Jeans, wrong side out, carelessly draped over his left shoulder, Prada ankle boots clutched in one hand, Hugo Boss leather jacket and wife beater in the other, Brian nonchalantly sauntered out of the hotel room, buck naked, leaving the door wide open behind him. He ignored the sharp "Brian!" from behind him and then the wistful sigh before the door shut firmly a couple beats later.

Now that the wannabe Michelin Man wasn't watching him possessively - unless he was standing out in the hallway staring at Brian's backside, which was doubtful - the adman dropped the nonchalant act and strode quickly down the corridor. Not about to perform some kind of bizarre dance, hopping from one foot to the other as he tried to get everything on, Brian glanced around for a convenient spot to stop and get dressed. He'd at least like a chair or a bench, for fuck's sake. The amenities in the overrated Omni William Penn were sadly lacking, he thought in irritation.

What he desperately wanted was a long, hot shower to get rid of the filth that seemed to have soaked into his pores, even though Mr. Altoona had barely touched him. He even considered knocking on one of the doors and asking if he could use the shower; he could always claim he'd been locked out of his hotel room without saying how it had happened. It would be just his luck, however, to have some middle-aged housewife open the door. He grinned sardonically, imagining what would happen then. After getting an eyeful, the woman would either proposition him or shriek the place down, landing him in the can for indecent exposure.

Sighing, he decided that a shower would have to wait until he got back to the loft... after he shoved his clothes down the garbage chute or into the incinerator. He should never have worn his newest sandblasted Cavalli jeans and wasn't sure why he'd done so. It wasn't like the creeper cared what he had on; he wanted Brian's clothes off, so he could put his hands and mouth all over him. His dick too, although Brian was fairly confident he'd be the one fucking Telson. For all that the asswipe had trapped him into this, the man had shown no overt signs of wanting to top Brian. Marvin the less than marvelous had gone down on him at the first opportunity, after all.

Nevertheless, Brian's stride faltered, the thought of Telson inside him making him feel physically ill. He would've allowed it, the adman knew, a flush of shame rising across his cheekbones. Anything to secure the client Ryder wanted so badly... and take a step closer to the partnership Marty had started dangling in front of him over a year ago.

Brian could feel his mood souring. It had improved significantly after he put Telson in his place and started him on the way back to where he belonged - Altoona, the armpit of hell. But as often happened when he dwelled on the coveted partnership, the feeling of euphoria quickly evaporated. He didn't know what in the fuck Marty was waiting for. Sure, a couple of the other ad execs did a decent job, but none of them came close to bringing in the clients - and the revenue - that Brian did. 

Ryder had basically told him to get the Telson Tires account or else, so he'd already have to spin a tale for Marty, Brian realized, his nails digging hard into his jacket and creating a gouge in the fine black leather. "Fuck!" the brunet cursed when he looked down and noticed what he'd done. He hoped Mikey wouldn't get anything on his other new Hugo Boss; then he could just swap them out and give his friend this one to keep - he didn't want the damaged one cluttering up his wardrobe, and it wasn't like Michael would care about the flaw if he noticed it.

Brian forced his fingers to unclench, his mind returning to the same troubled, tiresome groove. He cracked a smile as he thought ‘tiresome,' but his amusement quickly disappeared. Claiming they couldn't provide the ‘services' Telson required would never fly with Marty, no matter what Brian had told the tire man. Ryder wouldn't care that Marvin was gay or that he wanted Brian to put out, even if he had to do it every Sunday for a year. 

Brian couldn't say he entirely disagreed with Marty's outlook. Whatever it took, right? So what if Telson was growing a spare around his middle; he wasn't that bad-looking for a guy in his fifties or thereabouts. Besides, it wasn't like he'd never fucked a client before, even if it had always been his choice and only the hot ones. Okay, it was usually in aid of acquiring an account and some of them were just so-so. But there were no real trolls, and Brian enjoyed convincing them to give in. His fucking talents were just as good as - better even - than his advertising talents - so he was never in any doubt that the client cum trick enjoyed it too.

"Ouch!" screeched Brian when his bare foot landed on something sharp and distracted him from his musings. Coloring up in embarrassment at having let out such a shrill noise, he hopped around on one foot while scowling down at the bland hotel carpet, trying to figure out what had stabbed him. Unable to discern anything, Brian cast a wary eye around the empty hallway and then crouched down, balancing on his uninjured foot, his scratched-up leather jacket dragging on the floor, curious to find out what had dug into the sole of his right foot.

Well hidden among the confetti of brown and gold hues in the short-pile carpet, he discovered a bobby pin after searching for a few seconds. "Jesus," he snorted, letting out an embarrassed laugh. He didn't bother to move the bobby pin out of the way before awkwardly rising to his feet; it wasn't like anyone else was going to be wandering down the corridor barefoot.

A weirdly high-pitched yelp of protest escaped Brian as he placed his injured sole down flat on the carpet and took a couple of halting steps. It might have only been a hairpin, but it hurt like the dickens. Looking down at the carpet, he noticed that rusty red splotches had joined the other colors.

"Fuck!" the brunet hissed, perturbed to realize he was bleeding. The protective gunk at the end of the bobby pin must have worn off, he surmised, leaving the sharp edge exposed. Shit, could he get tetanus from the hairpin? He tried to remember when he'd had a tetanus booster but came up empty. Maybe he should stop by the ER once he was finally dressed and out of the William Penn? Too bad he hadn't taken the bottle of champagne with him, Brian mused a little regretfully; he could use it to flush out the wound.

Since the bubbly wasn't available and he really didn't want to go to the ER - it was bound to be filled with hypochondriacs and other crazies at this hour of the night - maybe he could wait and see his internist in the morning? He normally tried to avoid repeats, but the scheduler wasn't bad-looking and the promise of a quick fuck meant the receptionist was bound to squeeze him in with the doctor first thing in the morning. As long as he cleaned out the wound - it was just a prick - he should be okay until the morning, right? 

He wasn't about to admit to stepping on a fucking bobby pin, so that would give him time to come up with a better story about how he'd gotten injured. At the gym sounded believable... A notice had fallen off the bulletin board, and he found a stray thumbtack with the sole of his foot. Although Brian didn't doubt queens like Honeycutt littered the gym with hair clips and bobby pins, a thumbtack would be more palatable than a hairpin when explaining how he'd injured himself. That at least wouldn't sound girly.

It was a good thing none of the gang were around, or he'd never hear the end of it. He could almost hear Ted snarking, ‘Brian Kinney - done in by a teenybopper's hairpin.' He wouldn't be surprised if come his thirtieth - a full-bodied shudder traveled through him at the notion of being that old - the accountant or one of his other ‘friends' mocked up some kind of ugly epitaph with a bright pink bobby pin and a horrid verse about how it ‘done Brian Kinney wrong' front and center.

He might as well be hopping, the adman mused as he limped down the corridor. It was damned awkward putting down only the heel of his foot so that the injured spot wouldn't touch the dirty carpet. Unless it had just been steam-cleaned, which he doubted, the rug was probably crawling with germs.

Really, could his night go any more to shit? Fucking Telson. It was the tire king's fault that he was walking around unshod in a second-rate hotel where the staff didn't clean up properly - and sticking him with explaining the loss of a lucrative account to Marty.

He could just tell his boss the truth, Brian realized - part of it anyway. Marty was crazy about his kids, so he'd be understanding about Telson leaving abruptly. Brian would just have to make it sound like they'd be hearing from Telson or one of his people and hope that they fucking never did. Brian would work his usual magic and snag a couple of other sizable accounts, and Marty would forget all about the spare tire from Altoona.

As he mulled over how to present matters to his boss, Brian had been keeping an eye on the carpet, wary of encountering another hazard. Now, breathing a little hard from his crabwise, ungainly movement down the long hallway, he glanced up. "Finally," he grumbled, grateful to see that he had almost reached the elevators. 

With a little luck, before anyone saw a naked man roaming the hotel, he could get into an empty elevator, press stop for a brief time, and get dressed in there. It wouldn't take him long to drive home, so rather than trying to clean his injured foot in the ground floor bathroom-

His plans were derailed when the elevator dinged and the number for this floor lit up. Shit. So much for making a clean escape.

Brian moved his left hand so that his Prada boots covered his groin and donned a cocky, yet charming smile, his crooked tooth winking into view.

