Chapter Text
The casino looked different in daylight.
Well—what passed for daylight on Pentagram Row. Most of the buildings were too tall to let any real sunlight through. The Velvet Spade’s tinted windows filtered the shadow-stained sky into a dull amber glow behind heavy curtains, giving everything a kind of weary glamour.
Angel stood just past the lobby, arms crossed, eyes scanning the main floor with wary curiosity. He hadn’t noticed the little things last night—the chipped crown molding, the tired velvet on the booths, the flickering sign above the bar that blinked VE–ET SP–DE like a dying heartbeat.
He didn’t hate it. Angel still wasn’t sure how he felt about everything, but he was certain it wasn’t hate.
For all its peeling charm, the place didn’t reek quite so strongly of desperation when it was empty – before opening. It was just another casino in Vegas, another place for people to run from one problem straight into another. And somehow, that rooted an awkward fondness in Angel’s chest. He’d never really felt a place reflect within himself. Sure, the clubs he and Val used to frequent matched his wild side, but they never curled around his bones like wild ivy. A part of him knew that even though he was bound here by unfortunate circumstances, it wasn’t the same kind of prison he was used to. He was stuck here, but he wasn’t trapped .
Angel wandered toward the lounge, trailing a hand along the railing. The same style of chaise as the ones in Val’s penthouse sat against the wall, but these weren’t as flashy. Their fabric was worn and starting to fray—like they’d served a purpose. Unlike the velvet furniture Val rarely let him sit on.
He could still remember how luxurious the Velvet Spade had looked years ago when he’d first visited. He couldn’t help but wonder how it had sunk so low. But maybe that was just what happened to everything in Pentagram Row. They started shiny and new until people stopped caring to keep them that way. Or maybe, it had just been loved too hard in all the wrong ways. Maybe it was stuck between what it’d been and what it was. Like him.
And wasn’t that a hell of a way to think about it? The way he switched from missing his old life to resenting it, recognizing everything that had been wrong while still feeling like defending it. It was exhausting. Emotionally, mentally—he was just so done feeling tired. Hell, right then, he was done feeling anything.
He passed Niffty buzzing between tables, broom in one hand, a rag slung over her shoulder like a pageant sash. He had to hand it to her—for as run down as the joint was, it was fucking clean.
“You survived your first meeting,” she chuckled, barely pausing in her work to shoot him a frighteningly gleeful look. “How’d it go?”
“About as good as selling my soul to a devil in suspenders,” Angel replied, tossing her a smile. “But I start tomorrow, so… good.”
“I’m sure you won’t fuck it up,” she called over her shoulder. “Just don’t bleed on the carpets—Husk’s real touchy about that.”
Angel chuckled, but before he could ask what that meant, a loud voice barked from the far corner.
“If you’re not working, don’t block the goddamn walkway!” A broad-shouldered pit boss—bulldog-faced, suspenders straining against his belly—shot Angel a look over his paper.
Angel raised both hands in mock surrender. “Don’t worry, big guy. Just gettin’ the lay of the land.”
“You got a land pass from Husk?” the pit boss asked, almost amused as he looked Angel over.
Angel smirked. “Got his blessing and everything.”
The pit boss grunted. “Husk don’t bless. He tolerates. Big difference.”
Angel quirked a brow. “He always this sunny?”
“Sunny, stormy, whatever—you don’t stir the pot, he don’t boil over.” The pit boss went back to his paper. “He’s fair enough for a cranky old bastard.”
Angel kept moving, watching the way the staff moved through the place—loyal without fear, worn without bitterness. Nothing like the people who worked under Val. He’d expected more dysfunction. More rot under the wallpaper. But instead, it just felt… lived in. Flawed, yeah. But real. Almost safe. Safer than where he came from anyway.
After several laps around the casino floor, familiarizing himself with the layout of tables, machines, and booths, Angel decided he was as prepared as he could be. His next stop was the supply closet beside the laundry room.
