by Jamie Lake
And that’s when it dawned on Peter. It was all starting to add up. His missing roommate. The break in. The phone. It all lead back to one person.
Tony.
CHAPTER 10
Back at Peter’s house, they sat down together, but Chip insisted on staying silent. He put a finger over his lips and shook his head every single time Peter opened his mouth. With a tiny screwdriver in one hand, he took Peter’s phone in the other.
“What are you doing?” Peter demanded. For a moment, he worried that Chip would have another blow up and throw this one too.
“Shh!” Chip said, pressing his finger against his lips.
Peter obeyed, even though it confused him. He watched as Chip opened it up, pulled out the battery, unscrewed and pulled out what looked like a small computer part, like a microchip.
He wrote down something on a piece of paper, and then slid this across the table to Peter.
-Your phone has been bugged. I’m guessing your whole house too. Let’s go.
The blood rushed from Peter’s face. He got dizzy, his stomach clenching. Bugged? Chip got up first, then held up his finger to wait.
“30 seconds,” he mouthed. Peter nodded at Chip, not saying a word.
He left, and Peter was alone with nothing but the sound of the ticking grandfather clock and the sound of his footsteps rushing down the stairs. And although he knew that Chip was waiting for him just outside, Peter felt very afraid and very alone. His place was bugged? How long had it been that way? And if it was bugged, what had Tony heard? Was it even Tony who had done this? He shook his head. This was beyond his comprehension. Was he in some sort of spy movie?
The 30 seconds were up and Peter tried to take a casual breath and then head out the door and down the steps. It was hard not to just run, hard not to panic. His breath hitched and his legs were shaking. He left the door cracked slightly open so he didn’t have to lock it, and he raced down the steps. Where was Chip? He wondered as he looked around.
That’s when Chip grabbed him by his collar and pushed him against the side of the building. The holly bushes around them prickled his skin. A car rolled slowly through the parking lot. The breath wheezed out of him and he stiffened, eyes wide with shock and fear.
Before Peter could respond verbally, Chip pulled him deeper into the shadows and said, “Shh. Who would bug your house and why?” His tone was accusatory. Peter swallowed around the nervous lump in his throat.
Chip’s eyes searched for the answers and Peter knew he couldn’t stall him any longer.
“We need to talk,” Peter said, his tone apologetic.
***
They were at a noisy bar that was filled with people. Chip figured, even if he missed any bugs that might be on Peter’s clothes, that the noise would muffle their conversation. He took a deep sip of his bourbon and looked straight across to Peter, who looked like a little boy who knew he was about to get punished.
“How long has this been going on?” Chip asked, setting his drink down.
Peter cleared his throat, “Not long,” he answered flatly, unable to meet Chip's eyes.
“How long, Peter?” Chip repeated.
“Just a week or two,” Peter answered, taking another deep breath.
“I see. That’s … that’s good, I guess. So, why didn’t you just tell me?”
“I barely knew you,” Peter said. “I barely know you now. What am I supposed to say, ‘Hey guy-I-just-started-dating: you know, I’ve been kind of giving nude massages to perfect strangers for extra money, and you know, teaching your kid during the day?'”
Chip didn’t see the humor in the statement and didn't look particularly amused. “Exactly,” he replied, clearly agitated.
Peter leaned back rebelliously, “Look, if you want me to say ‘I’m sorry’, I’m sorry, Chip. If you want me to say I’m embarrassed and ashamed in the predicament I’ve gotten myself into, then I am. But you told me that you would not judge me. That’s what you said to me.”
“Who says I’m judging you?” Chip said.
“You’re not saying it, but your look … your expression is saying it all," he huffed angrily. Chip looked down at his whiskey, his face sullen.
“I’m just thinking, Peter. It’s a lot to swallow.” Chip shook his head, taking a sip of his own drink.
“You’re telling me. I’m the one that’s in the situation.”
“You’re not in this situation, Peter. You created the situation,” Chip corrected. “It didn’t just happen to you. You chose it.”
