There’s a reason why you won’t find the name Franklin Dupree on a trophy for Father of the Year. Probably more like a dozen reasons. All of them scars on my body.

When I answer the phone down at Moonwalk Riverfront Park and hear the voice of Bastian Mutters, I’m not very surprised. Bas works for Christine Claire, who is technically my employer. In truth she’s Louis’ and Lestat’s lawyer and handles all their business. So that makes them my employers, really. Bas is Dutch, tall, blond with steel blue eyes, and looks like a supermodel. He’s also fucking smart. And straight, much to the chagrin of the gay male population of Louisiana. We usually get along great; he just regularly gets frustrated with me when he needs to reach me and I ignore his phone calls and e-mails. So he started calling me at odd hours, like today, if he needs to speak with me urgently.

Today, he calls to tell me my dad has died. Franklin Dupree is dead.

Not recently. He snuffed it a couple of months ago. Bas mentions a date, but I stopped listening. It’s like suddenly the temperature dropped to freezing point in a split second.

I stupidly nod on the phone to whatever Bas is saying, thank him for his condolences and well-meant words, and then I hang up.

Rashid stands not too far away from me with a concerned look. He senses my mood change from playful to shock. And he worries. I tell him my dad died, and I can feel his hand on my shoulder. He says he’s sorry. Why would he be sorry? He didn’t even know my dad. I’m not sorry. I’m not anything. I don’t know how I feel.

Rashid’s hand is still on my shoulder, warm and comforting. I put my palm over his and look at him.

“Thank you, I’m… we don’t have,” I stop and correct myself. “We never had a good relationship.” Understatement of the century.

Rashid nods. Feigning comprehension but looking pretty lost and helpless. He takes me in his arm and holds me, his hand rubbing my back.

“Could you give me a moment, please?” I manage to croak. It’s not that I don’t appreciate his embrace. I just need a bit of fresh air and some alone time. I wonder if he already regrets staying with me instead of getting a hotel.

“Sure, of course. I’ll be over there if you need me.” He indicates a bench a few yards away. I nod, grateful.

I walk a little closer to the water’s edge and stare at the black current. This is the first time I’ve heard from my dad in seven years at least. I can’t even remember the last time I saw him. Longer ago than that. Some time before Remy died. Before Josie told me her ex-boyfriend had kicked our Dad out of the house. Seven years. That’s almost one third of my lifetime. I’m actually a little surprised he made it so long. I would’ve bet money he’d be six feet under by now, the way he drank

I start patting down my jeans and find what I’m looking for. My emergency package of cigarettes. It’s funny how I always put them in my jeans even though I quit smoking a while ago. I squat down and light one. I don’t think Rashid has ever seen me smoke, and for a moment I wonder what he thinks about it. I don’t think he smokes. I inhale deeply and exhale through my nose, waiting for the nicotine to numb my nerves.

I finish the cigarette with long, deep drags, then I turn back to search for Rashid. He’s still there, waiting on the bench. Apparently looking out at the water, but from his small head movements I can tell he’s watching me. That’s what you get when you date a professional spy. I remember how he stayed in my dark apartment for hours because he thought I shouldn’t be alone, even though I had told him to fuck off. I wonder if he already regrets dating me. I’m definitely a handful.

I let my head hang between my knees and run my fingers through my hair. Jesus fucking Christ on toast, I will not give Franklin Dupree the satisfaction of having a meltdown over his death. Or allowing him to get in between me and my boyfriend. He’d only love that.

I start to walk back to Rashid. He takes a few steps toward me and I just throw my arms around his neck.

“Are you alright?” he asks softly.

I nod, then shake my head and shrug. I really don’t know how I feel.

“Come on, let’s get you home.”

He leaves one arm around my waist, and we walk back to my apartment in silence. At home, I start pulling off my clothes before I remember I’m not alone. My mind is completely elsewhere. I look at Rashid, who’s watching me, and explain, “I can’t stay inside; I’ll be out there,” and gesture towards my terrace. He nods, clearly trying to understand, and I hesitate at the door.

“Do you… I mean… you could come with me?” I offer.

I grab the duvet from my bed and fluff up the cushions on my deckchair until I can feel Rashid’s hands around my waist and his lips brush against my cheek. I turn to him, mould myself into his embrace and we kiss.

When we break apart, I lean my head against his shoulder.

“Can you maybe just hold me? Would that be okay?” I ask.

