by Rick R. Reed
Sex for him had always been, at worst, a release, a cheap and easy good time, and at best, a promise. When he became intimate with another man, sometimes there was more of a connection than just the physical. Sometimes the warmth could be felt higher up than between his legs, and there was hope that the comingling of two bodies, sweat, and semen could result in something more permanent, could maybe be the cornerstone of creating, somehow, his own family.
Chillingsworth would have him believe that being a whore would only increase his likelihood for finding someone he could truly love, but Wren doubted it. He knew how he’d feel about a guy who’d peddle his ass. No matter how high class the enterprise supporting him was, he’d never be able to take him seriously.
How could he ever trust someone who would do that?
“My dear boy, I seem to have lost you.”
Wren looked up from his empty plate. His coffee had gone cold. Other diners had entered the restaurant, and Wren hadn’t even noticed. It was as though he was waking from a dream.
“I’m sorry.” A very big part of Wren wanted to stand up, say thank you, and walk from the restaurant. A million small voices inside him were urging him to do just that, yet he remained frozen in his seat.
He couldn’t help it. He had been poor, or very close to it, all his life. He had grown up getting his clothes from thrift stores and maybe, if Linda was flush, Target. He had known what it was like to eat cereal for dinner because there was nothing else in the house and because it was cheap and filled you up. He had never dreamed of going to college—a life like that was simply not his to attain.
He knew he’d never be more than a wage slave, someone who nickeled-and-dimed his way through life, barely affording the essentials, let alone the luxuries.
He wanted to cry.
Why shouldn’t he grasp for the prize that was being offered to him?
Because it’s wrong.
Because you’ll be exchanging your dignity for money, and can you really live with yourself if you do that?
Because you’ll have no respect for yourself.
Because you’ll be forced to live a lie. Can you really tell your mother and friends how you make a living?
All these things pinged around in his mind, making him shake his head.
Chillingsworth’s voice came to him, seemingly from far away.
“Wren. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
And Wren did. All of it. When he was finished, he looked across the table at the older man, waiting.
Dave gave him a smile. It was a warm smile, and there was a light shining in his gray eyes. It was the first time Wren had seen the man look human, as opposed to some sort of overly perfected idea of what a good man should look like. For maybe just a moment, Wren felt as though he could trust him.
That’s crazy, man. This dude is a slick Ricky.
Wren pushed the thought from his head and listened to Chillingsworth.
“Wren, I bet you’re thinking I’ve never heard your misgivings before.” Dave shook his head. “The truth is, I hear them from almost every young man who comes into my employ. Fears like yours are only natural. Doubts like yours come along all the time.” He grinned. “Even to yours truly. Cards on the table. I can’t tell you that what you’ll be doing won’t sometimes be a little soul sucking and that you won’t feel, well, a little cheap. But the rewards are a big comfort.”
“Tell me again,” Wren said.
Chillingsworth went through his spiel once more, even though Wren had heard it all before. Only this time, when Dave told him about the money, the apartment on Lake Shore Drive, the surprisingly buff, handsome, and successful men he would meet, Wren allowed his imagination to buy into it. He saw himself high above Lake Michigan, watching the sun come up over churning blue-gray water as he sipped a cup of premium coffee in an ultrathick bathrobe.
“I’ll take care of you, Wren. With me you’ll have a home. Security. No worries about your health.”
Wren sucked in some breath.
He knew he was going to do this. How could he not? He’d never be this young again, and if his body and his face were commodities he could sell for a lot of money, why shouldn’t he? Wren was smart enough to know those benefits wouldn’t be around for long—the time to take advantage was now.
But it wasn’t so much that thought that caused his lips and tongue to form the word “Yes,” and it wasn’t even the image of him living on Lake Shore Drive.
It was the fact that Chillingsworth had used the words “home” and “security.”
Sometimes life decisions boiled down to very simple concepts.
