Chapter 1
Zayn stood in front of the mirror in his sleek penthouse bedroom, running a hand over his short-cropped dark hair. At six-foot-one, the 26-year-old fashion designer filled out his black fitted shirt with broad shoulders and a hard, muscled chest. Ink covered both arms and climbed up the sides of his neck. He looked every inch the straight jock his friends expected, even though the truth was the opposite. He had built a solid client list with his clothing line, but the big runway break still eluded him. His phone buzzed with texts from his crew: they were already waiting downstairs in the SUV. He grabbed his red hoodie, pulled it on, and headed out.
Across town, Tristan slipped into the tiny dressing room behind the stage at the only gay bar open past midnight. At five-eleven, the lean French man moved with practiced grace, his dark skin gleaming under the cheap bulbs. He zipped up the glittering black bodysuit that hugged his slim waist and lean chest, then stepped into thigh-high stiletto boots. A dramatic silver wig cascaded down his back, and heavy lashes framed his eyes. When the DJ called his name, Tristan sashayed onto the small stage, hips rolling to the beat while the crowd whistled.
Zayn’s SUV pulled up outside the bar. Music thumped through the brick walls. His three straight friends piled out, laughing and shoving each other. Zayn lingered by the car, staring at the rainbow flag above the door. He had never gone inside before; being seen here could ruin everything. He told himself he was just curious, nothing more.
Tristan finished his last number and stepped out the side exit for air, still in full drag. The silver wig caught the streetlight. His glossy lips curved when he spotted the tall guy in the red hoodie staring. Their eyes locked. Zayn felt heat rush up his neck and immediately looked away, deciding the bar was a bad idea tonight.
Inside the club, Berlinda and Max teased Tristan the second he walked back in. “You scared that tall drink of water right off the sidewalk,” Berlinda laughed. Tristan only shrugged, but the encounter left him restless. He patted his purse and realized he was out of cigarettes. The only place still open was the twenty-four-hour convenience store two blocks down.
Tristan was paying for a pack of smokes when the bell above the door jingled. Zayn walked in with his loud friends. The moment they spotted the man in drag, the jeers started.
“Look at this fucking faggot,” one of them barked. “Nice tits, princess.” Another grabbed his own crotch. “Bet you suck dick for a living.”
Tristan’s jaw tightened. He turned, meeting Zayn’s eyes again. “If I’m such a disgusting fag,” he said clearly, “why were you staring at me like you wanted to eat me earlier?”
Zayn’s friends went silent, then exploded with shocked laughter. Zayn’s face went red. He snatched the change from the counter and stormed after Tristan, who was already hurrying down the empty street in his heels.
“Get back here, you little cocksucker!” Zayn shouted. He caught Tristan by the wig and yanked him into a narrow alley. His fist slammed into Tristan’s stomach. “You think you can out me, you filthy fucking faggot?” Another punch split Tristan’s lip. “I’ll show you what happens to mouthy drag queens.”
Tristan tried to twist away, but Zayn ripped the bodysuit down, exposing smooth dark skin. Boots were kicked off, the silver wig torn free. Zayn kept swinging, cursing with every blow. “Take it, you nasty queer. This is what you get for running your fag mouth.” Blood ran from Tristan’s nose. His lean body curled on the pavement while Zayn’s friends filmed, laughing.
When Zayn finally stepped back, Tristan lay motionless, naked and beaten in the middle of the deserted street. Zayn spat on the ground, then walked away with his crew, the red hoodie still streaked with Tristan’s blood.
