Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) (2 page)

Maybe I should have stuck with writing
, Andrew thought, eyeing the library.
But that profession would be just as tough to break into. All the bookstores are shutting down. Everything’s online now. And I never wanted to be a journalist or teach English while I tried writing the great American novel….

Two girls, barely legal if Andrew was any judge, hurried past. Giggling, they glanced over their shoulders at him, standing outside the library in suit, tie, and polished shoes as if waiting for a bus. The taller girl had long dark hair and a beret; the shorter, olive skin and a ripe caboose barely contained inside her knit miniskirt. Both girls merited a second glance. Since coming to New York City, Andrew had met dozens of friendly females and hooked up with more than his fair share. Fortunately, no relationships had stuck; no girlfriend had lasted more than a month. So however the night went, and whatever he ended up doing to earn than five hundred dollar cash bonus, at least he didn’t need to worry about coming clean later.

“Pretty,” a voice said behind him.

Startled, Andrew spun around. The man facing him was taller, about six feet, with pale green eyes and dark hair. He wore a trench coat over a nondescript blue suit and had the sort of chiseled, TV-ready good looks every actor—or politician—coveted.

“What?” Andrew was startled by the other man’s piercing gaze. Surely he’d seen that stare before.

“Pretty,” the man repeated in an arch tone. His wide mouth quirked up on one side.

“Oh. Thank you,” Andrew muttered, struggling for the character—Happy-Go-Lucky Male Escort—he’d sought to create during his subway passage.

“The girls you were staring at. They were pretty.” The man raised both eyebrows, as if Andrew were now under suspicion of mental deficiency as well as an eye for the ladies.

“Oh. Well. Sure.” Andrew searched for a properly dismissive tone. “Miss Thing could have used a hot oil treatment. And the girl in the miniskirt—there ought to be a law. But I can’t intervene all over this city or I’d never get a moment’s rest. I’m Andrew Reynolds.” He stuck out his hand.

“Do you know me?” the other man asked, eyebrows still lifted. He didn’t accept Andrew’s hand.

“Um… no?” Andrew said vaguely. Remembering Wasserman’s threats, he hoped this answer wasn’t his first step toward a foot up the ass.

“Good. I’m Cormac.” The man accepted Andrew’s hand at last, giving it a single decisive squeeze. Andrew, ever conscious of theatric body language, thought it was the sort of handshake Superman might give. If he were running for office.

“So. Andrew. Are you hungry?”

Of all the opening questions possible, Andrew was least prepared for that one. He hadn’t eaten since first thing that morning, when he’d finished off a mini-bag of Doritos and a flat Coke. “I’m starving.”

“Me, too. Helluva long flight to the city and a hundred delays at baggage. Let’s grab some dinner.” Cormac pointed toward a bar at the end of the block. “Always drop in there when I’m in New York. I know the owner.” As he spoke, Cormac touched Andrew’s forearm lightly and smiled—not skeevy, not knowing, just a regular smile. Andrew managed to smile back. But the bar in the distance looked like a dump, probably grandfathered in on Amsterdam Avenue while nicer properties took root around it.

I’ve been in worse joints
, Andrew reminded himself.
Total shitholes where the chicks are the ones dropping roofies in drinks. Where you have to take a leak in the back alley because the bathroom is for hookups.

He tried not to think about what sort of action the bathroom of a NYC gay bar saw. Ever since Wasserman had dropped the bomb—a five hundred dollar cash bonus if Andrew earned a glowing report—Andrew had fought to decide just how far he was willing to go for that money. Kissing another male in acting class had been difficult enough. Andrew had bummed a Xanax to endure it, and that was only after a long, embarrassing sit-down with his instructor, trying to convince the man he wasn’t a hater, just someone who preferred never to lock lips with another dude. The instructor, a veteran of B-movies and bad TV, had only laughed.

“I feel for you, Reynolds, especially with your pretty face. If you think being a student actor is tough, wait till you come up against the casting couch.”

Cormac led the way to the bar. It had no neon sign, just brass lettering above the door: THE SEA WITCH. The windows were painted black and barred; the door was scarred to the wood in places, as if someone had splashed it with battery acid and never bothered to repaint.