There was something sharp about the way Mimzy smiled—like she could grind bones to dust just by talking. And boy, could she talk. Gossip spilled from her ruby-red lips, anything and everything crammed into a sentence as she took his measurements with snippy hums, her short blonde curls bouncing around her face. She moved like a dancer, flashy and poised, like a showgirl who didn’t know she was past her prime.
Angel could respect that. It was hard to leave the spotlight behind.
“Courtesy of the house,” she’d said with a wink, handing over a stack of folded uniforms with theatrical flair. “Try not to get anything sticky on the satin. And don’t tug at the seams—they’re vintage.”
Angel offered a half-sincere thanks as he took the bundle. The pieces were nice, actually. A few pairs of black slacks and crimson button-downs, some gold fitted vests, a pin-up-style blouse with sheer sleeves, even a high-waisted pencil skirt that looked like it hadn’t seen daylight since the ’40s.
He appreciated the range—even if it made his stomach twist a little.
Back in his room, he dropped the clothes on the bed and stared at them like they might tell him who he was supposed to be now. Anthony, or Angel. Masculine, feminine—neither, both. He ran a finger along the hem of a crisp red shirt, then reached for the blouse. The slacks didn’t feel like him. Not really. Straight-legged and plain, they did nothing to flaunt the legs he was so proud of. But they’d serve a purpose—keep things easy, help him blend in, avoid the kind of attention that turned into problems.
Angel liked attention, though. He loved feeling a heated gaze trace over him. But right now, being recognized was the last thing he needed. Still, the idea of leaving behind the makeup and heels made something small and stubborn inside him ache. He’d spent the last four years becoming the version of himself he’d always wanted to be—and now he had to bury it just to hide from the man who’d given him that freedom in the first place.
He sighed and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his face with both hands. “Three months,” he muttered. “I can be anybody for three months.”
Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard after he got a feel for the regulars. Once he knew it was safe, he could switch uniforms. He didn’t have to choose one side of himself to be forever. Once he was out of Vegas, he could be whoever the hell he wanted.
He flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. The room still smelled faintly off, it was still boring as hell—but it felt a little less foreign now that he was moving stuff into it. His, even if it was all borrowed.
The phone rang.
Angel blinked. A brief, tight panic shot through his chest. Who the fuck would be calling? It couldn’t be Val. No way. Husk? A misdial? Someone up front who needed something before the floor opened? No way to know unless he picked it up.
He sat up, let it ring once more, then lifted the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”
A familiar voice snapped through the line, equal parts cigarette rasp and screw-you sunshine. “Where’ve ya been, bitch?”
Angel laughed before he could help it, the tension in his shoulders melting, leaving him nearly boneless. “Cherri,” he breathed, relieved and happy. “Holy shit.”
There was a beat of silence. A moment that almost felt too long.
“Is that all you’ve got to say after disappearing on me?” She laughed, the kind of laugh that wasn’t forced, but didn't ring quite right. “Are you okay?”
Angel leaned against the wall, teeth grazing his lower lip as he considered the question. “Define okay.” He laughed, the same cover-it-up laugh she’d just used.
“Oh. That kind of okay.” She sounded relieved, but there was an edge to it. Like she was still deciding whether to throttle him or hug him first. “I been lookin’ for you, ya know. Thought maybe Val finally did somethin’ permanent.” She didn’t need to say more, they both understood.
“Almost,” Angel said quietly, glancing down at his ankle, feeling the weight that wasn’t there but still lingered. “But I got out.”
Another pause. Shorter this time.
“Well… good.” Her tone softened, but not too much. “You’re still a cunt for not callin’ me after being such a dick.”
“I know.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know,” he repeated, unsure what else to say without telling her everything.
A sigh crackled through the receiver. “Where are you stayin’?”
Angel hesitated. It was just like Cherri to call a number without thinking about where that line went. “I’m in a staff room at The Velvet Spade. Not sure if I can have guests. And I really… I don’t wanna start shit before I even clock in.”
