Shattered Glass

by Dani Alexander

  Bunny Slippers reached behind him and pulled the safety belt across his chest. I mentally laughed at the gesture. For all he knew, I could be taking him off to murder him, and he was putting his seatbelt on, making it easier to hold him hostage.

  Wrapping my arm around the back of his headrest, I twisted to check my blind spots and pulled out of the parking lot. I kept my hand on his seat while I drove. Delicious sprouts of auburn hair almost touched my skin. Almost. If I just stretched my finger…

  Think of something to say, Austin. Nothing came to mind except that flashing sign that kept changing its marquee. FBI career over! Arrested! Underage Prostitute! Prostitute! Male Prostitute!

  Half a block away, I pulled into an ATM kiosk and emptied five hundred dollars from my account; all the while I tried to talk myself out of, and into, this insane plan to pay someone, a guy, for sex.

  Not sex. You’re not having sex with him.

  I practically fell into the driver’s seat, fumbling with the cash and my seatbelt as I shut the door. Bunny Slippers continued to stare out my window. He hadn’t looked at me once since we left the restaurant parking lot. After separating two hundred from the stack of bills, I handed them to him with trembling fingers. “Here, two hundred,” I rasped. He tucked the money into what I was just now noticing were jeans, not pajama bottoms. I exhaled in relief. At least I hadn’t been checking out what he was wearing.

  I slipped the remaining three hundred into my wallet, and without another word I drove toward home. “Do you need to go back to work?” Great, now my voice had to quiver? My heart tried to burst through my chest. My palms were slick with sweat. I was a wreck, propelled back into my teenage years by someone who was probably a teenager himself.

  “Eventually,” he spat out. He seemed unconcerned about our destination, just sitting and staring at the houses as they went by. He was so hostile. I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.

  I was a moderately attractive guy—in the wholesome, frat boy way. Nothing exotic—brown hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin. I was attractive. I got plenty of offers. So why was I paying some kid for— And, Jesus, it wasn’t even to screw him.

  Risking career over paying a hustler for not having sex with you. Brilliant, Austin.

  You fail at prostitution.

  I wove through town, driving as fitfully as my heart beat. It was a miracle I didn’t get pulled over. Bunny Slippers said nothing, no matter how badly I drove. I tried to come up with something to say, anything, to fill the awkward silence.

  “What’s your name?”

  “What do you want it to be?” he asked acerbically, not bothering to acknowledge me with more than words.

  “Bunny Slippers,” I said, trying for a smile that I hoped wasn’t a leer. It probably was a leer, though. I was so hard my cock was aching.

  “What the f—” He sighed, eyes rolling in his head. “Peter,” he ground out through clenched teeth. My heart jumped as the corners of his lips twitched. Was that the truth? I hoped it was. Not because the name had any significance, but because I didn’t want him playing a part for me. I wanted to believe he was real. My naïveté was ridiculous. I was only assigned to Vice six months ago, but I’d been on the force for eight years. Boys like Peter were hard-edged and dangerous. If the captain could see me, he would boot me off the force for being an idealistic jackass—and possibly for statutory rape.

  Oh yeah, and solicitation, Austin. Don’t forget that career-ending solicitation part, Austin. Penal code 18—7—202: Solicitation for prostitution. Otherwise known as: Your-Fucked-Career.

  “How old are you?” I finally asked.

  The withering scowl he gave was uplifting. At least it wasn’t inscrutable. “How old do you want me to be?”

  I laughed. “I walked into that.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Does open hostility work well in your profession?” I flashed my most charming grin. He stared back at me, blank.

  “You’re not paying me for conversation.” It was hard to tell, while trying to drive and study him, but I thought I saw his lips twitch again.

  “I assumed it was part of the package.” I threw another layer of charm into my smile.

  “Does naïve and clueless work in your profession?”

  Five blocks passed in silence. “Twenty-four,” I said, pulling onto my street. I laughed as his brows curled in confusion. “How old I want you to be.”

  “Tough shit. I’m twenty.” Some of my nausea disappeared.

  “Home sweet home,” I announced.

