by Rick R. Reed
“It’s a lot to take in, isn’t it?” Rufus asked.
“Dude, it’s like you’re reading my mind.”
“It’s because I’ve been in your shoes. Not so long ago. You ready to go in? Or do you want to stay out here and catch a smoke?”
“You really can read minds, can’t you?” Wren fingered the hard pack in his rear pocket and realized he hadn’t thought about a cigarette until this very moment. But the mention of one ignited a need in him that was fierce enough to shut out all else.
“Nah. I just know an addict when I see one. I’ll see you up there.” Rufus turned and headed through the revolving doors.
Wren lit up, thinking he would have to give these things up, maybe as soon as he finished the pack he held in his hand.
He knew Rufus didn’t like it.
Upstairs, Wren found Rufus lounging on the bed, remote control pointed at the flat-screen, surfing through the channels.
“What are you in the mood for? Comedy? Crime? Reality? You want to watch Crazy Ex-Girlfriend?”
Wren wanted to say he was in the mood for another fuck, for the feeling of Rufus deep inside him once more. But he knew, somehow, that would not be the right thing to say, so he simply sat down on the bed next to Rufus, their shoulders touching. “I don’t know. You pick. I’ll probably just fall asleep anyway.”
“Not on my bed, you won’t.” Rufus nudged him, pretty hard, off the bed. “Let’s just chill for now. You in your bed. Me in mine. Cool?”
Wren felt a wave of hurt rise up in him that he did his best to conceal. “Cool.” He crawled into the bed opposite Rufus’s, feeling a lot more of a divide between them than the simple couple of feet that actually separated them.
Wren tried to appear absorbed in the television. Rufus had picked an episode of The Golden Girls for them to watch on the Hallmark Channel. It seemed an odd choice for a couple of whores coming down after a night of wild paid-for sex, but maybe it was actually the perfect antidote. Wren lay quietly on his own bed, unable to interest himself in the goings-on of Blanche, Dorothy, Rose, and Sophia, but he could hear Rufus chuckling every so often.
The quiet—watching TV like this—should have been companionable, but it wasn’t. Wren hoped it wasn’t apparent to Rufus that he was sulking. But Wren hadn’t liked it that Rufus had forced him out of his bed. The action had sent a message to Wren—that what had happened tonight in that darkened bedroom in Edgewater was simply work.
Wren didn’t want to believe it, but why else wouldn’t Rufus want to be close to him? They had shared such hot intimacy. It seemed only natural that they would lie side by side while they watched TV, fall asleep touching.
Maybe, Wren comforted himself, Rufus was like most guys, and he wanted some distance after sex. Wren had witnessed it more than once—that need to just get away after fucking, almost as if you wanted nothing to do with the person you had just shared your most private and vulnerable parts with.
Maybe it was just a man thing, Wren told himself. And perhaps you shouldn’t take it personally.
But I’m a man, and I don’t feel that way.
There was no winning this argument with himself. Wren turned away from the TV, the quips and barbs and Rufus’s laughter a kind of background music, and tried to disappear into himself, seeking the elusive and oblivious arms of slumber.
The landline phone ringing jarred Wren. He had finally drifted off. He turned to see Rufus hop off the bed and pick up the cordless on the breakfast bar.
“Yeah?”
Wren sat up, wondering who could be calling now. It was after midnight. Did Chillingsworth expect them to be on call at all hours? Was he about to be sent out on a call?
The thought of it made Wren, surprisingly, sick to his stomach. He didn’t know if he could do it. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He had to pee. He hoped he wouldn’t come out of the bathroom to find Rufus telling him one—or both—of them had a date.
What would happen if Wren said no?
That was something Wren hadn’t considered when he agreed to work for Chillingsworth.
When he got back into the main room of the studio, Rufus had hung up the phone. He had slid on a T-shirt and a pair of jeans over the plaid boxers he had been clad in before, and he was looking into a mirror, finger combing his hair.
Oh no. He’s going out on a call. Wren felt a twinge, a stab really, right to his heart and gut.
“That was Chillingsworth,” Rufus said into the mirror that hung near the front door, meeting Wren’s gaze in the glass.
