The Queer and the Restless (Queers of La Vista #3) by Kris Ripper

 

 

 

 

Hi, I’m Kris and welcome to the blog tour for The Queer and the Restless, book three in my awesome queer soap opera! Please enjoy this excerpt!

 

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Ed Masiello has been on testosterone for a year, is working his dream job as a reporter, and is finally passing as a man (so long as you don’t ask his abuela). But the investigation of a murder case is starting to take over his life. Afraid he’s becoming obsessed, he goes to the local club to relax, and meets the flighty, whimsical Alisha.

Alisha is a free spirit who’s tossed aside ambition for travel and adventure. Her approach to life is a far cry from Ed’s, and while Ed has always assumed that meeting his goals would make him happy, Alisha is much more content than him—despite all the plans she can’t yet fulfill.

As their relationship heats up, so does the murder case. Alisha thinks Ed needs a break, but someone’s got to find this killer, and he wants to be there when it all goes down. Besides, taking off into the great unknown with Alisha is crazy. But opting for what’s safe is just another way of living in fear, and Ed vowed to stop living like that a long time ago.

The Queer and the Restless is available from Riptide Publishing: http://riptidepublishing.com/titles/the-queer-and-the-restless

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excerpt

I hadn’t paid much attention to the story, the way you don’t when a story is awful, but not too awful. A twenty-one-year-old boy died on his birthday. Beaten to death and left at the waterfront down beyond where people usually went. A woman taking a jog on a Monday morning with her dog had found the body. She’d thought it was a pile of garbage at first, until she’d noticed the shoes, still on feet.

Not garbage. A man. Steven Costello. Just home from his third year at UC Santa Barbara. His parents said he’d gone out for his birthday, but not with friends, or at least, none that they knew of. They had no idea where he’d planned to go, but he liked movies, so they assumed he’d gone to a movie.

If he’d been younger, I probably would have paid more attention. If he’d been tortured or sexually assaulted. If he’d been a more obscure race, maybe, and not a nondescript brown-haired white boy. If he’d been found anywhere other than the waterfront, a mostly foul stretch of the Bay that hits La Vista on the far side of the freeway in a tangle of weeds and trash and stinking debris from nearby cities. But I’d skimmed the story, felt a momentary pang at the prevalence of such crimes, and forgotten it. The Times-Record ran the story on Thursday, June 23. I started paying attention on Friday, July 8.

I was in the kitchen at work, getting my third cup of coffee. Someone had been doing the Chronicle crossword at the counter, so I added to it, only getting one clue while the coffee finished brewing. (One good thing about my job: free coffee all day long, as much as you want to make.) I did all right through Wednesday’s and Thursday’s crosswords, but the weekend puzzles were more challenging, so as I stood there trying to find any clue to the answer, I also did a lot of random glancing around, like inspiration would just show up on the bulletin board, or the refrigerator.

The bulletin board. Someone—probably Amie Arry, who wrote a lot of our “big” stories—had started pinning murder articles to the bulletin board. Even though Steven Costello wasn’t interesting enough for an Amie Arry byline, he still had been murdered, so he was on the top of the stack.

Steven Costello, whose face from his UCSB ID card smiled at me from just below the headline. I’d seen him before. I would have sworn it. I’d seen that smile. I had no idea where, and he was way too young to be someone I’d gone to school with, but damn it, I knew his face.

I read the article while I stood there. And when the coffee was done, I unpinned the article and took it with me back to my desk.

Died on his birthday. No suspects. No leads. I could read between the lines. Kid didn’t have a lot of local contacts, and had recently come home from college. His parents were the last people known to have seen him, but they didn’t know where he’d gone to celebrate his birthday, and they had no idea who he’d gone there with.

I picked up the office phone that sat in the middle of the table between me and Caspar and dialed the extension of Joe Rodriguez, who’d written the article. Since I didn’t really want Caspar to hear my probably stupid questions, I asked Joe if he had a minute to talk.

Joe, being one of the older guys, had an actual office he shared with a constantly rotating cast of staff. Right now the other desk was taken by a woman named Star, who spent the day with her headphones on, “editing” the Times-Record’s social media accounts. She seemed nice enough, as much as I could tell from someone who only communicated via 140-character email requests for 140-character articles.

“Eddie! What’s going on, man?” Joe shoved a stack of notebooks off a chair and gestured me to sit.

“Not much. Yesterday I reported on a blind cat who can sense when people are dying.”

He laughed. “I heard about that. Tim Potter was all up your ass. All he wants is a story that makes people feel good, damn it, but you always have to make it dark.”

“I wasn’t! The whole point of it— Never mind. I’m not here about the damn blind cat.”

