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Authors: Scott Sherman

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Everyone else appeared to be either friends of Brock’s or co-workers. A mix of pretty boys, handsome men, and the less physically favored who bankrolled the operation. It was one of the latter who approached me first.
“Well, hello,” he drawled, stretching out the greeting like a lizard uncoils his tongue. It wasn’t the only reptilian thing about him. High cheekbones drew your attention to his badly capped teeth. His skin was pulled unnaturally tight, and his eyes were slanted and narrowed to barely functional slits by what I’d guess were at least a handful of overambitious face-lifts.
Had it not been for all the tinkering, he might have been handsome. Underneath it all, you could see the bone structure of a movie star from the 1950s. But too much plastic surgery, too many tanning beds, and his predatory smile combined to give him the friendly appeal of a hungry crocodile.
He regarded me with the same top-to-bottom appraisal Andrew had earlier, but this one was decidedly creepier, accompanied by lip smacks and a quiet whistle of approval at the end. I’d been a professional sex worker for years, but never felt dirtier than I did under this slimy bastard’s spectacularly unsubtle review.
Had I been the ingénue of a Jane Austen novel, I would have slapped him at this point. Instead, I gave him my phoniest smile. (Actually, I’m not sure about that metaphor. I’ve never read any Jane Austen except for
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies,
where I’m pretty sure the guy who updated it might have taken some dramatic license.)
“Tell me,” Lizard Man asked, “why is a perfect specimen like you not working for me?”
“For one reason: I already have a job,” I answered, pointing to my ID badge. “I help coordinate the show.”
“This,” he said, cupping my chin, “is a face that belongs in front of the camera, not behind it.” He craned his neck to peer over my shoulder. “Speaking of behinds . . .”
I stepped back.
“I didn’t get your name,” I said.
The crocodile reached into the pocket of his expensive silk blazer. He extracted a pricey-looking pewter business card holder that he flicked open through some hidden mechanism. A single card automatically slid forward. It was like a magic trick meant to astound the easily impressed. I was reminded of an entertainer at a children’s party and wondered if my new acquaintance liked his boys on the younger side.
“Mason Jarre,” he announced, as I took his card. It was heavy and expensively embossed. He pronounced his last name “Jar-Ray,” as if from the French. His heavy Brooklyn accent spoke otherwise.
“I’m the owner of SwordFight Productions. Brock Peters is
exclusive
with us.”
Your mother must be so proud,
I wanted to say. “Well, we really enjoyed having him on today’s show. Thanks for sharing.”
“I’m serious about the offer.” He ignored my attempt to shift the conversation. “You have the face of an angel and a body built for sin. I could make you a star.” He ran his tongue, which thankfully wasn’t forked, over his lower lip.
I kept smiling, but in my head I was thinking of running after Oliver to get some of that ethanethiol. That’d empty the room. I’d already had enough of these people. “I don’t want to be a star. But thanks.”
Mason reached out and took my hand. He curled his fingers around mine, in a gesture that forced me to more tightly cup his business card. “
Everyone
wants to be a star, angel.” He looked past me. “But don’t take my word for it.”
He turned to the younger man who had come up from behind and now stood at Mason’s left. “This is one of my finest directors, Kristen LaNue.”
Kristen looked like a younger, Hispanic version of Mason. Undamaged by age, or, more accurately, by excessive efforts to fight it, Kristen was genuinely attractive. He had Mason’s long, angular features, but with pretty green eyes and smooth, unblemished skin. He had a trendy buzz cut that flattered his well-shaped head and a neatly trimmed goatee that called attention to his full, sensuous lips. I’d guess he was about twenty years younger than Mason, which would put him in the mid-thirties.
Had I opened a door to find him there in my call boy days, I’d have been thankful to find someone that attractive. Since I worked partly for tips, I’d also have appreciated his obviously expensive clothing. He wore a Ralph Lauren Black Label denim bomber over the same line’s V-neck tee. I’d been drooling over them at Bloomingdale’s a few days ago—the jacket went for an impressive $3,000. Even the T-shirt was north of a Benjamin.
I couldn’t tell what kind of jeans he wore, but they looked damn good on him. Tapered enough to highlight his strong thighs, but not obnoxiously tight, they rode low on his narrow hips. My guess was they didn’t come from the Gap. Neither did his boots, which I pegged as Maison Martin Margiela, adding at least another grand to his outfit.