A luggage cart appeared, coats on hangers dangling from the bar at the top, suitcases piled high beneath them along with several shopping bags precariously perched on top of the luggage.

Brian snorted quietly. Who the fuck came to the Pitts to go shopping?

He was just wondering whether he could sidle into the open elevator without the hotel employee who was wheeling the cart seeing him - if the bellhop was hidden from view, they shouldn't be able to see Brian either - when a head peeked around from behind the hanging garments.

The adman tensed for a second but then relaxed, recognizing the bellboy who'd opened the doors to Telson's room just as Brian raised his hand to knock. The bellhop had been clutching crumpled banknotes in one hand - it looked like two or three C-notes - but whatever the size of the ‘tip,' the uniformed young man hadn't looked particularly pleased by it until he caught sight of Brian. For a second, he'd looked pathetically grateful before his gaze switched - unsurprisingly - to one of lust. Eating Brian alive with his eyes, he'd unfortunately held the door open a beat too long. Unlike the bellboy - who Brian guessed was Telson's backup plan if he didn't show - Brian had been left without a chance to retreat once Marv saw him. Regardless of his mumbled, "I always come when I say I'm going to," he'd been considering backing out until that moment.

He was brought back to the present by the elevator doors sliding toward the middle before retracting again, the bellhop's body interfering with their attempt to close. 

"Done so soon?" the younger man asked, his astonishment evident as he paused. "I figured you'd been hired for the night." 

The bellhop thought he was a rent boy? "He couldn't afford me," Brian claimed, amused by the assumption. He gave a lopsided shrug, his boots shifting in his hand and disclosing a strip of finely trimmed pubic hair to the bellboy's view.

The younger man gulped. "Uh, I guess that means I've got no chance," he observed despondently.

His amusement growing, Brian momentarily forgot his predicament. How much did the kid think he went for? Probably quite a lot if Telson had given the bellhop a few hundred as a down payment in case the ‘companion' he'd arranged for didn't show and the hotel employee's services were needed instead.

"I freelance," Brian asserted, tongue wandering into his cheek. He didn't expect the bellhop to believe that patently absurd statement - how in the fuck would Telson have heard about him in that case; he'd never be part of a grapevine the big Altoona had access to - but the boy's gloomy expression immediately brightened.

"Yeah?" he asked, his gaze never leaving Brian's crotch as he delved into his pocket and came out with a couple of C-notes. "Maybe I can give you a blowjob?"

Brian eyed in distaste the money the bellboy must've gotten from Telson. Was that gravy congealed on what had formerly appeared to be crisp, pristine bills?

Keeping his distance from the now outthrust fingers - whatever was on the bills looked fresh and might stain his clothes - Brian shrugged. "Sure." 

Christ, the bellboy looked like he was gonna cream his pants any second. Before this, Brian would've thought wet dreams only happened when you were asleep, but maybe he was wrong. He did tend to have a powerful effect on other fags, even if this was a little extreme.

While he doubted the bellhop had noticed the shrug, he obviously didn't miss how the motion pulled Brian's Prada boots away from his genitals. Not wanting to bang himself in the nuts with his footwear and end up with another injury - an even more humiliating one - Brian was holding his shoes a cautious couple of inches away from his family jewels. Why in the heck hadn't he covered his junk with his jacket? he wondered in bemusement, his right hand twitching before he stilled it. He could hardly swap out the hand over his groin now; that would look anything but cool.

Unfortunately, that meant that the least movement on his part tended to expose another sliver of skin and a few stray pubes to the kid's increasingly avaricious gaze. Brian wouldn't normally mind - he liked being the cynosure of all eyes - but being stuck here in the middle of a hallway in the fucking Omni was getting old fast.

He'd just opened his mouth to demand the kid put the money away - it was starting to wilt even more as the bellboy clasped it in an obviously clammy palm - when the other elevator gave a muted ding. Brian held his breath, letting it out in a whoosh when the elevator continued upward without stopping.

Shit. He needed to get out of this corridor stat. Telson might come out of his room at any moment and see the predicament Brian was in. That would really be the icing on this shitty experience.

Thankfully, the bellboy provided an easy way out of this mess. The kid clearly wanted to be fucked, licking his lips, his eyes still locked on Brian's groin. A fuck for a chance to cleanse the injury to his foot and get dressed didn't seem like a bad deal. Besides, the bellhop was passable; Brian had had worse.

Holding his arms out to his sides, Brian treated the kid to a full frontal.

"Nngh-" the boy wheezed, sounding - and looking - like he'd swallowed his tongue.

Fuck, he'd only meant to make the nitwit get a move on. It was a good thing he didn't require his tricks to have brains, Brian thought with a mental sigh. "There an unoccupied room around here somewhere?" he asked, lifting an eyebrow at the boy. "Hey, Spirou!" He slung his jacket - now dirty as well as gouged - on top of the other clothes already on his shoulder and snapped his fingers in the porter's face when the boy remained frozen in place.

That finally galvanized the mesmerized boy into moving.

"Uh, yeah, okay, sure," he babbled nervously as he stepped out from between the elevator doors, the panels promptly sliding shut behind him and the compartment descending toward the ground floor. He wheeled the cart ahead of him, thankfully in the opposite direction from Telson's suite.

His boots now dangling casually from his fingers, Brian paced along beside the luggage cart, counting on it to hide him from view if anyone popped out of their room. He did his best not to limp and must have succeeded since the bellhop didn't say anything until he stopped outside one of the rooms.

The kid fumbled with his master key card as he tried to insert it into the slot and dropped it on the floor, which resulted in him cursing a blue streak under his breath. When he bent over to retrieve it, still mumbling, his short jacket rode up, and he presented Brian with an unobstructed view of his backside.

Unbidden, an image of Justin dressed in the bellhop's red uniform popped into Brian's mind, causing his manhood to twitch in interest. Justin already looked fucking hot in the boring St. James' uniform, so Brian couldn't help salivating at the thought of how he might look in the William Penn get-up.

The blond lad would certainly fill out the hotel trousers better and would make a much hotter Spirou than this rather pathetic excuse for a hotel porter could ever hope to be.

"Um, I'm Johnny," the bellhop muttered, his face stained red with embarrassment as he stood back up and jammed the card into the slot. He was a little too forceful and had to pull the card back out and then slide it in again, the indicator light finally switching from red to green.

After a fleeting thought that it was a childish name for a man - you'd think he'd switch to an adult version of the name - Brian promptly forgot it.

"You?" Johnny asked hopefully.

Brian smirked. "I'm your eleven fifteen." 

The man-boy's eyes rounded in apparent wonderment at the idea of tricks lining up for him.

Brian barely refrained from rolling his eyes. As if. He'd had to guess at the time since he wasn't sure how long he'd been at the hotel and had chosen not to wear his Bvlgari wristwatch tonight, only slipping on his cowrie bracelet. He'd had the strange notion that it would make his assignation with Mr. Tire go by more quickly. That was total hogwash of course. If he counted from when he'd handed his jeep over to the valet, Brian'd swear he'd never endured such a ridiculous, annoyingly long hook-up. He might've swapped out tricks - with the bellhop an improvement over Telson - but it all kind of blurred together in his head. Besides, his foot was starting to throb, making him cranky.

He did his best to focus on the doe-eyed bellboy, asking with a mocking lilt to his voice, "You gonna open the door?"

The kid pushed fruitlessly at the double doors, his face going a weird puce color when he realized the indicator light on the key card slot was no longer green.

Another couple of passes with the card and the light was finally green again, the bellhop hastily turning the handles and swinging the double doors open.

Brian followed after the boy when he pushed the luggage cart into the room. Maybe the kid was brighter than he thought. It was a good idea not to leave the cart in the hallway and have a drunk guest come wandering in demanding a toothbrush, a bucket of ice, or fuck knew what.

He began to question his assessment of the bellhop's smarts however, when the kid rolled the cart past a sitting area and into a spacious bedroom. Wheeling everything to a wall composed of louvered doors, the bellboy opened them and started unloading the shopping bags from the cart, setting them neatly inside a closet that more than rivaled the size of his at the loft.

Brian blew out an envious breath as he eyed the exposed shoe rack, picturing his footwear neatly lined up and ready for him to select just the right pair of Prada or Gucci or Ferragamo... He absentmindedly watched the bellboy hang the coats in the wardrobe but snapped out of his shoe-induced fugue when the kid hoisted one of the suitcases up onto a strategically placed luggage stand.