“What’re you here about? How can I counsel you, young Padawan?”

I put the Costello article on his desk, carefully moving a picture of a kid in a karategi. “What’s the story with Steven Costello?”

He picked it up, but I could tell by his eyes that he wasn’t really reading it. “Yeah, that was a bummer. Lady’s out for a jog, finds the body, calls the cops. At first they thought someone put him there figuring he’d be pulled out to the water, though he was a little above the high-tide mark. But the more they looked around, you know, he was killed right there. Beaten all to shit, Ed. Kid’s face looked nothing like this.”

“You saw the body?”

“I saw the photos. He was a fuckin’ piece of meat.” Joe put the article back down and smoothed over Costello’s face. “If he was a girl, maybe it was some kind of hookup that went wrong. If he’d been raped, you know, maybe it was that. But this was just a kid out at the waterfront, killed in the middle of the damn night.”

“Drugs?”

He shrugged. “That’s what the cops are going with, unofficially. He wanted to celebrate his twenty-first with some refreshments of the illegal chemical variety, so he tracked down someone he knew could get it for him, arranged to meet. Maybe he didn’t have the money. Maybe he had too much money. Bad things go down, he gets beat. But he had twenty-five bucks sitting in his wallet. No fingerprints to make it look like anyone even went through it. What the fuck drug dealer kills a grown man and doesn’t take his cash?”

“None,” I said. “That makes no sense.”

“Yeah, and I’ll tell you something else.” He smoothed over the kid’s face again. “I talked to the mother, asked her if there was anything else she could tell me about her son, you know? ‘Straight-A student gets beat to death,’ that kind of thing. And she just . . .” Joe paused. “I don’t know, man. She didn’t say anything, really, but it felt like there was stuff she wasn’t saying specifically—stuff she could be telling me but didn’t want to. So maybe it was drugs. Maybe our clean-cut college boy had a problem. But he grew up here and his parents couldn’t name a single friend they thought he might be out with. That’s a little weird, right?”

“Well, I grew up here, and my parents probably couldn’t, either. But yeah, that’s strange. He’s pretty young for them to know nothing about his life.”

“Yeah, look, everyone grieves differently, but if you talked to my mama a week after I was killed, when I was missing for two whole days, she’d be accusing every kid who ever spit on me or tripped me in line for hot lunch, you know? And Mrs. Costello was just . . . quiet.” He shook his head and handed me the article back. “Dead ends. Cops had nothing to go on. Sorry, kid. Why’re you asking about all that, anyway?”

“I don’t know.” I hesitated, not sure if I should mention how familiar Costello’s face was. “I have it in my head that I’ve seen him somewhere before, but I might be making that up.”

“You should think about it. And call up— Fuck, I forget his name. Green, I think. Detective Green was the guy on that case. Call Green if you think of anything.”

“Sure. Thanks, Joe.”

“No problem. You got any more blind cats to write about?”

I withheld my sigh. “I have a church bingo game that’s donating money to the homeless, and a sweater drive down at the rec center. You want to trade for whatever you’re working on?”

He laughed. “Fuck no. I did my time writing shit like that. You’ll live.”

“Thanks again, Joe.”

“Don’t mention it.”

I went back to my desk, but I didn’t put the Costello article back on the bulletin board. I stared at it a little longer, then started to google.

* * * * * * *

Before I got this job, I’d thought every story I covered would be a labor of love, at least in some sense. Sure, some might be boring, but I loved digging out details, and writing facts in a way that made them not only readable, but inspiring.

If you’d told me I could force myself through inches of words that I didn’t care about, that I could write entire articles without hardly learning the facts of them, I wouldn’t have believed you. I didn’t think I could be that jaded about reporting. By the time I finished the bingo article (both the online version, which was little more than bullet points, and the print version), I wanted to write my younger, more dewy-eyed self a letter. Dear self, on some days you will be so bored at work you’ll become obsessed with the murder of a poor kid just to keep yourself awake. I’m sorry. Love, your future self.

It had been a surprisingly tough week, though part of that was having Monday off. Even working four days felt long when you had three days off before them. (I hadn’t done any big Fourth of July things, either. I’d spent that time reading the newish Sarah Vowell book and trying new vegan recipes, most of which had been terrible.) But whatever the reason, by Friday night I was in need of some light entertainment, so I headed out to Club Fred’s.

Fred’s is the queer club in La Vista. It’s basically the anchor of queer nightlife, and rules one corner of Steerage, which is an L-shaped alley that runs between Mooney and Water Street. The other side of Steerage plays host to a dive bar called Bayside Saloon that might have been straight twenty years ago, but was now, at the least, “lifestyle optional” if not outright queer.

