The sun was slipping behind the western horizon when two figures, one in a jeans jacket, the other in a black leather jacket in a motorcycle cut, stepped out of JR's. The bar and grill, located in the same building as a former gay nightclub, was not usually where Chris got picked up by anyone, much less a customer. He'd merely stopped in for a good meal and to check out the newest waiters. It had come as a surprise to him, then, that a handsome stranger--from some place in Yorkshire, England, Chris guessed by the accent--offered to pay for his beer. When the stranger joined him, and no names were offered, Chris understood what the situation was to be.
Chris knew he was as much fantasy to his customers—more, probably—as he was reality to them. He did everything he could to preserve that. Some wanted him because of his vague resemblance to a certain popular actor; others wanted him because he fit a particular type they had in mind. His return customers wanted him because he was very good at what he did. He was over 21 (though he looked younger, a definite plus in a tight market like Denver). He had black hair that he kept long and neat; very dark brown eyes that he'd inherited from his feisty Irish mother were framed by soot-black lashes. He could pick and choose what clients he wanted to deal with—that was the idea behind being a small business operator, wasn't it? He looked up at the current consumer thoughtfully as they stepped into the alley behind the bar and turned to face one another.
"How much?" Dark brown hair and green eyes set in a strongly English face made Chris's heart beat a bit faster, as if the accent hadn't already done it to him.
Still wary, he flashed his most disarming smile. Cops asked "how much" sometimes; he learned that the hard way a few years ago. He licked his lips.
"Let's put it this way," Chris answered and stepped in a bit closer to the slightly taller Englishman. "It depends on what you want."
The man pressed his lips into a thin line and glanced furtively around. 'Maybe not a cop,' Chris thought and checked in his pocket for a condom. 'Or maybe a really good actor.'
"I want to fuck you," The voice was a husky whisper now and, so close, Chris could feel the heat off him. "How much?"
Chris grabbed the little blue packet from his pocket and held it up. "I don't do bareback. What's it worth to you?"
Briefly, the man was taken aback. That happened sometimes. Most of these guys's fantasies didn't involve anything so mundane as using a rubber. Chris gave him a grin, aware that his gold tooth probably glinted in the light from the setting sun. Finally, the man swallowed hard and said, "Two hundred dollars. But I have a special request."
Chris's grin widened. "Now you're talking, baby. Special requests are always welcome."
The man smiled back. The shadows fell across his face in such a way that his eyes glowed, his only distinguishing feature. For a second or two, Chris felt a chill of foreboding but he ignored it. He would have been happy with $50—he wasn't about to complain about a special request if he was being properly compensated. The customer lifted his right hand into the sunlight and Chris caught the glint of metal as the handcuff closed about his left wrist. 'Don't panic,' he told himself. 'The boy obviously just fancies a bit of role-play.'
"Um, officer, what's going on?" Chris managed to come up with. "What did I do?"
"Possession of a felonious arse," The Englishman growled. He spun Chris around and grabbed his right hand, locking that wrist into the other cuff. " . . . and begging for a good, hard fucking."
Chris was slammed into the bricks he had leaned his back on moments before. His cheek scraped the rough surface hard and he drew back. "Dammit, not the face! I can't get another job tonight if my face looks like I've gone ten rounds with Holyfield. Back off!"
Without warning, he felt the Englishman pressed against him, suffocating him slightly. The man's lips were next to his ear and his hard-on ground against his buttocks. "Who says you'll be allowed another job, mate? Maybe you won't ever need another job, hmm?"
For a few seconds, Chris was so caught up in the aroma of the man—not only the leather of the jacket he wore or the smell of peppermint and vodka on his breath but the smell of his sweat, earthy and sharp, with a tiny hint of cinnamon—that he couldn't think. When his brain finally wrested a few ounces of blood from his dick, though, he realized what the man had said. He felt something coldly metallic press against his neck, just behind his ear, and he nearly collapsed.