Apparently, directing dirty movies was a more lucrative job than I realized. I might need to reassess my career choice.
“I can always count on you to find the prettiest boy in the room,” Kristen said to Mason. The comment was gratuitous, but Kristen pulled it off with more charm than his mentor. He extended his hand and gave me a firm shake, holding on for a second or two too long. We exchanged introductions.
His voice was sexy, too. Lightly but noticeably accented.
“I was just telling Kevin,” Mason said, “he should drop in for an interview. I’d love to see how he comes across on tape. I bet he’d light the camera on fire.”
Kristen leaned into me. “You’ll have to excuse him,” he said with a wink. “He’s always recruiting. Although”—he arched his eyebrows suggestively—“he’s not wrong. I hope you don’t mind my saying this, but you’re an extraordinarily good-looking young man. Very much the whole Abercrombie thing going on. Have you modeled?”
I shook my head. “I’m flattered, but I’m really not interested.”
Kristen shrugged. “Well, don’t dismiss it out of hand. You’d be surprised how much you can make and the doors it can open. You know, sex is a natural and healthy part of life. You’re a beautiful boy, and beauty is one of the few gifts you can share that gives back more than you give. Getting paid for making love doesn’t make you a whore.”
Having actually
been
a whore, I wanted to laugh. I had no problem exchanging sex for money. I just didn’t want it recorded.
You never knew when you might want to run for president.
“Thanks,” I said, starting to make my exit.
“Kevin.” Kristen hadn’t raised his voice, but it still froze me in my tracks. He had a natural authority I’d wager served him well in his job. I could see him commanding a chaotic film set. “Promise me you’ll think about it. I take my art very seriously. I think you’ll be proud to have worked with me.”
His “art.” A pornographer with pretensions. I couldn’t decide if it was sweet or obnoxious.
At least I never called my sex work “physical therapy.”
3
The Road to Temptation
After bidding the politest possible good-byes to Mason and Kristen, I decided to get out of there. I was halfway to the door when I bumped into a strikingly pretty young man.
“Sorry,” I said.
He wasn’t my type at all, but I couldn’t help but be impressed. Blond hair in an almost eighties shag, parted down the middle. Bright blue eyes framed by girlishly long eyelashes. Creamy-looking skin that made you want to lick it.
He was of medium build, bigger than me, but still boyish. Slim and well muscled like an Australian lifeguard.
Despite his slight advantage in height, he reminded me of a younger version of myself. He could have been my kid brother.
“No problem,” he said quietly. “I’m Brent.”
“Kevin,” I said, extending my hand. “Nice to meet you.” He looked so ill at ease that I smiled to relax him.
He glanced at my hand as if it surprised him there, then took it and pumped with the earnestness of a high school student interviewing for an internship. His eyes searched my face for a sign of something . . . recognition?
“Brent
Havens,
” he clarified.
“Okay,” I answered. “Kevin
Connor
.” Maybe we were playing some new game that involved emphasizing your last name.
Brent seemed confused by my obvious mirroring of his inflection, then something else. Relieved?
“I just . . . you don’t know who I am?”
“Sorry.” I grimaced. “I don’t mean to be rude. Should I?”
“No.” Brent smiled more comfortably now, revealing perfect teeth and an adorable dimple. “I mean, it’s just at these industry things Mason makes me come to, everyone usually knows me. Well, they
think
they know me. They’ve seen my pictures. Videos.” A look of distaste crossed his face. “You really have no idea who I am?”
With his postpubescent good looks and slightly androgynous sexiness, he looked like he could be the star of a Nickelodeon or Disney TV show. But I was long past my days of
Degrassi
and
iCarly
. I grimaced. “Sorry, buddy. I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen you.”
“Then you’d make a really bad detective. Look around you, bro.”
He waved around the room, where people had propped or pinned various SwordFight Productions posters. In one, about ten guys stood shirtless with their arms around each other. The two in the middle stood closest to the camera and dominated the group. One was Brock Peters, the model we’d just had on the show.
The other was Brent.
I noticed a few other posters then, as well as some brochures left out by the pizzas. Sure enough, Brent’s pretty face appeared on more than half of them. One of the signs was a smiling closeup of him with the headline “The New Face of SwordFight—Our Freshest Catch Yet.”