  My apartment building had been converted from an old Victorian home. I owned it, loved it, treated it with the kindness it deserved. The main house contained six units and there was an old, detached carriage house around back. The flower garden was bisected by a path to the side gate, and a row of bushes lined the stairs that led to the entrance. Peter followed me up the front stairs and along the path behind the main house to the carriage house—my carriage house. I had refurbished it into a two-story apartment. It was my pride and joy.

  On Angelica’s recommendation, I had hired the best interior designers and decorators, and it showed in the expensive contemporary brown and cream designs. Of course it was the stupidest idea ever to bring a hustler here, where there were so many pawn-able items.

  Jesus H. Christ. I am a fucking idiot.

  Once inside, Peter said nothing about how awesome the apartment was, and I was a little perturbed. But, then again, he only seemed to vacillate between hostile and apathetic; I wasn’t sure I wanted his opinion.

  Hours of stalking—er, sitting—in my hot car had enhanced the loveliness of my natural scent. Plus I was nervous—like this was a first date. There were sweat marks all around my clothes. “I’m going to take a shower upstairs. There’s one down here, too. In there.” I pointed to the right, where a hallway led to the guest bedroom and bathroom. “Try not to steal anything.” I was joking but, then again, I wasn’t. I didn’t realize that the words might be offensive—were offensive—until they slipped out.

  Whatever. He was a whore. Right?

  “I’ll try my best. But just in case I find a fence willing to open his own personal Pottery Barn, leave the keys to the Jag so I can load it up,” he tossed back caustically.

  My jaw fell. Was that a joke? I was about to ask him, but the words collapsed in my throat as he pulled his shirt over his head. I caught the rippled muscles and slope of his back before he disappeared down the hall.

  My mouth went dry. I started hoping he’d rob me or beat me. At least that would break this…whatever it was. Obsession? I nearly ran upstairs to take a shower.

  It wasn’t until I stood under the shower spray that I remembered Angelica. Guilt made me press my forehead against the white tiles. Then the stream of questions and doubts surfaced again. My job. My fiancée. My job. A prostitute. A male prostitute. My fucking job. What, what, what was I doing?

  Nothing. I was going to do nothing. Talk. I’d talk to him. Nothing more. This was just a phase.

  Walking into the bedroom, towel wrapped around my waist, I pretended not to stare at Peter as he reclined on my bed in nothing but his well-worn jeans. His hair was wet and straggly, with strands plastered against his forehead and cheek. He was exquisite.

  Shit.

  Without thinking, I grabbed jeans and a pair of boxers from the dresser and pulled them on under my towel. Because naturally people put clothes on after hiring a prostitute. I did a mental facepalm.

  “Time’s tickin’” Peter drawled, blank eyes casually checking me out as he propped himself up on his elbows. His body was incredible. I needed something to wipe the drool from my lips.

  I couldn’t remember being this attracted to anyone—male or female. And Peter was most definitely male. I couldn’t even claim that he had a single feminine quality. He was leanly muscled and had a faint six-pack—the sort of stomach that I barely managed with daily rigorous workouts. His skin was pale with a healthy pink undertone. And freckles dotted hi
s stomach, more sparsely than they did his arms, nose and cheeks. I wanted to kiss each one. It would take me hours.

  “How much time did I buy?” Apparently nonchalance wasn’t an option with a dry throat and trembling voice. My blood grew warm, my pulse sprinting through my veins and my stomach careened down from unfathomable heights.

  “An hour,” he replied.

  Retrieving my wallet from my discarded khakis, my eyes widened in surprise. The other three hundred dollars were still tucked into the leather pocket. Huh. The pants were completely visible on the floor. He saw me put the money in my wallet earlier. It would have taken seconds to find the wallet, pocket the money and get out of here. What would I have done, report him? What kind of whore didn’t steal money?

  “Come here,” I ordered softly. He hesitated and stretched up like a cat. His bare feet made soft sticky sounds on my hardwood floor as he padded over to stand in front of me. He was my height, five feet eleven, or maybe a little taller—it was tough to say. But it made it easier to fall into those blue, blue eyes.

