“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
“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
