Second You Sin (27 page)

“I didn’t have to feel anything, real y.

“Out here”—he looked around the Starbucks as if it was an alien world he’d just discovered—“it’s so much more frightening. So many possibilities. When I write code, I create a world. I control the world. Here

. . . anything can happen. For so long, that seemed like a risk I couldn’t afford, you know?” He chewed his lower lip in another move that made me want to kiss him.

“But right now, running into you like this,” he continued, “I realize . . . OK, let me tel it to you like this: One day, when I was trying to describe to my therapist al the things I was afraid could happen to me in the ‘real world,’ he asked, ‘Did it ever occur to you that something
good
could happen, too?’

“It hadn’t. It real y never occurred to me that something good could happen out here. But, look.

Today, I ran into a friend in the street. A friend I real y missed.

“Something happened that I didn’t program or order and it was great. It made me happy.” Marc blushed again. “OK, I know you’re not real y my friend, I get that, we had a business relationship, but I think of you as a friend, Kevin, I do, and I’m happy.” A tear rol ed down his cheek.

That was it. I stood up, leaned across the table, and kissed him on the lips. At first, he straightened as if to pul away. I didn’t know if it was because he was shocked, or afraid to kiss another man in a public place, or what, but I was relentless.

After a few moments, he started kissing back, and it was so sweet and good that it made me remember why I had to stop seeing him.

I sat back down.

“Wow,” he said. “This leaving-the-house stuff real y pays off, doesn’t it?”

“Listen,” I said to him. “I know this is al kind of Strange New World for you, and I don’t want to lay too much truth on you at once, but let’s get one thing straight—I
am
your friend, OK? If I wasn’t, if I didn’t have genuine feelings for you, I’d be happy to stil make five hundred bucks off your ass every two weeks or so, right?”

Marc blushed and laughed again. He ran a nervous hand through his thick curly hair. “I guess.” Marc was such an incredible catch. I used to think,
If he’d only go out, I’d be going out with him.

Now, my head was so ful of Tony, I knew there was no room for Marc in there.

Seeing how vulnerable and raw Marc was, I knew the worst thing I could do would be to start something with him that I couldn’t finish.

But I was real y, real y tempted. Because if he thought that kiss was a good reward, my apartment was less than a half block from here, and I could bring him home and show him just how pleasant running into an old friend
really
could be. I could take him to my bed and . . . no!

Focus, Kevin, focus.

“So,” Marc said, trying his best to sound casual.

“Are you stil seeing that cop?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We’re kind of serious.” Marc nodded and tried not to look disappointed.

“That’s great. And are you stil . . . hustling?”

“Yeah, gotta pay the rent.”

“How does that work? I mean, you do what you do, which is kind of il egal, right? But he’s a cop, pretty straight-laced from what you told me, so how do you make that work?”

Wow. Marc was kind of perceptive. “It’s not easy,” I said. “We don’t talk about it. But it’s there, and it’s a problem.”

“Doesn’t he bug you to quit?”

“We’ve fought about it, but I’m not about to be forced out of doing something I love and make good money at just because Tony doesn’t like it.”

“You know,” Marc said, “when I’m coding a program, I can write a mil ion lines and everything’s going great when, al of a sudden, the whole thing comes crashing down. So, I have to go back, over every line, every value, until I find that one wrong phrase or bit of bad code that brings the entire system to its knees.”

“OK,” I said. I wasn’t sure what we talking about anymore. I wondered how much medication it took to get Marc out of the house.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“Something about computers?”

“Something about
you,
Kevin. Listen, if things had gone differently between us, if I had been a little bit less crazy a little sooner, maybe we could have had something, right?”

“I know,” I said. “I kind of wish things had gone differently, too. But the chips fel where they did and .

. .”

Marc held out his hand “Stop. That’s not where I was going with this. Just listen, OK.” I took another sip of tea.

