Legal Bindings

4. Evan

Evan woke with a drunkover,which was his word for a hangover that contained residual alcohol from the evening before. He hadn’t had one in years, but if one couldn’t get drunkover at one’s thirtieth birthday party, then when could one?

With that philosophical thought drumming in his aching head, Evan rolled over and was surprised to find someone occupying the other half of his bed. It was someone he knew—Max, a friend who had once been a fuckbuddy. But then, who among Evan’s friends hadn’t once been someone he’d slept with?

These days, Max had a boyfriend, and as was often the case when friends got boyfriends, he’d been less available for hangings-out. He’d made an exception for Evan’s birthday, though, showing up the night before with a bottle of good scotch and a gleam in his eye.

Yawning, Evan popped the joints in his neck and sat up to scratch his belly. He was sporting morning wood, which had nothing to do with his bedmate and everything to do with his libido, so he went to the bathroom to take care of the problem. What he wouldn’t have given to have some pretty, available thing warming his bed instead of Max—or rather, some tall, dark, and handsome thing. Though at this point in his dry spell, Evan would take anyone who wasn’t paying him for the privilege.

Ablutions completed, Evan headed for the living room to survey the damage, which was considerable, with bodies and bottles strewn across every available surface. Apparently, he’d told those who were too drunk to drive that they could stay, and quite a few folks had taken him up on that offer. With a sigh, he went to the kitchen to get a trash bag, hoping that the clinking of glass would rouse some of his guests, because he very much wanted his apartment back so he could make a blanket pile on the couch and waste his Saturday watching old movies.

As he moved through the debris, picking up bottles, a canvas on the floor caught his eye. A familiar canvas—Evan’shalfhearted painting of Keith the bartender, which until the previous night, had been in his studio. The canvas was torn down the center, and as Evan’s stomach sank, the memory of how it happened came flooding back.

Someone had shown up with coke—a birthday present—and Evan had joked about snorting it off a boy’s stomach. His addled brain had decided the painting with Keith’s half-formed image would do. He could still hear the ripping of canvas when his friend Sammy stepped right through it with their stilettos.

Sammy had apologized, and Evan had waved it off. At the time, he was more bothered about the drugs—which were a rare indulgence for him—than the painting. Even now, staring at the ruin of what had been a week’s work, he felt nothing.

It wasn’t like the painting was all that special. Sure, it was technically fine—Keith was attractive, and Evan was enacting a faithful representation—but it wasn’t good. It didn’t say anything. It was simply a study of the human form. Honestly, the rip gave it more character than Evan could have.

Still, he worried about just how little he cared. If someone had fucked with his work even five years ago, he’d have lost his shit. Now he couldn’t muster up the energy to be annoyed.

Somewhere along the line, he’d simply lost thedrive to create or to do anything outside of fucking rich men for money and shopping for things he didn’t need. He was thirty years old and had nothing to show for his life but diminishing talent and an increasingly slim chance of making a name for himself.

“Hey.” Max’s sleepy voice jolted Evan from his sinking self-esteem spiral.

Evan turned and found his friend leaning against the doorframe of the bedroom. “Morning.”

“It certainly is. Who’re they?” Max pointed to a semifamiliar redhead tangled with an unfamiliar brunette on the sofa. They both had hickeys, and though their clothes were still on, Evan suspected some heavy petting had taken place.

“Uh, the redhead’s Lauren,” he said. “I don’t know the other one.”

“Good for them.” Max yawned and nodded at the canvas. “Shit. Was that yours?”

“Yup.”

“How the fuck did that happen?”

“Sammy stepped on it.”

Max blinked like an overgrown cocker spaniel. “Why was it on the floor?”

“Clearly, because I’m a washed-up hack.”

“Huh?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Evan forced a smile. “You want to go downstairs and grab pancakes at the diner?”

Max grinned. “Fuck, yes. Let me get my shirt.”

