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.

While Brian was occupied with the bellboy, over in the heart of the gay district, a group of young hustlers was joking around, boasting about their conquests and playfully shoving at each other. Except for Ryan, the only one of them with a customer right now. And him, Hunter thought unhappily. Like usual, he was loitering on the edge of the group, hugging his threadbare jacket close and fruitlessly trying to shield himself from the cold wind whipping down Liberty Avenue. 

He needed to score something better that would keep him warm this winter, but he didn't dare go to the Salvation Army or St. Vincent de Paul stores; they'd for sure call family services on him. They might mean well by making the call, but Hunter'd had enough of the group home and didn't want to end up there again.

Not that he'd be visiting one of the thrift shops where the staff wasn't so likely to turn him in anytime soon; first he'd have to score with a john. It was looking less and less probable that that would happen tonight, the intermittent drizzle and chill in the air keeping clients away. 

He hated that hustling was his only option to earn some serious change, but what the fuck else was he gonna do? Mow lawns for the neighbors? Hunter snorted; the homeless guys in the camp under the Arlington Avenue trolley bridge weren't gonna give a flying fuck about having the grass mowed.

With no fixed address and no way for anyone to contact him, he could hardly earn money as a paperboy either. Besides, that would only bring in peanuts; these days newspapers were being delivered by car, not by kids pedaling around on bikes.

A burst of laughter from the other hustlers had Hunter glancing over at them. He sighed, quickly looking away before anyone caught him staring and started picking on him; he was a favorite target when business was slow. He was younger than the rest of the boys and didn't really fit in. Part of that was inexperience, which would be easy enough to change - but the thought of actually getting fucked by a john scared him. Besides being majorly concerned about disease, Hunter worried that he might really get hurt. He was on the small side; it wouldn't take much for his ass to get torn up. Or a john might get heavy-handed with him and do more than just slap him around. That had happened to pretty much all the other boys, even Ryan, at least once. Of course, a client could turn violent over a handjob or a blowjob, but it wasn't as likely.

Back when he'd first hit the streets, a couple of the boys had offered to fuck him so that his first time would be with someone he knew. Hunter had been shit scared about anal sex - honestly, he still was - and was rude in his refusal, which he now regretted. He still wouldn't want it to be Ryan - even if it meant the ‘leader' of the pack of boys would treat him better - but Jace might have been okay. The only redhead in the group had been pretty friendly until Hunter told him he wouldn't fuck him even if they were the last two people on earth.

Naturally, that had killed the possibility of any kind of friendship with Jace and also left Hunter on the outs with all the boys, the others copying Ryan and giving him the cold shoulder when they weren't tormenting him.

It might be too late with Jace, but even if it was painful and he did get torn up, maybe he should just get it over with the next time a john asked him. Maybe it would be enough for the other boys to consider him one of them, especially if he apologized to Jace and told him he wished he'd taken him up on it - which he already did. As matters stood, he didn't really know any of the others, not even how they'd ended up on the street. Maybe the same as what happened to him? They all seemed like rejects, just like Hunter.

Before he ran away from the group home, none of the prospective foster parents had looked at him twice. Sometimes, Hunter couldn't help thinking that he should have toughed it out; at least he got three meals a day and a warm place to sleep, but it was discouraging to be overlooked and to listen to the do-gooder social workers who kept saying to ‘give it time.' Everyone wanted a sweet young kid, not a teenager with a chip on his shoulder. The only foster parents who'd even consider taking in someone like him would only be doing it for the fosterage allotment or to have someone to look after their own squalling brats.

The group home had been overcrowded with too many kids awaiting placements that never came. Hunter had felt like he was in military school or something, meals and activities strictly regimented and constantly being told to do this or that, with lights out at eight sharp. It was like he was five years old - not that he'd had a set sleep time back then - and he never adjusted to the ridiculously early lights out.

Even with the ‘curfew' and all the other shit, it still might beat hustling, he acknowledged. Hunter hated hustling, even if he was only giving handjobs and sucking cock. Getting his cock sucked was okay, although Hunter would rather beat himself off. The tricks usually wanted him to watch while they were going down on him, staring up at him in a grossly fascinated way, slurping and sucking like he was some big lollipop.

What really grossed him out was giving blowjobs. Spunk hardly tasted good; it was already bad enough having to stick his nose in some loser's crotch, never mind drink the stuff down. A lot of johns had terrible hygiene, but they still figured they had every right to cram their dick down a hustler's throat, half choking him, their hairy balls smooshed against his chin.

Bizarrely, some of the boys claimed spooge was tasty. Hunter would have been sure they were lying, but he got paid by johns who wanted to suck his cock and they, like, always swallowed. Hunter did too, when he was giving a blowjob, but that was because it was what the punter expected. He was supposed to act like he'd never tasted anything better when all he really wanted to do was spit it out and then rinse his mouth with Listerine.

Hunter's mouth screwed up as he thought about the salty, bitter taste, like fish that had gone off. If he went beyond blowjobs and started letting stinky old farts fuck him, someone was bound to want him to eat their ass out. That would be way worse than-

He was rescued from thoughts of rim jobs when a bright red Mercedes Benz coupe slowed down, pulled over to the curb next to him and the other boys and stopped, engine idling. The streetlight hit the glass at the wrong angle, making it difficult to see into the car.

Was the man looking at him? Hunter was torn between attracting the john's attention and letting one of the others reel him in. His empty stomach clenching settled matters. If he didn't score soon, he wouldn't even be able to afford a cup of coffee. 

Holding up a hand to block the glare, Hunter squinted in an effort to see what the john looked like. It didn't really matter - he'd do the guy regardless - but it would be nice if the punter wasn't a fat slob or a complete troll.

In case the guy was eyeing him, Hunter popped his thumb into his mouth and sucked on it, simulating a blowjob and acting as if he couldn't wait to have the punter down his throat. For fifty bucks, he'd suck off the scumbag.

Unfortunately, he wasn't the only one who wanted that fifty.