Wren waited until Venus cleared away their plates and asked the men if they wanted anything else before looking at Dave and saying, “When can I start?”
Dave smiled. “Right now. Today. I’ll take you to your new home as soon as we leave here.”
Standing as Dave paid the check, Wren thought he should have felt some sort of relief.
Instead it felt as though a trap had just snapped shut.
Chapter Eight
THE DOOR clicked closed behind Chillingsworth, and Wren was left standing alone with Rufus, his new roommate. The two young men, little more than boys, stood in the studio apartment, grinning at one another, and Wren had the feeling that Rufus, like him, had no idea what to say. Perhaps, also like Wren, Rufus was wondering why he had a roommate when Dave had suggested this apartment would be a place one would live solo.
Wren looked around, hardly believing he was here. Only this morning he had felt he had no place to live, and now here he stood, feet firmly planted on dark, polished hardwood floors, staring out through a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that made up the east wall of the unit. Below them Lake Michigan stretched to infinity, its aquamarine waters glimmering in the sunlight. If Wren moved forward just a little and glanced south, he could see the John Hancock building rising up against the summer sky like a black sentinel. Beyond that landmark, Navy Pier stretched out into the water, its very presence a siren call to tourists to come ride the big Ferris wheel built on the pier to commemorate the World’s Fair held in Chicago at the end of the nineteenth century.
The studio was small but well-appointed, with two queen-size beds made up with pale blue, brown, and beige pin-striped comforters, a small sofa, and a large plasma-screen TV on one wall. The kitchen was a modern blend of stainless steel, dark granite, and cherrywood cabinets.
Finally Wren regarded Rufus, wondering if, like everything else before his disbelieving eyes at the moment, he was yet another figment of his imagination. Surely Wren would awaken behind Ann Sather’s restaurant, snoozing near a dumpster, with a rat skittering across his calves.
But Rufus seemed real enough, grinning back at him tentatively. There was something in that grin that immediately warmed Wren, made him feel right at home. It wasn’t just that the face behind the grin was so handsome. There was something in it that Wren couldn’t quite put his finger on. Was it kindness? Empathy? Whatever it was, it caused Wren’s heart to speed up just a bit.
“How’d you get so cute?”
Rufus finally broke the silence. Wren could have easily fired back the same question. Rufus was what his mother would have called a “doll.” He stood a few inches taller than Wren, maybe six one or six two, and his head was topped with a thatch of wheat-colored hair that fell fetchingly across his forehead, every so often blocking the view of one of his startlingly dark blue eyes. The color reminded Wren of sapphires. He had pale skin, a lanky frame—that promised, Wren knew from past experience, a big dick—and a dusting of pale hair on his chin and upper lip that served to make him only look more masculine and sexy.
“Vitamins. Clean living,” Wren responded.
Rufus laughed at that and flopped down on one of the beds. “Then you’d probably get all bent out of shape if I lit up a smoke?”
“I thought Dave forbade smoking up here?” Wren was itching for a cigarette himself, since he hadn’t had one since he left Devin’
s apartment early that morning, what now seemed like a lifetime ago.
Rufus pulled out a pack of Marlboro Lights—Wren’s brand—and tossed the hard pack in the air.
“Dude cannot expect us to go down twenty-five stories just so we can indulge our habit. Jesus. That’s a little extreme. You know what I mean?”
“I know, but he’d have a shit fit if he comes back in here and the place reeks of smoke.” Wren went over to the wall of windows and examined them. They seemed to be sealed shut. There was no indication anywhere that they could be opened.
“What’s he gonna do? Fire us? He needs our sweet young asses more than we need him. Right?”
Wren walked over to Rufus and took the pack of smokes from his fidgeting hands.
“Why don’t we save these for later? We’ll walk down to the lakefront.”
Rufus let it go, sighing. “What are you, his enforcer?”