“You’re saying I wanted this?” Peter said, disgusted by the idea and hurt by Chip's harsh words.
“I didn’t say 'wanted,' I said, ‘created’,” Chip said sternly. “You could have walked away from any number of things that got you deeper into this mess. But you took the path of least resistance.” Chip leaned forward, his hand resting on top of Peter’s, “but now it’s both our problem. Both of us, and we’re going to figure out a way out of it. Together.”
It was then that Peter realized when Chip said they were in this together, he meant it. His eyes began to sting and he fought back the tears. He didn't feel as though he deserved this support, but it was such a relief to have it.
“This is kind of fucked up. Very fucked up. I … I’m putting you in a horrible situation. Your division, the one you’re a part of ...” Peter stammered, blinking back tears.
“The one I head up, you mean? Yeah, it’s not ideal, but technically what you’re doing is not illegal. You haven’t … gone all the way with anyone before and gotten paid for it, have you?”
“No, of course not. I won’t do that. It was just strictly massage, that’s it.” Peter insisted.
“And happy endings?” Chip asked, looking at the ceiling.
Peter sighed and nodded, guilt twisting his stomach into a knot. He took a long draught of his drink, and felt the alcohol burn its way down his throat. He smelled the sweet aroma. He was so ashamed of himself. Chip was right. He wasn’t a victim: he had made all of these choices. And now lives were in danger. Anton was missing. A lot was at stake.
“Well, that’s … a lawyer could argue that it wasn’t prostitution then.”
“Wait a minute, a lawyer? We can’t get a lawyer involved,” Peter said, looking around him insecurely, hoping no one else was listening. Already panic was setting in.
“Peter, listen. As long as no one else knows about this, as long as none of your clients say anything, and I doubt they will because they’re likely going to want discretion too, but ... does anyone else know about this other than Tony?”
Tony, that word again. His name made Peter’s stomach do things that it shouldn’t do - embarrassment, nervousness, fear, tremendous sexual attraction - he didn’t exactly know what it was that he felt, but he knew it couldn’t be good for him or the life he wanted to have with Chip.
“Peter, are you there?” Chip said, snapping his fingers.
“Yeah, I was just … well, actually, yes. My roommate, Anton, knows.”
“Have you tracked him down?” Chip asked. Peter could only think of those spots of blood in the bathtub.
“Still nothing,” Peter said. “You? Your colleagues?”
“Nothing,” Chip sighed.
“It’s weird. He has to go to work later tonight, so I’m sure if I go to his job or call them at least, I’ll find him there.” Peter shrugged, now very worried for Anton.
“Well, as soon as you do, let me know. If he needs a little convincing not to say shit, let me know and I’ll have a chat with him,” Chip said protectively.
A smile spread across Peter’s face, “Thanks.”
Chip squeezed Peter’s hand. “We’re in this together. Understand? We’ll figure this out. Meanwhile, tell Tony you don’t want to do it anymore.”
Peter pulled him hand back almost as if he’d touched a hot stove. “I can’t.” Shame curdled the contents of his stomach and he pushed his bourbon away.
“Why not?” Chip said, his voice
rising in irritation.
“‘Cause for one, I need the money, and two, I signed some kind of contract.”
“Contract?” Chip said, face darkening. “What kind of contract?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t read it much. I just skimmed it, but knowing Tony, he probably owns me.” He sighed. He wished now that he had read it. But then he thought, what difference would that make?
“It can’t be legal. You get a copy of that contract?”
“No,” Peter said shamefully.
Chip sighed. “Peter, what am I going to do with you? Listen, you get a copy of that contract. Isn’t your father an attorney?”
“That’s not an option,” Peter said, panicking at the idea of his parents ever finding out. It had been bad enough when he'd come out to his father. There was no way he was going to call and ask him to procure the contract for his erotic massage job.
“We’ll get someone else then,” Chip said, realizing what he was asking. “Meanwhile, just play it cool. Act like everything is normal with him. Don’t mention the bugging. If he calls, answer it. Just try to keep a lid on everything that’s happening. We don’t want the lion out of the cage quite yet. Meanwhile, I’ll be doing some investigating of my own. He’s going to have a million dollar lawyer from hell, and I want to bust him in the head.” Chip sneered, his expression dark.