One of the benefits of living downtown was the proximity of good food at any time of day. Half an hour later found Max and Evan tucked into a booth at the corner diner on Evan’s block. They’d each ordered a short stack, and as the carbs settled in his stomach, Evan felt his drunkover begin to fade. Max was telling some story about his latest job—he was a project manager with a construction firm, and there had been some fuckup with a cement truck. He seemed so damned happy that Evan felt bad for wondering if it was genuine.

“You really like your job that much?” he asked as Max finished his story.

“Sure, yeah, most days. It’s a means to an end.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m working for someone else now so I can work for myself in the future. Open up my own contracting business.”

“Right.” Evan poked at his pancakes, wrinkling his nose at the way the syrup had begun to congeal on his fork. “I thought I’d have my shit figured out by now. Know what I want to do.”

Max raised a brow. “You seem pretty together to me. You have your own place. You do what you want when you want it. You’re super talented, you get laid all the time…”

“I get laid because I’m paid for it.” And while Evan didn’t have any shame about the sex work, he was well aware that it had an expiration date.

“Well, yeah, but you’re good at it.”

“It’s not that hard to fuck. Or get fucked. I’m not like…” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

“No, what?”

Folding his arms, Evan leaned against the slick vinyl of the booth and tried to wrangle his roaming thoughts. “Sometimes, I think I just go after what’s easiest. I’ve never had to try that hard, which doesn’t inspire a lot of creative desperation.”

For all that he recognized his privilege—white, raised middle-class, with no student debt and a job that let him pay the bills. Evan had always romanticized the idea of the starving artist living in a garret. Prostitution had been a nod toward that when he’d first taken it up, though he’d never been in any real danger from it. He’d started out high-end and continued that way.

“Plus, I’m not stupid,” he continued. “I can’t do the escort thing forever.”

“Is this going to be another conversation where you swear you’re getting out? Because I’ve heard that from you before.”

Evan scowled, but Max had a point. God knew he’d trotted out the “I’m quitting” line on a number of occasions, and that principled stand had only lasted until the next john called with an offer he couldn’t refuse.

“It’s different this time.”

“Why’s that?” Max asked.

“Because Sammy stepped on my painting, and I’m not even mad about it,” he said, letting his concerns bubble to the surface. “I used to feel so connected to my work—like it was this extension of my soul, and I’d die if I couldn’t paint. Now all I care about is staying comfortable and taking it easy and—fuck, I’m a total cliché.”

“Not a total cliché,” Max said, smiling as he reached for his coffee. “Seventy-five percent cliché.”

“You’re hilarious. I just… sometimes I want to shake things up. Do what you did and change my whole life.”

“I didn’t have much choice in the matter,” Max said before taking a sip. “My dad cut me off.”

“Well, yeah.” Evan was vague on the details of Max’s situation, though he knew it involved problems between Max’s dad and mom and that Max’s boyfriend, Ben, was involved. But the fact remained that Max had been forced into difficult circumstances and had emerged from them happier. “Maybe I should cut myself off. Like, throw away my burner phone and break my lease and… make myself uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable,” Max echoed, his lip curling into a half smile. “So, what—you’re going to go live on a commune and give away all your money to charity?”

“What? No, I’m not a monk. But I could…” He licked his lips, an idea taking root as he thought about what scared him more than anything—becoming conventional, boring, and staid. Living a life predicated on routine and reliability. Being respectable. “I could move to the suburbs.”

Max burst out laughing. “Wait, what?”

“I’m serious! One of those bougie neighborhoods where everyone’s a secret conservative and I get stared at for dressing the way I do and—I don’t know, there’s, like… soccer moms.”

“Soccer moms.” Max looked down at his coffee cup, and Evan suspected he was hiding a smile. “Why don’t you just move into the woods like I did?”

“Ew, no, I don’t want to get eaten by a wolf. Besides, suburbia is scarier. White picket fences and breeders abound. I’ll probably be so motivated to get myself out of there that I’ll start creating like… Picasso-level shit.”

“Picasso-level shit.” Max shook his head. “Impeccable logic.”

“Obviously, I’m a genius. And if I’m not taking clients, my money won’t last forever, so that’ll kick my ass into gear, too, right?”