Fucking brilliant. The moronic hotel employee had brought Brian to a room that would soon be occupied. He'd never make a concierge or whatever it was a bellhop aspired to. Jerking a hand at the luggage the boy was removing from the cart, he bit out, "When can I expect the owners to show up?"

"Huh?" The bellhop looked up, plainly confused.

"The people that go with the coats you just hung up," Brian clarified with a roll of his eyes.

"Oh." The boy smirked at Brian. "They'll be busy for a while. They're at some wedding rehearsal dinner in the Speakeasy."

The tension in Brian's shoulders eased a little. It shouldn't take all that long to fuck the bellhop, get dressed, and be on his way out of here. He didn't feel like vigorously fucking the porter over one of the couches, so the bed it would have to be. It was hardly his problem if the bed was mussed up or the room ended up smelling like come.

The encounter with Telson had exhausted him more than Brian could have imagined, and he was starting to feel tired. Throwing his boots and clothes in the direction of a golden-yellow leather wing chair that matched the one in Telson's room - who was responsible for the hideous interior design in this place? - Brian sat down on the mattress and crossed his injured foot over his knee, wanting to get a better look at it. He'd been hoping it might have stopped bleeding, but blood was still oozing out of the cut. That was doubtless because he'd put pressure on it again while doing his best not to limp from the elevator to this room.

The bellhop had meanwhile opened a well-stocked cupboard next to a mini fridge. "You want something?" he asked Brian.

The boy was turning out to be useful after all. Alcohol was exactly what he needed. "Whiskey."

The kid took out a miniature bottle and a crystal tumbler.

"No glass," Brian curtly ordered.

The kid shrugged and tossed it to him.

Brian lifted an eyebrow at the label - Beam Black. At least it should do a good job of disinfecting the puncture. Unscrewing the cap, he poured it over the sole of his foot, golden droplets showering down on the carpet beneath his foot.

It burned, Brian gritting his teeth to prevent a whimper from escaping. Naturally, with the way his night was going, the tip of his tongue got caught between his teeth, and he tasted the tang of blood in his mouth. Fucking great.

"Gimme another," he demanded of the kid, who was again gaping at him slack-jawed, albeit for a different reason this time. He was grateful that the fucktard didn't ask him what he was doing but just continued to gawk at him. 

The bellhop had doubtless never seen a premium bourbon used like that before, the adman mused, huffing out a laugh. It was like something out of one of the old westerns Brian favored - the hero's injury being treated with alcohol before he got stitched up.

Not that he was going to need stitches, Brian reassured himself. He didn't want any tricks asking what had happened just because he had an unsightly row of stitches across his foot.

If he did need stitches, it would only be one or two, Brian further attempted to dispel his uneasiness. The wound, which he still hadn't taken a proper look at - all he could see was blood oozing out when he poured the whiskey on it - couldn't be all that big. It was just a stab from a bobby pin; it wasn't like he'd sliced his foot open on a shard of glass.

Snagging the next mini bottle out of the air - the bellhop aimed way up over his head as if there were a basketball hoop above the headboard - Brian twisted off the cap, doused his foot again, and then chugged the remainder. More droplets splattered onto the carpet, and he mused sardonically that the bourbon was going to make the room smell even better. Still, it would have to be an improvement on whatever artificial air freshener the Omni was using. Too bad it wouldn't improve the decor too.

The William Penn would finally have some much-needed competition in early 2001 when the Renaissance, another luxury hotel, opened. Brian had been thinking for some time about how he might secure the Marriott's business. He knew he was punching above the Ryder agency's league, but if he could get the Marriott account just for the location here in the Burgh, Marty would have to offer him the coveted partnership. Maybe he could work up a campaign contrasting a clean, minimalist style with that of the fussy, over-decorated Omni?

Shaking off thoughts of how to acquire that plum prize for now - he could revisit his latest idea tomorrow - Brian patted the mattress next to where he was perched.

The boy licked his lips and looked up at Brian from under his eyelashes, making the older man scoff to himself. Was that supposed to be seductive? 

Justin'd had a better flirty gaze the night they met, Brian mused, images of the eager but untried blond kaleidoscoping through his mind and having a predictable effect on his manhood. Justin under the lamppost attempting nonchalance; Justin rambling on about Cheerios; Justin fixated on his sculpted body as Brian poured a bottle of water over his head; Justin kissing him for the first time, his lips ravaging Brian's. 

What he wouldn't give to be home with the blond he was starting to think of as his, Brian reflected wearily. His Justin-induced arousal waned as the bellboy went from his haunches to his knees and began to crawl across the carpet toward him, only stopping when his face was a mere inch from Brian's crotch. It was eerily reminiscent of Telson just a short time ago and a total turn-off.

Of course the bellboy noticed how his dick had deflated; it wasn't like he could miss it with his mouth practically pressed against Brian's member.

"You don't seem very interested." Disappointment tinged the porter's voice and expression, his mouth turning downward at one corner.

His weariness increasing, Brian couldn't summon the indignation he'd normally feel at having his ability to rise to the occasion questioned. Rare as it might be, the idea of fucking away his troubles didn't appeal right now. It was as if the sliminess that had oozed out of Telson had somehow contaminated him in a way that a fuck wouldn't fix. Gritting his teeth, Brian resisted the urge to tell the young bellhop to ‘fuck off,' only a muted grunt emerging.

The bellhop, never looking away from Brian's member, apparently took that as encouragement. He leaned in and took a tentative swipe at Brian's dick with his tongue.

Nothing much happened, Brian's cock still largely flaccid.

What did the moron expect? If he made that kind of tepid effort in Babylon's backroom, he wouldn't get much of anywhere except with the horniest, most hopped-up fags.

The bellboy frowned, then shrugged philosophically and sat back on his haunches. "That old guy took it out of you, huh?"

Hardly. He'd been prepared to fuck the ‘old guy' but certainly didn't object to being given a way out. More to the point, Brian'd had enough of being eyed like a piece of meat for one day. Most of the time, that didn't bother him - he eyed tricks like fresh meat after all - but the tire king had left a bad taste in his mouth.

The porter, apparently not done with his assessment, opined, "The guy in 1213 would put anyone off their stride." He paused before finishing, "Even Brian Kinney."

Brian glared at the twit. He wasn't surprised to be recognized - he had to be the most famous fag in the Burgh - but that was no reason for such a foolish presumption. All because Brian wasn't enthused by a sloppy, halfhearted start to a blow job. 

In addition to that, he wasn't impressed with the way the kid had introduced himself but pretended not to know who Brian was - suggesting he was a rent boy, of all things. Unless - Jakey? Robbie? - had only recognized him when he came face to dick with Brian, which he doubted. Maybe he was so dumb that he'd forgotten about his attempt to pry a name out of Brian? 

The svelte brunet pondered the matter further, somewhat intrigued as to the bellboy's reasoning. If he knew about Brian Kinney, the kid almost certainly also knew about his ‘infamous' self-imposed rules. Heck, there had been betting pools about which rule he'd break first and when. 

Did the ninny think he'd be the one to break Brian's rule about no names? Fat chance since that rule as well as the one about no repeats were good and broken. There was something off with this kid; in fact, the encounter was giving him a touch of the willies, but Brian shrugged and dismissed the feeling. It wasn't like the fucking bellhop could hurt him.

The bellhop recalled his wandering attention when he backed away, promising, "It's okay. I won't tell anyone about" - he gestured at Brian's groin - "you know."

"Get up here, Stevie," Brian sneered, deliberately mangling the bellhop's name, which he hadn't paid attention to in the first place, as he patted the bed again. Now he had to prove the kid wrong, show him who was in charge. Never let it be said that Brian Kinney couldn't get it up.

The jackass was suddenly all smiles and eagerness again, clambering to his feet and onto the bed.

Brian rolled his eyes. "My dick may have superpowers, but that doesn't mean I can fuck you through your uniform."

Rather than get off the bed, the idiot squirmed around next to Brian, tossing his shoes and clothes every whichaway.

Batting away the kid's uniform pants, which sailed directly at his head, Brian stood up, fished his wallet out of his jeans, and extracted one of the spare condoms he'd stashed there.

