A Mistake of Identity (Porte du Coeur: Mistakes #1)

Ellis

had perfected the art of looking available, but not desperate.

The sheer fabric of his crop top taunted as much as it covered, drifting away from his torso with every movement, only to settle back against his skin. Each slow turn or stretch sent the flimsy material dancing, teasing glimpses of muscled chest and dusky nipples before hiding them again. The contrast with his briefs was deliberate—while the top played coy, the skin-tight black fabric below left nothing to the imagination, cupping his cock and barely covering the top curve of his ass. Years of experience had taught him that the mix of revelation and mystery sold better than blatant display.

He shifted his weight, letting his hip cant to one side in a practiced motion that drew the eye. His body moved through the familiar choreography without conscious thought: subtle flex here, a languid stretch there, the occasional brush of fingers along the floating hem of his top that made the fabric flutter against his abs.

Eight businessmen had hurried past Heart Court’s “display case” in the last hour, all trying not to stare and failing miserably. Dark suits, every one of them. amused himself by imagining them in hot pink instead—serious-faced men power-walking past in fluorescent formal wear.

He had to get his kicks somehow.

Above him, the neon heart pulsed, casting waves of pink and red light across his skin. “HEART COURT” blazed in cursive letters, turning another abandoned warehouse in Port du Coeur’s industrial sprawl into something more sinister or inviting, depending on who you asked.

None of it mattered tonight. He’d be at the Lumière in two hours, meeting a mystery client who could make or break his future at Heart Court.

The display case’s heavy glass door opened to Heart Court’s lobby, separating the merchandise from the customers. knew the door’s weight intimately, had felt it slam shut behind him more than once when Donovan was in one of his moods. The thick metal frame could only lock from the outside, ostensibly to keep patrons out of the windows rather than workers in, though Kevin Donovan, owner and proprietor of the Heart Court, had been known to forget that distinction when he was angry.

“Get your ass in back here, Anouilh.” Donovan bellowed from a back room. Of course, Donovan butchered the name again—Uh-nule instead of Ah-new-ee. had given up correcting him after the hundredth time. Like his refusal to learn French, Donovan took pride in mangling anything that wasn’t pure American English.

The display case’s heavy glass door opened with its familiar pneumatic hiss. Caleb Winters slipped in, already untying his robe. “Here,” he said, draping it over ’ shoulders with a whispered, “good luck.”

The kid was barely five-foot-five, with platinum blonde hair and doe eyes that had clients falling over themselves to book him. Like Jean, he played up the innocent act perfectly, even down to his signature outfit. The pure white corset hugged his slim torso, strategic lacing revealing teasing glimpses of bare skin, while the matching white thong left little to the imagination. Virginal fantasy with a promise of corruption. It was a look that worked. Even now, as he took ’ place in the window, his movements had that practiced hesitation that drove the regulars wild.

slipped his arms through the sleeves and pulled the robe around himself, trying not to notice how the soft fabric barely reached mid-thigh on his taller frame. He padded barefoot across the lobby floor, cinching the belt tight around his waist. No matter how obsessive the cleaning crew was, he could never quite shake the skin-crawling feeling of bare feet on these tiles, knowing what happened in the adjacent rooms.

A snicker from the front desk caught ’ attention. Jean Devereaux bent over the appointment book, blonde curls falling forward to hide his grin, but when he peeked up to meet ’ eyes, they shared a familiar eye roll. The kid spoke perfect Parisian French—he knew exactly how wrong Donovan’s pronunciation was.

Unlike the barely-there outfits required in the display case, Jean’s front desk uniform was a subtle tease: tight black shorts that rode high on his thighs paired with a crisp white button-down, sleeves rolled precisely to his elbows and open just enough to show his collar bones. His shirt was perfectly tucked, creating the polished look of an upscale maltreat d’ who just happened to be showing a bit more skin than usual.

Behind the welcome desk where Jean worked, the hallway split. To the right, private rooms lined both sides; each door was numbered in peeling gold paint. To the left, the employees-only section began, marked by a change from decorative wallpaper to bare walls painted in cheap beige.

followed the left corridor past the supply closet, where shelves held everything a client might need. Each item meticulously inventoried and charged to their bill. His bare feet made soft sounds against the tile as he approached the employee lounge. The smell hit him first: stale coffee and the sharp tang of industrial cleaner, a far cry from the subtle perfumes that filled the front.

The lounge hit him like a slap of reality after the pretense up front: a tattered couch worn to some forgotten shade of blue, a mini-kitchen with its humming refrigerator and temperamental microwave, mismatched chairs around a folding table.

They kept the linoleum floor spotless—Donovan’s one consistent rule. But no amount of scrubbing could hide its age, just like the fluorescent lights couldn’t conceal the pallor they cast on everyone’s skin.