“I know. Looks like they smear the blood of the lamb on it every Friday night, doesn’t it?” Opening the door, Cormac added, “I keep telling Ian to repaint the door and do something about these serial killer windows. He never listens.”

After a moment’s awkward pause, Andrew realized Cormac was holding the door for him and scooted into the dark. The sweet stink of cigar smoke hit him right away. So did the array of neon signs around the bar: Guinness, Harp, Beamish, Murphy’s, O’Hara’s and Kilkenny. All the stools around the humidor were occupied, mostly by men in their early sixties, puffing and muttering over their pint glasses. A few turned to give Andrew and Cormac the eye. Most kept puffing, muttering, or pulling at their beers.

“This is… an Irish bar?” Andrew blinked at Cormac.

“An Irish cigar bar. But the food is amazing. Not to mention authentic. Can you handle the smoke?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure,” Andrew muttered. He’d actually been a casual smoker until Marie’s diagnosis. Then he’d quit for her sake, in a show of solidarity when she changed her diet and lifestyle as part of her global cancer treatment. But Cormac didn’t need to hear details like that. The man had called Huey Wasserman to book a good time, not hear a sob story.

“Cormac!” the red-faced, portly man behind the bar called. “Good to see you. Guinness for you and your mate?”

Andrew blinked at the term “mate”—no way this was a gay bar—and then remembered the Irish, like the Brits, often used “mate” and “friend” interchangeably.

“Guinness all right?” Cormac asked Andrew.

“Sure.” Andrew had heard of the beer, but never tried it. Still—a drink was a drink, and he needed one, stat.

They took a booth in the back, away from the humidor. Greasy menus were on the tables, tucked behind a candle flickering inside a red glass. Unwrapped silverware and paper placemats already awaited them.

“You
did
say you were starving?” Cormac’s manner was light, easy. Just another guy with whom Andrew might have shared lunch while awaiting audition call backs. Was there some chance he’d glommed onto the wrong fellow?

“I could eat anything,” Andrew said truthfully. “What do you have in mind?”

“Corned beef sliders. Sauerkraut. And a shepherd’s pie to split between us. Will that work?”

“Yep.” Andrew couldn’t pin down Cormac’s soft accent. He didn’t sound like a New Yorker, that was for sure.

“Be right back.” Cormac went to the bar, spoke to the red-faced man and returned with two tulip-shaped glasses filled with dark ale. Each Guinness was crowned with an inch of creamy foam.

“No waitresses?” Andrew asked.

“No. Authentic Irish establishment. You go to the bar for your drinks. Ian will bring us our food, though. So.” Cormac shrugged out of his trench coat, stowing it on his side of the red leather booth. “What’s your story?”

Startled, Andrew took a sip of Guinness to buy himself time. It was so thick and bitter, he almost choked. “What—what do you mean?” He hoped to God he wouldn’t have to invent a how-I-realized-I-was-gay fable on the spot.

“You’re not a native New Yorker,” Cormac said. “You sound Midwestern to me. How did you end up in the big city? Trying to break into modeling? Acting?”

“Acting.” Andrew couldn’t help giving the other man a genuine smile. Whenever anyone cared enough to ask about his acting career—if career wasn’t too strong a word—he always melted, at least temporarily. “I grew up in a small town in Kansas. No opportunities for an actor. I did some voice work for commercials in Wichita. Had a job lined up as a weekend weatherman—believe it or not, it’s a good place to start. And I could have studied meteorology as a fallback. Then—something came up. I had to turn down that job and come to New York. Which is probably going to benefit my career in the long run.” He took another tiny sip of Guinness. Even with a tight, growling stomach, the stuff tasted foul.

“Something came up? Girlfriend?” Clearly Cormac enjoyed Guinness — a third of his glass had already disappeared.

“No,” Andrew said, a little too quick and more than a little too loud. “I—my sister has cancer. At first we thought she just needed an operation, a little chemo, and she’d be fine. But it’s not that easy. She hasn’t turned the corner yet. And I can’t leave until she does.”