“If I had been saner faster, maybe it’d be me dating you, Kevin, not him. But that’s not what happened and I don’t want you to walk away thinking,

‘Oh, that was about poor pathetic Marc trying to get back with me,’ because it’s not. No, what I want to tel you is this: If I were your boyfriend, there’s no fucking way I’d let you stay out there and have sex with other men, let alone hustle.”

“It’s barely sex,” I said. “Sometimes I don’t even take my clothes off. My last client just wanted to give me pretend laughing gas while he takes advantage of me in my stupor.”

“See,” Marc said. “That’s what I’m talking about.

He says he’s giving you something perfectly safe, and you stil wind up in a stupor. Who knows what you’re breathing in?”

“I’m not actual y breathing in anything. Wel , other than air. He just puts a teacup over my nose.” Marc looked at me as if I were speaking Esperanto. “OK, it sounds strange, but to each his own, right? The point is, I’m not real y at any risk. It’s easy money. I have another customer who, once a month, just like to watch me take a shower and smel my wet hair.

Then there’s Mr. Tickle who, wel , you can probably figure out that one on your own.”

“Jesus,” Marc said, “we just used to make out and screw. Maybe I was missing out on something.” He arched his eyebrows suggestively.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “Maybe if you’re real good, I’l let you put a teacup on my nose one day, too.” Marc laughed. “No, but seriously, these guys have harmless kinks. I real y feel like I’m helping them.

What’s the big deal?”

“I stil wouldn’t let you do it, Kevin. I’m sorry. I just couldn’t take the idea of you being out there, putting yourself at risk. And, I have to admit, it would probably drive me crazy with jealousy.”

“Listen, wait til you get to know me better. My being a sex worker is one of my least annoying qualities, believe me.”

Marc grinned. “I doubt that. But it’s not the point.

I’m a liberal-bordering-on-treasonous computer hacker and I couldn’t date you if you continued to hustle.

Your

boyfriend

Tony’s

a

hard-ass

conservative New York Cop. Why isn’t he insisting you stop?”

Holy shit. Had I spent so much time working on my List of Things Tony Wasn’t Wil ing to Give Up to Be with Me that I forgot to take a look at what
I
wasn’t wil ing to give up for
him?

I waited for Marc to ask me the obvious question:

“If you real y love Tony, why don’t you stop doing the thing you know he can’t accept?”

Which is why I was surprised when he said, “If he’s wil ing to put up with you hustling, I wonder what secrets
he’s
keeping.”

“Saywhanow?”

“I figure it’s a trade-off. He doesn’t push you on your job, because there’s something he doesn’t want you to push him on. Right?”

There are things I can’t talk about with you.

“No,” I said. “That’s not it. He just doesn’t want to force me to quit something I want to do.”

“Because he’s so easygoing?”

“I wouldn’t exactly describe him as ‘easygoing.’ ”

“So, why do
you
think he doesn’t make you quit?” Truth to tel , since it worked out conveniently for me, it wasn’t a question I’d ever asked. “I don’t know.

Because he loves me?”

Marc reached over and mussed my hair. “I’m sure he does, Kevin. And it’s none of my business. Look at me: A few months of therapy and I’m giving relationship advice.” He chuckled. “Sorry about that.” I smiled, hoping it didn’t look as shaky as it felt.

“No probs.”

“It’s the hacker in me. Always looking for the flaws in the system. Sorry to get al Dr. Phil on you. What else are you up to?”

To get us both off the topic of Tony, I told Marc about Randy’s accident, the other deaths, and what led me to suspect Jacob Locke.

“I thought that maybe if I volunteered at his campaign office,” I wrapped up, “I might be able to get close to him. Maybe I’d get a vibe from him, or stumble across something.”

Marc narrowed his eyes and frowned. “It sounds dangerous.”

“I’m not looking to make a citizen’s arrest. I just want to get a feel for him. But, talking it through with you now, it sounds kind of unlikely. I mean, even if I went there, I’d probably never get close to him. The guy’s a lightning rod—I’m sure they screen who gets to meet him.”

“You promise you’re not going to put yourself in any danger?”

