Perhaps this advert – or one like it, if this failed – would be his key out of this shitty apartment.
“If you're going to be a hooker, you can do it at your clients' houses,” said AJ, finally turning away to walk into the kitchen. “I'm not having a bunch of homos streaming in and out of my apartment all night.”
Marcus rolled his eyes behind his back, mentally adding 'homophobic' to the list of things he didn't like about AJ – though it ought not to have been news. AJ was an asshole in basically every other area of his existence. Why wouldn't he be a homophobe, too?
In any case, the ad didn't have a great deal more information in it – just a contact number with a Manhattan area code. At this point, however, Marcus didn't really care. He could call up and find out. If it was a bust, then he hadn't lost anything by trying.
“Did you hear me?” said AJ, moving some pots and pans. “No fucking people for money on that couch.”
“Yeah, yeah, AJ,” said Marcus, tuning him out as he dialed the number on his cell. “I hear you.”
Although hopefully not for much longer.
Chapter Two
Much like the advert itself, calling up the number hadn't really yielded much information. Marcus had only answered a few basic questions before being given an address, and told to arrive at that address as soon as he possibly could for an interview.
He was exhausted. As he'd said to AJ, waking up after too little sleep on an uncomfortable couch was bound not to put him in the right frame of mind for an interview – but right now, he didn't have much choice. The person on the other end of the line had not given him an opportunity to reschedule, or even to respond; the line had gone dead almost as soon as the instructions had been delivered.
With a sigh, he stood up and stretched from the couch. AJ had disappeared back into his room, and goodness only knew where the other guy was. As such, at least he knew he'd be able to take a shower before he left.
It didn't take long for him to be ready to leave the apartment, and before long he was on his way through the streets of New York City. Though he had been living here a few months already now, its effect on him had not yet worn off. He still felt he was part of something huge and incredible every time he set foot out of the front door. It was so vastly different from the life he was used to back home. Even looking up and seeing concrete instead of empty skies was a novelty.
Granted, you didn't have to deal with the subway back in Close Bay, Indiana – but the strong smell of piss and overbearing heat seemed a small price to pay for living in the world's capital.
When he emerged from the subway, however, he quickly realized that Tribeca really was worlds away from the parts of the city he was used to. In front of him stood the kind of apartment building people dreamed of. The neighborhood around it was free of the usual trash and graffiti, and splashes of green in the form of trees, bushes and flowers decorated the sidewalk. If this place looked like this, then Marcus wasn't sure he'd fit what they were looking for.
All he could do was make his way up there and try.
Even to reach the call box, he had to state his business to a doorman. Marcus didn't think he'd ever been anywhere with security this tight before, and it forced him to wonder – what kind of person would live in a place like this? What were they protecting?
He recognized the voice that rang out from the speaker – once the doorman permitted him near it, that is. It was the same older man who had answered his phone call. Was this his prospective employer?
“Come up,” said the voice, leaving Marcus no room to say anything other than a cursory greeting. “One of the doormen will show you to the elevator.”
Marcus hadn't even realized there was more than one, but sure enough, another thick-necked man stepped from the shadows of the lobby to escort him over to the appropriate set of doors – the floor beneath his feet decked in marble, and the walls lavish with modern art. What the hell was this place? He felt like he'd walked into Fort Knox. Surely there was nothing in this building that he was qualified to take care of. He was willing to bet any square foot of this place cost a hell of a lot more than his combined worldly possessions.
Before he could think about stepping back, though, he'd been guided into the elevator, and the button had been selected for him. With only a polite but cursory nod, the security guard stepped out, and the doors shut cleanly behind him.
The mechanism had to be as well-oiled as a racing car, because Marcus hardly felt any movement as the elevator glided upwards to the penthouse. In fact, the only real sign he was moving at all were the lights that changed above the doors – but sure enough, when the doors reopened, he faced onto a completely different part of the building.
He wouldn't have said it was possible until right this second, but this floor looked even more luxurious and opulent than the lobby. Whoever lived here had a serious bank balance, without a shadow of a doubt – and it suddenly struck Marcus that this could be his home, too. If he secured this job, he would be living here.
Holy shit.
The door opened before his fist could reach to knock at it. On the other side was an elderly man, perhaps the owner of the silky-smooth voice that he'd recognized from the phone. If so, then he hadn't spoken to the employer after all. There was no mistaking this man's clothing. Undoubtedly, he was some kind of butler. Nobody dressed like a butler in their own home. Right?
“Mr. Baker,” said the man, confirming Marcus's suspicion. This was definitely the same guy. “Come in. Mr. Wills is expecting you this way.”
“Yes, sir.”
He stepped in through the door. The place was incredible. Stark white walls had Jackson Pollock-esque paint splatters across them, stretching all the way down the length of the building until the corridor ended with a huge floor-to-ceiling glass window. Marcus couldn't see from here, but presumably the view it gave of the city was incredible. The carpet beneath his feet was thick and plush, and by instinct he began to take off his shoes. Call it a southern mother's upbringing.