Meaty fingers dug into ’ shoulder, spinning him around. Donovan might be pushing fifty, but regular gym sessions kept him fit enough to manhandle his employees when he wanted to. He shoved onto the couch, looming over him with his tablet in hand. The man’s patchy beard did nothing to hide his pockmarked skin or the sneer that twisted his face into something even uglier than usual.

“‘Lackluster.’ ‘Unsatisfying.’ ‘Just okay.’” His thumb scrolled with sharp, angry flicks. “And one complaint I had to have translated, fucking Paw-Paw, but trust me, it wasn’t flattering.”

Every child in PDC grew up speaking Paw-Paw French, the Missouri French. had learned its history during those long days in the Fourth Cat’s libraries, where warmth and kind librarians had been as welcoming as the books. They’d let him wash in their bathrooms, never minding his shabby clothes as long as he treated their books with care.

Like its cousins Quebecois and Southern Creole, Paw-Paw had evolved in isolation. The dialect twisted European French into something new, borrowing freely from German traders, Spanish merchants, and English settlers. Words mixed and merged in the mouths of people too busy surviving to care about proper grammar. The result was, like a particularly poetic book wrote, a language that flowed like water over rocks—familiar in its movement but shaped by everything it touched.

That Donovan, a Chicago transplant, still refused to learn it, said everything about why Heart Court struggled. The man was unadaptable.

“You have one more chance.” Donovan’s face flushed red in anger. With thick fingers, the proprietor jabbed at his tablet, its dull glow highlighting every scar and blemish. The device chimed with each aggressive tap until ’ phone buzzed in response.

The client profile was heavy on kinks and light on description: late thirties, brown hair, blue eyes. “How am I supposed to recognize him without a picture?”

“Black suit. Maroon shirt.”

“At the Lumière? That’s First Cat. You just described half their clientele.”

The backhand caught by surprise, the force of it sending him sprawling across the tattered couch. His tablet clattered to the cushions as pain bloomed across his cheek. Before he could recover, Donovan’s meaty fingers twisted in his hair, yanking him upright. ’ right hand flew up instinctively to grip Donovan’s wrist while his left braced against the couch cushion, steadying himself as the proprietor hauled him back to sitting. He knew better than to actually fight the hold. His scalp burned, neck wrenched at an awkward angle as Donovan used his grip to force to look at him.

When Donovan’s grip loosened slightly, let go of his wrist to gingerly touch his cheek, already feeling the heat of what would become a nasty bruise. He’d need to raid Jean’s makeup stash before heading to the Lumière.

Donovan rolled his eyes at the gesture. “You aren’t Union. Who’re you going to cry to? You’ve cost me three potential regulars with your attitude.”

“I was sick for two of those guys. Back-to-back appointments—”

“Don’t give me excuses.” Donovan’s breath hit ’ face in hot puffs, his fingers tightening painfully in ’ hair. “This guy has real money, actual connections. He did me a solid last month. That’s why you’re going at half your usual rate.” He released ’ hair only to grab his chin, forcing eye contact. “So you get your shit together, spread your legs, and make him moan, or you’re back on the street. Understand?”

forced himself to nod despite the grip on his jaw. Two years at Heart Court had taught him when to submit. Four years walking PDC’s streets had taught him when to fight. And the years before... He pushed those memories away. At twenty-three, he’d survived too much to risk losing his spot here over pride. A bruised face was nothing compared to what the streets would do to him. He’d learned that lesson long before he sold himself legally.

“What’s his name?” He kept his voice carefully neutral.

“He doesn’t want you to have it. Call him ‘Sir.’” Donovan’s sneer twisted deeper. “Job nice enough to afford you. Don’t need trash like you trying to blackmail him. Man has a reputation to maintain.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“Eight PM. Lumière lobby. By the chandelier fountain.” Donovan’s eyes raked over , catching on where the robe had fallen open, revealing the barely-there underwear beneath. With deliberate slowness, he pushed the fabric further aside, his rough palm sliding down ’ torso. A repulsive shiver ran through as Donovan’s hand cupped his groin, the touch lingering and possessive. When Donovan squeezed painfully, ground his teeth together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

“And wear something appropriate,” Donovan sneered, finally removing his hand. “Don’t need you looking like a whore.”

“I am a whore,” mumbled.

Another backhand answered him. “And you dressing like it is why this place is going to shit. The Lumière is a classy joint.”

His phone buzzed in his pocket, and Donovan glanced at the screen. “Fuck.” He grabbed ’ jaw again, fingers digging into the forming bruise. “Remember, you fuck this up, you’re back on the streets. And trust me, at your age? The streets aren’t kind to used goods.” He shoved ’s face away and stormed out, already barking into his phone about a delivery issue at the back entrance.

had barely steadied himself when movement caught his eye as Jean burst into the lounge. A whirlwind of blonde curls and green eyes. He collapsed onto the couch beside . “Please tell me you’ll blow this guy’s mind.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be monitoring the desk?”