“Sure can.” And he pulls his arms a little tighter around me. “You’re shivering. Let’s get you under the cover.” He shoos me under my duvet before he joins me on my deckchair. It’s a tight fit for the two of us, but it kind of works. Between his warm body and the thin blanket, I’m starting to thaw a little. Being outside in only my undies is still not a good idea in mid-November. Not even in New Orleans. Although it’s not only the temperature which is to blame for my freezing.

For a moment, I just bask in the feeling of being inside this pocket of warmth. Rashid stripped down to his underwear as well, but for some reason, he’s like a tiny furnace heating both of us up. I can feel his muscles move underneath his skin when he gently strokes my arm.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, his voice low.

I surprise myself with a nod. I do want to talk about it. I never told anyone about my Dad. I told Remy a few things, but not all. I skimmed over the worst bits. Part of me was ashamed of having such a father, but mostly I didn’t want anyone pitying me. Now that my Dad’s dead, I don’t have such a father anymore.

Rashid shifts a little, presumably to get a little more comfortable, and then squeezes my hand encouragingly. It says, I’m here, I’m listening.

I’m trying to remember a happy memory that involves my father. There’s actually just one, and it’s more about my Mom and Josie than about him.

I’m four or five, and we go to a park for a picnic. I can’t remember which one, just the big trees and how nice it is to sit in their shade, eat fried chicken and drink fresh lemonade from Mom’s basket and run around the big green meadow with Josie. She makes me a crown out of daisies but hides it when Dad joins us. I start to cry because I like the daisies, and Josie promises me an ice cream if I keep silent.

It’s the biggest ice cream I’ve ever seen in my life. It tastes great but gives me a brain freeze, so Mom makes me and Josie sit in the sun for a while. Mom rubs sunblock all over my tiny body. I hate it because it makes my skin sticky and the dust clings to it. But I’ll never forget the smell of it and Mom’s hands caressing me. Whenever I smell sunblock now, I’m reminded of that sunny day in the park and my Mom’s smile when she kisses my forehead and tells me to go play. “Love you, my biscuit; have fun,” she says. Dad is with us, and he plays ball with me. It’s the only time I see him smile at me.

Then Mom gets sick. First she hides it from us. Maybe she already knew she was dying when we were in the park; we never found out. She was always thin and fragile, but then she just keeps losing weight and is tired all the time. One afternoon, I play in my room on the floor and Mom is in my bed dozing. Earlier that day, or maybe it was on another day, I heard Dad talk to another man, a doctor. I can’t recall what was said, but something must have stuck with me because I suddenly ask Mom if she’ll be still with us on Christmas. She gives me the faintest smile, the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, like even that small movement costs her too much.

“Of course I will, biscuit; don’t you worry your sweet head,” she says, her voice soft and soothing.

Whenever I remember that moment, I want to apologise to my Mom. I’m sorry that I asked her. She must have known then that she would never have another Christmas with us. Maybe that’s what the doctor told my dad; I just didn’t understand it. So I had to ask her. But she couldn’t bear to tell me the truth, so I forced her to lie to me. She passed away in early November. I’m sorry, Mama.

That afternoon she lets me climb in bed with her, curl up against her, and she places her hand gently on my chest, just above my heart. Her palm is light as a whisper.

“Protect this,” she murmurs. “That heart of yours – it’s sacred.”

Living with Dad was difficult, but Josie and I learnt to read him really quickly. He was always two men, and we never knew which one walked through the door. Even when Mom was still alive, he’d sometimes slur sweet words to her in one breath, then shove her hard against the kitchen counter the next. You just never knew, and it got worse after Mom was gone. He always had a beer or two in the evening. After Mom’s death it was more, usually something stronger. And you could always tell when it was too much. His voice and his body language changed. He just became a different man.

When I was too little to understand what was going on, Josie told me we’d play a game. Whenever she told me, “Wakanda’s callin’, Lell!”, I’d have to run as fast as I could to Mrs Batiste, not turn around, and hide there until she came to get me. Sometimes Josie woke me up, and I went. Bare feet slapping the pavement, still in my PJs. It was just a fun game.

Until one day, I am dawdling for some reason; maybe I’m still too sleepy, or I don’t want to leave without my Luke Cage action figure. That’s when I see my dad come into the hallway with that dark look stretched tight across his face. Josie steps in front of him, trembling with fear and anger. Dad slaps her – hard. Square across her face. I see her head whip to the side and see the bright flash of a red bloom across her lip. She just looks back at me and mouthes one word: “Run.” She is maybe eleven or twelve years old, standing in the hallway with a busted lip and our Mama’s eyes.