“I’m sorry.” Cormac’s voice dropped. His was the sort of candid gaze that gave extra weight to everything he said. “I didn’t mean to get too personal, too fast.”

“No, it’s fine.” Andrew meant it. Even on the strength of five minutes’ acquaintance, he found he liked Cormac. “What about you? I mean—if you don’t mind me asking. You don’t sound like you hail from the Big Apple, either.”

“I’ve lived all over.” Cormac’s tone went suddenly cool. “But to be perfectly honest, I didn’t arrange this evening to talk about myself. If I wanted to be bored to tears, I’d sit alone in my hotel room, wouldn’t I?” Smiling to take the sting from his words, he took another long pull of Guinness. “What do you think about the Jets? I try to be loyal, but this season I’m damn glad I don’t play the fantasy leagues anymore.”

“The Jets?” Andrew laughed. “This year, the Jets are golden. You don’t know pain until you try rooting for the Chiefs….”

They were still discussing football when the food arrived. Andrew was so hungry, he ate three of the sliders before he remembered to take a ceremonial sip of Guinness. The corned beef would have tasted good under any circumstances, but after days of Dollar Mart fare, premium red meat was perfectly divine.

“Try the sauerkraut. Don’t be a baby. It’s good stuff. And give me that.” Cormac confiscated Andrew’s Guinness. “It’s sacrilege, watching you pretend to drink that. What do you actually like?”

“Um… Budweiser?”

Cormac sighed. “Let me rephrase. What do you actually like that won’t get us tossed out on our asses?”

“Gin and tonic?”

“Perfect.” Cormac returned to the bar. By the time he returned, Andrew had eaten half the shepherd’s pie and was feeling sated for the first time in a month.

“I can order more food if you want.” Cormac’s mouth quirked up again. It was hard to tell if he was genuinely pleased or just being sarcastic.

“Not for me.” Andrew tasted the gin and tonic. It was cold, crisp, and perfect. It had been two months since he’d been able to afford a night on the town, much less a drink like this, made with top shelf liquor if he were any judge. “This is just the thing. Thanks.”

Cormac winked. “Be careful. You’re too pretty to get tipsy in a strange man’s company.”

That remark brought Andrew back to reality. He was supposed to be earning not only his regular pay, but Wasserman’s five hundred dollar cash bonus. And what had he done to secure a glowing report? Nothing but wolf down corned beef, bitch about the Chiefs, and reject his client’s drink of choice in favor of something fancier.

“I don’t consider you a strange man,” Andrew said, thinking of Marie and how relieved she’d be to see him solvent again. Determined to earn that bonus, he reached across the table, resting his hand lightly atop Cormac’s. “What’s on the docket for the rest of tonight?”

Cormac’s mouth quirked again. Despite that open, magnetic gaze, he still looked equally flattered and irritated. “On the docket? Like a case before the judge? I can let you off for good behavior if we don’t click.”

Andrew threaded his fingers between the other man’s. It felt a bit odd, nothing like holding a girl’s hand, but for five hundred dollars in cash, the action was no trouble at all. “We click. As far as I’m concerned, anyway. You’re a good looking guy. I like you. I’m just—new to all this.”

“Really?” Cormac squeezed Andrew’s hand. “So that’s what it is?”

“Yeah. First night on the job.” Andrew smiled. “Please don’t tell Mr. Wasserman I told you. But I’m a last minute replacement for one of his favorites.”

Cormac’s expression softened. And suddenly there it was—his real smile, softening his eyes and making him look years younger. “You’re doing fine. I thought after dinner we might—I don’t know. Go to a club? Dance?”

“Dance?” Andrew felt himself grinning. “I’d like that.”

“Well.” Cormac lifted the remains of Andrew’s Guinness, which he’d apparently decided to finish. “Drink up.”

Chapter 2

After dinner they took a taxi to a club called the Blairmont. During the ride, Andrew tried his best to be amusing, engaging, and interested. The last wasn’t difficult, since Cormac seemed to know a little about everything. He narrated the trip from Amsterdam Avenue to the Blairmont like a seasoned tour guide, pointing out lesser-known landmarks and discussing them with the confidence of an amateur historian.