It's 11:55. Do you feel ready to go inside?" Kris tenses up at the suggestion, but Adam takes his hand, and she says calmly, "You can handle it. Just tell yourself to stop if that memory comes back. Say it out loud."
Kris shoves the memory and the nervousness away. What's he afraid of? He has Adam and voodoo on his side. And it's just a condo. If he can concentrate on those things, maybe he can get through this. He nods, and they start across the street.
When Adam offers to take his keys, Kris declines, steps forward to undo the deadbolt and the door lock himself. He pushes open the door, humming that sweet melody under his breath, and stands back in an inadvertently gallant gesture, letting Dr. Mordeau go first. She smiles and thanks him and steps inside, her gaze alert, looking all around her as she moves.
Adam puts his hand on Kris's shoulder, waits for Kris to cross the threshold next. Kris hesitates. And then the door behind them opens and they both turn and stare at his neighbor, standing in her doorway in a hot pink track suit. Glaring suspiciously.
"Uh, good morning, Mrs. Mitchell," is as far as Kris gets before Adam shoves him into the condo and hurriedly closes the door behind them. "Dude," Kris hisses, "that's hella rude."
"Hey, you have your triggers, I have mine. Dr. Mordeau?" Adam calls. "Can I ask your opinion on witches?"
Kris elbows him in the gut and then realizes he's standing in his condo. He gets goose bumps and his stomach drops out a little, but he's just standing there and nothing's happening. He clears some space in his head where he can fit the word 'stop' if he needs to and takes a deep, slow breath. Everything looks pretty good, pretty much exactly how they'd left it Sunday morning. And Adam'd done a good job cleaning up the place so he doesn't have to be embarrassed about inviting the doctor into a mess.
There's a smell, though, like something rotting. "Is that..." he heads into the kitchen, lifts the lid on the garbage can. "Ew, God!"
"Oh, nasty. You're taking that out today. Hey, you should probably empty your fridge while we're here."
Adam grabs more garbage bags from his storage closet while the doctor continues her tour, muttering to herself, eyes closed half the time. She hasn't spoken to them since she came in, and they talk in quiet voices while they go through the fridge, trying not to disturb her.
After about 10 minutes she joins them in the kitchen. "I'm done in here," she informs them.
"What do you think it is? Could you feel it?" Kris asks anxiously. He hasn't felt anything from it today, but maybe she's more attuned somehow.
"Walk me to my car," she says and heads for the door, big purse tucked under her arm.
Kris and Adam look at each other but pick up the garbage bags and follow her out. Kris makes sure to lock both locks behind them this time. Mrs. Mitchell's door doesn't open again.
They catch up to the doctor in the parking lot. The psychiatrist slows down and waits for them with a solemn expression. "Kris, I have to tell you, I didn't feel anything in there."
He isn't surprised, but he doesn't know what she's made of it.
"I know that isn't what you wanted to hear."
"I was here Wednesday night and it didn't do anything," Adam tries to argue.
She nods but doesn't otherwise acknowledge him. "I'm not completely closed off to the idea that something's in there, but if there is, it isn't a ghost in the traditional sense."
"So what is it?" he presses.
"If I had to guess, it's possible your home has attracted the attention of a loa."
"Loa?" Adam repeats.
"What can you do?" Kris asks, because the last thing he wants to hear after getting this far is 'nothing.'
She looks at her watch and says, "There are some rituals you can do to send the spirit away. I can give you the list of supplies you'll need, talk you through them-"
"Wait, we.... We don't know voodoo, we can't....
"They're straightforward. I'll give you the prayers to read, the ingredients to mix. You just put some faith in the process, and the rituals will work fine."
They talk over each other frantically: "This is bullshit-" "Shouldn't you do it; I mean, you're the priestess-" "You're gonna just leave us with that-" "I'm not going back in there on my own-"
"Gentlemen," she cuts them off sharply. "You're perfectly capable of conducting these rituals on your own. As the expert here, you should believe me."
"I really don't think we can do it," Adam disagrees.
"Yeah, I mean, I never would have gotten across that parking lot without you. There's no way I can be in there conducting rituals on my own." Kris hopes his expression is as desperate and pleading as he feels. "Please, ma'am, Doctor, don't leave me like this."
She presses her lips together, clearly not pleased. "Mr. Allen-"
"What do you want? Payment?" Adam tries. "Kris to agree to therapy?"
"Mr. Lambert," she cuts him off, "I have a life. I have a job, I have appointments with patients who need me. I can't spend my nights out here conducting your rituals for you."
Adam persists, "Oh come on, that's- It wouldn't take much time, would it? Look at us, we're desperate. We're begging you."
