Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) (7 page)

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Authors: Scott Sherman

BOOK: Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery)
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“Yes,” Mason answered, “the little brat left us high and dry on two shoots. Unacceptable. Sorry, but you’re not the only one he’s stiffing. Or, not stiffing, as the case may be.” He chuckled at his play on words.
“Are you worried?” I asked.
“Worried? Why would I be worried? Yes, we lose money if we have to cancel a shoot, but in both cases, the director was able to use the sets and crew to shoot solos. Although, that doesn’t excuse Brent’s unprofessionalism.”
Wow. A young man goes missing and the only thing this guy cares about is how it affects his bank account.
“No,” I said. “I meant, are you worried about
Brent?
”
“I don’t understand.”
“Well.” I was almost at a loss for words. Did I really have to explain this to him? “My understanding is that Brent was always very responsible. All of a sudden, he drops out of sight and stops answering his phone. Maybe something happened to him.”
Mason laughed. “Oh, that’s sweet. I’m sure something
did
happen to him, sweetcheeks. He hooked up with a sugar daddy. Or he found religion. Or he met a nice boy—or a nice girl—and he plans to settle down. White picket fence and all. Of course, there’s always the more likely possibility he’s on a meth binge holed up in a crack house somewhere.
“My point is: Something is
always
happening with these boys. They’re not exactly the most stable employees. They come and go. They’re young, self-centered, and distracted by whatever shiny thing comes along next. One learns not to worry, Kevin. Well, not about
them
.” That also got a little laugh from him. “My business, though,
that
I worry about. I don’t think Samuel Goldwyn had to put up with this kind of nonsense when he built MGM.”
Parts of what Mason said sounded almost exactly like Kristen LaRue’s responses. Did they rehearse these lines? Or was it more likely the case that the “whatever happened to . . .” question had come up in regard to so many men before Brent that the answer became rote?
I knew from my time as an escort that boys dropped in and out of the biz frequently, sometimes for the reasons Mason described. I could see where it would get tiresome for him and Kristen to constantly face questions from fans and press wondering why their favorite performers weren’t making new videos.
At least from Kristen, though, I got the sense he thought of Brent as a human being worthy of consideration. Mason’s cold assessment made it clear he regarded Brent solely as a product—one that concerned him only to the degree it was no longer profitable.
“Well,” I said, “I’d feel better if I knew Brent was okay. All I have is his mobile number. Do you have any others? Or an address? Did he give you contact information in case of an emergency?”
“Come in and we’ll talk about it.”
“I’d love to,” I lied, “but it’ll probably take me a few days to get over there. Could I get the info now and call you later in the week for an appointment?”
“No.”
“No?”
“Listen, kid, I’m running a business here, not a dating service. Whatever Brent is up to, he isn’t making me any money. I need a fresh face to replace him. A studio like SwordFight runs on archetypes. We have the muscle daddy on deck with Brock Peters. We have a popular group of Chelsea gym types like Tag and Atlas. We’ve got bears, circuit boys, a couple of trannies on call. We’ve got S&M stars like Pierce Deepley and The Dominator. We . . .”
Pierce Deepley? Where had I heard that name before? “The guy who answered your phone? I thought he was the receptionist.”
“ ‘Pierce Deepley’ doesn’t sound like a porn name to you?” Mason asked somewhat incredulously. “Five years ago, he was one of the biggest names in the business. But the market for staged S&M has kind of bottomed out, excuse the expression. He makes an occasional film, but he mainly works as my assistant now.”
Nothing like an S&M master to run an efficient office, I imagined.
“What we’re missing,” Mason continued, “is our Boy Next Door. A fair-haired darling who looks like he should be delivering your morning paper until he winds up spread like butter across your kitchen table.
“It’s a place in our lineup you could fill, Kevin. You and Brent are practically twins. If what you’re hiding under your clothes is anywhere near as good as it looks like it’ll be, you could be pulling a couple of hundred thou a year, working ten hours a week, mostly lying on your back. You seem like a smart boy. Is that something you should walk away from without giving it serious thought?”