"Nice ride, Daddy," Jace purred as he sauntered over to the coupe, the driver lowering the window part way.

Yuck, Hunter couldn't help thinking. He knew most johns got off on being called ‘daddy,' but it seriously gave him the creeps.

The man lowered the window further, allowing Hunter to get a better look at him. Old and gray-haired, but he wasn't horribly fat or gross, he thought as he jockeyed for a better spot. He wouldn't have a chance of hooking the john if the geezer couldn't even see him.

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

The man's gaze traveled impassively over Chad, his disinterest plain. Chad was the homeliest of the boys and a little stocky, so he wasn't as successful as the rest of the older teens.

Even so, there was no reason for the punter to look at Chad and then the rest of them like that, his gaze sweeping across them dismissively. It was like they weren't people at all, but just so much meat. The john's cold stare sent a shiver of unease down Hunter's spine, making him halt in his tracks.

"Aw, Daddy's cranky," Jace sassed, the man's icy stare apparently not bothering him. "He must need his cock sucked."

Reminding himself that he needed to eat, Hunter summoned the fortitude to make a play for the punter. He put on his most alluring and confident look - although he felt anything but - as he elbowed his way to the front. "Nah," he contradicted Jace, astounded when his voice came out steady and self-assured, "I bet what he really wants is some prime young cock to suck, right?" Tilting his narrow hips forward, he locked eyes with the john.

There was a glint of predatory interest in the man's eyes as he studied Hunter.

Hunter swallowed hard, having trouble standing his ground. The punter gave him the heebie-jeebies.

"You want tasty young dick, you want mine," came a cocky, self-assured proclamation, drawing the john's attention away from Hunter.

Hunter was glad not to be bearing the brunt of that coldly assessing gaze any longer, but his desperation grew the moment he heard that voice. Along with everyone else, he turned his head and watched his nemesis, the one who'd been busy in the alley, strut over to them. Fucking Ryan. The oldest boy had a slender, toned build, black hair and bright blue eyes and usually pulled more clients than the rest of them put together.

"Just ask him," Ryan recommended as a john with a satiated look on his face stumbled out of the alley behind them.

The other curb-crawler didn't need to say anything, his heavy-lidded expression and the way he was licking his lips, as if chasing down every single morsel, made it clear that Ry was just as good as advertised.

Fucking Ryan, Hunter thought again, resenting how easy he made it look. He gave every appearance of enjoying what he did, while Hunter had to fake it every time. Even if he got off, Hunter didn't know if he actually liked cock. The other boys all talked big, so it was hard to tell whether they were really into cock.

If Hunter had a choice, he'd like to try dating a- He quickly shut down that train of thought before he could go any further. It didn't matter what he liked. The money was here on Liberty Avenue, pulling johns.

When he glanced back at the punter, the man's mouth was slightly open, his tongue protruding as he watched Ryan approach. Hunter noted jealously how the older boy's lean, muscled build - biceps and a six-pack - was set off by the cropped wife beater he had on, and even though there was a definite nip to the air at this time of night, Ryan didn't even have gooseflesh. If Hunter had been wearing that A-shirt, he would've looked like a total dweeb. Not only did Ryan have a good five inches on him, Hunter had no muscles to speak of and would've been running his hands up and down his arms in an effort to stay warm.

"Fuck off, Ry," Jace protested. "I saw him first."

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

Directing his attention to the punter, Ryan offered, "You can suck my dick for a bill." His tone was magnanimous, like he was making a special deal with the dude.

How the fuck did Ry do that? Hunter wondered, his jealousy ratcheting up. Given the way the john was smiling, Ryan had him thinking he was eminently desirable - instead of a total troll - and practically eating out of the palm of his hand.

Travis daringly broke the spell, sneering, "You don't want sloppy seconds, do you, man? 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 Hunter and the other hustlers tried to outmaneuver each other for the guy's attention. Hunter, still leery of the way the punter was eyeing them, hung back a little. The creeper looked like he was gonna slurp up whichever one he chose and then spit them into the gutter when he was done. Even Ry was subjected to the same insolent perusal. 

"You wanna play?" boldly flirted Ryan, either not noticing or ignoring the contempt in the john's gaze. "You can do me and my friend." Hooking his arm around Travis' neck, he lifted an eyebrow at the man. "We're fucking hot together; you won't find better." 

His lips parting again, the old guy ran his tongue across the bottom one.

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

Shit, Hunter thought, the geezer was gonna go for Ry and Trav. He shouldn't have let his ambivalence about this particular curb-crawler keep him from making a play for the man. He hadn't pulled anyone in the last couple nights, which meant he'd have to kip in a doorway or something. He was down to practically his last dollar; it was dire enough that he might have to give up his ass.

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?" the john squeaked, his face draining of color as he wrenched at the steering wheel.

Damn, the man was losing his nerve and was going to drive off before Hunter could decide whether to pursue him. He might not really want to pull the punter - or have much of a chance against Ryan - but there'd be no chance at all if the dude left. Traffic had been sparse tonight which was why they were all vying so hard for the troll's business. 

The john must've really been shaken by the idea of the fuzz turning up because the car lurched forward but didn't go anywhere, the front tire scraping against the curb when he turned the wheel in the wrong direction.

"Hey, hey, hey. Take it easy, buddy," Ryan tried to calm the now visibly sweating punter. "No cops are gonna come down to Liberty just to collar a coupla rent boys."

Except for the queer ones, Hunter thought sardonically. Two long-time cops were regulars and got a charge out of handcuffing the boys.

His hands clenched around the steering wheel, the man's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. He slowly relaxed, the rubber of the tire no longer grinding against the cement. Hunter guessed the guy must've collected his wits enough to take his foot off the gas pedal.

"I've got what you want," Ryan drawled, giving the john a slow once-over. "I wanna give it to you, Daddy."

Hunter listened to the older boy enviously. He might be spouting the most trite lines, but it worked almost every time. Never mind that it was what the curb-crawlers wanted to hear, you still had to be convincing to reel them in.

