A Dangerous Game

By Rick R. Reed

Sex can be a dangerous business. So can love.

On the worst day of his life, Wren Gallagher wants oblivion when he steps into Tricks for a drink. When a mysterious stranger steps up to pay his tab, he offers Wren the key to fulfilling his dreams of prosperity and true love.

But appearances are not always what they seem.

His savior owns the escort agency À Louer, and he wants the young and handsome Wren as part of his stable of men-for-hire. Down on his luck, Wren figures, why not? He needs the money. When he joins, though, he doesn’t count on meeting Rufus, another escort with whom he falls hopelessly in love.

But their love story will have to overcome the obstacles of not only trading love for money, but À Louer’s dark—and deadly—secrets.

As always, big thanks to my Dreamspinner family. All of you, from cover designers, to editors, to promotional folks, make up what I would consider a writer’s heaven.

IT ALWAYS
amazed Wren that Tricks could be so busy, no matter what time of day he stopped in. Today, for example, it was three in the afternoon—a Friday yes, but still, three in the afternoon. And yet the stripper bar was crowded, mostly with older guys but some like Wren too. Younger, wearing snarky “What am I doing here?” expressions on their faces even as they cast furtive glances up at the two buff guys dancing in G-strings to the latest Lady Gaga anthem.

Outside, Chicago in summer was in full swing, but once you entered Tricks, you forgot all about the city and the season. The traffic sounds at the intersection of Belmont and Broadway, the rumble of the “L” a few blocks west, and the voices of many pedestrians mingling on the street disappeared. Tricks was a world unto itself, a universe where nearly naked men, alcohol fumes, colored lights, dirty floors, the clinking of ice in glasses, the husky music of men propositioning men, and mirrored walls all conspired together, creating something that was one part sleaze, one part gay, and one part home—at least for many of the men who frequented Tricks.

Tricks was all about escapism. Its dancers allowed you to free yourself from the shackles of your own body issues. Too skinny? Too fat? In between but nowhere near remarkably ripped? It was okay at Tricks, because the dancers were beautiful, and one could imagine they got their ripped and muscular physiques effortlessly from hanging out in bars, consuming copious amounts of alcohol, and tricking athletically with a parade of handsome strangers. The magic might work for you one day too.

Or at least that was the fantasy they were selling at Tricks.

And… if your self-esteem tank was running a little low, a wink or a smile from one of the dancers was enough to kick it up a notch. The hunky bartender calling you “Gorgeous” or “Stud” didn’t hurt either when he asked what he could get you. This kind of behavior from those who worked at Tricks was hard to swallow yet easy to cling to, making you believe, if only for a second, you were hot. You were wanted.

It was all part of the make-believe. And sometimes it was enough.

Wren Gallagher, all of twenty-three years old, today needed some of the escapism Tricks offered. Yes, he required it even at three in the afternoon. As the crowd jostled him, Wren kept his eye on the one open stool at the bar in front of him. It was like some sort of prize, an alcoholic holy grail, a place where he could park his skinny ass and maybe, just maybe, forget for a few hours what a crappy day he’d had.

Just as he elbowed his way through the laughing and chattering crowd of mostly middle-aged men and managed to get within inches of the vacant stool, a heavyset guy with a bottle of beer in one thick paw materialized out of nowhere to claim it. He was focused intently on the blond Adonis gyrating on the bar, so he didn’t see that there was competition for the stool.

Wren stopped and regarded the man, hoping his telepathy was in good enough working order that the man would feel the force of his gaze.
At least one thing will go right on this shitty day
, Wren thought,
and that one thing—all I ask—is that this character makes eye contact with me
.

Lo and behold, he did. Wren smiled prettily, trying to buoy up the older, balding man’s ego with the combined force of his slightly gap-toothed, turned-up-at-one-corner grin and his shock of red hair, his slender hips encased in denim, and the geek-allure vibe he knew he gave off. He knew because he had been told he was a sexy nerd on more than one occasion.

The guy did a bit of a double take when he saw Wren trying to make eye contact, smiling. He looked up at the dancer and back at Wren, as if he had to decide between one or the other.
As if
he had a choice….

Wren winked.

That was all it took. The older man stepped back, away from the stool, and gestured with his hands, the perfect gentleman, that Wren should take it.

Score one for Wren. He hopped up on the stool, smiling at this generous daddy who should have, by all rights, been sitting down right about now, and turned to try to catch the eye of the bartender.

“What do you want, handsome?”

The balding man pressed in close, thinking, Wren supposed, he now had some sort of advantage. The man placed a hand on the small of Wren’s back. Wren leaned forward and away from the guy, assailed by the potent aromas of alcohol and tobacco that emanated from the man’s very pores.

The man repeated, “What do you want, kid? I’m buying.”

And now Wren found himself perched precariously upon the horns of a dilemma. Should he let the man buy him a drink and further encourage him, knowing fully that all he wanted, in spite of being placed squarely within arm’s reach of one hundred or more gay men, was simply to be left alone? Or should he gently but politely decline the man’s offer and make it clear he wasn’t interested?

His wink had led the man to believe otherwise. The simple yet eloquent signal had been used as a flirtatious device by gay and straight men alike for centuries. And it wouldn’t do to inform him that the wink had not been for purposes of sexual solicitation but to procure a measly stool. How craven was that? Wren now regretted taking the stool, wishing he had just let the man have it. The cost was too high. He contemplated getting down from it and walking right through the exit, heading toward the Lake Michigan waterfront, and licking his wounds there.

But Lake Michigan did not have Absolut vodka, nor did it have the seeming bliss of these dancers before him.

And he would be too alone at Lake Michigan. The old saw was true—one was never more alone than when in a crowd. He liked how alone being around all these other seemingly happy human beings made him feel.