“I mean, sure. It could work. But, uh, you know you’re gonna have to go to the mecca of suburban stereotypes to find a place to stay.”

“The what?”

“The marketplace for those who want to rent out apartments above their two-car garages while spreading shit about how vaccinations cause you to grow a second anus.”

Evan’s stomach sank. He’d long ago stopped checking in on that particular social media monstrosity. “You don’t mean…?”

“Live, laugh, love, baby. You gotta reactivate your Facebook.”

* * *

Max wasn’t wrong. Facebook was a goldmine of converted rooms and garage apartments in nonsense neighborhoods. After half an hour spent clicking through listings, Evan was going boredom blind from scrolling through photo after photo of blandly beige options.

The choices were not exactly inspiring—that was, of course, the point. Still, he knew he was being picky as he bypassed perfectly acceptable rooms for one reason or another. His brain wasn’t fully committed to the idea of blowing up his life, but his brain could fuck off. Evan was doing this, logic and good sense be damned.

“What about that one?” Max asked, pointing to a listing for a Craftsman-style house that looked pretty in the thumbnail—dark-blue paint, white shutters, and even a porch swing.

Evan clicked into the listing then raised a brow and wrinkled his nose. “Problem. There aren’t any interior shots.”

“Maybe it’s a murder house,” Max said, drawing the logical conclusion. “Or it’s—wait a second.” He picked up the laptop and squinted at the screen.

“What? Dead body on the lawn?”

“No, that’s… the profile of the guy who listed it. His name’s Nick.” Max narrowed his eyes further then clicked on the man’s profile photo and let out a crow. “I knew it! That dude is Ben’s ex-husband.”

Ben, as in Max’s boyfriend. And from what little Evan knew, Ben’s ex-husband was a douchebag of the first order. “Wait, really?”

Taking the laptop back, Evan studied the man’s profile, though there wasn’t much to see. Everything about it was boring, even his photo, which was a corporate headshot that would be better placed on LinkedIn. Sure, Nick was good-looking, with dark hair and dark eyes and cheekbones that could cut glass, but he was the sort of good-looking that was almost too handsome. Like a catalog model.

Still, it was a plus to know he was gay. Evan had no compunctions about living life as he pleased, but he was well aware that his mannerisms might be off-putting to certain landlords. And fuck those people, but also, he needed to find a place before he lost his nerve, and a queer landlord was likely to be accommodating. Not that he was seriously thinking about moving in with Ben’s ex-husband.

“Let me see it again,” Max said, trying to tug the laptop out of Evan’s hands.

Evan kept a firm grip on the case. “Why do you even care? You and Ben are, like… grossly in love.”

“Because Nick was an asshole to Ben, and the last time I saw him, he was a senior associate at a really good firm, probably making really good money. So I want to know why he needs a roommate.”

“Ah. Schadenfreude, you bitch,” Evan said, using one foot to push Max away so he could peruse the listing.

“I bet there are bodies in the walls,” Max declared, practically cackling as he leaned over Evan’s shoulder. “Wait. Okay. Idea. You should go see it and report back and tell me everything.”

“Maxwell. That’s mean.”

“He’s mean,” Max said, and when he once again tried to lay claim to the laptop, Evan let him have it. “Please? Please, please, pleeease? I just need to, like… confirm my mental image that Mr. Bigshot I’m-So-Special is having a bad time.”

“You do know it’s entirely possible his reasons for renting are benign,” Evan said, already mentally composing an inquiry to Nick, and not just because of Max’s request. According to the listing, Nick had two rooms available, one on the main floor, the other—cheaper—in the attic. The house was in one of the most white-collar neighborhoods in Seattle, and Evan was more than a little intrigued by the lack of interior photos, now that he knew more about the landlord. What could be so bad that Nick wouldn’t show the rooms?

“Maybe. But does it make me an asshole that I kind of hope not?”

Evan plucked the computer from Max’s hands. “It makes you a Petty Patty, but I like you anyway. So, all right. I’ll check it out. But no promises.”

“Petty Patty,” Max said with a snort. “Thanks, Ev.”

“Anytime,” Evan said, opening a message window.