His eyes fixate on my cock. I can practically feel his ass clench, rejecting the idea of me fucking him.
Then his entire body heaves a sad moan. “I really want you to be the first, Harp, I just … I need it a little … I don’t know … slower, please?”
Shit. I didn’t anticipate this. Didn’t think past his rejection. I assumed he’d bolt for the door. I didn’t think he’d … wanna talk it through.
Hurt him.
I can’t hurt him. I should call him a coward or weak or laugh at his foolishness. What kind of fag hasn’t been fucked at his age?
That’s the thing to say. Say it with a condescending sneer. I can muster that. I’m a performer, after all. He’s just a techie.
But I can’t.
I’m gonna lose everything, but I can’t hurt him.
“I don’t mean to upset you.” He crawls a little nearer. “Please, don’t be mad.”
His gaze flits between my shaft and my face. Like he wants to beg to suck my cock but is afraid I’ll deny him.
Christ, I want him so bad.
No, that’s just the lust talking. You want Mr. Ito. You want his control. You wouldn’t even have moved on Carlos if Mr. Ito hadn’t told you to. Don’t ruin your future with a hot-blooded decision now.
The calm voice of reason in my head is a liar. I want to take my time with this wonderfully shy man—I wanted to from the beginning. I want to let him fumble through his awkwardness to kiss and caress me. I want to make love to him, not just fuck him, but to revel in his naked flesh, to watch his face as he melts from one moment of delight to another. I want to take my time and just … be with him.
I don’t want to perform.
“Oh shit.” I groan and run a hand through my hair.
He startles at this, my first and final proclamation.
I tuck my cock away, though it protests confinement violently. I gesture vaguely to the studio’s door, sending him away. Then head to the only other door in this shitty apartment, the bathroom. “I’m not mad at you. I just—fuck it. I’ll see you at rehearsal.”
****
The bathroom is more like a closet. So, I can perch on the tiny edge of the tub and run water from the sink over my hands. Drink to cool my throat and get control over my voice. The water tastes tinny and metallic. Son of a bitch. I can barely pay for this tiny patch of grime and filth and my way out—or at least a temporary respite—was just to tell Carlos no.
I was already more than halfway there. He just had to leave. I just had to let him go without addressing this awkwardness. Without apology. Without softness.
Mr. Ito would be satisfied. He’d have to be.
Outside the thin door, Carlos shuffles in my studio. Straightening his clothes, preparing to sneak out maybe. Then total silence.
No, not silence. The upstairs neighbors play the most unmelodious rap they can find. There’s late-night construction, the bleats of car horns, and the grumble of a million TVs. The noise of the city is inescapable at night … well, at least at this price range.
I stare at my phone, at Mr. Ito’s name and an empty text box. I can’t think of what to text him, so I sit there staring at his name. Mr. Ito wants me to live with him, wear nice suits, travel with him to Japan. Be his toy. He excites me. He scares me. He can give me everything I want if I can just stop fixating on Carlos.
I’m not like Carlos. He’s decent and soft and pure. And I’m a beautiful oddity. Built for luxury and filth. No middle-ground for me. It’s either decaying row-houses or penthouse suites. Weed-soaked walls or marble. I don’t fit with a guy like Carlos, any more than I fit in outside of New York.
My phone buzzes.
Mr. Ito writes. Something go wrong?
Hot shame stings all the way to my eyes. I start typing back a furious “fuck you”, but what I send is more melancholic. Satisfied?
He does not answer, which is unlike him.
Carlos knocks softly on the door. “Harper … I’m sorry.”
Jesus, how immature can I be? Hiding in the bathroom?
Mr. Ito answers. Yes. Send him away and come home.
Come home.
Start a life with a billionaire Dom. Live with him as his toy. Watch the theater thrive. What could I create with a patron like Mr. Ito?
“Harper?” Carlos calls for me again and tries to turn the knob.
I watch it dispassionately. I didn’t lock the door, but the damn thing sticks.
“Are you okay? Say something or … I’ll, well, I’ll break this knob if you don’t answer.”