“No,” Peter said, looking at Chip’s angry expression, “don’t talk to him. Don’t do anything. Not yet. We’ll figure this out. For me, please.”
“Only for you,” Chip said. “But I promise you, if he lays a finger on you, I’ll ...”
Peter cut him off, squeezing his hand, “I appreciate it, I do. Thank you.” The thought of anything happening to Chip, especially if it was his fault; well, he couldn't bear it. But it still felt good to know that Chip was so protective.
Chip squeezed him back. His eyes danced in a mixture of desire and frustration, and Peter couldn’t tell if he wanted to kiss him or punch him.
Finally, Chip got up. “Want anything else to drink?”
“No, I’m fine.” He really needed to stay clear-headed, especially if Tony had a client for him to meet tonight.
“Okay,” Chip said, looking like he wanted to say something else. “Call me if … if anything comes up.”
“Sure,” Peter said.
“Walk you out to your car?” Chip suggested.
“I’m fine.” There was so much between them left unsaid. He lowered his head.
“Remember, he probably has that bugged too, so don’t say anything in it that you don’t want him to know,” Chip said.
“Okay,” Peter answered.
Chip just stared at him as if he wanted to say something.
Peter felt so badly about the whole thing: wrapping Chip up in it, putting his career, maybe even his life and Johnny's life, at risk. He started to say something when Chip grabbed Peter’s face in his palms and kissed him deeply and passionately, unaware or unfazed by the people watching, and more importantly, unashamed of doing so.
Peter was taken aback.
“You take care,” Chip said, and left him standing there. The kiss was all he needed right then. It said it all, “I’ll be there for you, no matter what.”
CHAPTER 11
Peter watched Chip walk away as the sound of the bar's slot machines finally jarred him back to consciousness. Someone squeezed his shoulder while walking by. “Congratulations, sweetie,” an older woman said, “ Looks like you got yourself a good man.”
Peter blushed, but smiled politely. He knew the perfect stranger was right and that’s what terrified him. That he might fuck it up some way. God knows he already had done his best to ruin the whole situation. For a man of Chip’s caliber to stick by him after even this; to say that he’d be there by his side no matter what, Peter just knew someone like that didn’t come around every day. He had to get himself out of this situation and yet, even if he did, he knew that his past could one day catch up to him. One day, it could sneak its ugly head around the corner like a bad case of herpes and ruin all that he’d built. He wondered if he’d ever truly be free of this mistake he’d made. Yet he knew somehow, Chip would be there by his side helping him work through it, no matter what.
He turned his phone back on, hoping that Tony hadn’t tried to call him, and just when he was about to step out of the casino, his phone rang. His heart raced as he saw who it was: Tony. Somehow, Tony had already programmed his name in the cell phone. He had to take a deep breath and act like nothing was wrong.
“Hello?” he answered, as calmly and naturally as he could.
“He’s here,” Tony said, his voice the growl of an irritated cat.
“Who?”
“What do you mean, ‘who’? The client. Hashimoto. Get your ass down here before he gets pissed.” It seemed Tony's sweetness was short-lived.
“Yeah, I’m on my way,” Peter said, stepping out the door onto the street.
“He gets pissed, then I get pissed, and I don’t think you want to see that side of me,” Tony said. Peter shuddered to think what that might look like. He’d already experienced glimpses of it, and didn't want to see it again. It scared him.
He opened his car door and hopped in, revving up the engine before looking in the rearview mirror and backing up.
“I tried to call you a few minutes ago and you didn’t answer. Why?” Tony demanded to know as Peter plugged in the ear piece so he wouldn’t have to hold the phone while driving.
“Really? That’s strange,” Peter said, not knowing what else to say, “Maybe it was the reception.”
“You don’t have bad reception at your home,” Tony said authoritatively.
