A Dangerous Game

by Rick R. Reed

  Wren took a last longing look back at the day. The sky was the impossible blue of summer, decorated high up with a few lazy cotton-ball clouds. The sun was shining, warming him, but in a good way, because the humidity was low and the breeze off the lake had a little of a cool bite to it. The roar of the water hitting the beach was hypnotic, and Wren thought how, if he were given the chance, that easy back and forth motion of liquid against sand could lull him to sleep.

  Wren wanted nothing more than to grab Rufus’s hand and lead him down to the beach, where they could pull off their shirts and chase each other into the surf, playing like the boys they were barely past being. For a moment he saw the horseplay in his mind’s eye—their playful touches, the water glistening on their skin. Hell, he even imagined a kiss. In his mind there was no one around to cast a disapproving or mocking stare their way.

  Instead of going back to the apartment and finding out—yes—how the rest of his life was going to go, Wren wanted to simply lie on the beach, fingers loosely intertwined with Rufus’s as they stared up at the sky and compared notes on what images the cloud formations suggested. He imagined falling asleep next to Rufus, their sun-warmed bodies just barely touching.

  “Hey! You comin’ or what? Tick-tock, little man. We got places to go and people to see.”

  Wren turned to see Rufus staring at him from a distance, smiling.

  He hurried to join him.

  What did the evening hold in store? Wren caught up with Rufus and hoped there would be some way the two of them could stay together throughout the night.

  And maybe even longer.

  Wren stopped and wondered, Are you falling for this guy?

  Chapter Nine

  EVAN MAPLE sat at the back bar in Tricks, nursing his third Stoli and tonic, staring morosely into the clear potable and melting ice. On the stage before him, a pathetic little waif tried to inject some life into the sparse crowd by thrusting his pelvis Elvis-style at them. The boy, acne scarred and with the kind of muscles that made him a suspect for steroid abuse, seemed far away as he moved his hips, clad only in a thong and a pair of scuffed brown cowboy boots. It was as if the guy were imagining a complete different reality for himself, which he probably was. The bass thump of the music, some house/techno/trance crap that barely qualified as melody, probably made it easy for the dancer to drift away, at least in his head.

  Evan wished the music had the same effect on him. Maybe that’s why he was on his third drink of the evening—he craved escape. He longed for oblivion.

  Evan looked around himself at the men gathered in the back bar. Most of them were middle-aged, solo. All of them looked lonely but too caught up in their own webs of self-debasement to seem open to the approach of someone else, the chance to make a human connection. Huddled over their alcoholic potions, most gave off an air that was guarded, that Evan thought screamed paradoxically “Don’t come near me” and at the same time “I need someone.”

  They were the kind of men he sometimes went to in the middle of the night, sent out by À Louer. For an hour, maybe two, Evan would attempt to inject some kind of connection into their empty lives, to touch not only their bodies but their minds and hearts as well.

  That in a nutshell, Evan knew, was why he was wrong for the escort business.

  He did best with the loneliest of men, the ones who, once it got down to what they really wanted, were hungry simply to talk, to maybe be held, to have their backs stroked in a comforting way. Most lived in a world where no one listened to them. Once Evan had nursed an ejaculation out of them with his mouth or his hand, they would lie in the dark and the man would finally tell Evan about his life—about the wife and kids at home and how guilty he felt about indulging himself this way, about the shattered dreams of youth, usurped by the realities and practicalities of life, putting others’ needs ahead of his own.

  Evan lived for the quiet talks in the dark. It was just these kind of discussions that led him to fall in love with Dan Williams, a successful CPA from the affluent North Shore suburb of Kenilworth.

  The first two times with Dan had been hard to describe. They met at the Four Seasons, downtown, and Evan let himself be fucked by this handsome daddy with the out-of-fashion handlebar mustache and the thick head of wavy salt-and-pepper hair. The guy had the body of a thirty-year-old, firm and muscular, hairy in all the right places, even though he was approaching fifty.