Supine, legs splayed open, the bellboy stared up at him, an excited smile on his face.

Like he wanted to look at the kid's face while he fucked him; Brian reserved that kind of treatment for special occasions. "Roll over," he commanded.

A frown marring his face, the boy complied, his reluctance obvious.

Jesus Christ. Now the boy was prostrate on the bed, his legs tight together. His looks might be passable - although what had looked like a well-rounded ass was now strangely flat - but his attitude sucked. Brian sighed. "Get on your hands and knees," he instructed the idiot. "Legs apart."

A promise was a promise, so Brian would fuck the kid, but it wouldn't be his best performance; he couldn't be bothered to put in that kind of effort.

The bellhop complied, laughing gleefully as if he'd wrung some kind of concession out of Brian. He glanced over his shoulder, a pout forming when he saw that Brian was ripping the condom packet open with his hands. "Aren't you gonna do that thing where you tear it open with your teeth?"

"No," came Brian's swift, curt response. No special tricks for this guy.

Ten minutes and a very mechanical performance later - he wasn't going to waste any more time or energy on this sad sack - Brian felt the bellboy's ass clench around his cock. Letting out a weird, ululating cry, the bozo collapsed flat onto the bed.

Useless twit couldn't even stay on his hands and knees for a few more seconds, Brian thought in irritation as he chased after him with his dick. On autopilot, he pressed the bellhop into the bed, thrusting a couple more times and unloading into the condom. He didn't feel any better, other than being glad that he was done with the twerp.

He pulled out, and while he was tying off the condom, the bellboy rolled back over onto his back and smiled at Brian. "Best fuck I've ever had," he got out a little breathlessly.

Brian felt a stirring of sympathy for the kid. He usually deserved that kind of appraisal, but he'd put way less than his usual effort into this endeavor. In fact, he'd had trouble getting hard - something that never happened to Brian fucking Kinney. It was only when he'd allowed his thoughts to stray to a certain blond lad that his erection had firmed up like it should.

If Brian, with his momentary erectile issues - thanks to the asshole tire mogul - was the best he'd ever had, the bellhop must've had shit for luck as far as finding a halfway decent trick up till now. Either that, or he was practically a virgin.

With a coy look and a flutter of his eyelashes, the bellboy invited, "How's about another round? I've heard you can go forever."

Any sympathy vanishing, Brian now suspected a different reason for the bellboy's enthusiasm. He must drive off potential tricks with his clumsy, heavy-handed flirtations. Mimicking the bellhop's accent, he countered, "How's about a souvenir instead?" Rolling off the bed, he tossed the condom at the twerp, the full rubber slapping against the kid's cheek with a wet splat.

"Hey!" the bellboy complained.

When the bellhop picked up the used condom, Brian expected the kid to throw it back at him, but instead, he cradled it in his hand. He had a dopey look on his face, like he really was considering keeping it as a souvenir.

Whatever. Brian wasn't going to stay around to find out what the bellhop did with it. He took a couple strides over to the chair where he'd left his clothes and quickly donned his muscle shirt and jeans before sitting down on the fugly, urine-colored chair. After fishing his socks out of his shoes he drew them onto his feet and then put his boots on. He took extra care with his right foot, drawing the sock slowly onto his foot and inserting it carefully into the Prada boot. It hurt, but not as much as before. Maybe he could douse it with more Jim Beam and skip the doctor's office entirely?

As he zipped up his boot, Brian spied the bellhop's uniform trousers not far from him. They formed a surprisingly plump pile on the floor, almost like they'd been inflated. Curious, he turned the trousers over with the toe of one boot, only to discover that padding had been sewn into the rear.

Jesus. That explained why the bellhop had ended up being so flat-assed. Talk about false advertising. Michael might've gotten snookered by a butt form not long ago, but Brian had outdone him - he was fooled by a foam insert. Not that he'd ever tell Mikey; he wouldn't want to dent his friend's belief in Brian as the ultimate fag that no one could ever put one over on.

His mind lingering on the night his son was born, Brian suddenly knew just how to make this for shit day better. He ignored the bellhop's pleas to fuck him again, shrugged on his leather jacket and slipped out of the hotel room.

Marvin vacillated between disappointment and anger as he watched Brian vanish from sight, the younger man's dimpled backside winking temptingly at him. Goddammit. Raising the glass he was holding to his lips, he gulped it down. That was no way to treat Moët et Chandon, his favorite champagne, but like the rest of his night, it had gone flat.

He couldn't believe Brian had turned him down; he'd really thought they would have some fun together and that maybe they could do it all again the next time he was in town. It wasn't like the exchange wasn't fair; a night with him and the adman would undoubtedly earn a heckuva bonus for reeling in a thirty-million dollar account.

He still wasn't sure what had gone wrong. Kinney hadn't seemed like the type to take the moral high ground - over a child's broken arm, of all things. Despite Brian claiming that it sounded serious, it wasn't that big a deal. Kids got hurt all the time, and the doctor had told Marv's wife that Trish would be fine. He loved his daughter - he really did - but it wasn't like getting back home to Altoona tonight was going to make any difference. Her arm had already been set; she'd just have to wear a sling for a while. It wasn't even like this was the twelve-year-old's first rodeo; she'd broken bones before.

The more Marvin thought about what had happened with Brian, the more certain he became that his daughter's broken arm had just provided a convenient reason for the adman to back out of their deal. Brian was one of the hottest fags he'd ever seen - it had been a pleasant surprise to find out the ad exec wasn't straight - and Marv still wanted the man. Badly.

He stewed over the situation for a few more minutes, but then a sly smile crossed his face. So what if Kinney thought he'd won. Granted, Brian might've won this round, but the game wasn't over yet. He knew Marty Ryder wanted his account - every fucking advertising agency from Pittsburgh to Philadelphia coveted it - so he doubted Ryder would simply accept Kinney's pathetic excuse that they ‘couldn't provide the services he required.'

Still smiling, he set the glass of now lukewarm champagne down on the side table and picked up the phone, pressing the button for the front desk.

"Mr. Telson?" a perky female voice greeted him. "We'll have someone at your room to pick up your luggage in-"

"When did I ask for that?" Marvin interjected coldly, wanting it to be clear he hadn't authorized anything. There was no way he would ever admit he'd been standing next to Brian - just standing there like a dunce, for fuck's sake - when the adman made the call, weaseling out of his assignation with Telson.

Still sounding chipper, the woman replied, "We had a call from you just a few minutes ago, Mr. Telson."

A hard, shark-like grin on his face, Marv observed, "Strange. I don't remember calling you." He might not be able to take out his ire on Brian Kinney, but he could sure as fuck put this hotel clerk in her place.

"Um." There came a pause and a clicking of keys as if the clerk was double-checking. "We received a call at 11:02, Mr. Telson."

Despite citing the record of the call, there was a slight hitch in her voice as if she was getting anxious, Marvin noted in satisfaction. "Really?" he commented drily. "It still wasn't me."

Stuttering a little, she insisted, "The c- call came from your room. 1213, right?"

Telson was amused by the question. As if corroborating the room number would make it his responsibility. "If there was a call, it was made without my say-so," he claimed. He didn't even have to lie; that was the absolute truth.

"N- no one called on your behalf?"

"No," Telson bit out, enjoying the increasing desperation in the clerk's voice. "You should have verified that I was the one on the phone. I didn't expect this kind of shenanigan from a hotel of the caliber of the William Penn. I'll be taking my business elsewhere in the future since I was obviously wrong."

"B- but, Mr. Telson, the c- call came from-"

"Give me the manager," Telson curtailed her stammering.

Once he had the hotelier on the horn, it didn't take long before matters were arranged to Marv's satisfaction. The manager assured him that the car to the airport would be canceled and that an upscale rental, for which the Omni would pick up the tab and that he could turn in at the airport tomorrow, would be arranged instead. He also offered to comp Marvin's next stay in the Burgh. They'd set aside their best suite, he promised unctuously. 

Not long thereafter, his luggage in the trunk of a metallic red Mercedes Benz coupe, Marvin was tooling down Liberty Avenue. He'd have preferred something sportier, but at least the color was hip. He looked around as he cruised slowly down the street, trying to remember where he'd spotted a group of hustlers last night. Rent boys weren't his usual style, but beggars couldn't be choosers. 