  Taking his hand, I placed the last of my money into his palm, catching his fingers as they clenched around the bills. He lifted his chin. “I still don’t fuck.”

  I reached out to touch his lips. He jerked his hand from mine. “How much to kiss you?” Oh Jesus God, what the fuck am I doing?

  Finally something besides hostility and vacancy in the slight widening of his eyes. Fear? It was gone before I could to analyze it. “You don’t have enough money,” he answered, tongue flicking out to wet his lips.

  I stepped closer, cupping his jaw gently in my palm, my thumb pulling lightly at his chin until his mouth parted. His breath warmed my thumb. “A thousand? Two? Four? Ten?” I’d pay more. I’d pay anything. I wanted to know. Needed to know. Did men turn me on? Was I gay?

  As hard as his eyes were, his body was responding—skin flushing, breath quickening. His pulse jumped slightly against the skin on his neck. Whether he was reacting to my offer of money or the way I trailed my thumb across his bottom lip, I wasn’t sure.

  “There isn’t enough money.” He flashed his hand in front my nose, opening his palm and releasing the cash to feather-drop into a mess at my feet.

  I ignored the crumpled paper, concentrating instead on the rough and soft surfaces of his skin as my fingers traced his cheek and neck. “Two hundred to touch you, only fifty to have my dick in your mouth, but no amount can buy one kiss?”

  “The extra is for a blow job? Fine.” He reached for my pants, but I stayed his fingers.

  “Quit acting like a child,” I sighed. “I don’t want to have sex with you.”

  “Fucking liar.” He cupped my crotch—my very strained, very hard, very responsive crotch.

  “Okay, I’ll rephrase. I don’t want to have sex with you right now.” Maybe never. And not for money, I added silently. There was only so much hostility I could take. But there were those small flashes of…something. Every once in a while, they showed through his sharp comments, and I was hooked. “Two hundred to touch you for an hour. Three hundred more for you to stay and…talk with me for the night.” I nearly asked how much to keep the bunny slippers on. This conversation was ridiculous. I so failed with whores.

  “Something seriously wrong with you,” he whispered as my fingers slid from his chin to the dip in his throat.

  “Yeah. Yeah, I’m coming to that conclusion, too.” As much as he pretended to feel nothing, when my hand pressed against his smooth chest, his heart hammered against it. I was absolutely enraptured by the way he trembled, the goose bumps popping up beneath my delicate exploration of his stomach.

  His skin was warm, and softer than I’d imagined, though the muscles were tight just beneath the surface. Each place my fingers trailed a muscle twitched. I licked my lips and brushed them against his shoulder. He tasted of sweat, and a grain of sugar caught on my tongue. “Beautiful.”

  His body tensed, only to tremble again like a plucked bow string. When I pulled my head back, his eyes were focused on my hand grazing his hip; his lips parted, his skin flushed, and his breath grew sharper with each tiny exhale.

  This was too intimate. Maybe more intimate than sex. I drew my hand back and pushed it through my hair.

  What are you doing? This is insane. Truly insane.

  I had no idea who he was. I wasn’t even sure if he had been lying about his age or name. My job, my life, my everything could be torn away thanks to this one little indiscretion. The whole situation just seemed more and more fucked up

  Yet, I couldn't help being a little satisfied. I had at least part of my answer. I liked touching him. Still, this was too fucked up to continue.

  “You want me to take you home or to the diner?”

  His head whipped up. “I’m not giving the money back,” he said.

  For some reason, that made me laugh. “Keep it.” Grabbing my keys off the dresser, I slipped into sandals and threw a shirt over my head. Peter still hadn’t moved by the time I was dressed.

  He eyed the floor, hands tucked into his pockets. I was astonished to see him smiling. Not a sweet, or even humorous smile; it was just a sad little curl of his lips, and it made him appear so vulnerable. And, like every other emotion I’d seen—besides hostility, which wasn't even really an emotion so much as it was a state of being—this one disappeared quickly. “Whatever.” He pushed past me, and I heard his soft footsteps down the stairs.