I don’t deserve someone that soft and pure. I knew that from the start. Maybe that’s why I’d kept him off-limits.
I laugh, a bitter cold sound. I leave my phone in the bathroom. I twist the knob and jerk upward to open the door. I know just how I’ll send him away.
Carlos’s phone is in his hand, poised to call for help. “I … are you okay?”
I glide past him to collect the cameras from the bookshelf and the picture frame. I turn them off and then stand in front of Carlos and pluck the final one from my shirt and shut it down.
“What are…” Then he realizes with horror. “You’ve been recording this?”
I nod. “Mr. Rich-guy wanted to see me in action as a seducer. Wanted me to fuck you and record it.”
“Well.” Carlos processes in silence and stares at the electronics. He handles this way better than I would. “Thanks for stopping.”
“Yeah.” I don’t know how much longer I can stand this. How much longer before I crack.
Carlos glances at the door, fights his impulse to flee. “Harper, are you safe?”
“What?” I’m floored. I just told him I was prepared to secretly record us having sex for some stranger he’s never met, and Carlos is worried about my safety. “Yeah. It’s not … it’s not like that.”
He nods patiently. “Then what’s it like? Are you his boyfriend?”
Boyfriend isn’t in the same country as correct. Client is closer, but, Christ, do I hate the sound of that. Secret sugar daddy and devil who bought my soul seem just as accurate.
“It’s not your problem. You should go.”
Carlos crosses his arms, showing a little more spine than I thought. “Is he forcing you to have sex with him?”
“Forcing? No! It’s just power games. He’s…” I glance at the bathroom and the phone I’ve left there. But that’s not enough to ground me in this choice. Not enough to keep me from cracking under this pressure. “Fuck, I don’t even know. I’ve never seen his face. The sex is intense, but … it’s not really an equitable relationship. Then there’s the donations and I … I don’t know. Everything is mixed up.”
Carlos absorbs this all, in silence, for as long as he can endure it before suggesting. “But, like, do you love him?”
I scoff instinctively dismissing the idea of anything as plebeian as love. When I look up at Carlos to share this sentiment, his concerned expression hits me like a gut punch. I can’t imagine being this vulnerable with Mr. Ito, seeing this anxiety in the eyes behind the mask. I’d love things to be so easy and soft. Love for it to be more than lust. To feel about Mr. Ito the way I feel with Carlos.
The crack finally happens, and I know the truth.
I love Carlos.
This scares the shit out of me. But I can’t get away from it.
“Naw, man. I don’t love him.”
Carlos nods, accepting that. He’s not sure where he fits into all this. What he’s supposed to say.
So, I try once again to get him a safe distance away from the disaster zone that is my life. “But … I don’t want him to be suspicious. We have a deal until the end of the run and—”
The words won’t come out of my throat. I squeeze my eyelids tight to keep my tears in place. I take a deep breath and steady myself. “I should go back to him now. Get him to delete that video.”
Carlos looks at the cameras I’ve left on the counter. “Harper, I don’t wanna… well, get in the way of�
� of your dreams. How can I… how do I make this easier for you? Like would he still want us to—”
I shudder at the idea. “I’m not bringing you into his games. I’m not even sure I want to play his games anymore.”
Carlos looks up at me hopefully. “Well, I think that’s probably the healthy choice, but … I mean, you deserve someone with that kind of money, Harp. Someone who can take care of you. Really let you focus on your dancing.”
I shake my head. “I don’t need him to… We don’t need him. Look at all we accomplished. We got fund-raising, and since we did one camp successfully, we’ll be a sure thing for other donors. The money will come. Right?”
Carlos smiles sadly. “But what if it doesn’t?”
“Then fuck it,” I answer. “I don’t care. If this is as far as I could get, as the company could get then … that’s all. But I don’t want—”
I don’t want to sacrifice my feelings for Carlos. I can’t tell him that. Christ, not right now. But for the first time in my life, I don’t want my dreams to get in the way of my relationship.
“I don’t need the money, Carlos,” I tell him.
