Butterflies attack my stomach as I stand staring at the door.

Should I knock first? Should I just walk inside? What am I supposed to do? I ponder this for a moment before rapping my knuckles against the green steel and cracking it open an inch. There's not a soul in sight. I step over the threshold and close the door.

Just like before, several fancy garments dangle from hangers along the wall, a myriad of heels and thigh-high boots scattered beneath them. The last time I was at the club, Lady Bijou told me that if I ever needed anything that I'd know where to find her. At the time, I thanked her—just to be polite. Little did I know that a few short days later, I'd be seeking beauty advice from a drag queen. But if anyone can give me a proper makeup tutorial, it'll be her.

My eyes scan the dressing room, searching for signs of life.

"Can I help you?" a voice asks from the quiet. The sound makes me jump.

There's a long wooden bench off to one side. A man maybe twice my age is sitting on it watching me, a mesh cap covering his black hair.

I stammer out a reply. "I, uh—I was just wondering if Lady Bijou was working today?"

His dark eyes dance with amusement. "She's here. May I ask what this is regarding?"

"Well ..." My eyes drop to the floor. "We met earlier this week, and I was hoping she could maybe, um, help me with my makeup? But only if she's not too busy."

"I see," he says slowly. When I look back up, one delicate eyebrow is arched. "Something special going on?"

Heat scorches my cheeks. Am I really going to confide in a total stranger? If I want to see Lady Bijou, I suppose I have no choice. "First date," I confess.

"Ah. The consequential first date." A smile tinges his words. "Does it happen to be with a Mr. Sullivan Reed?"

My jaw drops to the floor. "How did you know that?"

He pulls himself to a standing position. "Well, for starters, I saw the way he was looking at you the last time you were here. And," he adds slyly, "the way you were looking at him. It doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out the rest."

"But how—" I'm so confused. "How did you—"

The man sets down the sequin gown he's fiddling with and walks toward me, reaching his hand out to mine. "It's good to see you again, Gwen. I'm Bastian Meullion, otherwise known as Lady Bijou."

I'm grateful my reflexes are working because the rest of me is numb. My hand moves forward and he clasps it in his. "You're Lady Bijou?"

He chuckles. "The one and only."

I take my time studying him, trying to determine if he's pulling my leg. Lady Bijou is gorgeous, and there's no denying this guy is, too. They're both tall and lean and share an easy confidence, only Bastian's isn't as obnoxious. His light brown skin is smooth and his features chiseled, and there's something in his eyes that promise he's telling the truth.

He cocks his head to the side. "What did you think I looked like underneath the wig and all that makeup?"

"I don't know," I answer honestly. "I guess I didn't expect you to be so—normal."

"I can respect that." He smiles at me and I smile back. "Why don't you have a seat at the mirror and I'll see what I can do."

He nods toward a swivel chair and I do as he requests. Tubes of lipstick and palettes of blush and eye shadow in every shade known to man clutter the vanity and a series of bright lights line the perimeter of the mirror. He turns me to face him.

"So, tell me about this date," he says, carefully inspecting my face.

I cringe under his scrutiny. "We're going out to eat and then on a ghost tour."

"And this is what you're wearing?"

My gaze sweeps over my dress. "Yes. Do you think it's okay?"

Anxiety buzzes through me as I wait for him to answer. "I think it's fantastic," he states, his tone very business-like. "Black is flattering on you. The contrast makes your eyes pop. Which, by the way, are gloriously expressive. I want to make sure we choose colors that will do them justice."

Bastian slides his fingers under my chin and shifts my face from one side to the next. Never in my life have I been studied so intently, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me uncomfortable. After what feels like an eternity, he steps back.

"You have amazing cheekbones," he announces, pursing his lips.

I snort. "Yeah, right. They're chubby."

"Chubby? No." He shakes his head. "They're to die for. Very Marilyn Monroe."

"Who?"

His eyes widen. "You can't be serious."

I shrug.

"The Golden Age—arguably the most glamorous era in history. Classy in the sort of way we'll never know again. I weep for the future of fashion," he says in his best Lady Bijou voice. He releases a forlorn sigh. "Marilyn Monroe just so happens to be one of the greatest icons of all time." He nods toward the wall and an enormous mural of a buxom blonde, her lips fire-red against porcelain skin.

The lady in the painting is beyond magnificent. And I'm just plain old ... me. "I don't look anything like her," I scoff. He's supposed to be an expert?

He readjusts my chair and chooses a palette from the vanity. "Not exactly, but you do share similar qualities. You both have the kind of face that jumps out and grabs a person," he says. "But a woman's personality is what makes her true beauty shine through. And yours dazzles. It demands to be noticed—in the best possible way."

No one has ever said anything like that to me before.

Bastian dabs a pointed makeup brush into a shade of bronze, then slides it under my cheekbone. "And where is our friend Hartley today?"

I try not to move. "At a doctor's appointment."

"And when is Sullivan picking you up?"

"Three-thirty."

He eyes the clock on the wall. "Good. We have plenty of time." He steps back to inspect his work. "Sullivan's a good guy. I like him a lot."

"I know you do." Bastian moves in close and swipes my other cheek. My eyes dart around, not knowing where to focus. "That's why he doesn't like to come here."

"Because I like him?"