“Look at you bein’ responsible.” She said it with a grin in her voice. He could see that sharp, wide grin, the mischief in her eyes, clear as day.
“I can be responsible.” Maybe, at least he wanted to think he could be.
“Sure. When you're unconscious.” A teasing lilt.
Angel snorted. God, he missed her. “You wanna grab a bite? Sin Street Diner’s just down the street.”
Her answer came fast. “Ten minutes.”
He hung up with a quiet smile, the receiver clicking into place like punctuation.
A familiar voice. A familiar face. A reminder of who he was outside of all this. Just a slice of normal—but it felt like getting the whole pie.
Angel stood, smoothed his hands down his shirt, and tucked the uniforms into the drawers of his little dresser. His , he thought. For now, this was his. A place to belong. Stepping out of the room, he smiled., because it felt so fucking good not to feel quite so alone anymore.
The air outside was thick with desert heat and exhaust, but Angel welcomed the walk. The din of the Velvet Spade faded behind him, replaced by the loud hum of the outer city and the occasional bark of a horn. Pentagram Row was its usual brand of gaudy and grimy—flickering neon, crumbling stucco, and signs that hadn’t been cleaned since the Eisenhower administration—but the Sin Street Diner stood out.
It was a squat little building with chrome trim, a checkerboard tile floor visible through the wide glass windows, and a red-and-white awning that fluttered slightly in the dry breeze. Inside, it smelled like coffee, grease, and syrup. A real classic. The kind of place that felt too nice for its location while being perfect at the same time.
Red vinyl booths lined the walls, silver napkin dispensers perched beside miniature jukebox selectors that hadn’t played a fresh tune since Buddy Holly rose to fame The real jukebox—a big old Wurlitzer near the corner—crackled faintly to life, spinning something cheerful and a little scratchy. Angel didn’t know the name, but the sax was bright and the beat made him feel like he could breathe again.
He slid into a booth near the window and didn’t have to wait long. The door jangled with a mechanical chime, and Cherri strolled in like she owned the place. She was hard to miss—tight red pants, a cropped black halter top, boots that clicked like warning bells. Her blonde hair was a mess of volume and pink streaks, one eye hidden beneath her bangs, the other narrowed with intent.
Angel barely had time to stand before she was on him.
“Good to see you’re still breathing, ya cunt,” she said, and punched him in the arm hard enough to feel before pulling him into a sideways hug, their arms tangling like it had been days instead of months. It felt good, warm. Angel hadn't realized how much he needed it.
Cherri clung for just a second longer than she meant to, then pulled back and flopped across from him in the booth. She grabbed a menu, pretending to read it as she looked him over. “You look like shit,” she said lightly, only half joking.
“Still look better than you,” Angel replied with a grin. “Missed you too, sugar tits.”
Her gaze flicked over him. Just for a moment, noticing sleeves too long for the heat, how small he looked beneath his clothes. Pale, tired. “You told me to fuck off then fuckin’ ghosted me.”
“I know,” Angel said, picking at the corner of his menu. “I’m sorry.”
Cherri raised a perfectly plucked brow. “That's all I get?”
“I didn’t mean to cut ya off.” He looked down at the table, tracing the seam between the metal edge and the Formica top. “Val didn’t want me seeing you. He knew you wanted me to leave. And I just… I didn’t want to fight with him. I was trying to keep the peace.”
She snorted. “That’s horse shit, Ange. And you know it.”
“I know,” he said quickly, voice low. “I didn’t have much of a choice.”
Cherri didn’t answer right away. She leaned back in the booth and crossed her arms, her long fingers tapping against her bicep. “Did he lay hands on you because of me?”
Angel’s eyes flicked up. “No,” he lied smoothly. It wasn't a total lie, Val never needed a solid reason to raise his hand.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re a terrible liar.” She exhaled, her gaze falling.
“You gonna hold that against me?” He smiled with only half his mouth, trying to hide the way the guilt in her eyes hurt.