He smiles shyly, coming a little closer. “What were you actually going to say, Harp?”
His fingers brush over mine, probably using the last of his boldness to touch me. I wrap my fingers around his and hold his hand. “I don’t need him, Carlos.”
I squeeze his hand, trying to signal what I do need. To tell him who I need without words getting in the way.
“Cool, cool, cool. I’m glad you said that. Like really glad. ‘Cause I…” Carlos’s wide grin pinches into his shyness, and he pauses. He lowers his head, thinking hard about something.
“Can I kiss you again?” I ask.
His eyes shoot up to me, and he smiles faintly and nods.
I love how he melts. So soft and vulnerable, so full of surrender—no, not surrender. This is a gift. There’s no war in this kiss. No power-play. Just an honest-to-God closeness.
He shudders and lifts his hands to touch my back. I squeeze him nearer, and he tightens his arms. Christ, how long has it been since I’ve been embraced? Since I’ve kissed someone without being blindfolded or bound or…
“Yeah, this is what I needed.” Carlos won’t open his eyes, about to tremble into pieces. “I didn’t know to ask, but…”
“You really ought to go.” I keep holding him. “Process this shitstorm.”
“Yeah.” He agrees and pulls a little away.
I have trouble letting him go.
“Are you…” He glances at the cameras, hesitantly. “Going to go, too?”
Am I going to go to Mr. Ito? Going back to the evil faceless bastard. “No. I don’t think I will.”
Maybe not ever again.
I watch Carlos settle himself and leave, awkwardly saying half sentences before finally getting out a stunted. “S-see ya.”
But when he smiles in the doorway, I know I’m done. I’m gonna choose Carlos. I don’t care where it goes. I don’t care how long it lasts.
This is better.
****
I go to Mr. Ito’s apartment when he’s at work. I don’t have a lot of stuff there. Hair products and a change of clothes. I leave him the cameras and a note. He probably deserves more from me. After all, there’s legitimate buzz around this burlesque, and our summer camp is all but set because of his donations. In the note, I tell him I don’t want this conversation in person because I can’t trust myself. I tell him I choose Carlos and that I’m sorry to break our arrangement early. I keep it as professional as possible.
When I think … maybe just one more night. Give him something to remember me by … I look at that damned demon mask. One more time to try to see his face.
But no.
I’ve made my choice.
And if I’m honest, I like the mystery.
****
Two weeks later, the show is on. Between performances and the scattered interviews for local podcasts, radio stations, and news, there is no time to even think about romance. Carlos and I make out once or twice backstage, but it’s always accidental and certainly wouldn’t get beyond heavy petting and the occasional wildly inappropriate grope.
By the first week of December, actual reviewers see the show. I mean, we’re not entertaining anyone from The New Yorker, but still it’s actual coverage, and we’re selling enough seats that Van suggests sprucing up the lobby. Get a wood floor instead of that dingy red carpet next season. Joanna brings me a personal review that mentions my solo dance. To be honest, I’m prouder that nearly every review talks about the amateur pole-dancer number. It’s a risk to mix community with professional but their enthusiasm is contagious; the audience loves them.
****
Tomorrow is the final show. Since Christmas is in a few days, the company has made the executive decision to fuck strike. We’ll deal with dismantling our most successful show in the New Year. After the matinee tomorrow, we have plans to splurge on pizza and beer in a thoroughly self-congratulatory exercise. Then we will go our separate ways. Carlos is getting on a plane to California at nine PM.
So, I’m getting that coffee date tonight. I’m going to keep him awake all night if he lets me. Give him something to fantasize about while he’s cooped up with his extended family.
But after the show, when I go to the lighting booth, Van is the one in front of the board calling the final cues to usher the audience out. She smiles at me like she could sleep through the next two weeks and wake up when the holidays are over. I look around as if Carlos is hiding.
“Where’s Sweetness?”
“He left a few minutes after the show. Said we’ll see him tomorrow.”
Fear clenches my heart. “That’s not like him.”
Van shrugs and looks past me to the auditorium full of mingling crowds. “He didn’t say anything was wrong, but he did seem like he was in a hurry.”
