Shadows of the Past (SEAL Brotherhood: Shadow Team #1)

Chapter Twelve

T hey dressed after a long, exploratory shower. She was going to show him ways to navigate the island without being recognized.

“Don’t tell me I have to wear a dress.”

“No, silly. Would you dye your hair?”

“No. Can. Do. That’s just beyond what a guy in my position will do. If that’s required, then we’re all doomed. I mean it.”

“But, Dimitri—” She tried to finger one of his buttons.

“Moira, stop it. I’m pissed off right now.”

“Oh,” she said as she slid her hand over his groin. “But you’re so hard when you’re angry.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Well, will you wear a wig?”

“A man’s wig?”

“Of course. Unless you’d like to cross dress. This island has a long history of that going on here. It’s a mecca for gays. I have some childhood friends who are in that community.”

“Would you look at this body? I couldn’t pass for a woman.”

“You could be a drag queen.”

“You’re insane! That gets out to the Teams, and I’m toast. I’d be the laughing stock of the whole Navy.”

“I’m not so sure of that. I just think you’re blinded by your male ego. You have to see everything. That’s what it’s like on Capri. Anything goes. The more flamboyant the better. Artists, writers, people escaping the realities of the common for the magical and uncommon.”

He closed his eyes until he felt her hands on him again.

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop? Give me a chance to think, will you?”

She did. He opened his eyes, and she was smiling at him. “Do you trust me?” Her voice was timid, sweet, purring. She was trying to convince him.

“Fuck it. So what do I have to do?”

“We have to visit some of my friends. They run a cabaret, a very special cabaret.”

Oh Geez. What have I done?

There was a tunnel system on the island, created through the centuries and very easy to get lost in. They’d had children over the centuries go into them and never come out. It had hid pirates, mercenaries hiding from kings and queens, governments, ships, and mafia.

She knew them like the back of her hand.

“How is this possible? When did you have the time to learn about them?” he asked as he ducked to avoid hitting a large rock the size of his head stubbornly embedded in the dug-out and plastered over wall. Parts of the tunnel were lit with candles, where scorch marks were centuries old, candlewax had built up for more than four inches on the floor. Some had extension cords that wound under or through small holes drilled in the walls, plugging into some unknown source. He wondered how come he’d never heard about them.

“My mother grew up here. She used to bring us every summer for years. We grew up playing in them. She showed us a few of her favorite hiding places, and we found dozens more. It was such an idyllic childhood for us. We had no idea about what the world or life here was really like. It was just a fantastic playground of unbelievable vistas, characters from all over the world, and secret places made just for us. It certainly was far more exciting than what our friends were doing at home in California, hanging out in malls.”

It was fascinating to Dimitri.

“Are there any maps?” he asked.

“Not sure. I suppose some people have made them, but more than likely, nothing official, and it would take years to map them all out. New ones are being created all the time. And with the remodeling and building going on, tunnels are constantly discovered or damaged and re-routed. It sometimes causes great drama and family friction as each one claims to have their own territory. It’s useless. It’s like trying to regulate the post here.”

“Excuse me?”

“Depending on where you mail your postcard, the postage is different. Have you ever stopped at a stop sign at a roundabout on a two-lane road and find the stopped cars spread four-abreast? That’s what happens here.”

“It’s a wonder this country ever united under anything,” he grumbled.

“It always took much drama and even more wine.”

He chuckled.

They came into an alleyway. She wore her floppy hat and the glasses again, with a pink scarf around her neck and her tight, flowered skinny jeans. She could have passed for an Audrey Hepburn lookalike.

She’d given him an aloha shirt she found in the closet and a baggy pair of jeans that were way too loose on him. She found a piece of orange twine used to wrap grocery packages to cinch him up. Luckily, the shirt would cover all that. He’d wear his slip-ons until she could buy him some local-looking shoes, she’d said.

They walked through a beaded doorway into a dark bar with faint music playing. In the center of the room was a dance floor, highlighted by a silver ball twirling and sending shards of bright light all over the room.

He had to wait for his eyes to get used to the dark. Then he saw several shapes, tall shapes, in the corners and scattered at tables in the shadows at the edges. Two such forms came toward them. The closer they got, the more uncomfortable Dimitri felt.

He’d seen pictures of drag queens before in magazines and on news reports, but never up close and personal. And that’s how they approached him.

One wore a bright orange wig, Lucille Ball orange, wearing a black bustier over a tennis skirt and black fishnet stockings and high heels. That part he could accept, but it was hard to look at their face. The eyebrows were penciled in heavy, extending halfway from the natural brow to the hairline on top. Lips over exaggerated and filled with Botox injections, every word had an element of a sucking sound to it when this person talked.

The other one was not quite what Marilyn Monroe really looked like, but it was an attempt at doing so. They had breasts augmented by the bustier with cutouts and tassels dangling from the nipples. It was unkind but hard for him not to stare.

“Oh, Moira, what have you brought us?” the redhead said in a low, lustful growl, her sucking lisp interfering with her diction.

“Dimitri, this is Doreen, and this is Angelica. And you are to call them ladies. Ladies, this is Dimitri.”

“Uh oh. My panties are getting tight,” said Doreen as she slipped Dimitri’s large shirt off his shoulder and slid her red fingernails down his muscled arm covered in tats.

