Second You Sin Page 2

  “OK,” Aaron whined.

  “But real y,” Paul said, “you have to let Nick cook for you. He makes stuffed chicken breast to die for.”

  “Speaking of,” Nick said, “check out those pecs on little Kevin, huh?”

  Paul blushed, which was not unusual. He was definitely the sensitive type. He was also a pretty terrific painter. He was discovered by a gal ery in LA a few years ago.

  I knew their move to New York was paid for by his sales. I wasn’t quite sure what Nick did, but I think he was in some kind of law enforcement. Maybe he’d get along with my semi-boyfriend, Tony. He was certainly butch enough—Tony wasn’t comfortable around anyone too flamboyant, and Nick was definitely a man’s man. He practical y leaked testosterone.

  Nick pul ed Paul closer. “Don’t worry, baby, you know I only have eyes for you.”

  “It’s not your eyes I’m worried about.”

  Nick tousled Paul’s shaggy hair.

  “Wil you cal ?” Paul asked me. “We real y do owe you for taking such great care of Aaron.”

  “I wil ,” I promised. “I’d love to come over

  sometime.”

  I meant it. They were a terrific family and I looked forward to getting to know them better.

  “And wear that shirt,” Nick cal ed out, earning him a smack on the head from Paul.

  “Don’t hit, Papa,” Aaron admonished.

  “That’s my boy,” Nick said, pul ing Aaron from Paul’s arms and throwing him in the air. Aaron laughed with glee and Paul sighed the sigh of put-upon housewives the world over.

  When class was over, I threw on my leather jacket and hurried out the door. Although it was unseasonably mild weather for mid-November, there was enough of a chil in the air that I wished I could have worn the sodden sweatshirt I carried in a plastic bag.

  I kept myself warm by walking quickly through the streets of the West Vil age to the coffee shop where I was meeting my best friend, Freddy.

  It was a lazy Sunday, with just a handful of people walking around and even fewer cars on the road. I love Manhattan when it’s quiet and sleepy like this.

  I’ve known Freddy since my freshman days at New York University, when I was an inexperienced freshman and he was the charismatic and dead-sexy student-president of the school’s Gay/Straight Al iance. Thankful y, he fel into the first category of the group’s name, and we quickly entered into a fast and thril ing affair. The sex was great—Freddy’s one of the most sensual partners I’ve ever had—but it quickly became clear we made better friends than we did lovers.

  Wel , to be honest, it only became clear when I found out that he had slept with twelve of the fifteen guys who had joined the group that year, including two of the three straight ones. Freddy had the most voracious sexual appetite I’ve ever encountered, and when you consider my profession, that’s saying a lot.

  Luckily for him, he’s fantastical y good-looking and has a body to die for, so getting laid is never a problem.

  Relationships, however, don’t come as easily.

  Freddy laughs off any suggestion that he might actual y want to settle down with anyone—or any three or four, for that matter. It’s a subject that’s kind of awkward for me to pursue, because, despite the fact that we both act as if we’re uninterested, there’s an undeniably strong attraction between us. Which we’ve both been denying, that is.

  I was pretty sure it could never work between us.

  We’re better off as friends.

  Freddy rose to greet me as I walked through the door. “Sweet-heart!” he cal ed.

  The coffee shop where we met had just opened a few weeks before. It was cal ed Drip. With its drop-dead gorgeous baristas and posters of sexy shirtless boys, it attracted a mostly male crowd. It was pretty packed on this Sunday morning, and the few diners in the shop who hadn’t already noticed Freddy turned to look. As usual, the quick glances became gazes as they drank in Freddy’s lusciousness.

  “Hi,” I said. We exchanged air kisses and I noticed a few patrons continued to stare. Some at me, I hoped.

  Freddy had just come from the gym—his church—

  and he was wearing a snug long-sleeved Under Armor workout shirt and sweatpants. The white shirt hugged and accentuated every curve of his rounded biceps and prodigious chest, contrasting nicely with his chocolate brown skin. I could see why eyes bulged at the sight of him.

  Forgetting that I was wearing the “For Sale” Tshirt, I slipped off my leather jacket. Freddy’s mouth dropped.

