the tour

Tammy didn’t lead you straight out the door. Instead she drifted into hostess mode, arm extended like she was unveiling an exhibit.

“Welcome to Casa Barnes,” she sang, walking ahead on sharp little stiletto clicks. “Take it in, babe. You’ll be here a lot.”

The house unfolded like an Instagram feed—every angle curated, every surface gleaming. An open-plan living space bathed in sunlight, white sectional couches that looked too pristine to sit on, chrome-and-glass tables with art books stacked in perfect grids. Abstract canvases leaned against the walls, splashes of color against white, while in the corner a ring-light stood by a tripod, waiting for its next self-tape.

You followed, your sneakers dangling from one hand, trying not to gawk. The whole place smelled faintly of coconut, vanilla, and some expensive cleaning product. There was nothing casual here, nothing Randall.

She paused before a wide glass wall that gave onto the patio. Beyond it, a turquoise pool shimmered, ringed with loungers and potted palms. “Cute, right? Great light for selfies, and the pool guy is punctual. A must.” She smiled at her own joke, then flicked her hair.

You realized you hadn’t spoken in a full minute.

It wasn’t just the house. It was her. The way she moved, the tilt of her chin, the fact that her D-cup implants strained the violet bandage dress like it was a red carpet. Every line of her face was sculpted, polished, real-housewife ready. And yet—Randall was in there somewhere. The same guy who used to play Xbox on your couch and make nachos with way too much cheese.

Your brain fumbled for words. “I—uh—you really… you look…” You trailed off, heat rising in your face.

Her glossy lips curved knowingly. She cocked a hip, letting her tote dangle from two fingers like she was born posing. “Different?”

You nodded dumbly.

Tammy laughed—it was that uncanny mix again: the soft, sugar-coated reality-star trill with Randall’s undertone peeking through. “Babe, of course I do. That’s the point. This isn’t just drag, Timmy. This is a full-on reboot.” She gestured down her own body, unabashed. “Surgeries, diet, fitness, glam squad—commitment. Tammy Barnes doesn’t half-ass.”

You opened your mouth, closed it again. “But… it’s just—”

“I know what you’re thinking,” she cut in smoothly, striding over until she was inches from you. Her perfume—floral, coconut, expensive—filled your lungs. She tilted her head, lashes fluttering, but her eyes—Randall’s eyes—held yours with sharp clarity. “You’re wondering how the hell your buddy Randall could be this. A five-three glam queen in heels with a house in Long Beach.”

You swallowed. “Yeah. Kinda.”

“Good.” She gave you a quick, almost conspiratorial grin before stepping back, slipping into motion again. “Keep wondering. That confusion? That’s exactly what sells it. Everyone else should feel it too. You’re my assistant now, so you gotta learn: the illusion isn’t fragile. It’s a steamroller. If I walk into a room acting like Tammy Barnes, no one questions it. Not a soul.”

She stopped before the mirrored wall, checking her reflection, fluffing her platinum waves with practiced fingers. “And you, Timmy? You’re here to back me up. Smile, nod, carry the bag, and never let the mask slip.”

She turned then, catching you still staring at her like your brain hadn’t caught up with your eyes. Her smirk softened into something teasing.