Actually, I’d already walked away from similar employment, although there was no way Mason could have known that.
I tried to sound reflective. “Let me think about it,” I offered. “Really. In the meantime, if you could just give me—”
“You come in, talk face-to-face, and I’ll give you whatever you want. Including five hundred bucks for the audition.” I heard another phone ringing.
Pierce called out, “It’s Cha-Cha on line three.”
“One second,” Mason said. He must have held the phone away from his face as his volume decreased even as he shouted. “Tell her to hold on,” he instructed his assistant.
His attention returned to me. “I have to take this call. You know Cha-Cha Rivera? She’s one crazy dame, but a great director.”
“Can’t you . . . ?”
“Like I said, if you want to talk, come in. Call Pierce and set up a screen test. You show me what I want to see, and I’ll tell you what you want to know. See you soon, babycakes.” He hung up the phone.
I listened to the dial tone for a few seconds before pressing the “end” button. Despite having grown up in New York, working as a prostitute, stumbling across more than one murder in my time, and my study of psychology, people still shocked me with how awful they could be. In Mason’s case, it was his selfishness and attempted manipulation I found stunning.
Not only didn’t he show any concern about Brent’s welfare, he was already working to replace him. The fact that I was being considered as the potential successor, despite my repeated disinterest, didn’t endear him to me, either.
Meanwhile, it hadn’t escaped me how, by the end of our discussion, his offer to meet me for an “interview” turned into an invitation to an “audition.”
I’d seen some of the tapes in the SwordFight
Audition
series. They started with an interview and ended with nudity and masturbation. I wasn’t interested.
What a creep.
So, why was I considering calling Pierce to set up the appointment? Because I had no other leads. Maybe Mason didn’t care about Brent, but, to a probably inappropriate degree, I did.
Was it because Brent reminded me so much of myself? Not only in looks, but in occupation? Kristen and Mason might have been right—maybe Brent decided to walk away. But where to? And why?
For whatever reason, something about Brent’s disappearance set off my spider sense. I knew I’d worry until I was sure he was okay. Unfortunately, my best bet for tracking him down required meeting with Mason.
Maybe I could get my questions answered in this “audition” before having to do anything past a PG-13.
I had a feeling this was going to go horribly wrong, but I picked up my phone to call Pierce Deepley and schedule the shoot. I was about to hit “redial” when, at the last minute, I was saved by the bell.
Well, by the ringtone.
I thought I was the only person who cared what happened to Brent.
The incoming call proved me wrong.
9
In Hot Pursuit
“Hello,” I answered, not recognizing the number.
“Kevin,” the lightly accented voice asked.
“Yeah, this is Kevin.” My voice carried a who-did-you-expect-to-answer-my-phone tone of annoyance. After my last conversation, I was a little on edge.
“It’s Kristen,” the director said. “Kristen LaNue.”
“Oh, hey.” I tried to sound friendlier. “I’m glad to hear from you. Everything work out on set?”
“How sweet of you to remember.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Yes, I snuffed out the problem and we’re on break. Did you call Mason?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Was he helpful?”
I wasn’t sure how close they were. “He didn’t want to talk on the phone,” I answered truthfully, without offering the fact that he basically tried to blackmail me into posing nude for him.
Kristen chuckled. “Let me guess—he insisted you see him in person.”
“More like he insisted
he
see
me
.
All
of me. For a screen test,” I clarified.
Another laugh. “Well, you can’t blame a dirty old man for trying. . . .” Kristen observed.
Actually, given the stakes, I could. “Listen,” I said, “I’m flattered you guys think I’d be good at it, but I’m not looking for a job in adult videos—”
“I get it,” Kristen interrupted. “Mind you, I’m hoping you change your mind, but I get it. Sadly, I’m not sure Mason will be as understanding. He can be . . . unrelenting when he wants something.”
Now I was a “something.” This really was a business that turned people into objects.