  Although I think it kind of titil ated him, Freddy never real y approved of my job. I winced, anticipating the drubbing about to come my way.

  “Are we really that desperate for business?” he asked. “Have we taken to wearing promotional appeals on our chests? What’s next, darling, a sandwich board that says ‘Johns wanted, inquire within?’ Shal we take out an ad in the New York Times? ‘Cute young man available for hand jobs and light role-playing’?”

  I noticed that the men at nearby tables had stopped talking as they hung on Freddy’s every word.

  “I mean, real y,” Freddy continued. He held up his hands in wonder. “Are times that bad? I know the economy is rough, but I thought sex was one of those commodities, like gas and toilet paper, that people are always wil ing to pay for.”

  One of the guys at the next table laughed so hard he spit coffee through his nose. Nice.

  “It’s not my shirt,” I whispered. “And could you keep your voice down? People are looking at us.”

  “Consider it free advertising,” he told me.

  “You’re horrible.”

  “I know. And I’m sure there’s a fascinating story behind why you’re dressed like such a whore today.

  Besides, of course, the fact that you are such a whore. You’l have to tel it to me one cold snowy night by the fire. But for now, how about I get you a coffee and a muffin or something. What do you . . .”

  Freddy paused and took a sniff. Then another.

  “Is that . . . pee I smel ?”

  I blushed. “Oh, yikes. Real y? Sorry.”

  Freddy put his hands to his face in mock horror.

  “Watersports? On top of everything else, now you’re letting men urinate on you?”

  Anyone who hadn’t been looking at us before was definitely staring now. I wil ed myself invisible.

  “Al right,” Freddy continued, “let me just get the coffee and something for us to eat. In the meantime,”

  he stage-whispered, “maybe you could freshen up a bit.”

  Freddy got up and I tied the top of the shopping bag that held my Wil em-soaked sweatshirt a little tighter. A middle-aged man who looked like the principal of my high school walked over and handed me his business card. “You sound like a lot of fun,”

  he whispered into my ear. “Do you get into pig play, too?”

  I didn’t know what “pig play” was, but I suspected it wasn’t for me. I grabbed my bag, Freddy’s jacket, and pul ed Freddy out of the coffee line. “We’re leaving,” I hissed at him.

  “Why?” Freddy said. “Did you just make a sale?”

  Freddy struggled to keep up as I race-walked down the street. Even with my shorter legs, I could make pretty good time when I was mad.

  “Would you wait a goddamn minute?” he cal ed.

  “What is this, Chariots of Fire?”

  I stopped and turned to him. “I couldn’t very wel stay there after everyone heard you cal me a big golden shower–loving prostitute!”

  “I didn’t say you loved golden showers,” Freddy clarified. “A lot of people have jobs they don’t like.”

  “Arrggh!” I threw up my hands.

  Freddy tousled my hair. “I love how cute you are when you’re embarrassed, do you know that?” He grabbed me in a great big bear hug. “It’s not your fault that Auntie Freddy likes to tease, darling.”

  As always, I was surprised by just how strong and warm Freddy’s hugs were.

  “Whatever,” I said, finding it har
d to stay mad at him when his embrace felt so good.

  “Actual y,” he began, stepping back, “I wanted to leave anyway. I slept with two guys there, and I was afraid there was going to be an awkward encounter.”

  I reminded Freddy that it wasn’t unusual for him to run into at least two or three former lovers anyplace we went.

  “I know,” Freddy said. “But I slept with both of them yesterday . So, you can see where it could have gotten a little dicey. You know how some people are so touchy about every little thing.”

  “I cannot believe,” I said, “that you cal me a whore, when you have more sex in a week than I do in a month.” I wasn’t exactly sure my math was right, but I went with it anyway.

  “But, darling,” Freddy explained, “I do it for love.

  You do it for money. That’s what makes me a ‘free spirit’ and you a ‘whore.’ ”

  “Love? I bet you didn’t even know those guys’ last names.”

  “Oh, I don’t love them, ” Freddy said. “I love cock, darling. The guys are just what’s attached.”