He refused to let this trip be a total waste. If he went home right away, he'd be stuck with fucking his wife and would be left unsatisfied. That meant he had to get his needs met before he boarded the plane to Altoona tomorrow.

He could go back to Woody's or to the club Kinney had introduced him to, but he knew he wouldn't get his pick of tricks there. Without Brian by his side, he'd stick out like a sore thumb. He might not like to admit it, but he was only passable-looking and far too old for the club scene. Most of the club goers wouldn't give him a first look, much less a second.

That was why he favored finding someone he could bend to his will, but that opportunity had been lost - for now. He'd briefly considered staying at the Omni and having that bellboy sent back up, the one with the juvenile name that he couldn't quite remember - John-boy like that Walton kid? - but the hotel was hardly an escort agency, so it was best not to chance that kind of thing with an on-the-clock employee. He could have contacted an actual service, but that would have meant providing a credit card number as security. Just in case his wife ever decided to check up on him, he always avoided any kind of trail. You never knew what a hacker might dig up.

That left street hustlers, which was alright. He generally preferred older prey, worldly men like him, but he occasionally indulged in a taste for young meat.

Speaking of... There they were. Zeroing in on the group of rent boys - he estimated there must be at least six or seven of them - he slowed the Mercedes Benz down, pulled over to the curb and stopped, engine idling. 

The streetlight hit the glass at a bad angle, making it difficult for him to see the hookers clearly.

"Nice ride, Daddy," a redheaded hustler, purred, sauntering closer to the coupe as Marvin lowered the window part way for a better look at the merchandise.

"You wanna give me a ride?" another of the boys asked, standing sideways to the Benz and suggestively cocking his hip.

Marvin's gaze traveled impassively over the two kids who'd spoken. The one with his hip thrust out looked to be sixteen or seventeen, his hair slicked back in a greasy do. Not what he wanted. The other one, a carroty redhead of about the same age, wasn't much more appealing.

"Aw, Daddy's cranky," the carrot-top sassed. "He must need his cock sucked."

The ‘daddy' was more than a little off-putting, but Marvin didn't let it bother him too much. That didn't mean he was old. It was probably just how the rent boys addressed most of their clients, who like him, would have aged out of the club scene. The redhead was right about what he needed though, at least in part, Marv allowed, taking a closer look at the boy. He might do if there weren't any better prospects.

"Nah." A scrawny kid with ratty-looking brown hair elbowed his way to the front. "I bet what he really wants is some prime young cock to suck, right?" Tilting his narrow hips forward, he locked eyes with Marvin.

God forbid. This one was even younger than the others. And a hustler would have to be something special before Marv did the cocksucking.

"You want tasty young dick, you want mine," came a cocky, self-assured proclamation. 

Along with everyone else, Marvin focused on the boy strutting out of an alley behind where the rent boys were stationed. The initially indistinct image resolved into a black-haired young man with bright blue eyes, who was zipping up his jeans as he neared the other hustlers.

This was more like it, Marv thought, his loins quickening with interest. This one might be the ‘special' he hadn't really expected to find. In spite of the nip to the air at this time of night, the young man was wearing a cropped wife beater, which displayed his biceps and six-pack to advantage. The scanty A-shirt didn't seem to be purely for effect either since Marvin couldn't discern any goosebumps on the dark-haired kid's bare skin as he came closer. 

"Just ask him," the hustler recommended as a john with a satiated look on his face stumbled out of the alley behind him. His graying hair was disordered, sticking up in messy tufts, like the dark-haired kid had been tugging on it while the man sucked his dick.

The other curb-crawler didn't need to say anything as he staggered over to a Camaro parked a little way up the street. His disarray, heavy-lidded expression and the way he was licking his lips, as if chasing down every single morsel, made it clear the boy was just as good as advertised.

"Fuck off, Ry," the redhead protested. "I saw him first."

‘Ry' rolled his eyes. "This isn't finders keepers, Jace. But it's definitely gonna be losers weepers."

While Ry was correct - he was unquestionably the one Marvin was gonna take with him - there was no sense displaying favoritism and driving up the cost. Face impassive, Marv waited for the hustler's next move. 

"You can suck my dick for a bill," Ry offered, his tone magnanimous, like he was making a special deal.

Even though he wanted to suck the boy's cock - badly - that wasn't all Marvin wanted.

"You don't want sloppy seconds, do you, man?" one of the other boys sneered. "Mine's fresh; I don't give it away to just anyone. And it'll only cost you fifty bucks."

That started off a cacophony of pushing and shoving as the hustlers tried to outmaneuver each other.

Marvin maintained an uninterested expression, relishing the way the rent boys were vying for his business.

"You wanna play?" boldly flirted the one named Ry. "You can do me and my friend." Hooking his arm around the neck of the boy who'd offered up his cock for fifty, he lifted an eyebrow at Marvin. "We're fucking hot together; you won't find better." 

Up till now, Marv hadn't even entertained the thought of a threesome, but the blond Ry had in a loose chokehold wasn't bad-looking and like Ry looked older than the others. The idea of the two of them lavishing attention on him until the morning? Yeah, he liked that a lot.

His facade cracking a little, Marvin couldn't help but run his tongue across his bottom lip. God, he couldn't wait to taste Ry. He might even have the blond suck him off at the same time.

"We'll cut you a deal even," Ry continued his pitch. "One fifty and my buddy'll suck you while you suck me."

Jesus, that was his fantasy come to life.

Right then, someone yelled out from the building behind them, "Shut it or I'm gonna call the cops!" That was followed by the sound of a window slamming shut.

"Cops?" Marvin squeaked. He was too nervous to feel embarrassed by the tinny pitch at which his voice emerged. Perspiration immediately beaded on his forehead, and sweat pooled in his armpits.

No way was he hanging around till the cops showed up. He'd just have to chalk up this visit to Liberty Avenue as a loss. He gunned the gas but didn't go anywhere, the front tire of the Benz scraping against the curb when he turned the wheel in the wrong direction. Fuck, he had to get out of here before the police swarmed the area.

"Hey, hey, hey. Take it easy, buddy," Ry tried to calm him as sweat rolled down his face. "No cops are gonna come down to Liberty just to collar a coupla rent boys."

His hands clenched around the steering wheel, Marvin's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He eased up on the gas pedal, the rubber of the tire no longer grinding against the cement.

"I've got what you want," Ry drawled, his voice deep and soothing as he gave Marv a slow once-over. "I wanna give it to you, Daddy."

Marv relaxed some more, taking his foot completely off the gas. That sounded good, especially after the fiasco with Kinney. Only one thing was needed to make it absolutely perfect.

The confidence and blatant sexuality oozing out of the hot, dark-haired kid made Marvin imagine that this was what Brian must've been like, say twelve years ago. It also made him long for something he knew the adman would never have gone for. Marvin wouldn't normally either, but since he'd be doing the pitching...

"How much to fuck raw?" he asked bluntly. 

Ry played coy. "You clean?" he retorted cheekily.

The question amused Marvin, momentarily diverting him from a genuine concern about whether the streetwalkers were clean. Not that he was likely to get HIV even if they were infected since he'd be the one doing the fucking. There was still a risk though.

"Just got tested," he claimed. So what if it had been months ago. He'd barely had a chance to get his dick sucked since then.

"You?" he challenged.

"No disease," Ry replied smoothly, his buddy nodding along in agreement. "Nice and clean."

Although Marv wasn't sure he'd follow through with it, he was incredibly tempted. He'd wanted to try fucking raw for a long time. 

He'd just opened his mouth to dicker over the cost when the scraggly, brown-haired kid - the runt of the bunch - blurted, "Bullshit."

Ry's head swiveled toward the other boy like the turret on a tank, and the runt audibly gulped. Then he relaxed, laughing easily as if the younger boy had made a joke. "Don't pay him no never mind," Ry drawled.

"Yeah," one of the others threw in, curling his lip at the runt. "He's just chickenshit 'cause he's never-" The boy cackled and drew air quotes as he finished, "-done it."

Yeah, right. Did they take him for an easy dupe? Marvin figured the speaker must be pranking him... until the runt's gaze skittered nervously away. 

Jesus. Excitement surged through him. If the teen was a virgin and would let Marvin plow him raw, it'd be worth twice what he had in his wallet. He'd never fucked a virgin before. And to do it raw... 

