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I snort. “If only it was that easy. Actually … he wanted to invite other guys into our relationship. I wasn’t down for that.” The memory of our last argument wafts at me like a foul odor. “He just couldn’t get enough sex. It wasn’t even a legit poly thing, or a lifestyle. He just plain wanted to fuck, fuck, fuck. Me. My friends. Any guy who looked our way. Shit, I told myself after we broke up that I’m never gonna be used like that again.”
Connor gazes back down at the chalk dragon. “Is that why you turned the kid away? The one we were totally-not-creepily-stalking tonight?”
I glower at the Leonardo Di Vinci of a chalk dragon on the steps, focusing on its fiery red eyes, and let the question answer itself. People walk past us—couples, singles, and groups of drunk buddies—but neither Connor nor I pay them any mind.
All I can do is keep picturing that kid’s bright blue eyes when he stared at me from across the street … just before walking away.
If I could’ve captured that moment in a photo …
From behind us, a window opens. “Excuse me, Daddy Dante, hon?” comes Lex’s voice as he leans out the window in a robe. “Your Earl guy sucks, smelled like onions, and totally definitely did not fix the issue with my grumpy garbage disposal. Think you … might like to give it a go tomorrow? Get sweaty? Greasy? Dig deep down …? Maybe peel off that shirt a bit so you don’t ruin it …?”
Connor and I share a tired look, then burst out laughing, much to Lex’s confusion.
[ THE NEW CLIENT ]
It’s especially windy when Monday afternoon comes around. The workers on the roof of Piazza Place are half-melted by the harsh sun, which beats down over their heads. Dante watches from the top of the fire escape while tiredly thumbing through his phone, answering emails.
8
A ‘fetish gallery’, Jaime had said.
That’s a big fat fucking understatement, turns out. It’s called Enchaîné, and photogs from all over the damned world have pieces in it, including a daring, avant-garde photographer from Greece I’m a huge fan of who dresses his models like animals and mythological beasts—from bulls and panthers to even minotaurs, satyrs, and ogres. All of them in chains—bound, struggling, fighting, and biting. His work is deeply inspired and brave.
And why the fuck was I left out of this show?
To add salt to the wound, even Leobardo Starr has a piece in it. Leo fucking Starr. He and I used to be friends when I first got into the business … until he shit-talked me in a fit of jealousy after one of my top models publicly voiced his preference for my work over Leo’s in a fetish column five years ago. It’s been a long five years since, and while the fires may have cooled, I’d say our relationship is passive-aggressive at best.
It’s a shame, too, because Leo’s work is pretty damned good. Even I can admit that.
Too bad the guy’s a prick.
“Hey! … Dante!”
I look up from my phone to find Zak, a tenant on the fifth floor across the hall from Brett and Connor, standing at the top of the fire escape stairs.
I come over to him. “What’s up?”
“Uh …” He glances down through the stairs, appearing anxious, then squints at me. “Got any idea how much longer they’re gonna be working on the roof? I kinda … got a thing.”
Zak is shirtless, showing off his gym bod as well as the colorful tattoos that cover his otherwise peachy chest, neck, hands, and arms. His hair is squished down by a flat-billed ball cap, but I can see strands of hair sticking to his sweaty forehead, which tells me all I need to know about what’s going on in that apartment of his.
I know Zak’s side business to make extra cash and how it occupies a webcam and a certain corner of his apartment—and his own set of props and costumes. I know the guy does more than just dance down at Aubergines for dollar bills.
As long as what he does within his four walls is legal, that’s all I care about.
And since it is, I give a damn about his issues. “The noise will last just a few more hours,” I assure him. “They’re patching up a spot over 501.”
Zak is usually pretty cool-mannered and never seems to let anything bug him. But today, I can see stress in every muscle of his body, and not in the just-hit-the-gym kind of way.
“You got something going on I need to know about?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow.
Zak gives it a moment’s thought, then grunts a, “Nah,” before leaning against the rail of the stairs. “My thing can wait ‘til the noise is over with.”
“Your … thing?” I prod him.