“Nah. I’m just glad you’re out.” Cherri huffed, but the tension in her shoulders eased. “Might hold the three goddamn months of pretending I wasn’t worried against ya though. Kept hoping I’d see your dumb ass somewhere, or that you’d at least call.”
“I didn’t want to leave, Cher. I loved him.” Angel shrugged. Loved hurt, it meant that maybe he really didn’t love Val anymore. And who the hell was he when he wasn’t Val’s? “Then the other day, I just left.”
Cherri studied him again. Her expression was unreadable, somewhere between suspicion and relief. “So where the fuck are you now? And why didn’t you say anything sooner?”
“I’m working at the Velvet Spade. I’ve got three months to lay low and pay off some damages I caused—long story.”
Cherri snorted a laugh. “You? Causing damage? I’m shocked.”
Angel winked. “I’m on my best behavior now.”
“Shit, I really don’t believe that.”
They both laughed, the kind of laughter that came too fast and a little too sharp, like it was meant to fill the cracks. But when it faded, they just looked at each other for a long moment.
“You okay though?” she asked finally, softer than before.
He thought about the question again. Was he okay? Mostly, Angel just wasn’t sure. Compared to a few days ago, yeah, sure. He wasn't chained up in Val’s room, but he was bound to the room he’d been given. He was free, he guessed, but he felt trapped. Somewhere in the in-between, standing at a crossroads with an outdated map and no sense of direction. Angel shrugged, lips twitching into a lazy grin. “Define okay.”
Cherri smiled, all teeth. “Yeah. That tracks.”
Their burgers were greasy and overcooked, the fries crisp, and the soda watered down with too much ice—but it was perfect. It tasted like old times. Like the kind of cheap meal they used to split after long nights overflowing with strong drinks and bad decisions.
Cherri took a massive bite, chewed like she hadn’t eaten in days, then grinned at him with ketchup smeared on the corner of her mouth. “So I may or may not have accidentally set a small fire at the last motel I was stayin’ at.”
Angel snorted. “I stopped in there. Ron wanted me to remind you that ya owe him for damages.”
She shrugged, unapologetic. “The curtains were ugly. I was tryin’ to burn a joint and the wind got involved. No one died, and now he can replace those shit-stain curtains.”
“Jesus, Cherri.”
“What?” she said, grinning wider. “Totally harmless compared to what I wanted to do.”
He rolled his eyes. “Where you at now?”
“Red Apple Hotel.”
Angel let out a low whistle. “The one that used to advertise as the Happiest Place in Vegas?”
“That’s the one.”
“Is that weird guy still runnin’ it? The short one, real hyper, always handed out rubber ducks with the room keys?”
“Nah, he’s still around, but keeps to himself. His daughter’s taken over. Sweet girl. Too friendly, though. Always askin’ how my day was or if I need anything. Pretty sure she thinks we’re friends.”
Angel arched a brow. “And that’s bad?”
“It’s suspicious,” Cherri said, tapping a nail against the table. “No one on the Row is that nice without wantin’ to sell you somethin’.”
Angel laughed and popped a fry into his mouth. “Anyone else interesting livin’ there?”
Cherri hesitated just long enough for him to notice. “There’s this guy. Kinda awkward. Keeps to himself mostly. Likes to juggle eggs.”
“Juggles eggs?” Angel echoed with curiously playful mockery.
“Shut it.” Cherri snapped, smiling. “He’s got a suitcase full of weird tools and half-busted clocks he’s always messin’ with. Probably thinks he’s inventin’ somethin’ important, but I think he just likes to keep busy.”
“You’ve talked to him?”
“A little,” she said, too fast. “He’s weird, but he’s… I dunno. Not the wrong kind of weird. He’s got this whole ‘gee golly’ vibe, like he walked outta a black-and-white movie.”
Angel smirked. “Are you blushing right now?”
“Shut the fuck up,” Cherri said, chucking a fry at his face.