He drowned out Ry's hissed, "Shut up," with a loud, "Hey, kid."

It evidently wasn't clear who he meant because all the boys looked at him eagerly. "Me?" a towhead asked, moving closer to the Mercedes. "Two bills and-"

"Not you," Marvin said impatiently. He pointed a finger at the runt. "The one with the shaggy hair. You."

"M- me?" the youngster spluttered.

"Yeah, you." The index finger of his right hand still sighted on the apparent virgin, Marvin held up the wad of C-notes that he'd tucked under his thigh in case he needed to flash some greenbacks as incentive.

"Five hundred. Bareback."

It probably wasn't the best idea to wave around that kind of cash, but the car doors were locked and he could peel out of here in a sec if anyone got too aggressive.

Although he eyed the cash avariciously, the runt looked like he was on the verge of doing a runner, all his cockiness vanishing. He even took a step back, treading on the toes of the boy behind him. Marv couldn't hear what the stepped-on kid said, but it clearly wasn't complimentary, based on how he shoved the younger boy forward. That was fine by Marvin; it just brought his target closer. 

"Nuh-uh, man," the boy objected, his voice quavering. "Fifty to blow me or one hundred for me to blow you, no condom needed. One hundred for me to fuck you or two hundred for you to fuck me - with a condom. That's it."

The kid must be having second thoughts. Marvin hated to give up on the fantasy of fucking a virgin raw, but he was a little bothered by how young the boy looked. Maybe he should just-

Before he could complete the thought, a towhead volunteered, "I'll do it," pushing aside the younger boy. "That's a lot of bread."

"Fuck off, Kev," growled Ry's sidekick, in turn hip-checking the interloper. "He's ours. Me and Ry."

He should just let this play out, Marvin realized as he watched the boys jostle for position. Popping the runt's cherry or plowing Ry and his friend; it would work out to his benefit either way.

"No, he's mine." Apparently rediscovering his mojo, the virgin resumed a cocky stance and looked Marv dead in the eye. "It'll cost you a K though, if you wanna do me raw."

"Christ. Virgin ass ain't worth nowhere near that much," Ry jeered, the towhead muttering, "No shit," in agreement.

When the boy's gaze slid away from him, Marvin estimated he still could bolt at any moment. This required a different approach than the hard bargaining he'd been planning on with Ry. Marv was pretty sure both he and Ry would've gotten a kick out of haggling over price for the proposed threesome, but the dark-haired kid didn't look at all desperate for patrons. He could probably pick and choose. In comparison, the young, shaggy-headed kid looked pretty desperate and was doubtless hungry for a big payout.

He'd bet the kid wanted to drive up the price - he was going to give up his V-card and do it raw, after all - but Marvin wasn't about to enter into protracted bargaining. Nope, it was time to seal the deal. Forget driving a hard bargain; rather than lose out on this opportunity, he'd make an offer the virgin couldn't refuse.

"Fifteen hundred," Marvin upped the ante, his voice bland. He could go even higher - he had more than that in his billfold - but it shouldn't be necessary.

The runt froze, and so did everyone else.

Marvin smiled, pleased by the effect of his bombshell.

"Uh, you, uh, got that much on you?" the runt finally spluttered.

It was Marvin's turn to freeze, unable to believe the boy's audacity. How dare he question Marv being good for it?

A snicker, accompanied by, "He ain't got that much," from somewhere in the back of the group further pissed off Marv.

Another boy chimed in, "Even if he did, he's not gonna spend it on your ass," the comment clearly directed at Marvin's prey.

Fifteen hundred was nothing. To prove it, Marvin extracted his wallet, held it up sideways, and fanned the banknotes.

The kid's eyes widened and he licked his lips, in what Marv took for an anxious mannerism, before nodding. "O-kay," he got out, his voice breaking. 

Finally, Marvin thought in satisfaction, crooking a finger at the boy in a clear signal to get his ass over to the car.

Despite finally conceding, the runt tarried a moment longer, staring down at the sidewalk and scuffing the toe of one sneaker against the cement, apparently absorbed by the weeds growing through a crack.

Marvin sighed. Christ, even for a virgin this was ridiculous. He was a rent boy, for fuck's sake. The teen's indecisiveness had Marvin again reappraising whether he should just go with the younger version of Brian. That would be way less trou-

But then the teenager moved closer, elbowing the scowling towhead out of the way and jogging around the hood of the car.

As soon as Marvin released the lock on the passenger door, the kid yanked it open.

"No condom," Marv reiterated, his voice hard, wanting to be sure the terms of their agreement were understood. "Or no money."

His fingers still clasping the door handle, the boy hesitated. 

"I'm barely broke in," one of the other street hustlers interjected, leaning against the Benz. "You'd have more fun with me, Daddy." He turned to his buddies for corroboration. "Right?"

Before confirmation could come, the shaggy-haired boy jumped in and slammed the door closed, immediately reaching over to hit the button on the console that locked all the doors. Quiet snicks confirming the locks were engaged, the teen urged, "Let's go, dude."

Marv smiled smugly as he put the car in gear.

With a kick at the front tire, the teen backed away from the car, a smirk on his face. 

Marv didn't even have time to wonder why the towhead looked so amused, the tire the kid had just kicked grinding against the curb and emitting a squealing noise.

The boy sitting next to him let out a muffled snicker.

Shit. He'd completely forgotten what had happened during his panic about the police turning up. Marvin belatedly steered the car away from the curb and into the street, but not before there was another squeal from the overtaxed rubber. 

Derisive whistles came from the gang of hustlers, along with a snide, "Don't waste your time, Daddy. You'll be sorry." 

More catcalls floated after them as they finally got underway.

"...take your money..." 

"You don't want any of that..."

Marvin ignored all of it, grunting irritably, "Cheap tires." 

His companion coughed, the sound oddly choked.

Face burning, Marvin stared out the windshield at the road.

Just under thirty minutes later, Marvin was frowning down at the snoozing boy, repeating, "Hey, kid," for the third time as he reached out to give him a shake. The boy should've started earning his fee on the way to the motel, but Marv had felt an upwelling of sympathy when he noticed how cold and tired the kid looked, the smudges under his eyes suggesting he hadn't gotten much sleep lately. Instead of insisting that the hustler stroke him off or go down on him, Marvin had notched up the heat and turned the seat warmer on under the kid. The kid hadn't stirred when Marvin got out to check in or when he returned to the car. Not that Marv minded; he'd never had any intention of mentioning his ‘guest.'

The boy had slumbered on while Marvin pulled around to the back of the motel, where he'd secured a room with a king-size bed well away from the main entrance. 

Now it was time for the hustler to show his appreciation. 

The youngster mumbled an indecipherable protest and flailed about with his arms, connecting with Marvin's cheek, directly below his right eye.

Marv, who hadn't been expecting to be attacked, took a step back and reached up to touch his face. Shit, that really stung. How was he going to explain it if he ended up with a black eye?

Pissed off, he growled, "You like it rough?"

The boy opened muddy blue eyes, and after a moment turned a confused gaze on Marvin.

"Kid?" Marvin harangued the youngster, "You want it rough, you can take a hike and I'll go get one of your pals instead." Rationally, he knew the boy striking him had nothing to do with rough bed sport, but it still ticked him off - he wasn't into any kind of BDSM. He should've stuck with Ry, Marvin castigated himself; this kid was more trouble than he was worth.

The rent boy's eyes darted from side to side, making it obvious he was trying to figure out where they were.

Jesus. Did the kid think Marv had spirited him off to a mountain hideaway or something? The noise of semis rumbling past should make it clear they weren't out in the sticks somewhere.

"Where are we?" the kid asked, apparently unable to figure out they were near the freeway.

Marv jerked a thumb to the left, where a Motel 6 sign could be seen looming over them.

If the sign wasn't enough, the rumble of an airplane descending should help the twerp figure out they were just off the I-376, right next to the airport.

The boy momentarily looked embarrassed, but then, a cocksure smile stealing over his face, he reached out a slightly shaky hand. His fingers stroking along Marvin's fly, he asked in a challenging tone, "You want me to suck you off here?"

Marvin's breath hitched and his dick plumped up as the rent boy fondled him. The hustler might still be a virgin but he knew how to arouse a client - with nothing more than a few deft touches to Marv's crotch.

Enjoying the sensation - it was about time he got some attention - Marvin glanced down at the hustler.