  I followed him with the intent to drive him back. Halfway down the stairs, the front door slammed.

  I checked to see if he was waiting by the car, but the area was empty, so I went back inside. Once undressed, I climbed into bed. Exhausted, frustrated and anxious, sleep took hours to find me. I didn’t even spare a passing thought about Angelica.

  Chapter Three

  Theme Of The Day: Prostitutes

  Tuesday I was so tired that I confused my orange juice with milk and used the OJ to make scrambled eggs. I didn’t even notice until I was chewing. Too groggy to care, I ate it all anyway. It tasted like sweaty feet. Three cups of coffee later, the taste was finally out of my mouth, and the caffeine woke me up enough that I could get dressed and drive to work without nodding off.

  I arrived at work thirty minutes late and in an expensive, but rumpled, brown suit. The only positive about working while being this tired was that I couldn’t dwell on last night and my epic failure at paying for, but not screwing, a prostitute.

  “You look like shit,” Luis noted as I took my seat at the desk across from him. His suit wasn’t much better than mine in the wrinkled department, and the whole thing probably cost him less than my tie. I had a feeling he'd bought his blue blazer sometime in the 80's, and the trousers a decade before that—back when maroon polyester had actually been in style.

  “And you look like the love child of Barney Miller and Archie Bunker.” It was as much wit as I could summon in my state. “What’s on for today?”

  “Gaines has poofed.” Great. Our new informant was now our new problem.

  I groaned and sized up the inviting surface of my desk. I wanted to lay my cheek against the wood and sleep until everything requiring a functioning brain went away. I didn’t have patience for an idiot like Gaines.

  Him ‘poofing’ meant he was going underground, probably because he was vying to take over Alvarado’s operations—a common reason why snitches snitched on their business partners. The only other reason why he might disappear was that he had been outed as a snitch. Either way, Luis and I would be spending the day questioning whores and pimps and the rest of society's dregs in order to find him before Alvarado made bail.

  “Can we shoot him?” I asked. That earlier feeling of wanting to press my face against the desk returned. I went with it. “Didn’t that whore—whatshername? We busted her last month. Said Gaines was her baby’s daddy,” I mumbled into the desktop.

  “Are you making out with that desk?”

  “Well, my boyfriend keeps refusing to.”

 
Luis stopped typing on his computer. A few seconds later he said, “Rhonda Pendergrass.”

  “Think his name is Peter.”

  “The whore?”

  “My boyfriend.” Well, yes, the whore.

  “Right,” Luis said, ignoring my statement. No one took me seriously. “Well the whore’s name is Rhonda Pendergrass. She rents a house on 27th and Gay—don’t say it—lord street.”

  “I wasn’t going to say a word,” I lied, standing up and going to the break room to snatch a cup of coffee from the machine. It tasted like mud squeezed off a sweaty foot (my second foray into that food group today). I deliberated on if Peter had sweaty feet. At least I knew I could stand the taste if he did.

  What was with me and feet all the sudden?

  Peter had been right about one thing. There was something seriously wrong with me.

  I followed Luis to the car and settled into the passenger seat, leaning my temple against the window. The car dipped as Luis climbed into the driver’s side, but I didn’t lift my head from the glass until the car got moving.

  “You need a nap, kid?” Luis asked.

  “I was thinking more along the lines of hibernation,” I said, taking a sip, or rather, chewing the coffee as it oozed into my mouth. Blessed caffeine. Who cared about the taste? Or texture, for that matter.

  “Late night with Angelica?”

  “A male prostitute.”

  “Named Peter.”

  “Why not Peter?”

  “You should watch what you say. One day someone’s is going to take you seriously.”

  I doubted it. They never had before. And this conversation wasn’t nearly as absurd as some of the others. Luis still didn’t believe I went to Paris that one night.

  “I think I need to ask him on a date,” I said. I knew I was pushing it, but I was trying to gauge his response as clandestinely as possible while at the same time getting myself to say it—admit it.

  “The prostitute?”

  “He wouldn’t be one on the date.”

  “Peter.”

  “Unless you’ve come up with a better name?”