  The sex was hot, and for those first couple of times, it clouded Evan’s feelings, which were different from the ones he usually had for his clients. With them he could keep things at a certain remove, take himself to a different place as they thrust into him, grunting. He could lie on his back and take a walk along the lakefront or ride his bike along the leafy Green Bay trail as one man or another sought sexual relief within the tight confines of Evan’s young body.

  But with Dan things were different, right from the start.

  At first Evan thought what he was feeling was simple lust. After all, Dan was a hot man, certainly not the kind Evan would have expected to pay for it, at least before he knew exactly just the kind of men who did pay for it.

  But on their third time together, when Dan cautioned him that he was taking a horrible chance by having Evan over to the fieldstone house he lived in with his wife and two teenage daughters, Evan knew he was stepping into dangerous territory.

  Stepping? Evan swallowed the remainder of his drink and signaled the bartender for another. He’d stepped into dangerous territory the moment he locked eyes with Dan Williams, falling into those steely blue eyes like they were a deep lake.

  But it was the third time when Evan truly forgot all about being an escort and actually began imagining himself there, part of Dan’s life, sleeping in the bed they had made love in, getting up in the morning and using the marble-tiled shower off the master and going downstairs in T-shirt and boxers to set coffee brewing for the two of them.

  During this time together Evan realized he had done the unthinkable and crossed the line he had been told, not only by Dave but by other escorts, that he should never cross—he had fallen in love.

  The words slipped out of him, as they lay side by side in Dan’s king-size bed, just before they drifted off into slumber. “I love you,” Evan whispered huskily into the darkness, wishing, as soon as the words had escaped his mouth, that he could take them back. In what world, Evan had wondered, was it appropriate for a prostitute to say such a thing to a client? He lay still, feeling heat rise to his face, waiting for Dan to tell him he’d better go, that he would call him a cab.

  But that wasn’t what had happened. Dan had risen up on one arm to gaze down upon him in the wan light afforded by a crescent moon shining in through the window. Evan couldn’t bear to look at him, certain Dan’s face would reveal disappointment, ridicule, anger, disbelief.

  He never imagined that Dan would be smiling—and not in a mocking way. When he allowed himself to look, Evan could have sworn his heart leaped into his throat, because even in the darkness he could see Dan was happy, yes, maybe even a little thrilled, with his admission.

  Dan reached out to run a hand across the smooth expanse of Evan’s chest, then leaned down and kissed him, his lips a soft counterpoint to the rough stubble scratching against Evan’s smooth face.

  Dan pulled away and, gently stroking Evan’s cheek, said, “I love you too. I didn’t mean for it to happen, but there it is. I wouldn’t have said anything if you hadn’t spoken first, but I do believe, Mr. Maple, I have felt this way from the very first moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “Me too,” Evan whispered, hot tears of joy gathering at the corners of his eyes.

  “You were not the first escort I hired, but I do believe you’ll be the last.”

  Evan could see in his mind’s eye the enraged and disapproving glance of Davidson Chillingsworth as he let even more unwise words slip from his lips. “Oh, Dan, I could never charge you. Not again. Not with what we know.”

  Evan, who was all of twenty-four, had
yet to experience real love in his young life, and his mind flooded with fantasies about a future with Dan, leaving his escort days behind him, becoming a couple.

  Now Evan took a sip from the latest drink the bartender set before him and shook his head, remembering how quickly Dan dashed those fantasies.

  Dan had slowly made circles around each of Evan’s nipples with his forefinger, at last letting out a long sigh. He spoke. “Yes, you will charge me. Because what we have here is what fits.”

  “What do you mean?” Even recalled being seized by a cold fear, by a desire to cover his ears with his hands because he didn’t want to hear what intuition told him was coming next.

  Dan sat up so Evan was staring at his back, the broad expanse of his naked shoulders. Something stopped him from reaching out and touching the smooth, firm flesh.