  Somewhere inside Freddy was a person yearning to love and be loved, thoroughly, with his whole heart and soul, and not just a frighteningly efficient sex machine.

  At least, I hoped so.

  We reached the door of another coffee house a block away. “Listen, Mr. Romance, why don’t you peek in and make sure there isn’t anyone inside you’ve fisted in the past twenty-four hours? Let me know if the coast is clear.”

  “Good idea,” Freddy said, entering the door.

  A moment after he disappeared from sight, I heard someone cal ing my name. I turned and saw Randy Bostivick, one of the city’s most beautiful and popular male hustlers. Randy and I both worked for the same escort agency, run by the inimitable Mrs.

  Cherry.

  Randy had been jogging. Although he was as big as a body builder, Randy kept himself lean through strenuous aerobics and liberal doses of crystal meth and steroids. While meth was usual y a devil best avoided by anyone looking to live past the month, Randy tolerated it like he absorbed everything else life threw at him: with grace, a tremendous appetite, and no apparent bad effect. I suspected he might be the child of Norse gods.

  As he waited for me to come over, he bounced on his heels, causing his massive pectoral muscles to bounce like happy puppies under his loose tank top.

  His skimpy nylon shorts were split up the sides to reveal thighs thicker than my waist.

  “Hey, Rands,” I said, walking over to him by the curb. He picked me up effortlessly, his hard biceps pressing into my back like . . . wel , there’s real y nothing like an impressive bicep, is there? Warm and hard as a hot water pipe, yet stil somehow pliant and inviting to the touch.

  “How’s my favorite little cupcake?” he asked, squeezing. I struggled to catch a breath.

  “Good, but, BTW, you’re kil ing me here.”

  “Sorry,” he said, setting me back down. “Look at you. So sweet and scrumptious. I could eat you up right here.”

  Randy was a boy of simple pleasures, at least two of which, food and sex, he frequently confused. He was almost always in a good mood, except for the occasional ’roid rage, which, while intense, usual y passed quickly.

  “Let’s see the goods,” Randy said, his meaty paws unzipping my jacket. I loved the feeling of Randy’s hands on me. We had gotten it on once, when we were both hired to perform at a gay bachelor party, and the experience was highly memorable.

  “Whoa,” he said. “‘For Sale’? Putting it right out there on your T-shirt? That’s real y smart. I should do that.”

  “It’s not what you think,” I began.

  “What’s on the back?” Randy asked, turning me around. “A price list?”

  I pul ed my jacket closed again. “It’s cold out here, bro.”

  Randy shifted from foot to foot, keeping his body in motion. “Not for me. Working up a sweat, baby.”

  He took my hand and put it on his heaving wet chest, his nipple as hard as a pebble under my palm.

  “See?”

  I snatched my damp hand back. “I’l never wash it again,” I promised.

  “Ha!” Randy laughed. “You’re a funny kid. So cute and young. Like a lamb chop, you know, tender and sweet with mint jel y, just waiting to be bitten into.

  Goes down smooth as butter. Yum.” Randy smiled with the memory of a meal or a screw long remembered. Who could tel with him?

  “So,” I said, “how have you been?”

  “Great, but did you hear about Brooklyn Roy?”

  Brooklyn Roy was another hustler, although as far as I knew, he was working legit now, having scored a role in the chorus of whatever musical Matthew Broderick was appearing in on Broadway.

  Roy was a handsome guy, if a little bland. He had the kind of generic good looks that promised his eventual casting as the friendly, unthreatening neighbor on a TV series targeted at older women.

  Cute enough to bring home but not so much that you’d pine for him the next day. Randy and I had run into him a few times at the clubs.

  “Yeah,” I said, “he’s in a show, right? Good for him.

  I don’t remember the name.”

  “Dead.”

  “That’s a horrible name for a musical,” I said.

  “No, Brooklyn Roy. Dead.”

  “What? How?”

  “Mugging. Or gay-bashing. He was found a couple of weeks ago on Bleecker. His wal et was gone and his head was smashed in with a lead pipe. The police aren’t cal ing it a hate crime, but I’ve been hanging out on Bleecker these past few nights hoping the bastards who hurt Roy come after me. I’l show them what a real bashing is.” Randy bal ed his hands into fists and flushed red.