“On a more positive note,” Kristen continued, “I did think of someone you could talk to. He’d probably know how to get in touch with Brent. In fact, Brent might even be with him.”
“That’s great!” I was excited. Partially because I was looking forward to getting in touch with the boy, partially because Kristen was redeeming my faith in humanity by offering something helpful without requiring me to be naked to get it.
“There’s this guy he was seeing. Charlie.”
I told Kristen I remembered Brent mentioning him. “Maybe that’s who he was talking to while he was on set with you,” I offered. “He wouldn’t be the first guy to run off and call his boyfriend at every opportunity.”
“I thought about that,” Kristen said. “But why would he be so secretive about it? Not to mention how guilty he looked when I’d find him.”
Good questions.
“So, do you have Charlie’s number?” I asked.
“Not even close,” Kristen said. “I don’t even know his last name.”
Great. I had to find a gay “Charlie” in New York City. That shouldn’t take too long—a decade or two at the most.
“I
do
know where he works,” Kristen continued, to my great relief. “He’s a bartender at Intermission. You know the place?”
“I do,” I said. “I can probably swing by in the next day or two.”
“Really?” Kristen sounded amused again. “Now, how would a nice boy like you know about Intermission, I wonder?” His tone was pointed, but teasing.
I should have feigned ignorance. Intermission was an off-the-radar establishment that catered to wealthy, often closeted men and the working boys who offered their bodies and discretion in fair exchange. It was an exclusive, expensive watering hole, where a bottled water cost a tenner and everything else started at double that. Unless you were a well-heeled buyer or a well-hung seller, the sedate atmosphere, cooly efficient servers, and imposing bouncers made it a particularly uninviting hangout. No, Intermission was a place to conduct a very specific kind of business transaction.
No sign announced Intermission’s presence on the first floor of a tony town house on the Upper West Side. I wasn’t sure I could even find a listing for it on the Web. Its existence was advertised solely by word of mouth among a select group of elite johns and the high-class hustlers who served them.
Kristen didn’t need to be a genius to figure out I didn’t belong in the first category.
I’d never peddled my papayas at Intermission, or any other bar for that matter. All my bookings were arranged by the escort agency I worked for, run by my favorite drag queen/possible transexual in the world, the charmingly eccentric Mrs. Cherry.
Although she appeared as dizzy as they come, Mrs. Cherry was a more efficient, protective, and intelligent businesswoman than a season’s worth of contestants on
The Apprentice
. She could have run a Fortune 500 company, except for the unpleasant compromises she’d have to accept in not being surrounded by beautiful boys looking to her for guidance and having to squeeze her size 20-something ass into something other than a caftan or housedress. All things considered, she was happier running her own show from her overdecorated apartment, ensuring the income and safety of a never-ending tide of available young men with the looks and breeding to satisfy her sophisticated clientele.
“Kevin?” Kristen asked. I realized I’d been zoning out.
Focus, Kevin, focus.
What had we been talking about?
Intermission
. Right.
Although I’d never gone there looking for work, I did have clients who had wanted to meet me there before proceeding somewhere more private. It was a safe environment for them to check me out in before committing to taking me home.
Although I kind of liked Kristen, I didn’t want to reveal any more about myself than I had to. “Intermission isn’t exactly an undisclosed location,” I answered, although it was. “It’s not like that’s where they hide the President in case of a terrorist attack.”
“No,” Kristen answered solemnly, “they secure him, I believe, in Mason Jarre’s bedroom. Not because it’s so well guarded, mind you, but because no one, not even suicide bombers, would willingly go there.”
Now it was my turn to laugh. Kristen was winning me over big-time.
“For the record,” Kristen said, dropping his voice in volume and by half an octave, “I never said that. Agreed?”
His deeper, conspiratorial tone was even sexier than his usual Latin lover lilt. I felt a guilty rush of heat.
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I promised.
“Oh,” he said playfully, “I don’t have any secrets. But I think
you
do, Kevin. I truly believe you do.”
