Romano and Albright 01 - Catch Me If You Can (MM) by L.B. Gregg Page A

Poppy’s final payment.
    “The warming oven. Are you deaf?”
    No, I was confused. “You guys took it the other night. It’s not here.”
    She looked even more confused. She asked in her chipper, squeaky morning voice, “Oh, maybe Poppy took it? You’re sure?”
    “I’m positive.”
    Rachel flitted off to the kitchen. Her ass wiggled obscenely in her skintight black jeans, another pair of dangerously high, flashy heels. She wore a red halter top and great big red hoop earrings that brushed her shoulders. She was just so trashy and adorable. I gazed down at my gray flannel pants and my blue button-down. I was dull as dishwater beside her.
    “Oh, is that coffee?” She swung through the door. I followed.
    “Help yourself.”
    She gave me a considered once-over. She did it again as she poured her coffee.
    “What? Do I have something on my face?” I patted my cheek, feeling for crumbs or dirt.
    “No. I just…I wanted to ask you…Caesar…if…you…you know…if…you… know . About me. If Poppy said anything.”
    “Know what? My God. Spit it out, woman.”
    “Ce. This is a secret. You can’t tell anyone.”
    I was hearing that a lot lately. “Yeah. Sure.”
    Rachel took a sip from her cup, then added two sugars. Stirring, her wrist jerking sharply, she blurted, “So at the party the other night, someone left an envelope in my handbag.”
    The envelope. Shit. I’d stuck it in my pocket when Shep called. Why did I keep putting off opening it? Because it was going to be expensive. And because, really, this was Peter’s problem. Resigned, I showed her my own wrinkled white mailer. “Like this one?”
    Her eyes widened with recognition. “Oh! Yes. Exactly. Wait. Did you leave it for me?” she asked in bewilderment.
    “No. Someone left this for me.”
    “Really? For you? What’s it got in it? ’Cause mine was…like a bill. It was like a bill for nine hundred dollars. This was in it.” She reached into her snappy red purse and fished out a folded piece of paper. She pressed it delicately into her cleavage. “You can’t tell anyone. Promise. Only Poppy knows this, okay? No one knows.”
    “Sure, Rach. I promise.”
    She unfolded the paper. It was a photo of a young man, a teenager. He was cute. He seemed familiar. I took a good look at Rachel. “Is that your brother?”
    “No. Caesar. Ding-dong. Look at the picture.”
    I checked it out. “Holy shit.” My head snapped up on my neck. She was so girlie and curvy. The big hair and tits…I knew better than this. “Oh. My. God.”
    “Yeah. I know. That’s me.” She winked and preened.
    “Are you…? Did you…?” I crossed my legs. It was all I could do not to grab my crotch. I knew a few trannies, sure, but I hadn’t ever met anyone who’d done the full deed. I spent most of my time in the gallery—I rarely stepped outside the art circle or the old neighborhood. I was rather sheltered for a queer New Yorker, come to think of it. It was all I could do not to glance at Rachel’s groin. “When?”
    “A couple years back. I’m a girl. I was always a girl. Look how tiny my bones are. I was a…you know. Like a mix.” I immediately thought labradoodle and coughed. I needed to get a grip. She continued, “A hermaphrodite, not an actual boy. I’m a girl. My parents decided I was a boy. They were wrong.”
    “And Poppy knows this?” How could she not have said? Not even when we were drunk? I would have spilled that secret.
    “Yeah. Of course.”
    I remembered the condom again. “Oh man. Does Peter know?”
    “No. No! I’m au naturel everywhere else. These babies are real.” She held up her breasts. “Well they were, but then I had them slightly enhanced.” She waggled them proudly.
    Slightly? They were double Ds, and they came to her neck. I groped the counter for support. “How would anyone find this picture? Or know the truth?”
    “I don’t know. I had it in my purse to show Poppy—and then I guess I didn’t notice it was