“Moira?” he asked as he stepped back, away from her clutches.

“He’s not used to this.”

“Oh, honey, I’m not either!” Angelica turned to the audience at the bar. “Ladies, we have a very handsome straight man in our midst. A virgin!”

It was going from bad to worse. Dimitri was cursing himself for suggesting she take him to meet some of her friends. No one back in D.C. or Coronado was ever going to hear about this. He didn’t know where all of it was leading.

Squeals of joy and rustling fabric and the clickety-clack of high heels over the dance floor sounded like a stampede of baby goats. They formed a circle around Dimitri. Moira leaned into him. “Trust me. You will not be harmed in any way.”

“Only my ego. No word of this, do you understand?”

“Scout’s honor.”

She made a show of removing his shirt, removing his undershirt, and letting his physique charm them. She took his hand and lead him around in a tight circle, so they could see all sides of him. He tucked his other hand into the gaping jeans pocket, unsure how to react under the scrutiny.

The oohs and ahhs bothered him a lot but didn’t seem to faze Moira one bit. He kept trying to gain eye contact with her again but was failing. He didn’t want to look at the painted faces in front of him for fear he’d have nightmares.

“Your mission, ladies, if you should accept it, is to make him look like one of you. I need a perfect disguise for him, so he can walk around the streets for a few days.”

“Who’s your favorite actress?” someone wanted to know.

“What’s your shoe size?”

“Capris or skirt?”

“Do you have a favorite hair color?”

“Can I shave him?”

It went on like that for far too long. He grabbed Moira and drew her to the side. In the background, he could hear laughter. Someone said, “Oh, isn’t that cute! He’s shy.”

“He’s gorgeous!” said another.

“Moira, I didn’t ask for this. I’m not doing this.”

“What else do you suggest? You won’t dye your hair. You can’t walk around in your clothes or they’ll find you. This will fool any face recognition software. It really works. They’ve told me it does.”

“But I can’t spend my whole time looking like this.”

“Well, it would be rather different for me, but I’m willing to try if you will.”

“God dammit! I mean it.” After the laughter died down again, he added in a whisper, hoping the audience didn’t hear, “What would my guys say?”

She thought about it for a bit, but she took her own sweet time doing so.

“We could do all of you then. Then you guys could go as a group, together!”

“You’re not listening. I won’t do it.”

Doreen came over and stood so close to him he could feel her body heat. “Sweetie,” she said as she stroked his cheek. “Honey, we don’t poach on another girl’s guy. We have a strict code of conduct here. But if you want to be disguised so no one in the world would ever figure out who you really are, which is what we specialize in, then, honey, let us give you a clean shave, do your hair and makeup tastefully, and get you some pretty clothes to decorate and hide that gorgeous body of yours. It would be my honor. And, who knows, you might like it.” She followed it up with a smile.

Dimitri fisted and unfisted his right hand. Doreen noticed.

“You have trust issues. I can see that.”

“I didn’t know I was signing on to this.”

“Honey, just lean back and enjoy it. Pretend you’re getting a massage. No one is going to touch that nice package you’ve got. That’s all Moira’s territory. But it would be a shame if some Civil Guard or mob boss did anything to mess up that hard body. And trust me, no one back home needs to know. That’s what Capri is all about!”

Much against his own judgment, he submitted to the ladies’ hands. They did an expert job of giving his face and chest a close shave without pain, without blood. Dimitri was oiled. His hair was tinted with red highlights, one streak of green, and a line of yellow, just to get the rainbow beginning there, Doreen told him. She whispered she would send him home with dark brown hair dye so he could convert back when he was ready.

He was told he needed to wear an earring, and he agreed, thinking it was something that clipped on, but before he knew it, someone had pierced his lobe with a needle and placed a stud there.

“Ow!” he screamed.

Moira brought him a glass of champagne for the pain. He sipped then lay back again while the face he knew he was going to hate was painted on him. Eyeliner, mascara, foundation, rouge, and light blue eyeshadow. She put lipstick on him, but it wasn’t creamy like hers, felt more like a stain of some kind.

They exchanged his pants for a pair of stretchy capris, built for someone with a package. His tank top showed off his shaved chest, making the tats around the base of his neck stand out like the day they were created. He was hair sprayed, given a kimono-style drape that tied with a sash at the side, and handed a pair of red slip-on pointed toe flats he was sure he was going to fall in.

At least he wasn’t wearing a dress or a skirt. He couldn’t run in a skirt.

He was shown the floor length mirror and he felt his stomach begin to churn, not sure what his reaction would be.

The flock of feathered folk spread out and let Moira look at their handiwork.

“Oh my, Dimitri. You look hot as Hell!” she said, breathlessly.

He was going with the moment, which was always what he had to do around her. He reminded himself he was doing this so he could spend the rest of his life loving her lovely body and living life at the edges of reality in some place called forever and forever. His ridiculous reflection was something he’d never forget. He’d told himself he’d do whatever it took to have her back by his side, to keep her safe.

If he had to dress up as a drag queen to do it, then he’d embrace the suck. And this was as bad as BUD/S. That kind of suck.

But she was worth it.

“Thank you,” he said in a squeaky little voice like his aunt Miriam.

He brought down the roof. He heard lots of rapid-fire Italian. One whispered in perfect English, “Oh, honey! He can join our cabaret any time!”