Angel dodged it with a laugh. “I’m just sayin’. It’s cute. You makin’ friends with a wholesome little nerd.”
“He’s not a friend,” she said quickly, then backpedaled. “I mean, he’s fine. But I ain’t exactly plannin’ a future with Mr. Snakeskin Boots.”
“Uh-huh,” Angel said, clearly not believing her.
She flipped him off and took another bite of her burger.
The laughter softened, giving way to a more careful silence. Cherri looked at him, her expression shifting. “So. You gonna tell me what happened? With the damages. With Val.”
Angel’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t look away. There wasn’t just one thing that happened with Val. It wasn’t that easy. Just a hundred nights of staring at the backpack in the closet, wondering if he should run—or stay. And there was no way in hell he was going to tell her he’d been locked up like a disobedient pet. Not now. Not when Val couldn’t use his safety to keep her in check anymore. She’d hunt him down. She’d get hurt.
“Just decided it was over,” he said, shuffling his fries around his plate. “Needed to get out fast, so I packed what I could and left while he was out.”
“That all?” she asked, knowing damn well it wasn’t.
“It’s all I’m tellin’ you.” He forced a smile. “I’m fine, Cherri.” He leaned back into the booth. “Just gotta work off a little debt, then I’m leavin’ Vegas.”
“If you’re runnin’ from Vegas, then it’s not fine,” she said flatly.
Angel gave her a long look but didn’t confirm or deny. “It’s over now. I’m out and in one piece.” If he didn’t count a broken heart, it was the truth.
“So, this new job at the casino?” she asked, letting it drop. For now. If she pushed too hard, he’d pull away—and when Angel pulled away, he usually ran straight back to Val. “How’d ya land that?”
Angel laughed, sighed, and buried his face in his hands. “Got into a fight with some asshole who bailed before gettin’ his share of the blame. Husk agreed not to involve the cops as long as I work off the debt.”
“So what, he owns you now or somethin’?” she snapped. “He holdin’ that over you to make you work? ‘Cause I could get you outta Vegas.”
“No, nothin’ like that,” Angel said quickly. “It ain’t a bad deal. I get half of what I earn, somewhere to stay. I can save up, replace what I left at Val’s, and get outta here.” He shrugged. “Boss ain’t too hard on the eyes, either.”
Cherri leaned back, arms crossed. “Thinkin’ like that is how you got mixed up with Val.”
Angel rolled his eyes. “It’s not gonna be like that. He’s givin’ me a second chance. That's all.”
She didn’t argue. Just stared at him over her drink and said, “Alright. But if he so much as looks at you sideways, I’m feedin’ him his own eyeballs.”
Angel smiled faintly. “Fuck, I missed you.”
“Damn right you fuckin’ did.”
“Excuse me,” an older woman in a fox fur stole in the next booth snapped. “Can you two mind your damn language?”
They both burst into laughter. Angel slapped five dollars down on the table before they slid out of the booth and into the warm afternoon air. Just a dollar to his name—but somehow, he didn’t feel broke. He felt better than he had in a long time.
“One dollar left,” he mused, flipping it between his fingers. “I left everything back at Val’s. Don’t even have a decent pair of heels.”
Cherri dug into her bag and pulled out a battered little cigarette tin. She popped the lid, thumbed through a tight stack of folded bills, and whistled. “Looks like it’s as good a time as any to dip into the emergency fund.”
Angel shook his head. “Cherri—”
“Nope.” She popped the P. “We’re celebrating, bitch. You got a new life to start livin’ and you’re doin’ it in style.”
“I was just gonna make do—”
“Fuck that. We’re goin’ shoppin’. Tonight.”
He stared at her. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly. You, me, and every thrift store between here and the Strip.”
Angel smiled, warmth blooming in his chest. “You’re a goddamn menace.”
“You love me for it.” She sang, already hooking her arm around his.
“Yeah,” he said, softer than before. “I really do.”
