51. Silas
51
SILAS
K atia’s downtown office is located on the first floor of the brownstone where she lives. I’ve been here once—the day she hired me. Nothing about her asking me to come here today is sitting well.
Katia is a white, eastern European woman in her late fifties with perfectly silver hair cut in a sleek bob framing powdery white skin. She’s thin to the point of appearing gaunt, but there’s a polish and elegance about her that screams wealth and power. She gives strong dominatrix energy with her black stiletto nails and leather cuffs around both wrists.
Her cool, gray gaze softens as I take the seat opposite her desk. “Silas.” She sighs. “Lovely, lovely man…”
It’s good to see you, too?
“I’m sorry the world has turned into such a dumpster fire.”
“Yeah, well…” So, this isn’t good news. I brace myself for the worst.
“Do you follow politics at all?”
I scowl. I had no idea what this was about coming in, but if it’s something to do with Graham, I’ll be sick. “I try not to.”
“Darling, I wish we all had the luxury of that, but these days, sadly, we do not. The government has seen fit to try and outlaw sex work, and yes, I know it’s already illegal or gray at least, but this is a newer, fresher hell.”
I shift awkwardly and try to follow what she’s saying.
“With the new judge in town, I’ve made the decision to close the agency. Effective immediately.”
It feels like she threw a rock at my face. My head jerks. My brain reels as it tries to process how fucked I am.
“Katia, I’m sorry.”
“No, darling, I’m sorry. I can buy a lot of people, but I can’t buy that man. I wouldn’t even dare to try. He’s a real puritan, and felon isn’t a word I’m looking to add to my résumé.”
“So, that’s it? No more clients, no more jobs?”
“I’m afraid so. Not brokered through me. If you find someone else, though, please, do give them my name as a reference.”
Someone else? Like who? “Do you know of anyone?”
Visions of my bank account balance dwindling to nothing swim through my head as I grapple with this new reality.
“Not in New York. Seems we’ve all read the writing on the proverbial wall and have decided to choose early retirement.”
“Fuck.” It slips out as I slump in my seat. “What’s the new law?”
“Well, it hasn’t passed yet, but it’s only a matter of time. What used to be a routine misdemeanor will soon become a felony. My job, your job. Oddly—the crime of paying for services won’t garner additional charges. It only punishes the people providing them.”
I shake my head. Unbelievable. Only Fans, here I come? Fuck. This is not how I saw my day going—or the next year of my life for that matter.
As unconventional as this job is— was —it was easy money. Money I relied on. Money I planned on having well into the future, but now? Now what ?
“I transferred a small severance into your account today. I don’t know if you saw?”
I haven’t.
“What did you want to be when you grew up, Silas?”
“I—uh…” It’s a hard question to answer when my life is literally falling apart before my eyes. “When I was a kid I guess I wanted to be a doctor, but then I thought more…physical therapist.” I haven’t thought about that in a long time.
Her face brightens as she smiles. “I love that. You’d be wonderful.”
“Yeah, well…it’s a lot of school, and I’m not a kid anymore.”
“Still…it’s good to have a goal.” She waves her hand in a vague gesture. “Something beyond all this.”
“What happens to the website?”
“I’ve already taken it down.”
Those words ring with finality. It’s over. I won’t even be able to pay my own rent—much less Trixie’s bills. I knew on a very basic level that I relied on this money, but as I sit here—nothing but a part-time doorman—I realize how much of my identity is wrapped up in it, too. Sure, it’s not something I talk about at parties, and I don’t introduce myself as a high-priced escort, but being one has made me feel bulletproof. Like all the problems people have making it in Manhattan have never been problems for me—no college degree necessary.
And maybe I’ve been a little smug about it, too, because I feel humbled down to a nub. I’m a month away from actual homelessness if I don’t figure out something very major, very fast.
She must see the stress on my face because she adds, “You’ll find something, Silas. I’m not worried about you at all.”
If that’s the case, she’s seriously misjudged my situation. “Thanks, Katia,” I say, needing out of here.
She walks me to the door, offering me a hug and good luck before I’m out on the street looking around like an answer can be found in the vicinity .
Gil comes to mind first.