Wren sat down next to him on the bed. He felt an almost irresistible urge to touch Rufus, to kiss his full lips. He had a powerful sensuality about him that Wren doubted he was even aware of, which made the allure that much more compelling and magnetic. “Not at all, man. I just agreed to this gig this morning.”
“Really? New blood? Where did he find you?”
“Tricks. The bar on Halsted?”
“What were you? A dancer?”
Wren laughed, shaking his head. The idea of him dancing was preposterous. Yet, wait a minute, here he was, getting ready to peddle his ass for money. Not so preposterous after all.
“Nah. I just bumped into Dave there and we got to talking. Purely a coincidence.”
“Nothing is a coincidence with Chillingsworth. He pegged you early on.”
“Pegged me as what?”
“Easy prey.”
“Huh?”
Rufus grinned, easing some of the stress of his words. “Not every dude is cut out for this line of work. Dave prides himself on being able to spot the ones who can do it, who can bring in the cash.” Rufus leveled his gaze on Wren, appraising. “You he picked because of your vulnerability. There are so many daddies who will just eat up that innocent look in your eyes. I can see what old Dave saw in you.”
Wren scratched the back of his neck, starting to feel a little uncomfortable. He deflected the subject away from himself. “What about you? How long have you been doing this? And why are you here? Dave led me to think I’d have the place to myself.”
“Full of questions, aren’t you?”
Rufus lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Wren noticed how Rufus’s faded, torn jeans strained ever so slightly across the bulge of his crotch. It was obvious he was wearing no underwear. The outline of his cock snaked down one thigh. Wren forgot his questions and just about lost his breath for a moment.
“I’ve been with the agency for about six months. Dave found me working at, believe it or not, a Burger King. I won’t bore you with that story, save to say he knew there’d be a market for my pickle and special sauce.”
Rufus winked, and Wren groaned.
“Anyway, Dave asked me to be here to show you the ropes. I got my own crib up in Edgewater, a cool redbrick vintage condo building right at the corner of Catalpa and Kenmore. Bought it myself with my earnings.” Rufus smiled, the pride in his face obvious.
“So, what? You’re like my mentor? Gonna teach me how to suck dick?”
Rufus chuckled. “I got a sneaking suspicion you already know how to do that. No, I mean how we take calls, how we accept payment—business shit like that. I might even come out with you on your first call tonight.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, if the client is cool. We’ll see.”
Wren thought he’d actually be a lot more comfortable with Rufus along, even though he barely knew him.
Rufus stood up and stretched, lifting his arms over his head and revealing his navel and a thin blond treasure trail disappearing into his jeans. “You wanna take that walk now?”
“Sure.” Wren hopped from the bed, grabbed the pack of cigarettes from the breakfast bar—noticing for the first time they hadn’t been opened—and held them out to Rufus. “You don’t want to forget these.”
“You keep ’em,” Rufus said. “I don’t smoke.” He winked.
Confused, Wren followed him out the door.
THEY SAT, side by side, on a low concrete wall that bordered the beach. Beyond them stretched Lake Michigan. The beach was dotted with sunbathers, gay men and families alike all mixing amicably in the summer sun and heat. Kids played in the freezing water—the water in the lake was always freezing—seemingly unperturbed by the icy temps.
“So why do you have cigarettes if you don’t smoke?” Wren asked.
“I used to—like the fuckin’ proverbial chimney. Then I wised up. This was the last pack I bought, many, many moons ago. They’re probably stale, but for some reason, keeping them on me makes it easier to stick to my quit. Weird, huh?”
“Nah. I think I get it. It’s sort of like security?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“So what made you do it?” Wren finally got to what he really wanted to ask.
“You mean work for Dave?”
“No. I mean eat your first bowl of Count Chocula.” Wren rolled his eyes. “Yeah. Dave. What’s your story?”
Rufus stared out at the water for a long time, his gaze far away. “For most of us, it boils down to the same thing.”
“Money?”
“Well, yeah, but that’s more a symptom than the disease itself, you know?”