The punter was clearly falling for it, his gaze once more firmly fixed on Ryan. "How much to fuck raw?"

Ry played coy. "You clean?" he bantered, perusing the john like he'd have seen enough action to catch something.

Hunter blanched. He might be considering having anal sex, but raw? What if he ended up HIV positive? He was pretty sure some of the other boys were positive, although he couldn't tell who by looking at them, and no one had up and disappeared or anything. But even if they all acted like it was no big deal, it still scared Hunter. Being positive wasn't necessarily that bad; it wouldn't kill him, but he knew it could lead to Aids - and that was the killer.

Sneaking a glance at the punter, Hunter supposed there wasn't much danger with this guy. He didn't look like he saw much action. But still, it only took one time.

Ryan's question seemed to amuse the punter. "Just got tested," he claimed dryly.

Hunter scowled. Did the john think they were stupid? The john's say-so didn't mean anything without proof, and even a piece of paper wouldn't clear him. He could claim someone else's results as his own, and they'd never know the difference. What were they gonna do - demand to see his driver's license to make sure the names matched? Besides, just about anyone could mock up test results; the forger the hustlers went to for fake IDs whipped out ‘clean' results in no time. The effort was so minimal that he didn't even charge much.

"You?" the john challenged Ryan.

"No disease," Ry replied smoothly. "Nice and clean."

The john might be clean, but Ryan was flat out lying. Small fee or not, Ry practically kept the forger in business all by himself.

The punter was nodding agreeably, as if that were a legitimate, perfectly acceptable answer.

Fuming, Hunter blurted, "Bullshit!"                         

Ryan's head immediately swiveled toward him like the turret on a tank, and Hunter gulped. What the fuck had possessed him to say that? He didn't want to get on Ryan's bad side, any more than he already was.

Head turned away from the john, the older boy laughed easily, as if he'd made a joke, all the while staring daggers at Hunter. "Don't pay him no nevermind," Ryan drawled.

"Yeah," Sean threw in. "He's just chickenshit 'cause he's never-" The boy cackled and drew air quotes as he finished, "-done it."

Shit. If he hadn't opened his big mouth, Sean wouldn't have had any reason to say that.

Hunter blinked in confusion when Ryan hissed, "Shut up," at Sean.

He'd been stewing about how the other boys made fun of him - even if it was mostly his fault - so it took a second for Hunter to understand why the revelation had upset Ryan. The de facto leader of their gang usually jumped right on-

Hunter gulped again. He hadn't been thinking about the punter when he blurted that out, his jealousy of Ryan overwhelming his common sense.

Darting a glance over at the john, Hunter didn't miss the gleam of excitement in his eyes. The guy had probably thought Sean was just making an offhand comment, up until Hunter's gaze skittered nervously away from him. 

His suspicion was confirmed when Ryan's hissed command was largely drowned out by a loud, "Hey, kid," from the john.

All the boys looked at the punter, Hunter hoping he hadn't inadvertently attracted attention he wasn't ready for. "Me?" towheaded Kevin asked, moving closer to the Mercedes. "Two bills and-"

The prospective client cut Kev off. "Not you," he said impatiently. "The one with the shaggy hair. Him." The john pointed a finger at Hunter and stared at him like he was looking down the barrel of a gun.

Finding himself the focus of everyone's attention, Hunter had to resist the urge to flee into the alley behind him. "M- me?" he squeaked nervously. 

To Hunter's dismay, his obvious trepidation only seemed to encourage the john. "Yeah, you." The index finger of his right hand still sighted on Hunter, the man held up a wad of banknotes in his other hand. "Five hundred. Bareback."

He needed the money, no doubt about it, but the john wasn't just talking about anal sex. The man wanted to do it bareback. Hunter considered fleeing down the alley, even taking half a step backward. That didn't get him anywhere, whoever was behind him - probably Chad, who'd faded back from the car when the punter showed zero interest - grumbling, "Dumbass," and shoving him forward, closer to the john.

Hunter muttered, "Sorry," but didn't turn to check that it was Chad he'd stepped on, his gaze riveted by the punter's. He wasn't even sure who he was apologizing to - Chad for stepping on him or himself for getting into this predicament.

He was already in big trouble with his cohorts. His smart-assed ‘bullshit' moments ago was bad enough, but stealing Ryan's trick would compound the problem. Not only was it a sure-fire way to get beat up, he'd almost certainly be banished from this prime hustling spot.

Hunter dithered, enticed by the prospect of a big payout and repelled by the idea of the skeevy punter doing him. Worst of all, he could end up HIV positive, even though the guy seemed like a safe bet.

Not wanting to look like the chickenshit Sean had proclaimed him to be, Hunter quickly reasoned a way out. If he shut down the option of doing it raw, that should make the john lose interest and get Hunter off the hook. His hair flopping into his eyes, he objected, his voice wavering a little, "Nuh-uh, man. 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."

"I'll do it," Kevin volunteered, hip-checking Hunter and pushing him out of the way. "That's a lot of bread."

"Fuck off, Kev," growled Travis, in turn pushing aside the interloper. "He's ours. Me and Ry."

As he watched them jostle for position, Hunter started to have second thoughts. Five bills was a lot of money, and it was unlikely he'd get a better offer to have his cherry popped. You'd think his being a virgin would be a big enough inducement, although the john might think he was being set up; after all, some of the hustlers regularly became born-again virgins.

Maybe if he named a totally outrageous price to do it raw, that would make the punter rethink matters and settle for taking his virginity? "He's mine," Hunter asserted, assuming a cocky stance and staring the john dead in the eye. He just hoped he looked alluring and irresistible, and that the trembling in his arms and legs wasn't visible. "It'll cost you a K though, if you wanna do me raw."

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

The way the man's eyes were boring into him, Hunter was pretty sure the punter was of a different opinion. If he was willing to go for it, he could probably squeeze more out of the perv - a virgin and raw was a big deal, right? 

It sure as heck was a big deal to him. Hunter waffled again, desperate but reluctant. Maybe he should go for it; he was certain he'd never have a chance at a payday like this again.