What the hell is he going to do? Lilah uses her outrageous allowance to pay me through Katia, but is removing that layer between us going to be too weird?
Still, I don’t see them going out to look for someone else, not when I’ve already established a relationship with them. This is so fucked up. So insane and unexpected, I’m still reeling when I get to my apartment.
The first thing I do is google this law.
And wouldn’t you fucking know it.
Of course. Of course this is Graham Lawther and family reaching into my life to blow it up all over again.
Obviously it isn’t just him—it’s the senate Republicans trying to keep the kids safe from all the whores and queers, but he sure is out there talking it up. Video after video, interview after post after quote. He’s got his hands all over this.
It’s how we fucking met .
If I thought I knew what betrayal felt like before, that was an appetizer. This is the main course, served hot, fresh and designed to fuck me up.
I hate him.
I hate him. I hate him. I hate him.
Katia’s severance ends up being ten grand, which, yes, does buy me some time to figure out my life. In total, it leaves me with twenty-one thousand dollars and a part-time job with benefits.
I guess I should see if Gibson has any full-time openings. It’s a start. A living. It’s not enough for me and my aunt, but with what I have, I can keep her afloat a little while longer. The problem is, I need a huge paycheck to continue supporting us both—one a doorman can’t make, not even if I do manage to maintain one paying client.
I have no desire to try to sell my services on my own. I still have mild PTSD from the one time those content creators filmed me—even if Katia stopped them from posting the video. Having the video with Graham circulating was a nightmare. I was recognized—identified.
Even my landlord was hesitant to rent to me. I have to pay him in cash.
Before I start taking an inventory of my apartment to determine what I can sell, I shoot Lilah a text.
Me
Katia let me go. She’s closing the agency.
Lilah
Wtf???!!!
Me
Some new law apparently.
Lilah
Oh my god. Come over.
Me
Can’t. I’m about to get really drunk.
Lilah
I can help you with that. Come over.
Me
Not to be a dick, but am I being paid for this visit?
Lilah
I’m asking as a friend. But I’ll pay for a ride.
Me
It’s too weird. I’m sorry.
Lilah
Then let’s please not make it weird. I’ll come to you. Does that work better?
I guess it does. Yeah.
Me
Okay
I text her my address and try to make the apartment presentable. I can’t remember the last time I had anyone over here. Maybe never. No one comes to mind, and since I’ve been here for months, I admit the realization makes me feel sorry for myself as I collect a few pieces of laundry and put a bowl in the sink to wash.
I make up my bed, then mix a drink while I wait, scrolling through Netflix to find something to binge and distract me from my troubles once Lilah leaves. Troubles is a nice way of putting it. It’s something my mom would say. She’d also suggest the Netflix binge, but she’d frown at the tequila and recommend rocky road instead.
I sigh, slouching back into the couch, remembering her. Nearly my entire life she struggled with her weight. Yo-yoing between obesity and morbid obesity. Ironic then, that at the hour of her death, she wasn’t much more than a waif, subsisting on tube feedings because she could no longer breathe and eat at the same time. It was around the time of her diagnosis of heart failure that I realized no one should have to die like that, and I became a personal trainer.
Through that work, dealing with injuries and mobility limitations of my clients inspired an interest in physical therapy, but even if I could have afforded to take some classes over the last several years, I’m not sure when I would have found the time. And now I’m thirty.
My drink is empty. While I’m making another, Lilah shows up.
She’s much less fixed up than I normally see her when she’s out and about. This is more like the version I saw in the mornings while we were in the Hamptons. Wide-legged sweatpants and a tight, cropped tank. Her brown hair is in a frizzy ponytail.
She looks younger like this. “I was thinking and researching all the way down here,” she tells me when she joins me in the kitchen to mix her own drink. “I have an idea, but you’re going to hate it.”
“I hate everything,” I tell her. “What’s your idea?”
“Check in with me first. How are you doing?”
Honestly? I’m depressed. Thinking about my mom didn’t help with that, but Lilah doesn’t know anything about her. My life is stuffed into so many different compartments, it’s sometimes hard to remember who knows what about me. But unlike Graham, I don’t lie. And if I get drunk enough tonight, Lilah may end up being one of the few people who knows everything there is to know.