Wren furrowed his eyebrows, not sure he did understand the metaphor.
Rufus went on, “It’s like, for most of us, we’re lost, you know? We don’t really fit in anywhere, and Dave gives us a place in the world, a purpose. The money is just part of that. Sure, it’s awesome to not have financial worries, to be able to afford the good stuff, but really, it’s more about having a place.”
The last thing Wren would have expected from Rufus was this kind of philosophy. He had him pegged as a party boy, and here he was voicing the kind of things Wren had hidden in the back of his mind, perhaps too afraid to take out and examine too closely.
“Really?”
“Yeah,” Rufus said quietly. “Listen, I had another life before this. One that maybe had some promise. Without going into the boring and endless details, I threw it all away. Dave helped me find my way back.”
Rufus closed his eyes and let the sudden cool breeze that moved across the water buffet him. Wren used the opportunity to study his face, how strong the jawline was, how silky his hair, thick and innumerable shades of gold, shimmering. There was something of the bad boy about him, but there was a sense of innocence too, more like a mischief-maker than anyone who would really do you any harm.
Rufus went on. “I had fun in high school. Way too much fun. Started in with the drinking and the drugs at the tender age of fourteen, in junior high. I was like one of those guys you see on that TV show. Intervention? I was popular with the druggies and the class cutters. It was all a big laugh. And I got laughs too, making fun of the teachers, the kids who were trying to get an education. Hilarious.
“I went to college and somehow—youthful stamina, I guess—managed to keep up the partying and get good enough grades to graduate. Even got a nice job downtown—friends, steady paycheck, the whole nine yards. Then it all came and hit me in the face, like the proverbial shit hitting the fan, I guess. If that makes any sense.
“Like I said, little man, I threw it all away. Unless you been in my shoes, you probably wouldn’t get how that happened. But let’s just make it simple—it’s easier than you think to lose everything. I lost everything.
“And I was faced with a shitty future. What do you think caused me to end up flipping burgers?”
Wren held up a hand to stop him. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“You know. Crap. Minimum wage. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll work up to making in the low teens an hour. It’s not even enoug
h to afford a studio apartment in the city unless you share it with someone.”
“God,” Wren said, shaking his head. “It’s like you and I traveled on the same path. Everything you’re saying, I could say too. Except I wasn’t much of a partier in high school, more like boy slut.” He laughed. “But after? Man, I get you.”
“So that’s why Dave coming along is like winning the lottery for guys like us.”
“I guess so.” Wren stared out at the water.
“Dude. Don’t you see? This is easy money. Uncomplicated. Look, you just said you were a boy slut, so I assume that means you fucked around a lot.”
Wren grinned, gave his best Groucho Marx eyebrow wag. “Still do.”
Rufus shrugged. “So now you make a living from it. So what? Don’t listen to the naysayers. It’s all perception. How you look at it. I look at it as commerce, trading my time for money. Simple. Just like any other job.”
“That’s pretty much what Dave said,” Wren commented.
What he wanted to say was “Yeah, but with other jobs you generally aren’t asked to stick your dick in someone’s ass or vice versa. With any other job you don’t suck cock, at least not literally.” But he kept his own counsel.
“Speaking of Dave, we should get back to the unit, see what’s on offer for tonight.” Grinning, Rufus squeezed Wren’s shoulder. “Your first night! Aren’t you excited?”
“Peeing my pants.”
Rufus stood up and brushed the grit off his ass. “I know a guy who will pay extra for that.”
Wren gave him a look.
“I’m serious! Come on.”
Wren got up and followed Rufus. He lagged behind him, partly so he could watch the rise and fall of his ass, which was a perfect bubble, high and tight, but the deeper reason he dawdled was that he didn’t want to leave the lakefront. He felt he had connected with Rufus on a deeper level as they talked and there was now an undercurrent of intimacy between them. A strong undercurrent—like, if he was in the water, it would pull him under.