Before he could decide whether to angle for more, the john upped the ante. "Fifteen hundred," he said, his tone bland, like that amount was spare change.

Hunter felt paralyzed. What the fuck should he do now? He'd never expected the punter to agree to a K, much less tack on another five hundred dollars. But this...

He wished one of the other boys would speak up - give him some idea of how to respond - but they'd apparently been rendered mute too. Did the guy really have that much money to throw around? Hunter wondered suspiciously. The car he was driving and the wad of C-notes he'd held up said he probably did, but on him was another matter.

"Uh, you, uh, got that much on you?" he spluttered.

The icy stare was back on the john's face, the man not moving a muscle.

When the punter didn't say anything, Hunter almost sagged in relief. Thank fuck. Now he was absolved from making a decision.

The other hustlers came back to life, evidently coming to the same conclusion about the money. Hauling around that much dough was practically urban legend, when it came to hiring rent boys anyhow. No one spent that kind of money on them. 

Clothes rustled, shoes scuffed, someone cleared their throat, and there was an indecipherable mutter that nevertheless didn't sound complimentary.

A snicker, accompanied by, "He ain't got that much," from one of the boys - Hunter thought it was Sean - clearly pissed off the curb-crawler, whose features settled into a heavy scowl. He didn't take his eyes off Hunter, though, like it was his fault that the dude didn't have the resources to back up his offer.

Kevin chimed in, "Even if he did, he's not gonna spend it on your ass," schadenfreude at Hunter's misfortune evident in his tone.

Hunter was flabbergasted when the john shifted around in his seat before holding his wallet up to the window, turning it sideways and fanning the thickest wad of banknotes Hunter had ever seen, all of them appearing to be C-notes.

More long seconds ticked by, no one uttering a word, before Hunter licked his lips anxiously and finally nodded. "O-kay," he squeaked, his voice breaking. He just couldn't pass on this opportunity, even with the godawful prospect of what the punter was gonna do to him. 

A self-satisfied smile on his face, the john crooked a finger at Hunter.

Scuffing the toe of his sneaker against the weeds growing through the cracked pavement, Hunter gathered his courage and headed for the Benz, jogging around the hood. He had to elbow Kevin out of the way, catching the vicious scowl on his mug as he did so, but kept his head down to avoid seeing the glares the other boys were undoubtedly directing at him.

When he heard the lock release, Hunter yanked open the passenger door but hesitated when the john reiterated, his voice hard, "No condom. Or no money."

Was he really going to do this? He didn't have to let Mr. Moneybags win. Hunter could still back out and let one of the other kids have the scumball.

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

Something snapped. If he backed out now, Hunter would never hear the end of it - how he'd fucked up a golden opportunity all because he was afraid of giving up his ass. Before he could change his mind, Hunter jumped into the seat and reached out to hit the button on the console that locked all the doors. Quiet snicks confirming the locks were engaged, Hunter urged, his voice shaking, "Let's go, dude." They had to get out of here before Hunter begged off. He had to do this, even if he'd only been this fucking terrified a couple times before, like when his mom went all psycho.

Despite the nerves that had him drumming one foot against the floorboard, he almost stuck his tongue out at Kevin, another nemesis, when the other boy backed away. Kev was almost as bad as Ryan, using Hunter as a punching bag a couple of times and stiffing him when it was Hunter's turn to get coffee for all of them.

For a change, it wasn't Hunter losing johns to the other boys. But then as his gaze skipped past Kevin, he saw Jace looking at him, his brow creased. It wasn't an angry look; it was more worried. Yet again, Hunter found himself wishing he'd taken the older boy up on his offer. 

It wasn't like the punter would be able to tell whether he was a virgin or not; the guy couldn't exactly check for a broken hymen. If Hunter hadn't made a to-do from the beginning about getting fucked, he was pretty sure no one would have called him on it in front of this lech. Putting one over on a john was normal, and the hustlers usually backed each other up; it was practically an unwritten code.

Hunter flicked a glance at the punter, who looked smug as he put the car in gear. His jowly face went red however when the front tire ground hard against the curb, emitting a squealing noise.

His nerves temporarily dissipating, Hunter bit back a snicker. Geez, how dumb could you get? The john had obviously forgotten that he'd turned the coupe into the curb when he got all frantic about the cops showing up.

Belatedly turning the wheel, the geezer steered the car away from the curb, 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..."

The john ignored all of it, grunting irritably, "Cheap tires."

Hunter coughed into his fist to disguise a laugh. This was the most entertainment he'd had in weeks. It was pretty lame - not to mention weird - to blame your piss-poor driving on the tires. Shitty way to treat a ride like this too. It was probably a rental - it had a distinctive odor, like it got detailed regularly - or the dude would take better care of it. The john might have plenty of money to throw around, but he seemed pretty anal-

He quickly veered away from that line of thought, his muscles locking up. Not wanting to dwell on what was about to happen, he concentrated on the Benz instead. It wasn't as sporty as what he'd get for himself - if he ever had that kind of dough - but the all-leather interior was nice and he liked the way the seat cushioned him.

In spite of his best efforts to stay alert, the warmth in the car cocooned Hunter, his eyelids starting to droop. He could feel the long day catching up with him; he'd been rousted from one of his favorite spots by a wino early that morning and had been moving from place to place ever since. 

He vaguely registered that not only was heat blasting from the vents but that the car seat must be heated. He was surprised that the john would show that much consideration; maybe he didn't realize he'd turned it on for both front seats? Whatever. If only the unaccustomed warmth weren't making it harder to keep his eyes open, he'd just luxuriate in it while he could. 

Worrying about where the john might take him, Hunter pushed himself upright and looked blearily at the downtown high-rises before slouching back down. It couldn't be anywhere too bad, he tried to convince himself. Maybe the guy would even spring for a nice hotel room; the punter seemed like he'd have pretty high standards. On that hopeful thought, Hunter gave up the battle, allowing his eyes to go from half-mast to fully closed.

