Chapter 7

See, when that plane door opened and the stairs folded down, out came three of the most fabulous-looking drag queens I’d ever laid eyes on.

“Is it . . .” Dara whispered my way.

I shook my head, if just barely. “No, hon. Close, but no cigar.”

Down they clicked and clacked, mega-high heels soon crunching the gravel as they quickly closed the gap between us, until, shut the friggin’ door, there they stood. Though towered would’ve been a better world for it.

The middle one spoke first, a dead ringer—and, trust me, I know dead when I see it, though these broads were anything but—for Miss Destiny St. James herself. “Oh, thank goodness. Creature Comfort. At last.”

“You . . . you came looking for me?” I squeaked out.

“Yeah,” said Dara, eyes so wide they could’ve just about popped out of her head. “For her?”

I poked her in the ribs and again gazed their way. “Who . . . who are you?”

Again the middle one spoke. “Oh, forgive my manners. It’s been a frightfully long flight.”