They hit the first thrift store with the reckless energy of two teenagers with money to burn, cutting class to live large. Cherri kicked the door open with the heel of her boot and announced, “Let the chaos begin.” A handful of unamused faces turned toward them.
The store itself was older than most of the Row, heavy with the scents of air freshener and dust, its racks crammed so tight that moving between them required choreography. Angel took one look at the cluttered maze of worn sequins, threadbare flannel, and suspiciously stained denim—and grinned.
“Oh, this is gonna be fun,” he laughed, already making a beeline for the pinkest things he could find.
Cherri dove in first, tossing clothes over her shoulder with the speed and confidence of someone who knew exactly what wasn’t worth a damn. Angel trailed behind, picking up a glittery cocktail dress, a denim jacket, and a bright pink cowboy hat he’d probably never wear—but refused to put back.
Cherri snorted when he tried it on. “You look like a drag queen in a spaghetti western.”
“So I look amazing,” he shot back, striking a pose. And yeah, he’d look real fucking cute all dolled up in that outfit. It was a keeper. Hell, maybe he would wear the hat. Maybe he’d wear it at the bus station when he finally left.
They hit two more thrift shops and a boutique tucked between a liquor store and a pawn shop. With every stop, the duffel bag Cherri brought grew heavier. Angel tried on everything from crushed velvet skirts to leather pants that squeaked when he walked. Most of it ended up right back on the racks, but that didn’t make it any less fun. And fun was what he needed today—carefree, dumb fun. The kind he hadn’t had in so long, he’d almost forgotten how good it felt.
To his own surprise—and Cherri’s—Angel found himself keeping more of the comfortable pieces they picked through. The kinds of things Val didn’t like. Things that weren’t enticing enough. Clothes that lived in the in-between. Cute blouses and loose T-shirts. Slouchy jeans. A flannel button-up that hung off his frame like a lover’s embrace.
He held that one in his hands longer than the rest.
“You keep starin’ at it like it’s special,” Cherri teased from behind a rack of belts. “Not really your style, though.”
He looked up and matched her smile, then gave a sheepish shrug. “Had one just like it when I left New York. Before—” He trailed off, not needing to finish the sentence.
Before Valentino. Before Angel Dust.
He tried the shirt on, running his hands over the sleeves, surprised by how right it felt. Like slipping into someone he used to know. Someone named Anthony.
Cherri watched him quietly for a beat, then nudged a pink-and-white collared blouse and a pair of black men’s walking shorts into the pile. “It’s good to have options,” she said, and left it at that.
Angel wasn’t sure why those five words made his heart flutter the way they did. But he felt like Cherri knew something he didn’t. Not yet.
They stopped at a pharmacy next. Angel hesitated in the makeup aisle, fingers brushing over concealers and liquid liners. He didn’t grab the glitter this time. Just the basics—liner, mascara, a bit of rouge, and some gloss. A single, dark red tube of lipstick. Simple things. Small pieces of a puzzle that he’d learned to put together without needing to look at the picture on the box. Parts of the person he’d become over the years.
“I’ll pay you back,” he said for the fifth time as they checked out.
Cherri waved it off like it was lint. “You leavin’ that asshole’s worth every penny. Besides, I’m makin’ you carry this bag for the rest of the night.”
He rolled his eyes but smiled, taking the bag with gratitude as they made their way to the curb.
By the time the sun began to dip behind the Vegas skyline, casting rust and gold streaks across a sky glowing with neon, they were sitting on a bus bench with the bag between their feet, sipping cold sodas and comparing blisters.
“I think I walked a hole through my sock,” Angel said, wiggling his foot. “And I’m like eighty percent sure one of those dressing rooms had blood on the mirror.”
Cherri laughed and nudged his arm. “Yeah, but admit it—you had fun.”
Angel leaned back against the bench, watching the lights flicker on across the city. He thought of Val’s apartment—luxurious, sure, but all sharp corners and shadows. He thought of the flannel shirt, how it smelled like cedar and mothballs but felt like purpose and living. He thought of the lip gloss tucked in his pocket and how he didn’t have to wear it for anyone’s approval—only because he wanted to.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I did.”