How did he know that Peter was at his home? Then, he realized he probably had some way of tracking him through the GPS.
“Where are you now?” Tony demanded to know.
“I’m on my way,” Peter said, figuring he probably already knew he was at the local bar. “I needed something to relax me, so I went to the local ...”
“Just hurry up, babe.” Tony said, before hanging up.
Peter felt like he couldn’t do anything without being watched, like he was trapped in some kind of glass house where everyone could see what he was doing. He sped down to the casino as quickly as he could without getting a ticket. He prayed to God the client wasn’t some nasty-looking man that stank. That was the last thing he needed tonight.
***
But he wasn’t. Ken Hashimoto wasn’t nasty-looking at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was tall, a little older than Peter. He was good-looking, and when he removed his bathrobe later on in the evening, Peter could see he was well-built too. Very well built, like God chiseled his body from marble, in fact. He had angular features, a broad nose, and skin the color of burnished gold.
For now, however, he was wearing a glossy saffron-colored bathrobe made of raw silk. It reached to his knees, but his muscular calves were alluring enough to make Peter pause when he first walked into that luxurious parlor: Mr. Hashim0to’s suite. He stood up when Peter walked in, and as Peter looked out the picturesque windows that surveyed the entire Las Vegas strip, he bowed before Peter. Peter bowed back.
Tony smiled nervously. He was sitting in a black leather chair, sipping a bloody Mary. He stood and gestured to Peter. “Mr. Hashimoto, this is Peter, your masseuse for this evening.”
Hashimoto looked at Peter up and down as if to examine if he were good enough, and presumably finding that so, he nodded.
“Would you care for something to drink?” Mr. Hashimoto asked Peter.
“Oh, no thank you. I ...” Peter started to say until Tony nudged him, indicating that he’d better accept. “As a matter of fact, I’d love that," Peter said, correcting himself.
Hashimoto called for his assistant to make a pot of tea.
“Please, sit down,” Hashimoto requested, sitting down on the opposite couch. Peter obeyed, not sure exactly what to say or do next.
“Mr. Hashimoto,” To
ny began to say, “If there's anything ...”
“That’ll be all, Tony,” Hashimoto said curtly, not even giving Tony the courtesy of looking at him.
“Oh, of course,” Tony said, excusing himself, but not before giving Peter a warning smile. Hashimoto waited until the door clicked shut before taking a long sigh.
“Such a pain in the ass,” Hashimoto said. The statement shocked Peter and made him chuckle, until Hashimoto looked at him and Peter tried to extinguish his laughter. He didn't want to be disrespectful to this new client.
“Sorry,” Peter said, but Hashimoto met him with a smile.
“I shouldn’t have been that rude. He just won’t go away. Sometimes I just want time alone, you know to relax, to enjoy myself,” he said. His voice sounded smooth as butter: masculine, and alluring. His eyes wandered from Peter’s eyes to his chest all the way down to his crotch, where they lingered.
“So you don’t ... you don’t work for Tony?” Peter asked hesitantly.
Mr. Hashimoto laughed. A big leonine laugh that showed all his teeth. One of his canines ... Peter thought for a second, was capped in gold, but he was wrong. It was just a trick of the light.
“No. I don’t work for Tony. I work for the man upstairs,” he said.
“Wait ... no ... wait. What does that mean? God? Are you a clergyman or something?”
Mr. Hashimoto smiled, cocked his head. “No. I’m a Shingon Buddhist priest.”
“And you’re allowed to…” Peter trailed off, feeling awkward.
“We’re not like Catholic priests. There’s no vow of celibacy. Buddhist priests have been sleeping with boys since the 8th century.”
Peter laughed awkwardly. “I see,” he whispered.
“Let me touch you,” Hashimoto said, and began rubbing the back of Peter’s neck.
Although it should have made Peter feel a little uncomfortable, somehow it didn’t. It made him feel desired, craved for, needed. Peter had to play the role, no matter how split he felt; knowing that Chip wouldn’t want him to go too far, and Tony? He didn’t know exactly what he wanted.