I don’t go to the Bayside much. Not really my crowd. Club Fred’s is all about music, and camp, and seeing everyone you’ve ever had sex with all in one place. Which sounds more gruesome than it actually is; if you really want a place where everyone knows your name, in La Vista, that place is Club Fred’s.

I got myself a beer and started wandering around, chatting with different people, different groups. I passed a poster proclaiming next Friday “F*ck G*nd*r Night,” which would be entertaining. When I was done with my beer I hit the dance floor, and immediately found Zane Jaffe (whose dancing was . . . unique).

“Baby!” she shouted over the music. “It’s been too long, tell me everything that’s happened since I saw you last!”

“It’s only been a couple weeks!”

“Yeah, like I said, too long!” She tugged me closer, putting her hands on my shoulders and leaning in to speak in my ear. “How’s it, Ed?”

“It’s good.” Now that she wasn’t throwing her limbs everywhere, we could settle into a fun little grind. I liked Zane a lot, at least in part because we’d never dated, so she was one of the only lesbians I knew who didn’t make me feel like I had to explain my transition to her.

I wanted to ask her about the Costello kid, but that hardly seemed like dance-floor conversation. “How’re you?”

“I’m not fucking pregnant. Christ, Ed, it’s beginning to fucking wear on me. Doesn’t matter. Maybe this cycle it’ll work, right?”

“Right! That’s a good attitude to take.” I’d gone to her two “conception parties,” but she’d stopped throwing them. “Sorry I can’t help you out, Zane!” I leaned back enough so I could adjust my crotch.

She laughed. “Oh baby, if only you could! I would totally mate with your genes!”

No joke, that was a really cool compliment. “Aw, thanks.”

“Hey, you gotta talk to Jaq tonight, okay? She’s got a student she wants to pick your brain about.”

“Okay. Is she here?”

“Not yet, she’s off with her girlfriend! Have you met Hannah?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, just wait until you do. I’m gonna go eat something disgusting, babe. See you later!”

She did some kind of wild shuffle in the direction of the bar, grinning when I turned back. Zane was hilarious. She’d also added a streak of pink to her purple hair since the last time I saw her, and while pink and purple might look little girlish on a lot of people, on Zane it just looked fierce.

After ten years of coming to Club Fred’s, I felt pretty comfortable dancing by myself, or with whoever was around me. In the early days—when I was poor Steven Costello’s age—I’d only gone to Fred’s if I had a date or very close friends with me, so I would never have that moment of feeling by myself in a crowd.

Then again, these days I know so many people the difference is a little moot.

I registered the hand grabbing mine even before I registered the words.

“Hey, you.”

“Hey, Alisha.” It was easy to smile at Alisha. Alisha was full of smiles.

She moved in close against me, and I had a momentary flash of feeling revealed. Could she tell I had a binder on? But she’d known me for years—obviously I didn’t have to hide that I wasn’t born with a Y chromosome.

And anyway, Alisha didn’t look the least deterred, whether she could feel the binder or not. “Looking good, Ed. Dance with me?”

“Sure.”

Hell yes, I’d dance with her. I put my hands on her waist, and this wasn’t quite the playful dancing I’d done with Zane; Alisha kept looking into my eyes and I kept looking back, far too long to be casual.

Her eyes were blue. Dark in the club, but I bet if we were outside they’d be bright, like the sky.

Dating had been the hardest part of transitioning for me. I dreamed sometimes about moving somewhere totally new, where I didn’t know anyone, where no one knew me. Where no one remembered me awkwardly attempting to embrace being a “tomboy” as a kid (I always hated that word), or butch as a teenager, or transmasculine in my twenties before I let myself admit that I couldn’t keep pretending the voice in my head that knew I was a man would go away. It was scary. Really scary.

And that was before I started telling people.

I still dated, but it was tricky. My old group of friends were gay in a binary sense, and a lot of them still had trouble understanding the difference between me now and me then, that even if I look pretty much the same on the outside, I’m not. And I’m probably more paranoid than makes sense; I always think the second I meet someone new, they’ll talk to someone else and that maybe after that they won’t want to date me because I’m trans, or they won’t want to date me because I’m not trans enough, because I only started T a year ago, because my dick’s not that big or my breasts are too big.

Alisha and I had been acquaintances a long time, but we’d never run in the same circles that much. She certainly knew I was trans, and whatever she was seeing, it was working for her.

“I’m glad you’re here tonight,” she said into my ear. I could barely hear her over the almost-intolerably loud beat pounding through the speakers.

“Me too. I mean, I’m glad you’re here.”

She grinned, little dimples in her cheeks making me flush. “I had to come out. Got this feeling something was gonna happen tonight that I needed to be here for.”