“Marie has it handled.” Jean fluttered his fingers in a dismissive wave.

“Her name’s not Marie.” rolled his eyes. “Marie isn’t the name of every girl who works here.”

“Emma, then.” Jean sprawled deeper into the couch. “Whatever.”

“Rachel. Her name is Rachel.”

Jean’s nose scrunched up like he’d smelled something offensive. “That’s not even French.”

“Neither is mine.” tugged one of Jean’s curls. “Not everyone born in PDC has to have a French name.”

“But your last name is French.” Jean batted ’ hand away. “And is lovely. Rachel Miller is just so...” He waved his hands as if trying to grab the right word from the air. “Boring.”

rolled his eyes at Jean’s antics. “So you do know her name?”

“She should go by Marie,” Jean said, finally laying full-out on the couch, head in Jean’s lap.

Three months ago, Jean showed up at Heart Court in clothes that screamed Nouveau Quartier. His perfect Parisian French had marked him as clearly as their expensive tailoring. He’d picked up Paw-Paw surprisingly quickly.

Why someone would flee NQ luxury was a mystery didn’t care to solve. But Jean’s old-money air made him an instant favorite. Every pervert wanted to pretend they were fucking some rich kid behind Daddy’s back.

In Jean’s case, they probably were.

was too tall, too muscular for most tastes. Brown hair, brown eyes—nothing to write poems about. Not drop-dead gorgeous like Jean or Caleb or most of the Union escorts. That’s why he’d ended up at Heart Court.

“You’re going to blow this guy’s mind tonight, right?” Jean asked again, peeking up at him. “I don’t want to be here without you.”

ran his fingers through Jean’s curls, earning a catlike purr. “Just had bad luck. Picky customers.”

“Still can’t believe he made you work while sick.” Jean burrowed into ’ lap like an octopus, ignoring attempts to dislodge him.

“Needed the money. Room might be free, but nothing else is.” gave up the fight. It was never a winning one with Jean. The boy was clingy. “You working tonight?”

“Regular. Owns a few bars in South First Cat. Third time this month.”

“Three months here and already regulars?”

Jean shrugged against ’ chest. “He bathes. Probably has a white picket fence and 2.5 kids.”

“Usually do. The ones hiding affairs avoid the popular houses.” checked his phone. “Speaking of, I need to get ready.”

“Think he’ll make you call him ‘Daddy?’” Jean snickered.

“They never want me to call them Daddy. Do I look like a sugar baby?”

“You could be. You’re handsome. Got that swimmer’s body.”

“I’m a swimmer. That’s what happens when you swim.” nudged Jean with his shoulder. “You should come with me sometime. YMCA has discounted memberships for us.”

Jean’s face scrunched up like he’d bitten into a lemon, tongue poking out in disgust. “No, thanks!” He reached up, fingers ghosting over ’ cheek where Donovan had struck him. His lips formed a perfect pout that couldn’t help but envy. It was the kind of pretty that came naturally to Jean, the kind clients paid extra for. “Grab my makeup kit from my room. The good concealer’s in the blue bag.”

finally extracted himself from Jean’s octopus grip. “See you after the Cat Hours.”

“Don’t be late!” Jean called after him. “I want every detail about this mystery client!”

The narrow stairs to the dormitories creaked under ’ feet, each step a reminder of Heart Court’s age. His room waited above—just a single bed and dresser, but better than the ratty tent he’d called home for four years. The communal showers weren’t modern, but they were clean.

He grabbed his shower kit and Jean’s makeup bag, heading for the showers. The enema attachment was the only modern thing in the room. Its self-sanitizing cradle glowing blue, Donovan’s one concession to modern hygiene. went through his preparation thoroughly. Experience had taught him that “clean” meant spotless inside and out unless specifically requested otherwise. The lukewarm water never quite got hot enough, but at least it never ran cold.

stood before the mirror in his room, squinting under the harsh fluorescent light that made everyone look sickly. His fingers slid over his cheek, feeling the heat of the bruise blooming beneath. Jean’s concealer was expensive—probably lifted from one of those high-end boutiques in the Fourth Cat where the Union escorts shopped. He dabbed the cream carefully over the darkening mark, but his unpracticed hands made the coverage look obvious and patchy. He sighed heavily. Makeup wasn’t his forte, but it would have to do. The client probably wouldn’t care anyway—wouldn’t be looking at his face much, much less notice a poorly concealed bruise.

stared at his reflection, trying to summon the energy, the enthusiasm this client would expect. Half-price or not, he needed this to work. Heart Court wasn’t much, but it was a roof over his head, electricity that mostly worked, and running water that was usually clear. His small luxuries, the tablet, the phone, and regular meals, depended on keeping Donovan happy. Better than the streets. It had to be better than the streets.

One last chance. He’d make it count.