“Kid? I’m talking to you.”

The guy was getting insistent and, Wren presumed, tired of being ignored. Wren could almost hear the older guy’s hopes being dashed. The hopes hitting the floor sounded like glass breaking.

“Sorry,” Wren said, looking up at the man. “I’m waiting for someone.” He turned away so the man couldn’t see the heat rising to his face, red as his hair, or the shame he knew must somehow be displayed in his eyes.

“Well, what the fuck were you winking at me for, then?”

Thankfully, the guy didn’t wait for Wren to answer. Wren wasn’t the kind of person who could be so cruel as to inform the guy he winked at him for a selfish reason—so he could sit down. And he was also not the kind of person who thought he deserved the stool because he was younger and prettier—even though he was. If pressed, Wren decided he would have smiled at the man, told him he found him irresistible, and that the wink was just an uncontrolled, unbidden response to his desire, even though he knew his boyfriend was on his way. He thought it might at least make the guy smile, and in that Wren could find a measure of forgiveness for his behavior.

But the man had wandered off into the crowd. Wren hoped he wasn’t hurt by Wren’s unwitting tease of a wink.

The bartender, a pale, skinny guy who had never learned the phrase “enough is enough” when it came to tattoos, sauntered up to him, dressed in a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off and jeans that hung too loosely on his way-too-slender hips. He smiled and revealed a mouthful of brown and decaying teeth. Wren wondered if he was a tweaker.

“What are you having?” he asked, fatigue apparent in voice, expression, and demeanor.

He barely met Wren’s eyes, and when he did, for only a moment, Wren noticed the bartender’s pupils nearly ate up his irises. Wren frowned, shaken.

“Uh, how about a vodka and tonic?”

The bartender, tweaker or no, squinted at him, cocking his head. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-three.” Wren rolled his eyes. This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked this question—nor did he think it would be the last. With his boyish face and slight frame, he had the appearance of a high school student. He wondered if he should grow a beard.

He was already reaching for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans when the bartender asked him to prove it.

But his wallet wasn’t there. He tried the left pocket, just in case, then both front pockets, but all he came up with were his house keys, lint, and a few pieces of spare change. He leaned over to peer down at the floor, thinking maybe the wallet had inched its way out when he climbed aboard the stool he had waylaid.

The floor was empty—far from clean, but empty.

Wren felt heat rise to his face and his heart going rat-tat-tat in his chest, machine-gun style. Bad enough to be caught without ID in a bar, especially when he appeared all of sweet sixteen, but much worse to think of losing not only all his money, but also credit cards and forms of identification.

He threw the bartender what he knew had to be a sheepish grin. “I’m sorry, I seem to have lost my wallet.” Wren swiveled the stool to examine the floor once more.

“And your credibility.” The bartender scowled.

Wren shrugged. “I guess I need to leave, then.” Maybe if he retraced his steps from the “L” stop to the bar he’d find the wallet.
Right. And maybe Rick Santorum will come out in favor of gay marriage, or no, maybe simply come out. You really think a wallet on the sidewalk is going to stay there, especially on a busy street like Belmont? Fat chance! And that’s only if you really did lose it or drop it on your way here. More likely is that someone on the crowded “L” train picked your pocket. Or maybe even someone here at Tricks. It’s crowded enough.
Wren remembered suddenly the guy from whom he had stolen the stool, how he had leaned in close, trying, Wren thought, to interest him in a drink. Maybe he was actually getting close to grab Wren’s wallet. He looked around for the guy, but he was nowhere in sight.
He’s probably out at Best Buy already, ringing up big screen TVs and computers on my only credit card.

The bartender said, “I guess you do, unless you want to cost us our license, kid.” He put a little emphasis on the “kid” part of the sentence.

Wren swiveled around to hop off his hard-won stool. He knew there was no point in arguing or pleading his case further. It had been one hell of a day so far, and it seemed only to be getting worse. No matter what he did, Wren was unable to cut himself a break. With what had driven him to the bar in the first place and now this, Wren figured he should just find a hole to crawl into somewhere.

Before he could get off the stool, though, Wren felt a strong hand grip his shoulder. A deep voice spoke over his head, stopping the bartender in his retreat from Wren.

“Hold on a gosh-darned second there, Chip. What seems to be the trouble here?”

“Kid doesn’t have any ID. Says he ‘lost his wallet.’” Chip made air quotes with his fingers, scowling.

Chip? Really? Wren couldn’t have dreamed up a person who looked less like a Chip than the bartender standing before him.

“Well, maybe he did. I think we should give our friend here the benefit of the doubt.”

Finally Wren allowed his gaze to light upon the man who was apparently coming to his rescue. And immediately Wren wondered how he hadn’t spotted this character before. Imagine, if you will, Ted Haggard and Pat Boone rolled into one wholesome package. The man standing behind Wren had that same “family-friendly” air, the same bright eyes, perfectly coiffed hair, and glowing skin that could only appear on the God-fearing.

His clothes bore out his physical attributes. The man wore a pair of pressed khakis with a crease so sharp you could cut your finger on it. An iron and plenty of starch had also been used to tame his blue-and-white-pinstriped dress shirt. His wine-colored belt and matching tassel loafers were both buffed to an almost mirrorlike sheen. The perfect capper to all this was that the guy also had a sweater knotted around his neck, even though it was probably in the high eighties outside.

He looked as though he had just stepped away from a convention of the National Organization for Marriage or the American Family Association.

So what the hell was he doing in a bar like Tricks? And talking to a tweaked-out bartender as though he knew him? Wren simply gazed at the man with a kind of wide-eyed wonder, as though he had run across a honey badger scurrying along the floor of the bar. He was that out of place.