Third You Die (kevin connor mysteries) Read online

  “You watch his movies?”

  “Watch them? I own the boxed set.”

  I smacked him on the shoulder. “You are the biggest horn dog.”

  “Guilty.” Andrew shrugged. “Plus, Peters came with a few other guys from his studio. Half the cast of Star Whores-The Phantom Penis are here.”

  “And me without my autograph book,” I told him with a grin. I batted my eyes coquettishly. “Whatever will I do?”

  “Come on,” Andrew said, swatting my butt. “I’m sure we’ll find something they can sign.”

  On the way backstage with Andrew, a production assistant stopped me with a question about the next day’s show.

  “Go on,” I told Andrew. “I’ll catch up with you later.” I answered the PA’s queries and headed to say my good-byes.

  My parting exchanges with both Mistress Vesper and the plushie went quickly. I didn’t see Andrew in either room. Maybe he’d finished quickly.

  Mistress Vesper gave me a firm handshake. She extended an invitation for me to feel free to give her a call if I was a “bad boy” who needed some punishment. I promised to keep her in mind.

  Plushie tried to hug me good-bye, but I avoided it with a playful high five. I’m not a germaphobe, but I imagined the places that fake fur had been and doubted it was easy to clean. I could practically see the salmonella and Ebola crawling all over it. I beat a hasty retreat and wiped the palm of my hand on my pants.

  My last stop was to the small room we’d set up for Brock Peters, but it was empty. I must have missed him. No great loss. I was walking out when I heard voices and laughter coming from down the hall. It sounded like a party. The only thing in that direction was a large space we sometimes used for full staff meetings.

  Just then, another PA came out of it with an armful of empty pizza boxes. I gave her a quizzical look.

  “It’s the gay porn guys,” she said, anticipating my question. “There’s a whole gaggle of them. Bigger than the entourage that arrived with Beyonce. When Andrew saw they were overflowing the space we’d given them, he invited them to use the conference room.”

  She looked at the cardboard boxes she was schlepping to the trash. “He sprang for ‘catering,’ too. You should check it out. It’s a good time.”

  On my way to the conference room, I noticed a gross smell. I sniffed and followed it to Oliver Armstrong, our maintenance worker. As I got closer, the odor got worse, almost overpowering.

  Oliver was a good worker, but a bit of a weirdo, with an Asperger’s-like discomfort around people. I was one of the few guys here he could look in the eyes. He also seemed a little slow. I was glad we were able to employ him, but I sometimes worried about him.

  Had he not been showering lately? The stench emanating from him was gag-inducing. Rotten eggs mixed with body odor covered in sour milk. It barely smelled human. My eyes watered.

  I dreaded having this conversation with him. It was hard enough for him to feel comfortable around people, and now one of the few he trusted had to confront him. But someone had to let him know this kind of hygiene wasn’t acceptable in the workplace.

  “Oliver,” I began, “I hate to tell you this, but…”

  Oliver held up a silver canister he’d been carrying by his side. “It’s not me,” he said. He moved the container closer to me, and sure enough the smell strengthened.

  “My lord,” I said, waving at him to hold the canister away. “What is that crap?”

  “Some kind of chemical.” He pointed to the label. “Ethanethiol.”

  “What is it?” I asked. “Some kind of insecticide?” I hoped not. It might get rid of the roaches, but it’d likely send the staff scurrying, too.

  Oliver shuffled nervously. He hadn’t been doing anything wrong, but just this level of human interaction was hard for him. “Naw, it’s the gas company. They installed it in the main system in the basement. It’s part of the alarm system. If there’s a gas leak, some of this stuff gets out, too.”

  “So we die of the stench before the gas kills us?” I asked.

  Oliver smiled. It was nice to see he could get a joke. “Actually, it’s to save us. Gas is odorless. If it leaks, we wouldn’t know till it was too late. But they said if we do have a breakdown, this stuff will be released into the line. Gets everyone out of the building real quick-like.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “That makes sense. There’d be no missing that smell.”

  “And that’s what it smells like inside the bottle,” Oliver said. “I was there when they poured some into the alarm system. I thought I’d hurl.”

  “You throwing that away?” I asked.

  “No, the gas people said we have to save it. I’m bringing it into the storeroom. I’m gonna put it into a trash bag, then another, and throw them both into a sealed storage box I have in there. That should be enough to keep the smell from leaking out.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “But you have to work there every day. If that’s not enough, let me know. We’ll find somewhere else to store it.”

  Oliver looked genuinely touched that I cared enough to offer my help. “You got it, man,” he said, smiling despite the stench.

  Two smiles from Oliver in one conversation. I felt like I’d won the jackpot.

  I reached the conference room. The PA with the pizza boxes wasn’t exaggerating. The room was filled with about fifty people, all talking excitedly. About ten were staffers with the show; the others must have arrived with Brock. If so, they’d have to catch up with him later. I wasn’t surprised to see his attention monopolized by Andrew. The two stood closerthanthis in a far corner of the room, their body language engaged and flirtatious.

  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 ingenue 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.

&
nbsp; “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.”