Hunter didn't know where he was, just that someone was shaking him while calling, "Hey, kid." 

He panicked, thinking that he was at home and that his mom was following through on her promise to let her biker boyfriend ‘have a taste of the kid.' Just like back then, he flailed about, throwing off meaty hands, and connected with flesh and bone.

"You like it rough?" growled a pissed-off voice.

That wasn't the boyfriend. Or his mom's rundown trailer, Hunter realized, opening tired, filmy eyes and staring through the windshield of a car at what appeared to be a bland apartment building. Apartments? he wondered, still out of it.

Turning his head in the direction of the voice, Hunter came face to face with an old, gray-haired dude. He couldn't place the man immediately and pressed back in his seat, desperately trying to gather his wits. Questions rattled around in his brain. Who was that? Where were they? 

It was only when the man's upper lip curled in a sneer, his murky brown eyes studying Hunter coldly, like he was a butterfly pinned to a board, that it gradually came back to him... He'd picked up a trick that was going to pay him a one and a half K in exchange for dipping raw into his virgin ass. He'd gotten into the trick's car-

"Kid?" the john repeated in a long-suffering tone, crowding closer to Hunter with his bulk and intimidating the teenager. "You want it rough, you can take a hike and I'll go get one of your pals instead."

Pals? That was a joke. None of them gave two shits about Hunter. Except maybe Jace, Hunter allowed, haunted by the look in the older boy's eyes as he left in the john's Benz.

Shoving that aside - thinking about Jace wasn't going to do him any good now - Hunter latched onto the weird ‘like it rough' comment. He had no idea where that had come from but was a little reassured by it. On top of everything else that was about to go down, all he needed was for the guy to tie him up or spank him or stick a sound up his cock or whatever pervs like this one got off on.

That led him to wondering again about where they were - and how long he'd been out. It could've been hours since he picked up the john.

Another wave of panic rushing through him, Hunter cast his eyes toward the dashboard clock but couldn't read it from where he was sitting. He flicked glances from side to side, looking around for a familiar landmark, but didn't see anything except an empty lot and what might be lights from a gas station in the distance. Still not fully awake, he didn't register the traffic noise in the background.

Hunter tried to unobtrusively look in the side view mirror, but that was impossible with the door open and the john blocking it from view anyhow. Giving up, he asked, "Where are we?"

The florid-faced guy jerked a thumb to the left.

Jesus. All he'd needed to do was crane his head around a little further to the right and he couldn't have missed the looming Motel 6 sign, Hunter thought, choking back a hysterical laugh.

Just then, the loud rumble of an airplane - either taking off or taxiing in for a landing - confirmed that they must be near the airport. There was only one Cheapo 6 around, so they had to be just off I-376, not far from the airport. He should be glad that the guy hadn't hauled him off to Altoona or Akron or fuck knew where. He could get back to the Burgh easily enough from here.

The teenager distracted himself from thoughts of fleeing by studying the building again. Not that there was much to see other than a beige stucco wall. Big bucks to ‘deflower' him aside, Hunter didn't delude himself that he was worth much to the john - a hustler hardly rated five-star treatment - but he couldn't help regretting a little that his first time would go down in such a cut-rate joint. 

The venue was the least of his worries, Hunter chided himself when the john shifted slightly, looming even closer. This was the kind of guy who'd welch on the deal if he thought he hadn't gotten his pound of flesh. He wasn't even sure the punter would actually take him back to Liberty Avenue if he backed out now; he'd probably just dump him at the nearest bus stop. Or he might just dump him here in the parking lot, leaving him to find his way back on his own.

Back to where he'd started - considering bugging out right now - Hunter wavered for a moment. It wouldn't be so bad to be left here, while the punter chased after Ryan or someone else's ass. But then he thought of the payoff he'd be missing out on, and the cut Ry would be expecting, whether he went through with this or not. A suggestive smile on his face, Ryan had recently hinted that he could hook Hunter up with someone who'd take care of his ‘pesky little problem.'

Shuddering at the memory - he'd rather do this now and get more out of it than a couple bills - Hunter summoned a cocksure smile and reached out a slightly shaky hand to stroke along the punter's fly.

"You want me to suck you off here?"

He could feel an immediate reaction, the man's breath hitching and the fabric of his pants beginning to bulge under his fingers.

When he glanced up, batting his eyes flirtatiously, the john was studying him through narrowed eyes.

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

Despite his trepidation, Hunter almost laughed. The guy waited till now to ask? What did he expect, picking up a rent boy from the curb? Hunter might be young, but he knew street hustling was hardly a long-lived ‘career'; by the time you hit your twenties, it was nearly impossible to attract johns. Unless you were blessed with youthful looks, and even then you'd have a hard, world-weary edge to you that would be a turn-off for a lot of clients.

The mean look in his eyes - like he was gonna hold Hunter responsible if he turned out to be younger than what the john expected - had Hunter's heart rabbiting in his chest. 

Hiding his fear behind attitude, he murmured, "Old enough, Daddy," and reached out to unzip him. The ‘daddy' rolled clumsily off his tongue, but given the scowl on the punter's face, he needed to sweeten the man up. His hand wasn't any steadier than his voice, a tremor traveling through his fingers, but he doubted the john would notice or care if he did.

The ‘daddy' didn't have the expected effect, the john flinching and batting his hand away. "Show me some ID," he demanded.

The rather extreme reaction had Hunter blinking in surprise. It might gross Hunter out to call a john ‘daddy' and his delivery might've been a little stilted, but it was practically a magic word with johns. Still, it wasn't like this was the first dude to get cold feet, even if most punters liked the idea of ‘fresh' meat. As young as possible... as long as they didn't get nailed for dipping their wick into a minor.

It wasn't like anything much would happen to the punter if he got caught. Didn't matter that he was underage, Hunter reflected sourly. The geezer would probably just get a slap on the hand, especially if he had money and connections, while Hunter was more than likely to be charged with something ridiculous, like ‘leading a good man astray.' He'd heard about situations like that; all the hustlers had - how you could never escape being tarred with having loose morals. Once a rent boy, always a rent boy.