I can’t remember when dad hit me for the first time. Or why. Maybe I spilt my juice at the breakfast table, being my fidgety self. Or maybe I don’t move or answer quickly enough. When it happens, I’m too stunned to even feel the pain or cry at first. Josie takes that moment to usher me into my room. “Stay here and be quiet as a mouse or he’ll do it again.” I hide under my bed and try not to cry but my tears still fall.

It starts to happen regularly and Josie can’t always protect me. I try to stay away from home as much as possible. Stay in the school library to read comic books and Huckleberry Finn until the librarian kicks me out. It works for a while but then dad thinks I did something wrong and got detention. I still have a small scar on my left cheek where his fist cut my skin open.

I learn to just take his punches. It sometimes makes him even angrier when I don’t fight back. But if I did, I’m not sure what he would do to me. I start to hide in my room most of the time and only come out when Josie forces me to and tells me to go outside to play with the other kids. I don’t want to. I don’t like the way they looked at me.

I’m maybe thirteen or fourteen when the “new music sensation” hits the streaming services: The Vampire Lestat, a rock star who pretends to be a vampire. That alone is enough to catch my attention. But then he also looks like a fallen angel with his golden mane and silver eyes. A fallen angel dressed like a slut, as one article calls it: always clad in leather, silk or other materials that cling to him like a second skin, revealing more than they cover. Shirts always open to show off his perfectly chiselled body and broad shoulders that fall into a waist that makes you forget how to breathe.

Lestat and his music became my sanctuary.

I start collecting every newspaper clipping I can find about him. I’m just completely obsessed with him and his voice, so deep, rich, and haunting. His music, smooth like velvet, dangerous and seductive. I keep every picture of him in an old shoebox. The ones of him on stage, in his outrageous music videos, and the paparazzi ones of him and his lover, a photographer from his entourage. Or rather the vampire Louis de Pointe du Lac, as I learn later. A guy who doesn’t look too different from me. Older, of course, a grown man, not an awkward, gangly teen like me. But black like me. His skin tone maybe only a nudge lighter than mine.

I look at their photos, blurry as they are, which show them making out in the middle of a dancefloor in a club. The fog swirling around them but not really hiding what they are doing in plain sight: kissing passionately, Lestat’s hands grabbing Louis’ ass. Another picture with Lestat’s face buried deep into Louis’ neck (today I know he was clearly drinking from Louis) and Louis’ hands tangled up in Lestat’s blond locks. Maybe I should be jealous, but these pictures actually give me hope. Maybe there is a chance that a kid like me might find love like that.

When I tell Josie about my dreams with big heart-shaped eyes for Lestat, she only laughs and ruffles my hair. “With that big heart of yours,” she says. “You’ll find someone even better. Someone real.”

I start to study Lestat, the way he dresses, the way he moves, the jewellery he wears, and his make-up. I spend every free minute on my bed, examining every picture and video I have in detail. When Josie isn’t at home, I sneak into her room and try on some of her clothes, mini skirts and crop tops. I get a lime green feather boa from a charity shop that looks a bit like the feathers on one of his outfits. I use Josie’s hairbrush as a microphone and twirl in front of her mirror to imitate Lestat’s moves.

One day – I am fifteen, and it is the summer before I meet Remy when Josie is at work and Dad is getting drunk – I take some of her make-up and sneak into the bathroom. I remember it as if it happened yesterday.

The bathroom mirror is cracked, and I try to see myself clearly in the fragments. The magazine I “borrowed” from the shop down the road with Lestat’s picture on the cover lies beside me on the toilet seat. I try to apply the lipstick to make it look just like Lestat’s, but it is a shade too bright, bleeding at the corners. I wipe it and try again. Gawd, this is harder than it looks. My hand trembles, but the liner is near perfect – sharp, like Lestat’s smirk on the cover.

I find an old faux leather mini skirt in Josie’s drawer. I pair it with my Vampire Lestat tour t-shirt that I bought with the money I earned over the last year working at the same shop down the road. I got it two sizes too small on purpose so it would be just a little too tight and a little too short, showing off my flat stomach and thin waist. Now I only need some fishnet stockings and over-knee boots, and it’ll be perfect. It feels like an armour. Stupid, maybe. Beautiful, definitely.

A song plays low on my phone – Lestat’s voice thick like syrup, drawling something about devouring the night. Then the front door slams. Shit. Too soon. I rip the skirt off and shove it into the cabinet under the sink, frantically scrubbing at my lips. The liner won’t budge. I spit into a towel and rub harder. My heartbeat is a snare drum in my throat. The knock comes like a bullet.

