The rate for his services was high. His quality was high. His acting skills were good enough that he could be a completely different person, and you'd never know.
However, the role he was least comfortable playing was Oliver.
Oliver Addams was a b...
The bass of the club music thumps in my bones. As I grind against some college student, I down the rest of my vodka cranberry drink. The drinks are insanely overpriced. Luckily for me, the paychecks from Cal would allow me to buy this entire bar twice over.
I can particularly feel the girls throbbing pussy through her skin-tight dress. I press a kiss against her neck as the song slows to an end. She spins around, gripping the edge of my translucent shirt. Now that I'm wasted and not just coming down from a life-altering high, I can tell my outfit is awful, but she doesn't seem to mind. She probably thinks I'm a straight guy with a horrid fashion sense.
"Let's get out of here," She says. I don't know what she's done tonight, but it isn't just alcohol. Molly, maybe?
"I'm sorry, hun," I say softly, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. I'm sure her updo looked perfect before her wild night out. Now what was once a masterpiece looks like a rat's nest. "You should find your friend and have her watch over you."
Disappointment and tears fill her eyes. "Fuck you!" She screams over the bass of the next song. She stomps away. Somehow, despite the loud music, I can hear the thump of her high heels against the dance floor.
Honestly, I feel like that was a bit of an overreaction. I totally don't think my grinding up against that girl was a promise that we were about to have sex. But what do I know? I haven't had to search for sex since I started working at the escort company.
I decide to take the edge off the social awkwardness of the situation I now find myself in. I'm gonna step outside and have a smoke. Before you all get on my case about the dangers of smoking and blah blah, I'm so sexually frustrated so often now that if Cal offered me a line of cocaine off his chest, I'd probably do it. Currently, the only means of release I can think of that won't be in blatant breach of my contract will be lighting up.
I throw open the side door of the club. Picture an alleyway in the worst possible condition you can think of. Now double that. That's the kinda alley I have found myself in. The overhead light near the doorway flickers inconsistently. I root around in the pockets of my jeans, searching for the joint I had rolled myself before coming here.
Once I find the joint, I lean against the rough brick adjacent to the doorway I had just traveled through. I light it and take a hit. My advice for smoking is to one thousand percent try it once. If you don't like the sensation it causes, don't try it again. I, however, love the way it makes me feel. Not that I want to romanticize recreational drug use, but the euphoria of not feeling like oneself is worth the risk. At least for me.
I lean my head against the brick and stare at the cloudy night sky, exhaling a plume of smoke upwards as I do.
I've missed this. At my old assignment, I spent my nights out on the town partying with randos and crawling back into bed at three am to snuggle with some old geezer.
As the high hits me, I also feel an unfamiliar twang in my heart. Longing?
For what? Not Cal, I'll tell you that. It's been over a month, and that bastard won't even solicit the sex worker he's paying millions for.
Once my joint is finished, all that's left to do is let the high marinate while enjoying the bite of cold air on my face.
I close my eyes. I'm not sure how long I stand like this, but the only thing that pulls me out of my little bubble is the sound of the door to the club swinging open loudly.
I snap my head back to attention. The high has more or less settled, meaning I'm not too far gone to defend myself if whoever kicked open that door poses a threat.
My eyes meet the man who throws open the door. While he certainly could be a threat, it's only Cal. He steps a bit further into the light, and I see the pure rage on a face flecked with blood that does not appear to be his.
As Cal opens his mouth to speak, I bolt. I don't know why I did it. Maybe it's the couple of drinks in me or just sheer confidence, but I start running.
I used to run in high school, so it used to be a bit of a strength of mine. Despite my athletic history, my lungs burn, and my feet slap against the concrete. Who knew I was wearing shoes equivalent to literal socks in terms of thickness?
I run my heart out. But no matter how fast I run, that Asian sex god still sounds like he is right behind me. The lack of screaming coming from him tells me that he is beyond pissed.
I make the mistake of glancing behind me because, at that exact moment, Cal tackles me. Cal is pinning me like this an arrest. I have actually been arrested. Once, when I was sixteen. I had punched a teacher in the face because he called me a slur. I don't regret it. After I explained the exact circumstances, paired with a few first-hand reports, all charges were dropped, and Mr. Steinburg was put on "temporary leave."
The scrape off my cheek on the concrete burns. When Cal unpins me, there will be a small blood stain on the sidewalk.
I don't say a word. I focus on regulating my now ragged breath. The world is frozen for minutes, but this stillness is probably only ten to twenty seconds long.
"I can't fucking believe you made me chase your punk ass the whole way down 85th." Cal pulls me up by my hair. He pulls my head back fair enough that my neck screams in protest. His blue eyes are brimming with rage. "Do you have a bloody clue whose territory I'm trespassing on by coming to find you?"
I'm such an awful author. Here you go children besos for all *mah*
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