  Anyone who’d go after Randy with anything less than a tank would have to be pretty stupid.

  “Maybe I’l come with you,” I said.

  Randy grinned. “Let’s do it, man. And afterward, I could take you back to my place and lay you out like an apple pie, sweet and sizzling from the oven, just waiting for me to take you in my mouth and . . .”

  “I’m kind of seeing someone,” I said.

  “Then I’l just ‘kind of’ fuck you.” Randy smirked.

  I rol ed my eyes.

  “Speaking of fucking,” Randy said. “I was watching TV and I saw, wel , you’l never believe who I tricked with!”

  “Who?” I said.

  “First, I have to tel you, this guy had the biggest bal s I’ve ever seen. Like two hard-boiled eggs. I wanted to dye them for Easter.”

  “And that’s relevant because . . . ?”

  “He’s famous, dude. But he has such a straight-laced image. Meanwhile, he’s a freak with a sac you could use to wreck buildings.”

  “OK,” I said, “now I’m curious. Who is it?”

  “It was . . .” Randy began. Then, a flash of metal and an explosive bam later, he was gone.

  3

  Like a Straw in the Wind

  Out of nowhere, in the almost empty street, a car had raced by doing at least seventy miles an hour. It crashed into Randy headon. I saw him fly up, do a 180 in the air, and land a hundred feet down the street. The whole thing happened in less than a heart-beat, but also in a weird kind of slow motion, where I could see every nuance of the look on Randy’s face as he wondered what hit him.

  Worse than the visual, though, was the sickening thud of the first impact, and the quieter whomp when Randy touched down half a block away.

  “Kevin. Kevin!”

  An impact like that must have kil ed him. So how was he cal ing my name?

  I turned to answer, but it wasn’t Randy at al .

  “Earth to Kevin,” Freddy said, annoyed. “I’ve been cal ing you for two minutes. It’s safe to go in—there’s only one guy in there I’ve even kissed, and that was just now, while we were waiting for our coffees.”

  I looked at him, open-mouthed.

  Freddy cocked an eyebrow. “Are you OK? You look like you’ve just seen Elton Joh
n eating snatch.”

  “I . . . He . . . We were just . . .”

  “What, Kevin?”

  “Randy. We were . . . He’s . . .” I pointed down the street.

  Freddy looked at the body lying facedown in the middle of the road, and the smal crowd that was beginning to circle it.

  “Is that—holy shit, it’s Randy!” Freddy grabbed my arm. “Come on.”

  He dragged my shel -shocked self to the scene.

  Randy lay at impossible angles, arms going one way, legs another, his head almost completely turned around as if it couldn’t bear to see what had happened to his beautiful body. His eyes were shut and a thin line of blood trickled from his ear to the ground.

  I knelt down and a woman screamed at me. “Don’t touch him! You could break something. I already cal ed nine-oneone.”

  Really? I thought. He’s just been knocked half a block by a speeding car and I’m going to break something? I resisted the urge to slap her.

  I put my head on his chest. I listened for breathing but couldn’t hear anything. “Randy?” I asked.

  “Randy?”

  He was pale and shivering, so I took off my jacket and laid it over his chest.

  “Hush.” Freddy squatted next to me. “He can’t hear you, honey.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face. “You think he’s .

  . .”

  “I don’t see how he could have . . .” Freddy answered, unable to finish his sentence.

  “Did you know him?” the annoying woman who had cal ed 911 asked us. I’d guess she was in her fifties, with stylish gray hair and sharp, attractive features. She wore an elegant suit in the style of Chanel, with crisp white gloves.

  “Yeah,” I croaked.

  “Poor thing,” she sighed. “And look at him! So handsome. Like a movie star. Was he an actor?”

  Freddy looked at her. “No, he was a prostitute.”

  I elbowed him. “Freddy!”

  “What?” Freddy asked. “Like that’s a bad thing?”

  “It is not a bad thing,” the annoying woman said.

  “Male prostitutes saved my marriage.”

  Freddy looked impressed. “You hire hookers?” he asked her.