He paused, waiting for me to respond. For once, I was lost for words.
He mistook my awkwardness for strategy. “Smart boy. Keep your cards close to your chest. But someday, you clever thing, I’d like to see the hand you’re holding.
“I bet it’s a winner. A flush of hearts.”
He disconnected without saying good-bye.
A good director knows when to cut a scene.
 
Why, I wondered, did my conversation with Kristen have my stomach turning in knots?
Was it because I was worried about meeting with Charlie, the boy Brent had been seeing? Remembering my conversation with Brent, I recalled that Charlie had been strongly disapproving of Brent’s continued employment in the adult film industry. Maybe he’d convinced Brent to quit the biz. If so, my showing up at Intermission might be misinterpreted as a bid to, excuse the expression, suck Brent back in.
If Charlie took offense at my questions, he’d have no problem getting me out of there. I thought of the bouncers with biceps as wide as my waist and shuddered.
Or was it Kristen’s sly insinuations about my “secrets” that were making me skittish? Was I wearing a tramp stamp on my forehead that I thought I’d washed off?
I wanted to leave hustling in the past, but maybe, like Marley in
A Christmas Carol,
my previous deeds dragged behind me like chains, rattling and obvious to anyone who cared enough to look.
Another possibility: Could Kristen be playing with me? It didn’t seem out of the question that the sophisticated and worldly filmmaker might have been a client at Intermission. If not as a customer, than as a casting scout? I could think of less fruitful places for someone looking for attractive and sexually open potential models to spend their evenings. The working boys at Intermission had already demonstrated a willingness to walk on the wild side. How much farther down the road would it be for most of them to let their wandering be filmed?
If Kristen had used Intermission as a scouting camp, it wasn’t impossible he might have seen me there. Was he trying to tease out a “confession”? If so, it seemed more playful than mean-spirited.
The last reason I could think of for the butterflies in my stomach was the scariest of all. Maybe I was genuinely hot for Kristen.
During the time I’ve been reunited with Tony, I’ve had a few flirtations. Hell, I’ve had out-and-out sex, but only for business and never with anyone for whom I had feelings.
Kristen, however, was different. I thought he was attractive when I met him, but I hadn’t really dwelled on it. Two conversations later and I was struck by how much I might
like
him. He seemed smart, funny, and dead sexy.
Like one of the debate assignments from the seventh grade, I found myself comparing and contrasting him with Tony. Yes, I loved Tony, but it was so complicated. I wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to get over my career as a prostitute, even if it was a “former” career. Sometimes, in bed, I’d purposely throttle back my performance lest he ask “Where’d you learn that?”
Someday, I feared, he’d call me a whore and I’d never be able to forgive him.
More immediately, there was the problem of trying to build a life in the closet. I may have “secrets,” but they’re not ones I’m ashamed of. They’re just things I’d rather keep private.
But I
was
Tony’s secret. The source of his shame. How horrible was that? How could we possibly be happy together if our entire relationship was hidden in the shadows? The only things that grow without light are mushrooms and fungus, neither of which were attractive analogies.
Compare and contrast.
Kristen not only could accept my past as a sex worker, he’d probably be thrilled. It was hard to believe he wouldn’t be as sex positive in his private life as he was in his work. If so, I bet he’d be
scorching
in bed.
How different would it be to date a guy who not only wouldn’t be afraid to be seen with me, but who would show me off proudly, like a jewel, not hide me like a disfigurement?
Of course, I was getting ahead of myself. It wasn’t like Kristen had even made an overt move on me.
Except, I didn’t need him to. If there was one thing I knew, it was when a man wanted me.
Kristen LaNue wanted me.
I think I wanted him, too.
The whole thing had me a bit giddy, kind of nervous, and more than a little nauseous. Romance always hit me in the gut and my stomach wouldn’t stop churning.
Kristen’s attention to me, and my attraction to him, were inconvenient distractions, unwanted temptations.
An excess of alternatives.
A flush of hearts.

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