That fear gnaws quietly.
“Why? Is everything alright, Harper?”
I smile over at her, bright and beaming, because Van didn’t need to add worrying about me to her to-do list. “Sure. What could be—”
My phone buzzes. I see a name I never wanted to see again.
Mr. Ito writes: Carlos is on his way to my apartment. Care to join?
****
I arrive at the penthouse, in a flurry of rage and despair. How the hell did he lure Carlos to his fucking lair? The son of a bitch.
The doorman doesn’t stop me. In the elevator, I consider for the first time that I ought to have called the police. I’d probably be the one who’d get in trouble. Jailed for prostitution or extortion or—
When I arrive at Mr. Ito’s apartment, I’m worried I went to the wrong penthouse. The lighting is … neutral for the first time. The curtains on the windows are pulled pack, which I’ve never seen in the daylight. The whole room smells delicious, like roasting beef and Spanish rice. I’ve never seen Mr. Ito’s home so natural, so airy, and it disorients me.
Across from the door, right above the TV, is the kabuki mask. It looks dead and lifeless in the sunlight.
I turn toward the kitchen, to the man behind the counter.
“Carlos?”
He’s watched me enter. There’s an array of onions, tomatoes, cilantro, peppers, and three avocados. He looks away from me to slice one. “Hi. I hope you like shredded beef tacos. I know you get something like it from the corner deli, so I thought—”
“What the actual fuck, Carlos?” I can’t believe Sweetness was the one Mr. Ito had— “You’re the one spying on me?”
“Spying isn’t really…” Carlos smirks, then fiddles. “Let me start from the beginning. You said we could … take it from the top, right? After the show…”
He gestures to the stool, where I sit when Mr. Ito cooks for me. I glance around the penthouse again, looking for Ito because he’s the one who’s supposed to be behind that counter and not … not Carlos.
I stagger to the stool.
“Mr. Ito did.”
“You know, it’s adorable how long it takes you to catch up when you’re wrong about a thing.” Carlos teases me. “Mr. Joji Carlos Mendez-Ramirez Ito gave you and Van his card.”
Ah.
I blink at him, probably resembling one of the error messages that pop up on the old lighting board. “That’s … a really long name.”
He rolls his eyes and nods. “Mom taught Spanish in Japan. Dad was the administrator. We traveled between Tokyo and Barcelona and New York and… Anyways, the first place we lived consistently was San Francisco. They opened an Asian fusion place with my older sister, and I went to a trade school instead of high school, which gave me a lot of nice connections to the … the tech world. Where my full-time job is.”
Which I knew about Carlos. He said he worked with computers and had moved around a lot as a kid. I’d thought entry-level IT. I glance over my shoulder at the mask as if that’s going to help me sort through this information. “Okay.”
“So, you and Van invited me to see the theater, because I wanted to donate my time. You were there for that conversation, at the charity thing…” He’s desperate for me to remember, but I’m still trying to fit the image of Sweetness into the mold of Mr. Ito. “Well, there was a bit of champagne floating around. Anyways, I came to the theater a couple days later, and uh, I thought you recognized me when you … came up to talk to me, but um…”
I’d greeted him with my usual. “Hey, I’m Harper. You’re the new techie, right? I think I’ve met you, but I’m shit with names and faces.”
He’d offered his hand at once, as if in a business meeting. Then melted shyly because it was too formal. “I’m … uh, Carlos. Van said you’d show me around the space?”
All three avocados are absolutely pulverized by now, but he keeps going. “Neither of you had recognized me, as uh, a potential investor—producer. Just as, you know, free labor.”
“It’s the clothes, dude,” I quip. “Jeans and a hoodie don’t scream ‘millionaire’.”
“Billionaire.” He smiles, sheepishly. “Anyways, it was pretty ideal actually. I got to make friends… But then we weren’t making the Kickstarter goals, and I knew, well, I wanted to help, but I wasn’t sure how or if … you know…”
Billion Dollar Love: Manlove Edition Page 6