“Night’s not over yet.” Cherri winked, hopping to her feet and stretching until her back cracked. “There’s a bar with our names playing on the jukebox somewhere.”
“Let’s do it,” Angel said, worn and weary, but not ready for the night to end.
They ended the night at a dive bar called the Black Dot nestled between the Red Apple hotel and the Velvet Spade—a joint with an out of place, nautical theme that smelled like cigars and trouble. Fishing nets hung along the walls between tacky decorations, and most of the men seated at the booths wore cheap suits, grinning sharp and deadly like sharks. Neither of them paid much attention to the other patrons as they crossed over sticky wood floor, toes tapping in their boots to the jazz bleeding out from the old jukebox.
“Real fancy. You bring all your hot dates here?” Angel hummed, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
“Only the ones with taste,” Cherri shot back, sliding onto a barstool with a creak.
They pooled what little money they had left and managed two drinks—cheap gin and something that might’ve been tonic. The drinks were weak, but neither of them cared. They sat shoulder to shoulder at the bar, watching the haze thicken around them, sharing stories that felt like old records.
“Remember that one club on the Strip where I punched a guy for grabbing your ass?” Cherri asked, tipping her glass toward him.
“You broke his nose,” Angel said with a grin. “And then we got kicked out before last call.”
“Worth it.” Cherri laughed. “Not like you didn’t break a few fingers when some sleaze pulled the same stunt with me.”
They laughed, loud and unfiltered, the kind of laughter that made the bartender look up and then quickly look away. They spoke with a bravado that assured no one would come anywhere near them. For a moment—just a moment—it felt like old times. Those distant nights after they’d met, when it was just the two of them, no boyfriends, just occasional hookups and the stories that followed. All they were missing was dancing, a couple hits and some better drinks.
Angel sipped his drink slower now, his body finally starting to ache. He’d been feeling that awkward drag in his left leg for hours, silently cursing the stupidity of feeling a weight that wasn’t there anymore. He’d tried to hide it, conscious of it after Husk had noticed it that morning, but he wasn’t fooling Cherri.
She reached into her pocket without a word and pulled out a slim little packet of coke, sliding it discreetly across the bar. “Just a bit to take the edge off?” she offered. Casual. Easy. Like they were still in that version of their lives where that was normal. Like it hadn’t almost swallowed him whole.
Angel stared at it. His fingers twitched, just once, and the silence between them grew taut. He thought about the flannel shirt. The new gloss in his pocket. The way today had felt like the first breath after being underwater. “No,” he said, voice low but steady. “Not feelin’ it tonight.” Maybe that was true, he wasn’t really sure. But he did know how hard getting clean had been after Val had stopped giving him his fix, and he didn’t want to start his new job shaking and drenched in sweat.
Cherri didn’t argue. Didn’t press. She just nodded and slipped the packet into the bag without making a thing of it. “In case you change your mind,” she said, leaving the choice in his hands the way she always did.
Angel didn’t say thank you, but he bumped his shoulder into hers, and she bumped him right back. The music played on. Something brassy and slow. And for the rest of the night, they stayed just like that—two punks in a shitty bar, sipping watered-down cocktails and watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling like it was dancing just for them.
By the time Anthony stepped through the Velvet Spade’s side entrance, the casino was alive with noise and boisterous excitement. The thrill of the game just before the dread of losing. The feel of chips or cards pressed into palms before those hands wrapped themselves around cheap drinks to fill the emptiness. The sound hit him first: slots chiming, dice clattering, drunken laughter ricocheting off walls. Every surface shimmered with filtered gold, cigarette haze, and that hollow glitz Vegas never ran out of. For a second, it almost passed for a proper casino on the Strip instead of a half-forgotten joint on the Row.
He moved through it all like a shadow—taking in the energy yet unable to feel it resonate within himself. Not yet at least. He wasn’t a guest, not quite an employee. Just something in between, a shadow cast in the glow of the people enjoying the casino and those working it.
