Page 5 of Conquest

Jesse shot a glare over his shoulder toward the bathroom. “Why don’t you fold your own damn laundry?”

“Why don’t you pay for your own damn dinner?”

Jesse exhaled an irritated sigh. He sat on the couch for another moment before getting up and stomping across the hardwood floor to the little nook where Brandon kept his bed and dresser opposite from the bathroom. He grabbed the blue plastic laundry basket by its broken handle and dumped Brandon’s clothes on the bed. He picked up a dark maroon button down shirt and a pair of black dress pants, walked to Brandon’s closet to hang them and heard the water turn off in the bathroom. He moved back to the bed, flicking a pair of Brandon’s boxer-briefs away with his index finger.

“You know, we haven’t lived together for three months. I thought my days of having to see your nasty ass underwear were done.”

A wet towel flew out of the bathroom toward him, but fell short and slid across the floor.

Brandon walked out of the bathroom in a pair of jeans, snatching the towel off the floor on his way to the bed. He reached toward Jesse and grabbed the sleeve of the shirt he wore, rubbing the material between his thumb and index finger. “This is a cool shirt. Why do you have to be built like a damn munchkin? I never could wear any of your clothes.”

“Suck it!” Jesse threw the shirt he was getting ready to fold at Brandon and headed toward the bathroom. “You got anything that can cover this bruise?”

“I’m an actor. What do you think?”

“That you’re a lot more gay than me,” Jesse snickered.

“Asshole,” Brandon laughed. “There’s some foundation under the sink. But hurry your ass up, Cinderella. By the time you’re done primping, the ball will be over and the Prince will be in bed with someone else.”

“Somehow I doubt I’ll find my prince in Boystown.”

Brandon held up the shirt, trying to decide if he wanted to wear it. “You never know. The man of your dreams could pop up when you’re least expecting it.”

CHAPTER TWO

Evan sat forward in the backseat of the cab. His eyes traveled up the dizzying height of the ebony Sears Tower that formed a shining shadow against the night sky. He knew it now bore the name Willis Tower, but for him, and probably so many others, it’d always be the Sears Tower. He pulled his New York Yankees cap lower over his eyes and flopped back against the seat. It felt so strange to be in the States. For three and a half years he did everything he could, gone anywhere in the world, to avoid coming back, and had managed pretty well with only having briefly returned once in that time. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the U.S., but even with not standing in the spotlight for so long people still recognized him. Whereas trekking through rural China, boating down the Amazon, or sleeping under the stars in the French countryside, he didn’t get asked for many autographs.

“Here we are, sir,” the cab driver said. “The Ritz-Carlton.”

Evan took a deep breath and flung open the car door. The driver popped the trunk and came around to help him with his bag. Evan waved him away. He hauled out his heavy hiking pack with his sleeping bag tied on top and slung it over his shoulder. He glanced at the doorman, who looked confused as to whether he should help him with his bag or not. A black limousine pulled up, and the doorman darted for it. Evan shoved a few bills in the cab driver’s hand and headed for the door.

“Sir!” the doorman yelled.

Without a glance at him, Evan walked into the lavish lobby. Visitors and hotel staff stopped in their tasks, conversations hushed. All stared in his direction. With his battered pack decorated in dirt from countless countries, his faded black Motley Crue T-shirt, his jeans with rips and tears, his Yankees cap frayed around the rim, and two days worth of stubble on his face, he knew he looked like a dirty vagrant. It wasn’t his fault he hadn’t showered in over twenty-four hours. Catching flights and living on planes as he worked his way from Tokyo to L.A. to Chicago didn’t allow for such a luxury.

He stepped up to the counter and dipped his shoulder, letting his pack slide off and crash on the ground. He kept his eyes down: his cap blocked his face as he dug in his front pocket. “I need a room.”

The woman behind the counter looked him up and down. A man stepped to her side, ready to assist should a situation break out.

The woman cleared her throat. “You need a room?”

“Yeah. A penthouse suite if you have one available.” Evan pulled out his roll of cash, thumbing quickly through the bills, going past twenties to fifties, fifties to hundreds.

The desk clerk’s eyes widened before she gathered her composure. “I’ll need to see an ID and major credit card, sir.”

“Why? I’m paying cash.”

“It’s just policy, sir.”

Evan huffed in agitation, reached in his back pocket to retrieve his New York driver’s license and a credit card, and flicked both across the counter toward her.

She picked them up, blinked, and held them closer to her eyes. She looked up at him, down at the license, back to him. “Are you the Evan Arden? The singer?”

At the mention of his name, things quieted even more in the lobby.

Evan knew everyone watched the scene, waiting to see some crazy drifter get thrown out the door. He slowly lifted his head. He fixed his bright blue eyes on her and pulled off his cap. He combed his fingers through his chestnut brown hair, and from the choked squeal that slipped out of the desk clerk’s throat, he figured he didn’t need to affirm his identity any further.

“Listen, I’ve traveled a long way, for a long time. I need three things. A suite with a hot tub, a bottle of cabernet sauvignon, and a New York strip done medium-well from the best steakhouse in town. Cool?”