It took Hunter a minute to dig his wallet out of the extra-deep pocket in his jeans. He'd extended the pocket with a piece of fabric cut from a T-shirt he'd outgrown, attaching it to the original pocket with clumsy, layered stitches to make sure it was secure. Hunter might not have much in his wallet, but he didn't want what little there was nicked by one of the other boys or some down-on-his-luck homeless dude.

His fingers closing around the canvas billfold, Hunter withdrew it, fumbled with the Velcro fastener and flipped it open to show the john his driver's license. He'd long since realized that the cracked plastic in the window over the license lent it an air of authenticity, even if Hunter had no idea why. Maybe it distracted from the not-quite-authentic quality of the fake credential? More likely it worked well in tandem with his supposed age on the ID. 

The forger who made the license had advised Hunter he didn't make a believable eighteen-year-old, never mind the twenty-one year old he'd hoped for. He could pass for just having turned seventeen however. It was still a stretch but not completely implausible, which was good enough for the curb-crawlers; they wanted a patina of legality in case they were questioned by the cops. Really, that was all that mattered - to both Hunter and the johns.

He kinda regretted for the first time that the fake ID made him older than he was. If it showed his actual age, the punter would never go through with this and would either take him back to Liberty Avenue or abandon him here. Hunter again mused that it might be better not to go through with the deal, even though he'd have to endure a shitload of taunts from his ‘friends.' 

If the curb-crawler picked up Ryan in lieu of him, the older boy probably wouldn't carry through on his threat about the guy he knew; he'd be too flush with money to care about Hunter's virginity. For a little while anyhow, which would give Hunter time to convince Jace that he really wanted to take him up on his offer.

The punter squinted at the ID and then scrutinized Hunter. 

He considered slouching down in his seat and making himself appear smaller and younger but instead sat up straight, endeavoring to look older. Hunter was still scared, but he was almost past the fright of what was going to happen and to the point where he wanted it done with so he could collect the promised payment.

However much the guy spouted off about going back to get one of the other hustlers, it was unlikely that he wanted to give up on doing a virgin raw. The punter would also look more than a little like an idiot, which Hunter guessed the man would strenuously avoid.

"Seventeen, huh?" The punter was clearly hesitating, an odd look in his eyes. 

Mouth dry, Hunter simply nodded and waited for him to come to a decision. 

Endless seconds went by before the john blew out a heavy breath. "Good enough," he announced, beckoning for Hunter to get out of the car. "You can call me Marv."

Hunter shrugged as he got out, slammed the door closed and dutifully followed ‘Marv' into the motel. He didn't need to know the guy's name to fuck him. After this, he'd never see the man again. Thank God.

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.

Hunter heard a noise from behind him - it sounded like the john was smacking his lips - and froze in the bathroom doorway. Remembering how the john had kissed him loudly and sloppily, shoving his tongue down his throat, had bile rising up again. 

God, he wished he hadn't gone through with it. Marv hadn't beat him up or anything, but the way the sleazoid slobbered all over him, constantly mumbling about how much Hunter loved it, squicked him out. He'd narrowly avoided upchucking and still had the urge to heave.

When it was finally over, Marv had passed out on top of him, and it took long, agonizing minutes for him to squirm out from underneath the man's bulk, wincing at the pull on his overtaxed anal muscles. He might've come a couple of times, but contrary to what Marv obviously believed, Hunter didn't enjoy it. Spending was just a natural reaction, first to being sucked off and then to being jerked off - even if the handjob was so inexpert and rough that it hurt - while the old fart pounded into him.

The punter made another noise, a weird snuffle-snort, and Hunter silently prayed that he wouldn't wake up.

His prayer was apparently answered, no further sounds coming from the bed. Hunter took one step and then another, exhaling in relief when he didn't hear anything else. Although he was tempted to close the bathroom door for a bit of privacy, he didn't quite dare. If the sicko woke up and tried to corner him in the bathroom for a golden shower or something else equally creepy, Hunter at least wanted to see him coming.

A rattling of pipes in the wall let him know someone nearby must be using the facilities in their room. Urinating as quickly and quietly as possible, he took a half step away from the toilet while reaching for the handle to flush, figuring the noise would merge with the sounds from the neighboring room.

But then an unpleasant squelching sensation and a trickle down his leg had him halting. Somehow, in the midst of everything else he had to contend with, Hunter had forgotten about the jizz that might be stuck in his ass. His entire face scrunched up in horror, he hastily tore off a large strip of toilet paper, barely noticing the clink from the metal dispenser, and pressed it against his hole. He still felt wet afterward, so he repeated the process, tossing the second piece into the toilet bowl when he was done.

That was when he noticed the reddish stains on the toilet paper. Shit! How badly had the punter torn him up?

Hunter reached between his legs with one hand and felt around, wincing as he touched the tender, abraded skin. When he lifted his fingers up to look at them, there didn't seem to be more than a few flecks of blood, so he thought he'd be okay. He couldn't exactly get a good look at his ass to see how bad it was.

He tore off more of the toilet paper, folding it up to go inside his underwear. It should stanch the bleeding - and absorb any semen that was still in there. If not, he'd have to go to the free clinic to have it checked out.

He should go anyway, he reflected as he flushed the toilet and washed his hands, crossing his fingers that it would all seem like typical background noise and lull the punter into deeper slumber. It had been a while since he got tested, but he'd been putting it off, counting on blowjobs being okay, even though he knew they weren't one hundred percent safe.

Now, however, his chances of being HIV positive had increased exponentially, or he could have some other STD, like syphilis. Since he didn't really want to know if he had anything, there wasn't really any point in going in, unless he started to feel really sick or something. Even if he was positive, what did it matter? He could just follow the example of the other hustlers and lie about it. It wasn't like any of them worried all that much about their status - or were honest about it. The johns either, so it wasn't like anyone was being fooled.