The staff hallway was quieter. A familiar kind of unknown. He padded through it with his duffel slung over one shoulder, careful not to step on the stain named Fred, the weight of the day tugging at more than his limbs. It had been a good day. The kind he hadn’t let himself hope for. And he’d known, even as it unfolded, that it had to end.
He let himself into his room and locked the door behind him.
Angel unpacked slowly–folded shirts and soft blouses into the middle drawer of the dresser, pants and skirts into the bottom. Clothes in colors that felt like him. That he’d chosen. Then he opened the drawer with his uniforms—someone else’s colors and cuts. Not wrong. Not right. Just a version of himself caught somewhere in the middle that he hadn’t fully made peace with yet.
In the bathroom, he lined up his toiletries by height in the cabinet. Lip gloss between the mascara and rouge. A new toothbrush set beside a hairbrush. The tarnished little hand mirror from the thrift store centered on the dresser, catching yellow lamplight like a twinkling star.
It wasn’t much. But it was his. His own things in a borrowed room. And that felt like something.
He tried on the flannel again—the one that hung on his shoulders like a memory from someone else’s life. Then the shorts Cherri had picked, rolling them until they were nice and short. Unrolling them to let them hang a few inches above his knees. He spun once in the mirror. Not for anyone else. Just to see.
It struck him, standing there barefoot in the hush of the room, how strange it all was—how he could still be Angel Dust in a baggy flannel and no eyeliner. Or Anthony in short-shorts and lip gloss. There wasn’t really a line, just... layers. Layers that’d been shoved down, repackaged, sold, and renamed.
Val had liked him best when he sparkled. Val had liked him pretty as a pin-up. Val had loved Angel, or at least, the version of him he’d helped create.
Anthony had been the start. The raw material. A boy with an attention catching presence and risky dreams, fresh out of Brooklyn and aiming for a neon heaven. And it’d been so easy for Valentino to wrap that boy in shady promises and unhindered love and turn him into something else. Someone they both wanted him to be. Val hadn’t wanted Anthony, not as he was, he wanted the fantasy. The femininity. The sellable sex appeal. And sometimes, not even that was enough. Val had always needed more—men who looked the part, women who had the pieces he didn’t. People who didn’t argue when he came home late, stinking of sweat and someone else’s perfume.
Angel had loved being Angel. The performance. The way it felt right to be everything others considered wrong. The thrill when the blurred lines drawn with sex and drugs made sense—when the person on stage felt more real than the boy who started it all.
But here, stripped back to the quiet, surrounded by his own carefully placed things, it struck him how much of Anthony had been buried under silk and shame. The in-between had always been there. He just hadn’t wanted to see it.
For a moment he looked in the mirror. Not trying to choose between versions. Just looking to see who stared back. A little bit of Angel. A hint of Anthony. A person still carrying the weight of invisible chains, tethered by careful words and a promise he couldn't afford to break.
The moment didn’t last long enough. Angel reached back into the duffel, feeling around until they brushed over the packet of coke. Not much. Just a taste. He stared at it for a long time, knuckles white. Palm starting to sweat. It would take the edge off. Quiet his thoughts and let him forget that phantom ache in his leg. Just one hit could blur the lines he’d been seeing all day. Just one line.
But he knew better. Knew that for him, one was never just one.
He tucked it into the back of the drawer. Behind the shirts. Away from the mirror. Not gone, but not within reach.
Angel sat on the bed, legs crossed and stared at nothing for a while. Thought about what it meant to be free yet held by the terms of the contract he’d signed. He looked around his boring little room and thought about how it felt bigger than Val’s luxurious penthouse.
Trapped in new ways. But breathing easier. Tomorrow, he’d wake up and be Angel until it was time for Anthony to go to work. He could be both. Or neither. Maybe just something in between, until he figured out who he was now that he was free to be whoever that was.
For tonight though, he just let himself be.