“I’m not happy. I did some research, too. A certain someone seemed to keep coming up.”
“Yeah. Okay, well, I’m glad you know about that. I didn’t want to have to show you.”
“You know—and I’m not defending him—I swear, I’m not—but the way he talks about it makes it seem perfectly reasonable. Who wouldn’t want to protect kids, right?”
“From being kidnapped at CVS? Listen—that’s just not how human trafficking works. I’m not saying shit like that never happens, but real victims are runaways. Kids in the system who have no way out. And they’re disproportionately queer. Did you know that ?”
I shake my head but lean back on the counter to listen and learn.
She goes on. “This myth about child abductors is to keep suburban moms scared so they vote for harsher laws and death to the cartels or whatever. But they’re not fixing the problem. The problem is the lack of services for homeless kids—kids who got kicked out for being gay or got addicted to drugs. Or left a shitty situation where their parents were addicts. But I didn’t see anything in the press about this stupid bill that talks about that .”
“That’s not really the part of it that lost me a job today,” I say.
“Right. Bring the bottle. Let’s go sit.”
We take the liquor over to the couch. I sit with my legs propped on the small coffee table, and she faces me, her own legs cross-crossed. “It’s interesting—isn’t it? That the people trying to make a living are royally screwed, but the guys who pay them basically get off scot-free.”
“Sounds about par for the course. No one ever told me life was fair, did they? I hope they didn’t.”
She gives me a wry grin. “You’ve met my brother, haven’t you?”
I nod in acknowledgement.
“My point is, it’s a slippery slope. The thing about all this shit that happens in Washington is you have to ask three things—who does it hurt, and who benefits? Spoiler alert—the answer isn’t suburban moms.”
“What’s the third thing?”
“What it sets the stage for down the line,” she says, and I admit, she’s losing me. Politics gives me a headache. Talk about depressing.
“I can’t get into the weeds of all that right now,” I tell her.
She sighs heavily. “People like you—you’re the reason we’re all gonna be wearing red cloaks in five years saying shit like blessed be the fruit.”
I give her a look of complete confusion.
“ The Handmaid’s Tale,” she says. “ Watch it.”
“I’ll put it on the list.”
“So how screwed are you? Financially?”
“My aunt lives in a fancy retirement community in Florida.”
“Uh-huh.” She nods because she knows that already.
“I pay for it.”
“Oh. ”
“But I guess I could give her the bedroom here. I’m sure she’d love that.”
“Silas…”
I shake my head, hating the note of pity I’m hearing. “I’ll figure something out. I’m sure I can at least manage to keep her in Florida.” I’m not at all sure about that.
“I want you to consider something. It’s gonna sound extreme, but sit with it a minute before you shoot it down and remember, you’ve got people on your side.”
I don’t like where this is going.
“I think you should sue.”
“No way.”
“Silas—”
“Sue who?”
“Avery Capshaw.”
My eyes widen, and I reach for the tequila.
“Hear me out.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sure I can. Avery’s not my enemy. She had nothing to do with any of this.”
“You lost two jobs when that video came out. You could sue for emotional distress, invasion of privacy, economic damages—shit, you could get your attorney’s fees recovered.” She ticks the items off, finger by finger.
“Someone’s been on Chat GPT.”
“Fuck you, I went to college. I was pre-law!”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. And you have a case.”
“Avery wasn’t the one who released the video.”
“Avery was the reason there even was a video. Am I wrong about that ?”
I slug back a shot and sink deeper into the couch. “I don’t know. Marianne Hayes had her hands all over it.”
“Well, suing her would be practically impossible, but the Capshaws have plenty of money. And since Avery was the one divorcing Graham, I don’t think it’s a huge stretch to hold her liable.”
At my dubious expression, she continues, “Look, I’m not suggesting you bankrupt her. I’m just saying with what the release of that video did to you, you’re entitled to compensation. It’s illegal what they did.”
I haven’t ever thought about it that way. Never even bothered to look it up. I mean—it certainly should be illegal. “How illegal?”
“It’s a criminal offense, Sy. But I’m talking about a civil suit. Those are way easier. And those get you the kind of money you need.”
I’m drunk enough at this point to consider it. “Know any good, cheap lawyers?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”