I got up closer, my lips almost brushing her ear. “That sounds mysterious. Has it happened yet, or are you still waiting?”

“I’m not waiting anymore.” She stepped back, dancing for a moment by herself, long hair down her back, arms upraised, her entire body undulating to the beat. Still looking at me. Still smiling.

I flushed hotter. I couldn’t help it.

Alisha laughed and returned to my arms, running her hands down my sides. “I like the way you look at me. Makes me feel beautiful.”

“You are. You are beautiful.” I kissed her, because she was pressed against me and it seemed like the thing to do.

“This is why I came out here tonight,” she murmured.

“You came out here to kiss me?”

“To be kissed by you. There’s a difference.”

Her hands guided me loosely until both of us were moving together. I touched her hair, her shoulders, her arms, sheathed in sheer black sleeves that were loose at her wrists.

It was still fun, with a thin vein of something serious running through it. We danced, laughing at each other, kissing a little more, but never too much. Her hands on my body didn’t make me feel exposed. I may have made her feel beautiful, but she made me feel something else, something precious. Dancing with Alisha made me feel handsome, like a boy out with a beautiful girl.

My chest went tight, so I forced myself to stop thinking and just enjoy this moment, this dance.

I wanted it to go on forever, but eventually, sweaty and disheveled, we kissed again and she leaned in.

“I have to go. I hate my job, but I kind of have to be at it in like six hours.”

“Sorry.” I wasn’t sure if I was apologizing for her job, or how late it was, or what.

“Are you kidding? This is the best night I’ve had in months! I knew coming here was a good idea.” She grinned. “See you around, Ed. Are you coming to F*ck G*nd*r next week?”

“Definitely. Are you?”

“For sure. This is my favorite so far, I think. Mostly because Fredi used those little asterisks in it.”

Of course that would be her favorite part. The asterisks. “I’ll be interested to see how everyone fucks gender. You should go home and get some sleep, Alisha. I’ll see you next week.”

“You better believe it. Good night, handsome.” She kissed me on the cheek and turned, melting into the crowd while I stood there, staring after her, thinking about the word “handsome” and how fucking powerful it was. It was my goal, my desire, an almost tangible mountain I’d set myself to climb.

Five foot seven inches tall, hair long enough on top to gel, seriously restrictive binders to hold my D-cup breasts in so they didn’t screw up all of my shirts. When I looked in the mirror I saw all the ways I’d never measure up. My facial hair was still practically nonexistent, even after a year on testosterone. I’d never be taller. I was lifting weights a little, but I was far from strong, and nowhere near buff.

I had no idea what Alisha saw when she looked at me. Except that tonight she’d seen someone who was handsome.

I hung out for a while longer, opting for a soda instead of another beer, which the bartender, Tom, comped me. Sometimes I could find Cameron at Club Fred’s reading a book, but not tonight. I laughed and talked and drank my soda, all of it with this thin sheen of detachment, trying to understand how people saw me, how they saw each other, how much of it was performance. Some people, like Fredi, Club Fred’s ferocious owner, seemed to be entirely honest, as if she’d be as gruff and loud in her own home as she was at the bar. Some people, like Zane, definitely had a “public” persona.

If Steven Costello were here, what would I see? A secretive, overwhelmed straight boy? A depressed twenty-one-year-old hiding in drugs? Something else?

I finally went home, grateful for the quiet, grateful that no one in my house was having a party. Most of them were probably still out, though the kettle was warm when I heated it for tea, so clearly someone was up. I made my tea in peace and took it back to my room.

Alisha. Dimples. Her hands, unhesitating on my sides.

I drank my tea, took a shower, and crawled into bed. Where I may or may not have jerked off to the memory of Alisha’s hands and her eyes never leaving mine.

 

AboutTheAuthor12

Kris Ripper lives in the great state of California and hails from the San Francisco Bay Area. Kris shares a converted garage with a toddler, can do two pull-ups in a row, and can write backwards. (No, really.) Kris is genderqueer and prefers the z-based pronouns because they’re freaking sweet. Ze has been writing fiction since ze learned how to write, and boring zir stuffed animals with stories long before that.

 

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Giveaway

To celebrate the release of The Queer and the Restless, one lucky winner will receive an ebook from Kris’s backlist! Leave a comment with your contact info to enter the contest. Entries close at midnight, Eastern time, on November 5, 2016. Contest is NOT restricted to U.S. entries.

Thanks for following the tour, and don’t forget to leave your contact info!

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One Thought to “The Queer and the Restless (Queers of La Vista #3) by Kris Ripper”

  1. Lisa

    Congrats on the release & thanks for the excerpt!
    legacylandlisa(at)gmail(dot)com

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