Wren closed his eyes, his gut dropping what felt like a couple of feet lower. He knew what Rufus was going to say next. It was one of two possibilities, actually. The first, as he had already assumed, was that Rufus had a “date” and that he would be leaving Wren there alone, which would make sense, because Rufus appeared to be making at least a marginal effort to make himself presentable. Of course, when you were as young and hot as Rufus, it didn’t take much.
The second was that Rufus was about to tell Wren he had a call and that he would need to go out into the night and satisfy some man waiting in a hotel room or apartment or house on the North Side, someone who would want things Wren was no longer sure he was prepared to give.
Obviously, a lot more had changed this night than Wren had fully absorbed. But before he had a chance to ponder, Rufus said something he wasn’t expecting.
“He’s on his way up. You might want to put on some clothes.” Like Rufus had been, Wren was clad only in a pair of boxers. He hurried to slide into the jeans and T-shirt he had left on the floor at the foot of his bed.
“He’s coming here? Why?”
“Says he has news.”
Wren cocked his head, confused, and stared out the window at the night sky, noticing how the city lights gave it an almost orange glow. He turned back to Rufus, who hadn’t moved away from the front door. Like a dog awaiting its master, it appeared he was standing at attention, waiting for a knock.
“What’s going on? Is this usual?” Wren expected that Dave would be contacting them mainly by text or phone call, with occasional meetings. He didn’t expect him to show up, unannounced, in the middle of the night.
This gig seemed less appealing with every passing moment.
If it weren’t for meeting Rufus….
Rufus barked over his shoulder, “It’s not usual at all. He’s never done this.”
If Rufus was waiting for a knock, he was mistaken. After a few seconds of silence, Wren heard a key being inserted and turned in their front door lock.
Rufus stepped back as Chillingsworth swung the door open. Wren supposed the apartment belonged to him, so why should the man knock?
Dave Chillingsworth, though, for once did not look composed… or together. He looked stunned. Pale. His eyes wild. His carefully coiffed hair was mussed, as if he had been clawing at it.
“You okay?” Rufus asked.
Chillingsworth simply stared at him as though he didn’t understand the question.
Wren spoke up. “Come on in, Dave. Sit down. Can I get you some water?”
Like he was sleepwalking, Dave moved to one of the stools at the breakfast bar and plopped down on it. “That would be a good idea.”
Wren went into the kitchen, located a glass, and filled it with water. He handed it to Chillingsworth, who gulped its contents down in one swallow, handed it back to Wren, and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his navy blue sport coat. “Thank you, young man.”
Chillingsworth stared, for a long time, at the floor-to-ceiling windows directly ahead of him, his back to the kitchen.
Wren, and Rufus too, he supposed, was too confused to say anything. The man looked like he was in shock.
Finally he spoke. “There’s no way to say this without just coming right out with it. There’s not a way to sugarcoat it, to make this bitter pill easier to swallow.” Dave regarded first Wren and then Rufus, his pale eyes boring into each of them.
“Tonight something happene
d that’s never happened before, not in the history of À Louer.”
Wren couldn’t imagine what words would come out of Chillingsworth’s mouth next, could not fathom why the man—usually so composed—appeared so shaken.
Chillingsworth licked his lips. His eyes seemed to dull, darken. He stared straight ahead, not looking at either of them, and said, “One of our boys was killed tonight. Stabbed to death down by the lakefront, in the dark.”
His voice broke, and Wren was amazed that the man had emotions. Perhaps he had misjudged him.
Dave took a deep breath and went on.
“There were people all around.” Finally he looked at each of them in turn. “And not one person heard a scream. Not one person saw anything. They found his body under a bush.”
Wren looked over at Rufus, who was standing, back ramrod straight, eyes bright, his mouth hanging open. Finally Rufus said, “Who was it?”
Dave closed his eyes for second, as though composing himself. “It was Evan.”
Rufus gasped. Dave got up from his stool, went to Rufus, and wrapped his arms around him.
“I know, I know. You were close. That’s why I wanted to come here and tell you myself.”
Wren blurted out, “What were you? Lovers?”