  Dan spoke into the darkness. “You will continue to charge me because all we can have is right here.” Dan got up and moved to his dresser. After fumbling around in one of the drawers for a moment, he came back with a framed photograph. It showed Dan with what Evan could only conclude were his wife and two daughters. One of the daughters was pretty, with dark hair and eyes, gleaming white teeth, a perfect body. Evan knew, looking at her, she was popular at New Trier, the high school she attended, a cheerleader perhaps. She had the kind of looks and radiated the sort of contentment that came only from privilege and security she could take for granted.

  Her sister, though, was just the opposite—although one could see they were sisters. They shared the same dark hair, the same bone structure, but sadly, no one would ever call the smaller, chunkier girl pretty. Her face was marred by thick-lensed glasses, and there was something off about her smile.

  Dan saw, Evan assumed, where his gaze had gone. “That’s Sherry, my little angel.” Dan met Evan’s eyes and gave him a sad smile. “She has Down’s.” He shrugged. “But she doesn’t let it slow her down. She’s awesome.” Dan stared at Sherry’s image for a long time. “She’s why I need to be here.”

  Evan nodded, seeing quickly how futile it would be to entertain a fantasy of breaking this family up.

  He then looked at the woman who must be Dan’s wife, and a flare of jealousy coursed through him, as though something burning hot had been injected into his veins.

  “That’s Martha,” Dan said softly, without emotion.

  “You love her.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “No, sweetie, I never have loved her. We were good together back in college. Everyone at Colgate expected us to end up together, and so we did. But I could never love her, not like I love you.”

  Evan didn’t want to hear the words, wanted, really, to get up, dress, and flee the stately home and all its trappings, knowing that, like the man who had provided them, they could never be his. Instead he looked down at the woman who possessed the man he loved.

  She wasn’t what Evan expected. Striking, he supposed, was the word some would use to describe her. Kind of like that British ice princess, Victoria Beckham. She had a good body, thin like a model’s, bordering on anorectic, and the same dark hair as the rest of the family. Her locks were cut short and hung in blunt, even strands at her shoulders. Her face was finely chiseled, having all the animation and color of an alabaster sculpture. There was something cold about her beauty, her lips just a tad too thin, her patrician nose just a hair too sharp, the chin veering dangerously close to that of a wicked witch. She was all angles and sharp lines, not someone you’d want to hug. Evan had trouble imagining her as a mom.

  Dan took the picture out of Evan’s hands. “Enough. Martha and I coexist, and maybe, maybe if it was just the two of us, you and I could be more than client and service provider.”

  “Service provider?” Again Evan felt hot tears threatening to spill from his eyes, but this time they were from despair.

  “Sorry. I’m just trying to make a point here, and that is—I can’t leave.”

  “I know. I know.” Evan pushed him back down on the bed, straddled his calves, and took his cock into his mouth. He didn’t want to talk anymore.

  And now, here at Tricks, Evan’s life, once so full of material things and floating along on a cloud of drinks, clothes, cars, and pretty boys, seemed like one not worthy of living. He wasn’t exactly suicidal, but the thought of what Dave had forced him to do, especially to Dan, made him feel dead already inside.

  What he had done, the deal he had struck, was the dark secret at the heart of À Louer, its dirty underbelly, its real profit center. It made Evan sick to recall the look on Dan’s face when he first brought up the arrangement Chillingsworth had forced on him—the deeply wounded look of being betrayed by someone you thought had loved you.

  It hurt Evan just as much now as it did then. He forced the image of Dan’s face out of his mind, gulping down more of his drink, wondering if he would make four his limit tonight or if he would go on until he attained true oblivion, staggering from the bar to hail a cab and then pass out on his Room&Board leather platform bed.

  But something interrupted his pity party. His phone, lying on the bar, made that peculiar sound he could never describe, indicating he had a text.

