little t&a

remembering what my little girl said

 Gene went through Paul's closet and drawers, getting him out a shirt, jeans, boxers, and shoes as he waited on the limo, just in case Paul had been able to go through with it and end the curse. The more he thought about it, the more Gene hoped he hadn't. Paul had barely specified anything—he doubted that Carol had, either—beyond it being over once he had sex. Would he have had any time to leave before he started changing back? Or would whoever he'd slept with end up watching the whole bizarre process? It was a gruesome train of thought, but better, maybe, than picturing what else could have happened to Paul. At least back in his own body, he could fend a guy off.

Gene thought about the altercation on the front porch with Peter and Ace. He hadn't really given it the consideration he should have. But both the guys had been holding back when Paul had first charged at them. Peter had screamed a lot, but he'd just held Paul off of Ace, for the most part. If Peter had wanted to, he could've really hurt him. But he hadn't, and probably not just because Peter had thought he was Paul's girlfriend, but because he was a girl. Paul wouldn't have been afforded that kind of protection on his own at some bar.

Gene realized, sickly, that he hadn't thought things out much better than Paul had. Letting him leave had been the stupidest of his missteps, sure, but he'd mostly thought about Paul being a girl in terms of how it related to him. Not so much in terms of how it related to the way everyone else would treat him. He swallowed, bagging up the clothes as the limo pulled up.

Gene spent the limo ride staring anxiously at his own watch, stomach churning, a dozen scenarios playing out at once in his head. CBGB had just been a guess, and a dim one at that. Paul had genuinely liked that little dump, a hell of a lot more than he'd liked Studio 54. Been fond of the acts there. But Paul knew his way around plenty of dumps. Gene wouldn't have put it past him to have driven to the nearest juke joint, just for convenience and anonymity. And if he had, then Gene didn't know if he would find him, or if Paul would be driving himself back home the next day, terrified, broken-down, or worse. Not even coming home at all. And he'd be responsible. He'd be responsible.

He hadn't taken care of Paul at all. Peter had known better. Peter would've made Paul stay inside even if it had meant barricading the doors to Paul's own house. Gene rubbed his forehead as though that could ease the aching there. There'd been that killer last year around the Queens area; Gene didn't know if they'd caught him. That guy that ran around murdering dark-haired girls out West. All sorts of shit. Just all sorts. If Paul had... if he'd...

He ran out of the parking lot almost before the limo had even stopped, not waiting on the chauffeur to even hand him an umbrella for the rain. He'd... if he couldn't find Paul now, here, he'd phone Bill Aucoin. Tell him everything. Have a manhunt. Bill could figure everything out, spin it any damn way he wanted. Make up another set of lies. Search the whole New York area for Paul in whatever shape he was in. If it destroyed KISS, let it. He didn't care. He didn't care as long as Paul was safe.

In his hurry to CBGB, he didn't even notice Paul's car parked less than a dozen feet away from the limo.

There might've been fifty people left in the club when he walked in, a lone bouncer smoking marijuana just inside. He glanced at Gene, seeming to recognize him from the night prior, then rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.

"The Ramones already left, man."

"I'm not here for the band," Gene said. "Look, the gu—the girl I was with last night, you remember? Is she here?"

"The tall girl with the tits?" the bouncer said offhand, taking a drag. Gene stiffened, but the bouncer didn't seem too concerned. "Yeah, she came in awhile ago."