Both men turned and glared at him, and Wren felt heat rise to his cheeks. Almost as the words emerged from his mouth, he was already regretting them, recognizing them as insensitive.
Rufus shook his head. “No. We were just friends.”
Chillingsworth drew himself up, and Wren could see some of the propriety returning.
“As you know, personal relationships among my employees, beyond friendships, are expressly forbidden.”
Wren nodded, still feeling kind of numb. He expected he would awaken any minute now, roll over, and see Rufus laughing at some other vintage sitcom. Maybe Frasier? But in real life, that kind of thing didn’t happen. At least in Wren’s experience, he could always discern dreams from reality.
Still, he wished this were a dream.
“Well,” Dave said, “I have a few more unfortunate stops to make tonight, delivering this sad news.” He started toward the door.
Rufus asked, “Any idea who did this?”
Dave paused, hand on the doorknob. “Lots of ideas. The sad thing is people in this line of work are often targets.”
Rufus laughed, but there was no mirth in it, only bitterness. “Yeah, especially when you have us doing what we’re doing. Your little extra profit center. That kind of shit makes people mad, mad enough to kill. Or didn’t you think about that?”
Dave smiled. “Rufus. You’re upset. I suggest you calm down before you say anything else you might regret.” Dave cut his gaze to Wren. Then he turned and opened the door. “I’m upset too,” he said without looking at them. He closed the door.
Wren came up to Rufus and put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?” he said softly.
Rufus shrugged Wren’s hand away. He didn’t answer.
Wren watched helplessly as Rufus dug in the duffel bag at the foot of his bed and drew out a pair of black Cons. He sat on the edge of the bed and slid them on, drawing the laces tight, staring out the window the entire time. He breathed hard, almost panting, and Wren wondered if he was trying not to cry. Standing, he glanced over at Wren, who had plopped down on his own bed, feeling helpless and out of sorts. Still Rufus said nothing.
Wren watched as he moved toward the door, watched as he went through it, stared at the closed door behind him as though Rufus would pop back in and explain himself.
He would stare at the closed door for quite some time. To Wren, in his stunned state, unable to process what he had just heard, it seemed like he spent hours gazing at that closed off-white door, when he knew, logically, it was only for five or ten minutes. Wren got up from the bed, shut off the lights in the studio, and went to stand by the bank of floor-to-ceiling windows.
He looked out at the dark void that was Lake Michigan, at the lights of Navy Pier and the city. Laying his forehead on the cool glass, he peered down at the sidewalk below him where, even this late at night, pedestrians still scurried. Vainly he searched for Rufus’s tall form among them.
Where had he gone? What would happen now? Would he return? Would Chillingsworth suspend operations now that one of their own had been—Wren could barely bring himself to think the word—murdered?
And if Dave did not suspend operations, what would Wren do if he called later tonight or tomorrow during the day with an assignment?
Wren sat back down on his bed, not sure at all what he would do, not sure at all that he should continue to stay here. He felt as though he had slipped through the looking glass, dropped down the rabbit hole, sailed over the rainbow, but this was not a fairy tale. This was real, and if it was a child’s story, it would be something authored by the likes of the Brothers Grimm—dark and horrific.
He sat in the darkness for a long time. Not that the darkness was all that dark. Wan illumination shown in from the city lights, and the longer Wren sat in the empty studio, the clearer and more defined its furnishings became. His gaze searched the room, and he knew this could no longer be home, not even temporarily.
Even before Chillingsworth had stopped by with his grave and awful news, Wren knew he had already decided this life, the life of an escort, was not for him.
He couldn’t do it.
He groped around on the nightstand for his cigarettes, drew one out, lit it, and expelled the smoke into the darkness. He knew Chillingsworth wouldn’t like it, but did that really matter anymore? He lay on the bed smoking and tried not to think. Smoking was the easier of the two, and Wren finished his cigarette within minutes.
If it weren’t for his growing feelings for Rufus—infatuation, love at first sight, however one wanted to label it—he would gather up his few belongings right now and go. He was certain he could horn in on his mom once the sun rose, whether she liked it or not.