After drying his hands on a hand towel and grabbing the folded-up toilet paper, Hunter paused, eyeing the shower longingly. It had been a good long while since he'd been able to properly clean himself, and the thought of hot water cascading over his body was incredibly tempting. He could gently soap off his entrance and make sure all Marv's jizz was gone too. Maybe if he peeked out to make sure that the john was still asleep and then took a quick shower it would be okay?

Best not to chance it, the teen ultimately decided, giving the shower - just a curtained off bathtub - a final, regretful look. The longer he stayed, the greater the likelihood that the john would wake up. The guy might even want another around. 

Padding quietly out of the bathroom, Hunter scooped up his clothes from where they'd landed during his striptease for the punter. That had been a joke as far as Hunter was concerned; he was a professional hustler, not a stripper, his best dance move a side-to-side sway. The skeeve had seemed to enjoy it despite his lack of skill, his tongue practically hanging on the floor while Hunter stripped.

Sliding his briefs up his legs, Hunter inserted the toilet paper at the crotch and then pulled the underwear over his hips, wincing as the tissue came into contact with his skin. The striptease might've been way less painful than getting fucked, but it was a lot more degrading as far as he was concerned. The whole time, the punter had eyed him like he was a slab of meat, licking his chops and smacking his lips together.

The denouement had come next. His mind shying away from recalling the specifics, the teen worked at convincing himself he was glad to have it out of the way. He grimaced again as he gingerly stepped into his jeans and dragged them up to his waist, reminded that it had hardly been the most pleasant experience. He'd never thought it would hurt so much and didn't think he could take it again, not even if the dude paid him double. Not tonight anyhow. It'd have to wait till the next time Marv visited Liberty Avenue - if the scumbag really returned.

He'd been trying to recover from the pounding - for an old guy, Marv had kept going for a horrendously long time - when the man said he'd be back for more, waxing on about how they could have a threesome with a friend who was a real looker.

Hunter scoffed to himself just like he had when Marv first said that. Marv's claim was hard to believe - not the threesome part but the bit about the looker. Like that kind of guy would go for Marv.

Careful to make as little noise as possible, Hunter pulled on his T-shirt and jacket before hurriedly shoving his feet into holey socks and sneakers. 

When the curb-crawler had asked his name, he'd almost said Jimmy but ended up revealing it was Hunter. Then the mouth-breather had pulled out his cell phone, waiting for Hunter to share his number. Like he was gonna waste money on a cell phone, Hunter thought, rolling his eyes like he'd wanted to do a little while ago. Even if he did have a cell, he wouldn't share the number with a john, especially a sleazo like Marv. 

The guy had prepped Hunter pretty thoroughly, but he'd made weird grunting noises the whole time, along with smacking his lips. It still creeped Hunter out. The only thing that made the dude palatable was the money he'd shelled out - and was apparently willing to cough up again. 

Dismayed by the idea of seeing Marv again - and being fucked raw by two guys - Hunter had bargained hard. He'd been certain that the punter wouldn't want to lay out so much cash another time; after all, he was used goods now.

He was shocked that after going back and forth for a bit - he'd started high at two K - the john had agreed to another fifteen hundred. Marv'd had the strangest look on his face, like he was almost happy about the amount. If, as Hunter assumed, the punter was some kind of bigshot businessman, that didn't really make sense unless he was shit at making deals. It had bugged Hunter until he realized that Marv probably just liked having the power to buy someone...

The john had looked less than satisfied when Hunter told him he could pick him up in the same place as tonight. Why that threw the old perv, he didn't know; it wasn't like Hunter had a regular address or a PO box.

Shrugging it off - he really hoped the skeevy punter never showed up even if another payout like this one would go a long way - Hunter took the money from the TV table and shoved it deep into his makeshift trouser pocket before slipping out of the motel room. He let the door swing to behind him, a hand against the cheap wood to keep it from banging shut. 

He swiped angrily at the lone tear that welled up and overflowed his left eye; he wasn't some pussy little faggot who was gonna cry over having his cherry popped. He didn't bother looking around for a bus stop - there wouldn't be one at a hotel frequented by motorists - and instead started jogging toward the interstate, wanting to put as much distance as possible between him and Marv. No way was he going to let the perv have another go at him tonight.

Futilely hunching his shoulders against the light rain that was falling, he fingered the wad of C-notes in his pocket. The money should get Mom- Hunter's thoughts stuttered and his stride hitched as his mind turned to the woman who'd farmed him out to pay for drugs. He couldn't remember a time when his mom wasn't strung out on something, bringing home one loser after another - the men just as high and out of control as she was. 

Wait. There'd been that one six-month stretch before he started hustling; that was a good time. His mom had cleaned up her act, and Hunter really thought maybe it was gonna stick - she'd never gone so long without drinking and drugging. Then she came home higher than a kite and it just got worse after that. A week later, Hunter was out on the street pulling a john for the first time. If he wasn't gonna do her boyfriend a favor, his mom let him know in no uncertain terms that he'd have to pull his weight some other way - or she wasn't going to keep a roof over Hunter's head.

After that, she never paid attention to whether he was going to school or if he was doing okay there, and whenever she was short of ready money - which was most of the time - she didn't pay the utility bills or make sure there was food in the house. Back when he was attending school regularly, he'd showered there more than he ever did at home as well as scarfing down as much as he could as lunch, doing his best to hide his shame at being on the lunch program for needy kids.

Fuck her, he thought angrily, trying to will back the tears that threatened to fall. He'd cried over her too often. She might have given birth to him, but that was it. 

No real mom would sell their kid for drugs. He wouldn't be hustling if not for her. If his mom had just abandoned him when he was younger, he might have ended up in a decent foster home. Some of the parents who'd come to look at the little kids seemed pretty nice.

The tears started streaming down Hunter's face despite his best efforts to hold them back. 

If he could choose who he wanted to be born to, it sure as heck wouldn't be her. From now on, she'd just be Rita to him, the bitch he'd have to pacify when she tracked him down, like she always did. At least the money he'd earned tonight might keep Rita off his back for a bit.