The butler turned as he realized Marcus wasn't right behind him, and fixed him with the kind of expression you might give a man who'd just suggested the earth was flat.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking my shoes off,” said Marcus, as if asking a question. “Shouldn't I?”
The butler's look answered the question for him, and he re-tied his right shoelace before standing back upright. Okay, then. Clearly rich people had a different set of manners. He felt slightly stupid for not knowing that, but then supposed there was no reason he should.
He felt distinctly that he was in the wrong place, and he should excuse himself now – but the butler had already turned around to lead him down the corridor, and he had lost his chance to protest. Instead, all he could do was follow, and hope this was eventually worth the humiliation of putting himself into such an alien environment.
Granted, it was him that felt like the alien. After all, he was the odd one out.
Unfortunately for Marcus, that feeling was about to get a lot, lot worse. When the butler opened a door on the right, seemingly at random, and showed him into another clear, modernist room, Marcus immediately locked eyes with a man so imposing that he'd happily have turned on his heel and left. He looked to be about 30 years old, give or take a few years, and was painfully handsome; the intensity in his stormy gray gaze was so piercing it left Marcus feeling pinned to the wall under his attention.
“Mr. Wills,” said the butler. “May I introduce your interviewee, Mr. Baker?”
Mr. Wills gave a short, slow nod, and with that the butler backed away – closing the heavy wooden door behind him. The room felt so much smaller when there was only the two of them inside it, and Marcus couldn't help but feel abominably alone.
He had no idea what to say. The silence stretched between them, awkward and long, as Mr. Wills surveyed his guest. That being said, that awkwardness seemed to be confined to Marcus alone. The handsome man in front of him appeared to be
the kind of person who could not feel out of place if he were shoved into an ill-fitting gap in a jigsaw puzzle. The way he had arranged himself over the expensive leather armchair he occupied was as though it was a natural extension of himself, long legs crossed over one another and in slight recline.
“You're quite uncomfortable,” said Mr. Wills, at long last. “Aren't you?”
“It feels a little strange to be stared at,” Marcus admitted, though he could have kicked himself for phrasing it that way. “I mean – not that you're staring, and of course it's your own home, so...”
“You're here for the caretaker's job,” said the host, unwavering and unfazed by Marcus's lack of certainty. “Is that correct?”
“I – yeah. I saw the ad in the Times...”
“Good.”
The silence fell again. Marcus swallowed, feeling the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and the intense desire to leave slowly working its way back up inside him. He couldn't quit now, though. He only had to imagine walking back into AJ's place to motivate himself. “Is there anything you needed to ask me, sir?”
He could feel the heat rising at the base of his neck simply from calling him sir. There was a glint in the older man's eye, and Marcus couldn't tell if he liked it or not. He just knew he didn't trust it.
“Your name is Marcus Baker. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you are… how old?”
“I'm 22.”
“From a small town, I expect.”
Marcus didn't say anything, quietly pondering what it was about him that made it so obvious. He didn't feel he had a strong enough accent to have given it away like that.
“What are your measurements, Marcus?” he asked. “If you were to buy a suit.”
The last time he had worn a suit had been for prom at high school, and that had only been a rental. It seemed childish to admit that. “I don't know, I-”
“Collar; sleeve; inseam? Chest width; back width? Anything?”
“Uh… medium?”
“There's no such thing. Any family?”
The barrage of questions was disorienting. What was all this supposed to uncover? What could any of it possibly have to do with taking care of… whatever it was? “Back home. Not here.”
“You really don't know what sleeve length you take?”
“No,” said Marcus, more tersely than he'd been intending. Irritatingly, however, Mr. Wills seemed to like it. That glint was back in his eyes. It was this frustrating pleasure alone that motivated Marcus to soften himself up and be more polite. He wanted this job to get away from AJ, but he sure as shit didn't want this asshole to gain any undue amusement from it. “I don't know.”
“You're an aspiring actor or singer, I suppose. Which is it?”
Marcus tried to keep calm. Everybody in this city was an aspiring actor or a singer at some stage, it seemed like. This wasn't something Mr. Wills could read on his face. “Either,” he said. “I'm an actor, but I can sing.”
“And what parts have you played?”
“I'm a beginner,” said Marcus. He'd never felt so much shame in admitting that. Nothing would have given him greater pleasure than to wipe the smirk off Mr. Wills's face and give him the answer he had not been expecting – to launch an impressive catalog of past roles at him that he couldn't stick his nose up at. Unfortunately, he couldn't do that without lying, and he had a faint suspicion that Mr. Wills would know fine well whenever he did that. “Is this relevant to the job, sir?”
“What job?”
Marcus's eyes narrowed slightly, though he fought against the instinct. “You advertised for a caretaker.”
“Oh, that,” said Mr. Wills, sitting up in his chair. “Well, it's not a job. It's more of a… role. I suppose that suits you well enough, being an actor.”
He ignored the teasing implied in that. “I see. And what would I be taking care of, sir?”
“Why – me, of course.”