But Rufus…. Where was he? Was he safe? The thought chilled him, knowing that some young man, a man whose picture he had seen so recently, had been stabbed to death—out there, where Rufus was doing God knew what. His mind’s eye conjured up a grisly image—the boy whose picture he had seen, lying in the dirt, a pool of blood black as night spreading out beneath him.
Wren shivered. He would have to stay here, at least until Rufus returned.
Wren lay on his bed for what seemed like hours, waiting for the oblivion of slumber to overtake him. But sleep tonight was elusive, always just out of Wren’s grasp. He did manage to drift off once for a few seconds but awakened with a jerk and a startled scream. He had dreamed of a bloody hunting knife coming toward him.
After a while Wren sat up and went into the kitchen. At the sink he slurped up water from the faucet with a cupped hand, then dried his hand on a dish towel hanging from the oven door. He switched on some puck lights that were beneath the cabinets. They imbued the entire studio with a soft glow, perfect for this time of night.
What time was it anyway? Wren glanced at the digital clock on the microwave and saw that it was a quarter after three. It seemed as though the whole world was asleep. Save for him.
Save for Rufus.
He wondered again—where was he? Why did he leave so abruptly? Of course he was upset, but wouldn’t it have been better to stay here with Wren, who would have gladly comforted him?
Thoughts of murder, bloody stabbings, made Wren fear for the life of his new love. Wren felt vulnerable, alone, and it was easy to imagine Chillingsworth coming to him in the morning to inform him that Rufus too was dead.
Such were the late night thoughts of the traumatized.
Wren moved to sit on the floor at the foot of Rufus’s bed. Idly he stroked the nylon of Rufus’s duffel while looking out at the darkness, wondering how his life had changed so completely and quickly from just a few days ago.
He turned his head and eyed the bag, fingering the tab on the zipper, flipping it back and forth. The bag was c
losed tight.
No. You wouldn’t. This is a guy you say you’re falling for, and already the thought has popped into that warped little head of yours to invade his privacy? Leave it alone. Get back in bed and try to rest, even if you can’t sleep.
But what if looking gives me a clue to where he is? What if it makes a little shortcut for me, so I know him better?
What’s the harm?
Wren knew, from the moment his hand lit on Rufus’s duffel, he was going to look inside. Perhaps it was the late-night hour. Perhaps it was his hunger to know Rufus better. Perhaps it was because he told himself that looking might somehow allow him to help Rufus if he had gone out into the night and gotten himself in trouble….
Perhaps you’re just nosy.
Whatever the reason, Wren couldn’t stop himself from pulling open the zipper, from sifting through the clothes inside, mostly jeans, cargo shorts, and T-shirts, until he came upon a hard rectangle in the bag’s bottom.
He pulled out the laptop and pressed the latch that would open its cover.
Now you’re really going too far.
But what if it revealed something about not only Rufus, but also about À Louer? Like that business Rufus taunted Chillingsworth about, something about people getting killed because of what Dave had forced them to do. What was that all about? Maybe the answer was right here—in Rufus’s computer.
He pressed the power button, half hoping the whole shebang would be password protected so Wren could put it away and not cross a line for which he would not be very proud of himself.
But Rufus wasn’t that paranoid. The screen lit up, and Wren saw it was a crowded mess of icons—for games, movies—some nasty porn!—Word documents, and photographs.
Wren glanced at the door, expecting Rufus to enter at any moment and catch him red-handed. He got up, crossed over to the front door, and ensured it was dead bolted.
He would have ample warning should Rufus come home, which Wren wished, more than anything, that he would. Soon.
He sat back down on the floor, wondering where to begin. He tried first to open Rufus’s e-mail and found quickly that access to Rufus’s Internet was password protected. He looked through some of the photographs. Many were older and revealed a more clean-shaven and conservative Rufus. Wren chuckled at these and wondered exactly how old the guy was anyway. He opened and closed several of the Word documents and saw nothing of interest, save for the fact that Rufus seemed to have an flair for writing. Several of the documents were story ideas, and one was a nonfiction piece he had written about being an escort. This Wren took the time to read but found little new information. One doc caught his eye, though, because it had such a poetic title.