"He says it makes him uncomfortable."

Bastian laughs. "I don't like him like him. I merely tease him because it makes him uncomfortable."

My eyebrows scrunch together and I pull away. "Wait—you don't like Sully?"

"Not in that way; he's a kid. I just can't help tormenting him a little. I admit, it's a guilty pleasure and probably more than a little immature. But to be perfectly honest, he makes it so easy."

Now it's my turn to laugh. The fact that Bastian flirts with Sully just to get under his skin is hilarious. I relax in his chair. "Do you work here all the time?" I ask, feeling more at ease.

"Actually, no." He trades the thin brush in for a thicker one and swirls it in a circle of dusty pink, then brings it back to my face. "This is only for fun. I have what one might consider a normal job."

"Doing what?"

"I work at a shelter for at-risk youth. Primarily kids who've run away. My job is to make sure they have a safe place to stay and lead them to a more positive path. What?" He stops what he's doing and stares at me. "Does that surprise you?"

"Sort of." I struggle to find the right words. "It's just not what I was expecting you to say."

"Why's that?" he asks, resuming his previous position. "You assumed I ate, slept, and breathed performing?"

"Well—yeah, I guess." I inhale sharply. "No offense. You're just so good at it."

"None taken. And thank you." Bastian gives me a wink. "I dress in drag for the sole purpose of entertainment. But my passion is working with teens. Especially LGBTQ. Because, I myself, was once a displaced youth."

"You ran away from home?"

"Once upon a time." He tilts my chin before continuing. "When your father's a top ranking officer in the Army and his only son confesses he's gay, it's not exactly a testosterone booster. We went through some rough patches before finding a common ground."

"But you did?"

"Eventually. My dad hoped that I'd follow in his footsteps, and, of course, get married and have children of my own. But that life isn't for me—not that there's anything wrong with it. Dedicating yourself to your country or raising a family are both noble and selfless choices. They're just not meant for everyone." He gives me a puzzled look. "Have you ever plucked your eyebrows before?"

I shake my head and nearly jump out of my seat when he brings the tweezers to my face.

"Beauty is pain," he warns.

I hold my breath as he rips a hair from my brow.

"My goodness, girl. You should have dealt with these a long time ago." Bastian plucks a few more strands while I bite back a scream. "Anyway, my parents came to accept my lifestyle and we're very close now. But I still remember the rejection and fear I felt after they found out. I decided then, that one day I would help other kids in similar situations. So they didn't feel so alone."

I stare at him in amazement. "And you like it? Helping those kids?"

"I love it." And I can tell he means it. "It's important for teens to have resources. Too many turn to drugs and alcohol as a way to deal with their problems. And when you throw in sexual orientation and gender identity issues, there's more to consider. My goal is to make sure they live happy, healthy lives and learn to respect themselves—however they identify."

And before I can stop myself, something that's been plaguing me slips from my mouth. "I think Hartley's hiding something from me."

He pauses. "What do you mean?"

It's a reasonable question. One I don't have an answer to. "She just feels like a disaster waiting to happen. You know?"

Bastian grows quiet. He concentrates on applying eye shadow, his breaths long and ragged against my cheek. "Our experiences mold our lives," he says slowly, "They can alter how we see ourselves."

"Do you know about her dad?"

"I do. Hartley confided in me shortly after we met."

"Do you think she's unhappy?" I ask him.

He doesn't answer right away, and I start to wonder if he doesn't want to. "I think we're products of the decisions we make, and we decide whether to be happy or not every single day. But not everyone realizes that. Or they realize it too late. We all have our demons, and Hartley has a lot to work through. It's not been an easy road for her. But if she doesn't learn to forgive her past—" he scratches the back of his neck, "—she'll hurt her future."

"She took a bat to Nick's car last night," I blurt out abruptly. "She smashed the windshield and now has to come up with two hundred and fifty dollars to fix it!"

He takes a step back. "She did that?"

I nod. "And she almost got arrested, too."

Bastian exhales and shakes his head. "Does she have money?"

"No. And she won't tell her mom. She said she could sell some of her clothes but she'll still come up short."

"Two hundred and fifty dollars ..." He bites the inside of his cheek. "I could probably put her to work around here and pay her under the table. At least, until she's paid off her debt. Do you think she'd go for that?"

My jaw drops. "You'd do that?"

"Well, what are her other options? She can't very well walk around naked."

He's right. Hartley's going to need a job and she doesn't have time to be picky. "She'll do it! When does she start?"

He laughs and stoops closer, inspecting my makeup. "Have her stop by and we'll sort out the details. In the meantime, what do you think about this?" he asks, spinning me to face the mirror.

My heart nearly stops because staring back at me is a girl I barely even recognize. I turn my face from one side to the next, admiring the slants and curves that weren't visible before. "Is this really me?"

Bastian flashes a wide grin. "In the flesh. And I didn't need to use much makeup either. You're naturally stunning."

I blink several times, my eyes filling with tears.

"Now don't start crying on me or we'll have to start all over! And you, my dear, are running out of time," he says gently. "Do you like it?"

I try to find my voice. "I've never felt so beautiful in my life." Our gazes collide in the mirror. "Thank you, Bastian."

His eyes crinkle at the corners. "It's my pleasure."