I crossed my heart. “Scout’s honor. Why?”

“If you’re determined to do this, we can probably get you right next to him. It just cal s for some social engineering.”

It wasn’t a phrase I was familiar with. “We’re going to build something?”

“Kind of,” Marc said. “We’re gonna build a new you.”

28

Don’t Rain on My Parade

After Marc told me what he had in mind, we said good-bye to get started on his plans.

I went back to my apartment, sent him some JPEGs he asked for, and quickly showered and changed for my meeting with Dr. Franklin Mitnick, a podiatrist with a foot fetish. After he noisily shot while buffing my left sole with a pumice stone, I had to ask him a question that’d been bothering me since our first session.

“Don’t your ‘interests’ make your job kind of hard?” Dr. Mitnick wiped his spooge up from the floor.

“How do you mean?” He was a fifty-something man who, with his pink skin, shapeless body, and bald head, reminded me of a boiled and peeled shrimp.

He put the wet paper towels to his side.

“Aren’t you, like, in a state of constant excitement working around feet al day?”

“Oh dear, no.” Dr. Mitnick waved his hand to say
pshaw.
He reached for a bottle of lotion and started rubbing some into my feet. “By the way, do you mind if I do this? You mustn’t exfoliate without adequate hydration afterward.”

It felt like a dream come true. “No, hydrate away.” The bracing scent of lime drifted up to me.

“Marvelous. As to your previous query”—Dr.

Mitnick had a precise way with language that always made me think he should have a British accent instead of his flat Upstate New York twang—“the feet I see here are cal oused and injured and old. But these”—he dug his fingers into my heel—“these are perfection. So smooth, so delicious, so clean.” He licked his lips and began to breathe a little heavier.

What he was doing felt so good that I normal y would have let him continue. But I had places to go.

“Thanks, doc,” I said, pul ing my foot away. He gave a little whimper. Sorry, dude. “Can you hand me my sock?”

“I’l get it for you,” he said, rol ing the sock over my toes with the care and reverence of an archeologist sliding a rare and precious find into a specimen bag.

“My pleasure.”

I went back to my place and checked my e-mail.

There it was: A note from Marc tel ing me the deed was done. Boy worked fast. I checked out a few links Marc included in his note and was amazed at what he was able to achieve.

Mad genius, indeed.

A lot of people think that because I’m a male hustler I have to dress provocatively al the time. It’s pretty much the opposite. I meet most of my clients at their apartment buildings or hotel rooms, and they usual y appreciate if I arrive looking as conservative as possible. Strangely enough, most men don’t want a young guy whose outfit screams “gay whore” showing up at their door. Go figure.

So, I have a large selection of what I cal my

“young Republican” drag. For my first trip to Jacob Locke’s headquarters, I selected khaki Banana Republic slacks, a white Nordstrom brand button-down shirt, and a blue Brooks Brothers blazer.

Brown Oxfords and a brown belt completed my transformation into someone who wouldn’t look out of place at Liberty University. I laid everything out on the bed and was about to get changed when I realized I needed navy socks, too. Alas, a thorough review of my sock drawer made it clear I didn’t have any clean ones.

I went to my overflowing laundry basket and started looking for the least raunchy worn ones.

Sniffing each careful y (Dr. Mitnick would have been in heaven), I found two that matched and didn’t smel too bad.

OK, but it was definitely time to get my clothes washed. I usual y brought my laundry to the cleaners on the corner. After losing an iPod, a watch, and God knows how much cash, though, I learned to check my pockets first.

Since I figured I’d drop off the laundry on my way to Locke’s office, I went through it, finding a ten-dol ar bil in the pocket of a pair of sweatpants and my ATM card in my gym shorts. Sweet.

At the bottom of the pile were Tony’s jeans. Aw, I was his laundry-whore. How romantic.

I didn’t mind. In my head, I played my favorite song for doing domestic chores: “Housewife,” by the super-talented and cute Jay Brannan, a folksinger I had a bit of a crush on.