Kris begs with his eyes and his heart.
She purses her lips again, tosses her head, and sighs, "I'll think about it."
"Thank you," Kris gasps, reaching to shake her hand.
She takes a step back. "But right now I'm late for my lunch appointment. I'll let you know later what I decide." She gives them a parting glare that screams 'disappointment' and ducks into her car, leaving Kris and Adam standing in the parking lot with Kris's Hefty bags, watching her drive away.
Kris's phone rings at quarter to 3 that afternoon, and at first he assumes it's his mom, belatedly remembering the Sunday call he'd missed. Again. But he doesn't recognize the number. He sets his guitar aside and flips open the phone. "Hello?"
"Kris, this is Theresa Mordeau."
"Oh, hi! Doctor," he adds for Adam's benefit as his boyfriend pushes his way into the bathroom, sweaty from the apartment building's fitness center. Adam pauses and lurks in the doorway to listen.
"I'm calling to let you know that I've reconsidered; I'm willing to conduct the rituals for you."
"You are? Seriously?!"
"But there's a condition."
"Uh." As far as Kris is concerned, everything was already going to be on her terms. "Sure, whatever."
"A friend of mine, Dr. Joseph Kielce, is working on a book on voodoo artifacts. I mentioned your situation and he thinks it would be valuable research for him to attend some rituals. Now before you say anything, I'm only doing this because he's asking; if you don't want him there, I won't be there either."
"No, no, that's fine. I don't care who you bring."
Adam tiptoes out of the bathroom and sits down on the couch next to him, watching Kris's face for hints of how the conversation is going. "Well?" he whispers.
"She wants to bring a friend, but she'll do it."
Adam dismisses the condition with a hand wave. "Awesome, right?"
"Right," Kris agrees. "Dr. Mordeau, that's totally fine with us."
"Really?" She sounds surprised. "Okay, good. We can start tomorrow evening."
"Yeah, Tuesday's great! What time?"
Adam's nodding. "This is fucking awesome," he sings in Kris's ear. "We're gonna kill this fucking thing tomorrow..."
Kris misses the next thing Dr. Mordeau says, distracted by the realization that... "Adam, you're not coming."
"What?"
"You're not coming tomorrow."
"Wait, is that bitch saying I'm not allowed to-"
"You have to work," he reminds him.
Adam blinks and frowns. "I'll call out."
Which is exactly what Kris doesn't want. He turns his head back to the phone. "Dr. Mordeau, can you hold on for a minute?"
"If you're concerned-" she starts saying, and Kris pulls the phone away from his ear, covering the receiver with one hand.
"You're not allowed to miss work for this," he tells Adam firmly.
Adam recoils a bit. "Fuck work-"
"No," Kris interrupts. "No, babe. Daisy said you're 'this close' to getting fired from Simon's cause you called out on Saturday."
"Daisy needs to stay the hell out of my business," he mutters.
"But was he right?"
"Everyone's 'this close' to getting fired at Simon's," Adam rolls his eyes. "And besides, tomorrow night's the Wyndham."
"Even worse—you love the money there. Why are you gonna skip that?"
Adam throws his hands up, looks at the wall instead of at Kris, says with a lot of energy, "Cause I wanna be there for you. You're dealing with this massive thing and I wanna make sure you're okay."
And that's beyond sweet; that's pure Adam right there. He looks frustrated that Kris would try to shut him out, take back any of the personal space Kris has given up around him. And Kris doesn't even want to, not really, but he knows he doesn't have any other choice. "I want you to be there," Kris admits. "But you're not gonna fuck up your life for my ghost problems. I'm not gonna let that happen."
"It's my life," Adam argues.
"And it's my condo, and you can't come if I don't let you."
"What, am I a vampire now?"
"I mean it, Adam. You're not missing any more gigs for me."
Adam puts his hands on Kris's shoulders like he wants to shake him, grits his teeth against something angry, but suddenly drops his head and shakes it. He laughs a little, which makes Kris feel better even before he says, "Oh my god, how fucking Twilight is this?"
Kris doesn't follow.
Adam looks up with an embarrassed grin and says, "We can sit here all day arguing about who loves who more, and who's gonna sacrifice what for who...or we can just hold the fucking séance on Wednesday."
Kris stares at him and then feels a relieved giggle start at the bottom of his lungs and work its way out. "Oh my god. You're a genius."
Adam leans in and gives him a peck on the lips. "I know, right? So ask her if it's cool."
Kris holds the phone up again. "Dr. Mordeau, we can't do it tomorrow. Are you free on Wednesday? You and your friend, I mean."