“Open up, boy.” My dad’s voice, slurred but dangerous.

The door cracks open. Franklin’s eyes sweep the room and land on the lipstick tube I forgot on the counter. There is a dreadful moment of silence, where I almost start to hope he won’t notice.

“You wearin’ that now?” He snarls at me.

I don’t answer and just stand there, arms braced on the sink.

“You think you funny? Paintin’ your face like some whore?” My dad steps closer. The air smells like sweat and malt liquor. “You tryna be one o’ them faggot bloodsuckers from the TV?” He grabs my wrist and yanks me around. “You think painting your face gonna change what you are? You still worthless.”

I don’t fight. I know better. Just stare past him, jaw clenched.

“I ain’t raising no goddamn sissy in my house.”

“I know,” I say quietly. “You didn’t raise much of anything.”

It’s a mistake. I know it the second the words come out, but sometimes my mouth is just faster than my brain. The slap is quick. Hot. I stagger back and hit the wall. Blood from my lip drips on the tiles. But I keep my head high, eyes on my father. I won’t budge. Not today. If he wants to hit me again, he can. And he does.

Later, Josie finds me sitting on the steps in our backyard, clutching Lestat’s magazine like a shield.

“Damn, Lell,” she whispers, kneeling beside me. I attempt to grin at her and wince at the pain, one eye already swelling.

“Think I could pull off the boots, too?” I ask her with a wry smile, although it hurts.

Josie looks me over. “Honey, you’d make Lestat jealous.”

Rashid never interrupts me while I spill my guts out to him like I’ve never done before to any living soul in my life. He just lies with me, under my duvet, and holds me and listens. My tears are coming when I talk about Mom, her love and quiet strength. When Josie stepped up after Mom was gone and became my protector and biggest supporter. There are tears when I talk about Dad, but they’re not for Franklin. They’re for the boy, I could have been, but who was punched into oblivion by someone who utterly failed his job description as a father.

“I guess the best thing you could say about my father is that if he hadn’t toughened me up all those years, I probably wouldn’t have survived on the streets for as long as I have. Only to end up getting almost killed by four thugs who were exactly the kind my dad was”.

When I’m finished, he keeps quiet for a long time. Processing maybe. Maybe waiting to see if there’s more. There isn’t. A couple of weeks after Dad caught me in the bathroom, school started again with a new kid on the basketball team. A white boy named Remy Dubois. I’m not ready to talk about him.

Finally Rashid moves to press a kiss against my shoulder. His arm is still around me, holding me tight. I notice that his hand is on my chest, just above my heart. I don’t know if it’s coincidence or because he picked it up from my story, but I place my hand over his, keeping it there.

“I’m sorry this happened to you,” he whispers into my ear. “I know you don’t want pity. And I’m not offering it to you. I admire you.”

“Admire?” I can hardly believe his words. “What’s so admirable about being someone else’s punchbag?”

“Because you endured. You just pushed through everything that’s happened to you. You’re still here. You’re still you.”

I shake my head, not hearing – not wanting to hear – what he says.

“You just don’t see yourself that way.” He knows me too well already.

“No, I don’t.” I whisper, my voice barely audible, even to my own ears.

Rashid still picks up on it as if by magic. “Is it okay if I see you that way?”

I let out a small frustrated growl: “I think you seriously need to get your eyesight checked, Oxford.”

I can feel, more than hear, him laugh. “Duly noted, Dupree.”

I sigh. I just don’t have the energy to argue, and even at that point in our relationship, I start to realise there just is no point in arguing with Rashid once he has his mind made up.

“So, isn’t any of what I just told you in my ominous Talamasca file?”

He laughs again. “Your ominous Talamasca file is a lot less impressive than you think it is. I’ll get you a copy soon. You’ll be disappointed.”

I turn around so I can look at his face. “You will? You can show me my file?”

“Yep,” he simply says, smiling a little smugly.

“Will any of what I just told you make its way into my file?”

“No…” he says slowly. “Why would…” Then realisation hits him, and he sits up a little straighter. “Gosh, no, Wendell! Of course not! I stopped being your handler ages ago. I’m not reporting back anything about you.”

I look into his eyes – I believe him – and I nod in acceptance.

Rashid cups my cheek with one hand. “I…” he swallows. “I just want to be with you.”

I return the gesture. “Me too,” I whisper against his lips. “I just want to be with you, too.”

I lean in and kiss his lips lightly. “I…” I hesitate, cowardly. “I’m grateful that you’re here.”

I wanted to say something else, but this will have to do. For now.