The Rent Boy (EDITING)

Chapter Seven: Names and Photo Frames-

    “I don't know. You're a rent boy, so that's pretty much a prostitute, and prostitutes don't usually use their real names, right? I mean, don't get me wrong, I like the name. It's better than Crystal or Candy,” he laughed, lowering his eyes to give his knees his full attention.

    “I'm not a stripper, dude,”

    “Eh, stripper, prostitute,” he shrugged, “they both take their clothes off for money, don't they?”

    “Fuck you.” I muttered, dismissing the conversation. It was boring me and quite frankly, I didn't appreciate being put in the same category as a stripper. I didn't grind up on polls. Well, not those kind of polls, anyway. I sighed, clearing my mind. Best not to go all Rambo on a client. Not without my money safely in my pocket, at least.

    “Why won't you tell me your reason?” I persisted, sounding bored, but in actuality, I was full of intrigue. So much so, that even I could feel the intensity of my gaze burning into his face, desperately trying to read his thoughts.

    It was as if I had a sun inside my mind, and my eyes were the magnifying glass, aimed straight at Logan. He was under my scrutiny, and it seemed my eyes translated that to him quite clearly, as his nerves were visibly eating away at him.

    “I'll make you a deal, yeah?” he went on to say. I raised my chin, silently letting him know I was listening. “I'll tell you my reason, but in return you have to tell me your real name. No bullshit, either.”

    I stared at him, deadpan. Disappointed, too, I was expecting something a little less irritating to come out of his mouth. I was quickly learning to lower my expectations.

    “Fuck off,” was my answer, speaking louder this time. I turned my head away from him and caught sight of a picture frame that sat on a small coffee table, by the sofa's arm. The silver frame gleamed in the lighting, like it was trying to force my interest. I couldn't see what the picture was. Curiosity got the better of me and I gave in, shuffling over on my knees.

    The main focus was a boy, a young boy looking barely older than thirteen, with raven-black hair. He had dark circles under his eyes and pale lips that were curved into a sad smile. A needle pierced his wrist and, after a few seconds, I realised he was in a hospital bed from the tag around his skinny arm.

    I guessed it was his family that were surrounding him. They were all posing with mere surface smiles; their eyes sad and seemingly lifeless.

    The picture was slammed face-down on the coffee table's surface, causing a loud bang to echo through my ears and my body to jump in fear. My eyes shot up to meet Logan's wide, brown irises looking down at me.

    He cleared his throat, murmuring the words, “Car accident,” as he let his fingers slowly slip from the frame to rest on the arm of the chair. “My friend's dad wasn't watching where he was going,” his laugh was forcefully light.

    I recognised a lie when I heard one, fought the urge to call him out on it and instead carried on with a pretence of belief, “Bet that was fun for you,”

    He smiled softly as he slid off the edge of the sofa, onto his knees. I watched as his chest rose and fell gently, closing the distance between us. It seemed like the entire house had the air sucked out of it, as I felt like I had to breathe faster to get any oxygen at all. Almost like I was in a duel with Logan for the air in my lungs.

    I knew it was out of the apparent “ordinary” for Logan to be doing this, after his whole “why does it all have to be about sex” outburst. I had a feeling he was distracting me in the best possible way he knew how. Words always circled back to words. Kissing, touching, well, that circled back to something else entirely.