Clearly, Brent was a rising star. Or a risen one.
“I’m kind of glad you didn’t know me,” Brent said. “I’m tired of those guys who think they do.” He crossed his arms defensively across his chest and stuck out his chin at the “Fresh Catch” poster. “They know
him
.”
I felt like he was defending himself from a charge I hadn’t lobbed.
“I’m glad I met
you
first, then,” I said, realizing as I did that it came out a little flirtatious. Which wasn’t what I was going for.
At least, not consciously.
“I don’t understand how you could be working with SwordFight and not have seen me, though.” Brent’s voice carried a hint of suspicion. I was sure a boy as pretty as he had men lie to him on many an occasion to get close.
“I’m not with Mason,” I explained. “I’m with the show.”
Brent looked a little confused. Once again I had the weird sense I knew what he was thinking.
Isn’t that what Mason does? Make shows?
“
This
show,” I clarified. “The one Brock was on.
Sophie’s Voice.
”
Brent’s smile returned, as did his relief. Relaxed, he looked even cuter. Younger, too. “Oh my god,” he enthused, now exuding a total tween vibe. “I
love
her. You get to
work
with her? That must be
so much
fun.” He bounced on his heels with enthusiasm.
Wanting to keep him at ease, I tried to think of something that would convince him to further relax his guard. “I’ll tell you a secret, if you promise to keep it to yourself.”
Brent’s eyebrow rose with the wariness of a boy accustomed to guys trying to make deals with him. I knew the feeling. He hesitated, and then nodded.
I regretted making him anxious again, but knew the payoff would be worth it.
“I do more than just work with her—she’s my mom.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
Brent gushed some more about my mother and how great it must be to have a “totally cool” mother like her. I let him enjoy the fantasy.
“You’re so lucky,” he said. “A great mom and a rocking job. You must love your work.”
“Don’t you?” The life of a porn star was the fantasy of many.
Brent shrugged. “Parts of it.” Then, a dirty smile. “Okay,
big
parts of it. It can be a lot of fun. And it’s kind of cool to be able to get in to any club or meet any guy. And the money’s sweet.
“But . . . look, I’m not stupid. I sought this out. I went after this. I sent my homemade video to Mason because I wanted to be in the movies. I knew what I was getting into. But I didn’t expect to always be so . . . on display. Like a piece of meat.
“And they’re always wanting you to do
more
. To give the audience something they haven’t seen you do before. I mean, I’m only twenty-one, but I’m running out of tricks.”
“You’re twenty-one?” That was the part that surprised me the most.
Brent laughed. “I know, I look a lot younger. I get that all the time. I bet you do, too.”
I nodded.
“You know, I couldn’t help but notice . . . ,” Brent began.
“We could pass as brothers,” I finished.
Brent cracked up. Now that he was past his initial discomfort, he was as winning as a boy gets. He got me laughing, too. We were giggling like two schoolboys when our eyes locked and the mood abruptly changed.
“Listen,” Brent said. “You seem like a really nice guy. I don’t do this a lot, but would you like to get together sometime? Somewhere else? Like, a date?” A blush like a wildfire raced across his cheeks.
Lord, he was a cutie.
“I would love to,” I answered. “But I have a boyfriend.”
Brent took a step closer. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
I cocked my head.
“I know,” Brent said. “You’re a Good Guy, right? One who doesn’t cheat on his man?”
“Guilty as charged. Although, if I did, you’d be number one on the list. You’re smart, you’re adorable, you’re funny—so, why are you single?”
Brent pointed at his poster again. “They all want
him
. They don’t even know who I am.”
“Who are you?”
“Promise not to tell?”
“Hey, I told you
my
secret,” I reminded him.
Brent’s expression turned serious. “The truth is . . .” He leaned in closer, his lips to my ear. His breath was hot against my face. “I really
am
your brother. Your parents’ secret love child whom they abandoned to be raised by wolves and porno producers.” He gave a sensual little nip to my earlobe and stepped back.
“So,” he concluded, “it’s probably better we don’t date. Considering the blood relation and all.” He grinned cockily.
I hoped he didn’t glance downward. His little flirtation had gotten a rise out of me.
Literally.
I’m only human.
