Chapter 8Eve had a small closet inside the van, a fold-out makeup table, a spare of every spare. She was a drag doggie groomer; these were her work clothes. “I get to write off being a drag queen,” she said as she began work on my face, Clark watching in what looked like terrified dread. “Who knew tucking could be tax deductible?”
Not me. Nor did I want to know. My balls clenched in anticipation. “Don’t you have a muumuu I can wear? No tucking required.”
She stood to her full statuesque proportions. Her wig bent as it brushed the ceiling of the van. “Do I look like I own a f*****g muumuu?”
In fact, she looked like Channing Tatum in a bent wig, and I doubted Channing Tatum wore a muumuu, so…“No, ma’am.”
She smiled and sat back down. Lotions and powders and every manner of brush swiped a