Slacking off on his fast pace - the sprint for the freeway had him gasping for air - Hunter swiped at his face with balled-up fists. He tried to ignore how used and defeated he felt and concentrate on the best way to handle the bitch when she turned up.

He needed to be smart about it if he wanted to be able to pay Rita off - hold some back for the future because he knew she'd hit him up again and again. Besides not carrying it around for long, he'd have to be extra careful when stashing the money so no one would find it. 

He'd need to appease Ryan too. Hunter began to panic as he thought about the older boy, who had a bad temper when provoked. Ry was gonna be pissed at him for ‘stealing' Marv, which would inevitably lead to the older boy beating him to a pulp. And that was probably the ‘best' outcome he could hope for, Hunter's brain whiting out before he could imagine anything worse.

What the heck could he do to prevent Ryan from taking it out on him? he wondered, his breath coming out in rapid, frenzied bursts. Hunter's mind skittered in one direction and then another, unable to think of anything. Wait. What if he told Ry the john had stiffed him? That would be believable, right? They'd all gotten shorted before.

That wouldn't be enough though. Ryan would still take it out on him. What else could he do?

Staring down at his feet, not wanting to trip over anything, Hunter noticed the bulge in his trouser leg - a bulge that wasn't normally there. Like a light going on, he got another idea. He could, like, grease Ryan's palm. 

He'd probably get roughed up anyway, but if he gave Ryan part of his payoff, that might placate the older boy somewhat. His breathing evening out a little, Hunter's mind raced as he tried to determine how much would be ‘enough.'

It was almost too much for Hunter to handle, the panic growing again as he tried to figure out a sum. His brain raced, but it simultaneously seemed like he was swimming through molasses. He had to halt for a moment, leaning over and bracing his hands on his thighs. Then, taking a deep breath, he attempted to think it through. If he went with the john stiffing him, maybe he could say he'd only gotten five hundred. Everyone had heard the original offer, so all the other boys should believe that - he hoped.

As he resumed a fast walk toward the freeway, Hunter tried to calculate how much of the five hundred it would take to buy Ryan off and get the older boy to leave him alone, mostly anyhow. Two bills? Three? Four? No, he hastily nixed the four hundred. If he gave Ryan four bills, that might make the older boy suspicious about whether Hunter had really been stiffed. Only a moron would hand over that much of their take. 

So how much should it be? Going too low wouldn't get Ryan off his case, and he'd already figured out what would happen if he went too high. Maybe three hundred? That might be enough to prove to Ry that he hadn't meant to steal ‘his' trick and that he was genuinely sorry about it.

Hunter blew out a relieved breath, but then he remembered Travis. Would Ryan's sidekick want a cut because he'd been ‘cheated' too? Duh, that was a no-brainer. He'd just have to plan on giving Trav a bill, but that would only leave him with one hundred, Hunter thought despondently.

Then he started laughing, sounding a little crazed. He'd been so enmeshed in coming up with a plan to deal with Ryan that he'd bought his own lie. Sheesh, what an idiot. Even with shelling out four bills, he'd still have a K stashed away. Plus a C-note that he could use to eat for a couple weeks.

Hunter's mind started to race, panic threatening to consume him all over again as he thought about the K. He needed that money to stave off Rita. He didn't dare keep it on him; he'd get rolled for sure if he did that.

Shit. Where was he going to stash the money on such short notice? He had to show up at the usual spot tomorrow night, spin his story about getting stiffed and pay off Ryan. Otherwise, Ry was bound to guess something wasn't kosher. 

Maybe he could put it in his shoes - use the bills as padding? No, that would be a dumbass move. Same thing with sticking it inside his socks. Those would be the first places that Ryan checked. On the verge of another panic attack, a clammy sweat broke out across Hunter's chest and moisture pooled in his armpits.

He hadn't used any of his regular hidey-holes in a long time and couldn't chance that they'd remained undiscovered, so that meant finding somewhere new. Flipping through likely places, he couldn't come up with any good ones. It'd be better to split the money up, just in case someone found one of his spots, but none of the places struck him as safe.

Fuck. What was he gonna do? He felt like a rat on a treadmill, going round and round and never getting anywhere.

A picture of Jace formed in his head. Hunter's brow furrowed and his anxious breathing spiked again as considered the other hustler. Could he trust Jace? 

Hunter swallowed hard, recalling the dismayed expression on Jace's face as he left with Marv. He was pretty sure Jace cared at least a little about him. He was also the least likely to follow Ryan blindly, and he'd refused more than once to join in when Ry was tormenting him.

That would have to be enough for him to take a chance on Jace since Hunter had no idea what else to do. 

He'd track down Jace, spill the beans about what had happened and throw himself on the older boy's mercy - ask him to help hide the money and back him up in a believable way when he spun his tale about getting stiffed by Marv. He'd just have to hope the older boy wouldn't claim part of the thou as his.

Heck, he'd offer to do it with Jace if that would make a difference to the other boy. He'd have to fake being into it - Hunter shuddered at the thought of anyone touching him anytime soon - but it would be worth it if he got a friend out of the deal. He could really use someone who had his back.

Hunter flipped the plan - such as it was - around in his head as he plodded along. It would work; it had to. 

He ached, feeling a pull at his groin with every step. Worst of all, he could feel a growing wetness between his legs. Freaking out, he tried to reassure himself that it was just the rain, which was now coming down at an angle. Or more of the sicko's jizz leaking out. Either of those would be better than being so torn up that he was bleeding all over the place. Please, he begged, picturing a fountain of blood erupting from his ass. Please.

His legs felt like lead by the time he finally made it onto the interstate, where he stopped, standing as close as he dared to the freeway. He was too late to try and flag down the approaching semi; it whooshed past, spewing wet gravel across the bottom of Hunter's jeans.

More tears rolling down his cheeks, Hunter clenched his threadbare jacket tight around him and attempted to convince himself that turning a trick with Marv had been worth it. Not that he could change anything now. It was too late.