She sighs in his ear, but doesn't sound upset when she answers, "Wednesday is fine. 8 p.m.?"
"8 o'clock," Kris agrees. "See you then." He snaps the phone shut and looks at Adam with narrowed eyes. "I can't believe you're gonna be the voice of reason in this relationship."
Adam grabs him, drags him up against his sweat-stained t-shirt, clutching Kris's head to his chest in a big hug. "Baby," Adam croons, petting his hair and rocking them side to side, "let's never fight again."
Kris shoves against his ribs a little before hugging him back, still laughing.
Simon's is half empty on Monday night. It's mostly tourists, Adam points out as they order drinks at the bar. The vacationers are the only ones crazy enough to party on a weeknight in September. Even still, the bar is doing a good bit of business.
Daisy doesn't look happy to see Kris, but fakes it as long as Adam is in the room. Kris can read the vibes, knows they're gonna be having it out once Adam's on stage, and he's actually looking forward to it. He knows where he stands with Adam, and he needs to make Adam's friend understand that he isn't a threat to Adam's job.
Kris watches the first half of his boyfriend's set from side-stage before heading back to the dressing room to chat with Adam's friend.
"Krissy, you're still here," Daisy greets him in a grating falsetto when he slips in the door.
Kris shoots a look at Frankie, who's just suiting up, fastening a complicated bra with shaped foam inserts. "Hi Frankie, Daisy."
"Little Kris!" Frankie exclaims, winking at him. "Back for more?"
"Like I never left," Kris agrees.
Daisy compares a close-up photo of his own face with his reflection and lifts the eyebrow pencil for a few sharp strokes. "And how long are you staying?"
"I don't know. Maybe a real long time," Kris wonders if their entire argument is gonna be done in code for Frankie's benefit. He thinks he recognizes the dance beat Adam's got going outside. Lady Gaga?
"Aww, that's so cute," Daisy says, thick with sarcasm. "That's just the kind of indecision we all love to have around."
Apparently, it is. "Daisy," Kris starts, leaning on the back of Adam's swivel chair in between the two drag queens, "I know you're Adam's friend, and I know you don't know me-"
"Oh no, Daisy, you didn't," Frankie cuts in, pointing a red nail at the other star. "Kris, has this little Chihuahua been trying to scare you off its territory?"
Kris gapes a little at Frankie, but takes in Daisy's affronted and—yes—embarrassed face.
"Stay out of this, Frankie," Daisy mutters, throwing down the brow pencil and rubbing blush across his cheeks with furious swipes.
"Oh, you so did!" Frankie grins and shakes his head. "Krissy, on behalf of everyone at Simon's, let me apologize for Daisy's behavior. She has a habit of getting a tad overly possessive—" Frankie shoots Daisy a pitying look, "of everyone. Bitch has cock-blocked me more times than I can count."
"I do not," Daisy hisses.
"Oh honey, you know you do. You've gotta start checking your abandonment issues at the door. If I wanna hookup, I'm gonna hookup. If Steve wants to get in Joe's pants, it's gonna happen. And if Adam wants to get himself a boyfriend, he's allowed. I promise: it doesn't mean he loves you any less."
"Fuck you," Daisy mutters.
"Grow up," Frankie shoots back, shifting the bra around a bit and posing in the mirror.
"Just cause you don't give a crap about your friends getting hurt-"
"Sugar pie, I think you need a hug. Kris, hug the bitch."
That sounds like a bad idea. Daisy glares at him and Kris amends that to very bad. "Uh, no thanks."
"You don't know the shit Adam's been through," Daisy spits at Frankie. "The last thing he needs is some asshole stringing him along for the fun of it."
Kris's ears perk up.
Frankie laughs and shakes his head, reaches for a white dress with a poofy skirt sprinkled with oversized pink and red polka dots. "He doesn't need to tell me—I'm not stupid. It's obvious he's damaged goods. But Kris," and huge, smoky eyes with white highlighter under the brows turn on him, "doesn't seem like the malicious type."
Kris shakes his head, denying the charge. But damaged goods, what the fuck?
"And he's not gonna go leading Adam on for the fun of it. Cause if he did, he'd have to answer to me."
"Right," Kris says faintly.
"So you, my darling, are going to have to back off and let Adam make some decisions for himself." Frankie shimmies into the dress, brushes past Kris on stockinged toes, and bends to kiss Daisy's forehead. Frankie's hand is tender where he brushes the bangs aside, and Kris looks down at the tubes of lipstick on Adam's table, trying not to be angry at Daisy, at Frankie, and at Adam.
Part 5