Marcus swallowed, trying to keep on an even keel. Was this just another prostitution job after all? He should probably have known that from the advertisement's insistence that it was a live-in position. Could he live with that – having sex with this man for money? He cast his eyes over him again, hating the prickle of heat that it left in his stomach. Undoubtedly, Mr. Wills was attractive. Despite his infuriating personality, he had a roguish charm and a bone structure to die for. Beneath his well-tailored clothes, Marcus imagined there was quite a testament to the human physique's aesthetic potential.
“What does that mean, exactly?”
Mr. Wills's eyes twinkled at him again, dark and delighted. “Thank you for coming to see me, Marcus,” he said, standing from his chair. “I think I've learned everything I needed to. Benson will see you out.”
He gestured towards the door with one long-fingered hand, and Marcus bowed his head, backing towards it like some kind of indentured servant. Honestly, he just didn't want to turn away. There was something hypnotic about this man, and something dangerous. His eccentricity and his playfulness were enticing to watch, even when they strayed into irritating territory. It was only when he reached the door, close enough to take the handle, that he turned – and then?
“Marcus?”
Hand in contact with the doorknob, he turned back over his shoulder. Mr. Wills was sitting in his armchair again. Marcus hadn't even heard him move.
“You can call me Isaac,” he said, after a long pause. “That is my name. I'll be in touch.”
Marcus's heartbeat got faster and louder as he made his way down in the elevator, finger hammering at the button to take him back down to the lobby. For all the reverence he'd felt for the opulence on display on the way in, he was now too desperate to leave to notice it. He barely had chance to nod at the doormen – and there were three of them, now – before he was back out in the sunlight of the street, chest thumping and breath heavy in his chest.
Though Mr. Wills – Isaac – had been in a room facing the other direction, Marcus couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. The feeling didn't leave him until he was far away on the subway, gone like a sewer rat back into the grimier depths of the city.
No. He didn't know much about Isaac, but one thing was for sure. He wouldn't care to follow him here.
Chapter Three
“So… what? He wants you to suck his dick for rent?”
This was not exactly the kind of conversation Marcus wanted to have so blatantly at an off-Broadway audition, but there was no stopping Charles once he'd started. He should have known better than to tell his friend anything about this on the way here, knowing that he wouldn't stop talking about it until long after they'd both screwed their shot at the play. It hadn't really been a conscious decision on Marcus's part, though. His experience with Isaac Wills had been so surreal that he'd had to share it with somebody.
The somebody just happened not to be the best possible choice in the current circumstances – that was all. They'd arrived early to get a good handle on their scripts before everybody else got there, and they hadn't even really familiarized themselves with it yet.
Charles shrugged, still following on from the same thought. “Tribeca penthouse prices? I'd do it.”
“You didn't meet him,” Marcus insisted. “The guy's weird; he's… I don't know. He's arrogant. He's so frustrating.”
“Tribeca rent,” Charles repeated. “Seriously, country boy. Look it up; you have no idea how good of a deal that is. I mean... as long as he's not hideous, I don't think I'd ever turn that down. No matter how much of an asshole he is.”
Marcus resisted the urge to point out that Charles was enough of an asshole himself that it wouldn't matter. It got hard to endure him sometimes, but sadly, Charles was kind of the closest thing Marcus had to a best friend here in the city. They didn't know each other very well, and he doubted they'd like each other in five years, but right now? Charles was all Marcus had.
“I don't know. It might be something else, anyway; he never even said it was
a sex thing.”
“Of course it's a sex thing,” said Charles, straight-faced as if Marcus were some kind of idiot. “Don't be naive. Nobody needs a janitor that badly.”
“Maybe he has kids. Pets.”
“So he'd hire a babysitter,” said Charles. “A dog-walker. Both.”
“Quiet in the corridor, please,” said one of the assistants, sticking her head out of the studio window. The crowd collectively nodded, and the voices of all the other jobbing actors around them lowered back down to a simmering bubble.
“I'm just saying,” Charles told him, hands raised to emphasize his point. “Don't be surprised when he asks you for something weird and kinky. That's all I'm saying. I worry about your innocence.”
“I'm not innocent.”
Charles scoffed, and picked his script back up. Marcus has lost him now, but maybe that wasn't such a bad thing. He was starting to get irritated at the implication that he was some kind of small-minded, childlike hick, and it wouldn't serve him as he tried out for this part. He pulled out his own script, and tried to get into the necessary head-space. No worrying about AJ – no worrying about Isaac Wills.
This lasted all of 30 seconds before his cell started ringing.
Shrouded in filthy looks from his fellow auditioning actors, he winced and headed quickly out of the corridor to answer the call. The number was withheld, but he couldn't afford to miss any calls these days. You never knew when a director or a talent scout would call you back, or offer you a part.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Baker,” said the butler from the penthouse, quickly killing all of Marcus's hopes of surprise roles in Broadway productions. What was his name? Benson? “Mr. Wills is happy to have me inform you that your application has been successful. He requests your presence at the penthouse immediately.”
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