I shoved my hands into my front pockets, trying to make it look casual. “So,” I asked, “how do you tell the difference?”
The cocky grin faded. “What do you mean?”
“Between the wolves and the producers?”
Brent laughed again, his musical giggle lighting up the room. “If you’re going to reject me, could you stop being so funny and interesting?” he asked politely.
“Believe me, it’s not that easy saying no to you. Of course, it’d be easier if you’d tell me who I was saying no to. . . .”
“Right,” Brent said. He pitched his voice low. “You actually want to know the real me. It’s a nice change.”
This time, he extended a hand. “I’m Richard. Everyone calls me Richie, though. From Queens, New York.”
I took his hand in mine, this time with none of the earlier formality. I felt like we’d become fast friends. There was an immediate connection between us. I knew there’d be even more of one if I ever told him how I’d been making a living just a few months ago.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Richie. And, if you’re into it, I’d still like to get together for a coffee or something. Maybe we can figure out how you can meet a guy who isn’t only interested in ‘him.’ ” I made air quotes with my fingers while nodding toward his poster.
“Actually, I already have. This guy named Charlie. I kind of like him. But the problem is, he’s got major issues with my work. He doesn’t want me to ever be ‘Brent’ again. He can’t stand the thought of me being with other guys. Especially on film. He really hates it. I keep telling him to separate what I
do
from who I
am,
but I think it’s a losing battle.”
I thought of my own situation with Tony. He never pressured me to give up my work, but there was a time when I had to change the specifics of what I did to appease him. “Is this Charlie guy worth finding a new line of work?”
“Maybe. But not yet. And since he’s getting kind of pushy about it, I’m thinking I’m going to have to break it off with him.”
His face seemed to lengthen with sadness. “Which is really too bad, ya know?”
I nodded sympathetically.
“ ’Cause I’m kind of sweet on him. But these guys, they go from one extreme to the other. They either want the fantasy, like the old men who offer me fifty thousand a month to live with them and role-play characters from my movies, or they want to kill the fantasy, destroy ‘Brent Havens’ and everything that goes along with him.
“Besides”—Brent’s expression darkened—“it’s a lot easier to get into this business than to leave it.”
“What do you mean?”
Brent—or should I say Richie now?—dropped his voice again. “Look around you. SwordFight has spent a lot of money promoting me. Making me a ‘star.’ They could make it hard for me to walk away.”
My mind immediately went to organized crime. “What do you mean?”
“It’s a dirty business. But I have insurance. I know stuff about them, too. I could blow the lid off SwordFight.
“The stories I could tell could shut them down. Probably put some of them in jail. How they helped me . . .” He didn’t finish his sentence as his eyes widened with a new idea.
“Hey, maybe I could do it here. On your mom’s show. Get my story out before they have a chance to spin things their way.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him
Sophie’s Voice
wasn’t exactly
60 Minutes
. Plus, something about what he said didn’t ring true. I’d have to think about it later, when I wasn’t distracted by how damn adorable he was.
“Maybe,” I said. “Let’s add it to the list of things we can talk about over coffee.” I handed him my business card.
He tucked it into the back of his jeans.
“You should have my number, too,” he said. He grabbed a pen off a desk pushed against the wall. “Gimme your hand.”
Brent wrote his digits on my wrist, dragging it out to keep the physical contact going as long as possible. “Coffee’s so boring, though. Sure it wouldn’t be more fun to talk after a couple of drinks? Maybe at my place?” He arched his eyebrows suggestively. He finished writing his number and traced over it with his index finger.
I had to admit the boy was good. Too good. I wouldn’t trust myself at his place. Even without the alcohol.
His finger running along my wrist felt ridiculously sensual. Why was I so attracted to this kid? He was an undeniably well-put-together specimen, but not my type. Since falling for Tony I really hadn’t been particularly interested in
anyone
. Yeah, Andrew was tempting, and there’d always be a place in my heart—and pants—for my BFF Freddy, but Brent had me as hot as Sarah Palin at a gun show.
What was it about him?
Or was it me? Was the fact that he resembled me in so many ways part of the turn-on? Had I just discovered
my
kink? Not domination or plushies but clones?
For now, none of that mattered. Brent was an incorrigible flirt. He was going to keep wagging his tail and humping my leg until he wore me down. It was time to throw some cold water on this puppy.

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