  He picked it up, glanced down, and his spirits lifted. The text was simple, but at the moment it was all Evan could imagine ever wishing for.

  Evan touched the glass of the phone, as if the touch would somehow connect him to Dan. Suddenly the dark clouds of his depression lifted, and he reread the simple text—Meet Me?

  Evan knew he should have never given Dan his personal phone number. Clients were supposed to call in through the À Louer main line, and then they were routed to the appropriate escort. Chillingsworth had forbade all of them, on more than one occasion, to ever reveal personal contact information to a client.

  Fuck that, Evan thought, Dan was not a client. Not anymore. Not since he had fallen in love with him.

  Evan wondered briefly why Dan had texted him, as opposed to calling, but he was too thrilled that the man wanted to see him. He suddenly found himself wishing he hadn’t drunk so much.

  He texted back: Of course. Where?

  Can we do something a little out of the ordinary?

  Evan had no hesitation; he smiled. Yes. Anything. Evan slipped away from the bar into the hallway connecting the front and back bars, where it was marginally quieter, where there was some small escape from the pounding techno beat. It was easier to think, somehow, without the aural assault.

  Meet me at the lakefront, at Belmont Harbor. Come now.

  Evan texted back, wondering why the urgency and why meet at a public place, but there was no response. He waited five, ten minutes, and when no text came back, he returned to his seat at the bar, downed his drink, settled up with the bartender, and headed out into the night.

  He didn’t want to keep Dan waiting.

  All this seemed a little strange. But Evan was too overcome with gratitude and happiness at the prospect of seeing his man, so he ignored the warning alarms that were sounding somewhere inside his infatuated and alcohol-clouded brain.

  Outside the air felt like a damp sponge. The onset of full night had brought no relief from the heat, and Evan hoped it would be cooler down by the water, where maybe the two of them could at least catch a breeze.

  He hurried east on Belmont Avenue, beneath the shadows of the trees, his pulse rising with anticipation. It had been a week or so since he had seen Dan, and in that time he had been able to think of little else. It didn’t matter what he was doing—whether he was simply on his own at home or with a client, or any number of clients—all his mind could really focus on was Dan. His smile, his strong arms, his broad shoulders, his rough touch, his kiss, his penetrating gaze, his penetrating him, and most of all the fact that he had said he loved Evan.

  Never mind that he had said they could never be more than client and service provider. Never mind that he said he would never leave his family. The fact that he loved him erased all of that. Evan shoved the drawbacks, the very reality, t
o some dark corner of his mind. Perhaps he would consider it one day, when he wasn’t buoyed up on feelings of love and intense desire for his man, but not now.

  Not when Dan was waiting for him down by the lakefront.

  Perhaps, Evan thought, quickening his pace as he saw the underpass that would take him into the harbor and lakefront park at the end of Belmont, Dan wanted to meet with him to tell him he had found a way to leave Martha and his two daughters so he could be with him.

  Evan knew, in his heart of hearts, that Dan, once he had admitted his love, could never continue his charade of a marriage. Not with someone as hot and as in love with Dan as Evan was in the wings.

  Even if he wasn’t standing by to let Evan know of some monumental decision, he was at least there, waiting for him. As Evan drew closer to the water and a cool breeze actually did buffet him, drying the sweat that had gathered on his brow and the back of his neck, he imagined Dan sitting on one of the concrete risers fronting the water. He pictured those dark blue eyes looking out at the white-tipped waves, thinking of Evan. In his mind’s eye, Dan wore a pair of cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a lightweight madras plaid short-sleeved shirt, the top buttons undone to reveal his hairy, muscled chest. He would be tapping his toe impatiently, casting anxious glances over his shoulder to see if Evan was in view yet.

  Where would they go? What would they do?

  None of it mattered, because they would be together.

  Evan started across the grass, practically running. He didn’t see Dan among the people milling about in front of the water, but he knew he was there and that their thoughts were one—soon they would be together.