The kid batted his eyes flirtatiously, which should've just aroused him more but instead had Marvin considering how young he looked. The world-weary air might've disguised it before, but now the boy seemed really young - too young.

"How old are you?" he belatedly inquired, a muscle ticking in his jaw. 

The way the kid's lips were pressed together, he was pretty sure the boy was hiding a laugh. 

"Old enough, Daddy," the boy murmured, his fingers closing on the tab to his zipper.

Marv flinched and batted his hand away. "Show me some ID," he demanded. He couldn't help panicking. What if the kid somehow tracked him down afterward and sicced the law on him? He knew that wasn't likely - this was a rent boy, not a narc, and he had no idea who Marvin was. Even so, he needed to be reassured that he wouldn't be held culpable if he was questioned by the police. He didn't want to get nailed for dipping his wick into a minor.

The kid heaved a long-suffering sigh and reached into his baggy jeans, taking his sweet time. What felt like an hour later, he finally produced a ratty-looking canvas billfold, undoing the Velcro fastener and flipping it open to show Marvin his ID.

Marvin squinted at the photo through the cracked plastic pane, looking between the ID and the boy. The ID looked real enough. It wasn't like the kid was claiming to be twenty-one, or even eighteen. The date on the junior driver's license put the boy at just over seventeen.

Marvin scrutinized the boy, who was now sitting up straight, staring directly at him. Maybe he was just a young-looking seventeen? 

"Seventeen, huh?" he inquired skeptically. 

The boy merely nodded, seeming unbothered.

Marvin, however, was bothered, his conscience twinging. If the ID was accurate, this boy was the same age as Thomas, his son with a bright future at Harvard come the next academic year. It made him feel queasy - the notion that he was about to fuck someone his son's age. 

This boy was nothing like Thomas though. Thomas was a good kid. Even if he weren't straight as an arrow, his son would never trawl the streets for a john to fuck him - all for a bit of cash.

But still. This kid was awfully young. He could still return the boy to the place where he'd picked him up. Marv's conscience prodded him to do just that; see if Ry - with or without his friend - was still around and return to the motel with him. They'd have a good time, and he wouldn't have to feel like he was performing some kind of questionable deed. Borderline sick if the boy was just over sixteen instead of seventeen.

That was still legal though, Marvin reminded himself. Seventeen was better, but sixteen was legal. His mind skated away from the notion that the kid might be under sixteen; he wouldn't be out on the street then, right? He'd be in a foster home, like he should be anyway.

Or maybe he was in foster care, his surrogate parents clueless that the kid was earning money by hustling. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to Marvin that must be the case. From what he'd heard, the commonwealth's fosterage system was a good one, with a solid record of placement for kids of all ages. The teenager smirking up at him was probably one of those troubled ones that it was nearly impossible to help.

Ignoring his conscience, which gave one last pang, conjuring up vague reports about throwaway kids and underage prostitution, he decided there was no reason to press the point. It wasn't Marvin's fault if the teen chose to be out on the street hustling. Really, it was a wonder that someone hadn't already relieved the cocky little shit of his virginity. Since it was going to happen sooner or later, it might as well be him that did it, Marv justified what he was about to do.

"Good enough," he announced, blowing out a heavy breath and motioning for the seventeen-year-old to get out of the car. "You can call me Marv."

The boy didn't return the favor of giving Marvin his name, which Marv had forgotten to check for while perusing his driver's license. Shrugging, the hustler flipped his wallet shut, refastened the Velcro tab and shoved it back into his trousers as he clambered out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him.

Marvin gave a mental shrug of his own as he led the way into the hotel, pressing the key fob to lock the Mercedes behind them. It might be nice to address the teenager with something besides ‘hey, kid,' but this was a one-off. He didn't plan to ply the rent boy with more business in the future. 

A few miles east of the Motel 6, Brian eyed Muncher Villa from where he sat in the jeep, reclining against the driver's door, his long legs propped up on the passenger seat. Taking another toke from the joint in his hand - it was dwindling fast - he studied the windows for a glimmer of light.

Except for the dim porch lamp, the house looked to be totally dark, the girls presumably already in bed. An evil smile crossed his face as he determined at the first opportunity to razz Smelly Melly about turning into an old fart who went to bed as soon as the sun was down. He was positive that one of the reasons the bulldyke was constantly nagging at him was because, unlike her, Brian was still footloose and fancy-free. That meant an ‘innocent' remark was bound to get her goat.

One more puff and Brian stubbed out the roach in the ashtray, where it joined the remnants of its predecessor, before retracting his legs and squirming around until he was upright in the driver's seat. The weed had taken the edge off a fucking rotten night and he really should just leave, Brian thought, reaching for the key that he'd left dangling from the ignition. 

Fuck it, he decided, removing the key and climbing out of the jeep. He wanted to see his blonde friend - and his son, if the tot wasn't sound asleep in his crib. Besides, he should probably give his marijuana-induced buzz a little time to wear off before he drove home. After dealing with Telson and then the bellhop, he needed something that would make him feel less scummy. His son, who Brian doted on although he tried not to show it, fit the bill perfectly. He even had a ready-made excuse for stopping by so late if need be; he could apologize for blowing off dinner - regardless of never having any genuine intention of dining with the bulldyke. 

A couple beats later, Brian pushed open the picket gate at the bottom of the walkway leading to Lezzie Manor, the flowers at the top of the wooden trellis brushing against his hair. Great, now he was gonna smell like an overly perfumed queen. Emmett would love it, Brian thought; he'd probably name it something ridiculous like ‘Eau de Honeycutt.'

Several long strides took him to the porch, and eschewing the stairs, he placed one boot firmly on the wooden boards and heaved himself up. Wincing a little, he realized it maybe hadn't been the best idea to lead with his injured foot, which was starting to throb again.

He considered leaning on the bell but stopped himself. That would be kinda rude, he decided fuzzily, rapping on the door instead. He waited a couple seconds, and when there was no response, knocked harder. If the munchers were munching - gross! - they could damn well take a break.

Finally, the lights came on and a tired-looking blonde wrapped up in a bathrobe, bags under her eyes and hair flattened on one side, pushed aside one of the curtains that covered the windows in the French doors. Her nostrils flaring, she issued a tart comment about the kitchen being closed and let the curtain fall before walking away. 

No biggie; Brian knew just how to untwist her panties. Metaphorically, of course. The days when he'd been more literal were far in the past. He wasn't even gonna ask why she had a lacy bra on under her robe. It didn't seem conducive to munching - blech - but what did he know? Maybe it was some kind of lezzie kink.

He knocked again and when Linds immediately returned - it was inevitable that she would - he apologized for missing dinner with a sweet smile. A brief, inane conversation later, he was in the house, his friend offering him food.

He didn't really mind saying sorry to Linds - as long as no one else was around. It always softened her up, even if there was a bit of resistance this time, and got Brian whatever he wanted. He needn't feel guilty about it since the blond was equally good at manipulating him. 

Case in point - the son he was stealthily climbing the stairs to look in on while Linds put together something for him to eat. After carefully avoiding the creaky step at the top, he slipped into his son's room and peered down at the tyke.

Turned out his son was awake and bestowed a gummy smile on Brian.

"Wanna keep your old man company, Sonnyboy?" Brian asked softly.

His offspring smiled wider in what Brian took as a yes.

He carefully lifted Gus out of the crib and padded back downstairs with him in his arms, again deftly avoiding the creaky step. Thankfully, his sonnyboy was quiet, not letting out a peep. The last thing Brian needed was to rouse the bulldyke and have her start spitting vitriol at him. 

As he sat down on the sofa, Brian kicked off his left ankle boot and then, an arm around Gus, he gingerly removed the shoe on his right foot. The injury had started twinging a little on the way down the stairs, and Brian wanted nothing more than to get the damned Prada boots off. He'd thought about getting rid of his boots before he retrieved his son, but fuck knew what the girls might have left lying around. Something way worse than a bobby pin, that was for sure.

Moments after his boots were off, Brian was also freed from his socks, giving his wounded foot a chance to breathe. Swinging his legs up, Brian sank into the couch, his son held securely against his chest.

Brian breathed in the scent of baby Gus, and something in him settled. He was certain now that he'd made the right decision regarding Telson. If Gus ever broke his arm, Brian would be there as quickly as he could.

It crossed Brian's mind that his naive best friend would be proud of him, not that he intended to enlighten Mikey about what had happened. He'd done it for Gus, not Mikey. Lindsay would get why, but he wasn't about to tell her either and have her coo all over him like he was the greatest thing since sliced bread. She already thought that anyway.

There was someone else who would be proud of him, he mused. His stalker. Justin, who didn't even know Telson existed, would be proud of Brian. He wouldn't be as naive as Mikey - at seventeen, he already understood better how the world worked - but Brian suspected Justin would also want him to do something to change the outcome. Scratch want; he'd expect Brian to do something about it.

"Remember that kid who named you, Sonnyboy?" Brian asked, his voice low.

Sucking at the thumb in his mouth, Gus made a noise that could've been assent.

Brian knew the tot, who was all of six weeks old, couldn't possibly remember, but that didn't matter.

With a quick glance around to make sure Linds was still in the kitchen, he continued, "Daddy had to think about Justin to get it up tonight, Sonnyboy."

That wasn't one hundred percent true - he could've pulled up a picture of some other hot guy from his spank bank - but somehow, he'd landed on the blond. Probably because the kid kept stalking him, even succeeding in getting Brian to let him stay at the loft last night. 

Brian still wasn't entirely sure how that had happened; yet again, the blond had deflected all of Brian's snark. No matter what he said, Justin always came back, asking for more, for better from him. It was almost enough to make Brian wonder if some of his truisms were really true.

Gus patted his cheek with a damp hand.

Brought back to the point he'd been making, Brian solemnly informed his son, "Thinking about the blond did get me hard." Instantly in fact, although he still hadn't quite been able to imagine it was the lithe, enthusiastic, silky-skinned blond beneath him as he fucked the bellboy.

Gus smiled at him around the thumb he'd just popped back into his mouth.

The weed making him maudlin, Brian wished Justin would be at the loft when he got home. Justin was the antithesis of the Altoona creeper... all clean and shiny like a new penny; he hadn't yet been tarnished by Brian or the seamy side of Pittsburgh's gay scene. Above all, Justin was honest about who he was. Okay, maybe not with his parents, but that was understandable. 

Brian winced, remembering how he'd screamed up to St. James in his jeep, unmasking the boy in an excessively cruel fashion. Regardless, Justin hadn't flipped out on Brian for outing him in front of that hellhole of a Catholic school; instead, he'd handled it with what Brian was coming to recognize as typical ballsiness. There was no question in his mind however that Justin was getting lots of flak about it.

"Guess I'll just have to make it up to him, right, Sonnyboy?" Brian murmured, a plan forming.

All Brian would have to do was swing by St. James tomorrow afternoon and the lad would come running. 

Gus gave him a big, drooly smile of agreement.

Marvin stirred on the bed, gradually becoming aware that he must've fallen asleep on top of the rent boy, who was now squirming underneath him. He smiled smugly, thinking how much the kid had liked it. It was a good thing that he'd asked for a room far away from any other occupants, what with the way the boy had squealed and begged the whole time, obviously loving having his tight little hole plugged.

Maybe the hustler was ready for another round. Marvin groped for the kid, but his hand came up empty. What the fuck? He slitted one eye open, only to discover that the boy was on his way to the bathroom. That was okay. He probably just wanted to use the john and would be back in a minute. Or maybe he wanted to take a shower. Marvin was willing to allow that; the boy could stand to clean up. He'd smelled ripe as soon as he took off his jacket a little bit ago.

Marv eyed the teenager's backside critically. His ass was a little flat - it could use some fleshing out - but it was firm and taut and had provided just the right kind of welcome. Enough so that it had spurred him into inviting the kid to join him for a threesome the next time Marvin was in town.

He frowned in thought. What was the name the kid had given him? Hunter, that was it. He'd seemed strangely hesitant to reveal it, making Marvin wonder if the teen was going to pull a fast one, palming him off with a fake name. He'd stuttered out the first syllable of a name that sounded like it started with either a ‘G' or a ‘J' but then sighed and said Marv should ask for Hunter; that was apparently the name everyone knew him by.

Then Hunter had immediately segued into bargaining about his ‘wage' for going raw again during the prospective threesome.

Given how into getting fucked the hustler had been - and how nice and tight he was - Marv hadn't quibbled about laying out another fifteen hundred for the event. He'd even been oddly proud of the kid's negotiating skills. Hunter had started out asking for two K, dickering passionately until they agreed on fifteen hundred, with Marvin getting the impression that was the hustler's goal all along.

Even so, Marvin wanted another test drive to confirm whether the boy merited that kind of outlay. One more time should do it. Or maybe two. Marvin hadn't felt this invigorated in years, and his flight wasn't till ten thirty, so there was plenty of time for a couple more rounds. As long as the boy proved his worth sufficiently, Marv would even spring for a taxi to take Hunter back into Pittsburgh.

It was more than a little annoying that he'd have to swing by that seedy area of Liberty Avenue to find Hunter on his next visit, but the teen apparently didn't have any kind of phone or regular access to one. Marvin toyed with the idea of buying Hunter a prepaid cell phone in the morning - even at an airport kiosk where the price would be jacked up, a phone with sixty minutes on it wouldn't cost much - but then he dismissed the idea. He didn't want the teen to start thinking he'd caught a sugar daddy. That aside, Marv knew nothing about the kid other than that he was good in the sack. He'd probably lose the phone or burn up the minutes chatting with his johns, so there was no point in wasting the money.

In any case, it might not be so bad to revisit the rent boys' hangout. If Hunter wasn't around, maybe that Ry kid would be there. Or both of them. Add in the ‘guest' Marvin had in mind, and it could be his first ever threesome - or foursome. He'd bet that was the kind of thing his guest indulged in all the time - threesomes and mini orgies. It would be a nice surprise for him as well as demonstrating Marvin's generosity in giving him another chance to prove how smart he was.

Marvin slipped into a daydream about a twofer - Kinney followed by a rent boy. Brian might think he had Marv by the balls because no client was going to blab about failing to get a little ass on the side, but by the same token, Kinney wasn't going to say anything either. If Brian didn't fall in line the next time he was in town, he'd let Ryder know that the pitch was lousy, without saying exactly what was wrong with it. He'd have Marty thinking twice about whether Kinney really was his top adman.

His contemplations were interrupted when he heard the toilet flush and then the sound of water running in the sink. Setting aside the daydream - there was plenty of time to refine it - he closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep, anticipating how the boy would start the next round. Maybe he'd suck-

Instead of a dip in the mattress followed by the covers being pulled back and a wet mouth at his groin, Marvin heard rustling noises, which were followed by a blast of cold air. What the heck?

Marv unobtrusively cracked an eye open to check what was going on, only to catch the rent boy easing out the door, a tear trailing down his cheek. Before Marvin could yell at him to get back here where he belonged, the door snicked quietly shut.

Outraged that the hustler would leave so precipitously, Marvin reared up in the bed, ready to go get the hustler and haul him back to the room. But then he paused, shoulders slumping. If the boy pitched a fit, that might wake other occupants of the Cheapo 6 and ruin his efforts to keep this on the down-low.

His head swiveled toward the TV stand cum dresser where he'd left the money, counting out the C-notes while the boy stripped for him. Sure enough, the cash was gone.

His hands fisted as he fumed about the little ingrate. The boy damned well knew the money was for the whole night, not just one fuck.

The tear trailing down the boy's cheek as he'd snuck out just fueled Marvin's anger. Marv might not be a hot, young fag, but he was an attractive, reasonably fit man for all that he was rapidly approaching his golden years. Even though he was paying the boy, he'd made sure he got off.

He took his time preparing the kid and making it good for him. He'd even sucked him off. Okay, that had been mostly for him - the kid tasted delicious - but the hustler came twice before Marvin allowed himself to come; what more could he want? Hunter could've hooked a real perv for his first time, someone who'd ram into him without any consideration or get off on beating him up. Really, the boy was lucky no one had insisted on more than a blowjob before now.

Fuck him, Marvin decided, fuming. Hunter would be used goods by the time Marv made it back to Pittsburgh. He'd rather spend the money on Ry anyhow. Already well on his way to forgetting about the scrawny hustler, he began anticipating his next adventure.

Two Brian's, he thought, licking his lips.