9. Bradley
Bradley
Two and a half weeks later
I can’t believe it. Tomorrow I'm going to have the taxes paid in full, and then I’ll start working on the mortgage.
I’m just hoping that even if I don’t have the full amount, I can turn in enough that will keep the bank happy.
I made the regular mortgage payment last month, though I know it’s not enough to take care of what’s owed.
Falling further into debt isn’t something I want to happen.
But the amount I owe them is even more than the back taxes.
My hope is that if I go in there with a hefty amount I can get another extension.
But that’s a problem for another day. Tonight I have a date, and I need to finish getting ready.
Thankfully, it’s casual. Unlike the other dates I’ve been on, this one is at his house.
A dinner. Odd, but I’m not asking questions.
Money is money. My dates have been pretty good so far.
Most of them have been scorned women wanting to make their ex jealous.
Seems I have a knack for doing that. Either Foxy’s has a limited clientele wanting men, or they just haven’t noticed me yet. But I’m hoping that changes soon.
A week ago, I had my first extracurricular fun.
We made sure to wait until after our paid time before we fucked.
I was the bottom to his top. And oddly, I enjoyed it.
What I wasn’t expecting was the envelope with an extra thousand in cash when I left.
For a minute, I felt cheap. Like a dirty whore.
But then I remembered what this extra cash could do for me.
Especially when I didn’t have to give any of it to Foxy.
I take one final look in the mirror, checking myself out from every angle. The guy tonight is hot, so maybe we’ll have a little extra fun as well. He’s older, but I’ve always been attracted to older men. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s that they know what they want. They’re secure with who they are.
The weather’s nice, so I walk a few blocks to the coffee shop pickup spot. A soft breeze tugs at the edges of my shirt and tousles my hair just enough to make it look like I styled it that way.
I lean against the brick wall outside the coffee shop, one foot propped up behind me, sole pressed flat to the wall.
It takes everything in me to look relaxed and not like I’m not counting every second, or hyper-aware of every car that passes.
My hands are in my pockets, my thumb brushing against the edge of my phone.
I glance down at my watch, checking the time before pulling out my phone and opening the rideshare app. Still en route. Ten to twenty minutes out. Travis, my driver, a fiftyish looking man will be arriving in a black Camry. It even has a picture of his license plate for me to verify.
I have the details memorized, and the address is burned into the back of my mind. My client tonight is discreet, polite in his messages, and a little vague.
I lower my foot, shifting my weight, letting out a deep exhale.
My nerves are shot, that voice of reason whispering just loud enough to make me pause.
The one that says, this feels a little too much like the setup of a horror movie.
The innocent sex worker who’s lured to a private location.
The man with the perfect manners and an empty house in the hills.
No neighbors. No witnesses. It’s what movies are made of.
I laugh out loud at myself, head tipping back as I cross my arms over my chest.
“Jesus, Bradley,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Get a grip. It’s just a fucking date. Stop acting like a pussy.
“Foxy has all the details. The address. The guy’s name and credit card information.
Time of the date. Even the backup call-in plan, just in case.
Nothing is going to happen. So get over your hesitation about this being the first date at the actual person’s house.
It’s the same as going home with a date after our time is up and fucking them. ”
But I’m not stupid, and I know this world is full of crazy ass people.
What if this is some homophobic sociopath?
Is this all a ruse to kill me? I’ve watched plenty of horror movies and Lifetime movies—that’s the problem.
That’s the main reason my brain can’t stop writing scenes I don’t want to star in.
Shit, I could probably write a best selling thriller about my delusions of what’s going to take place tonight.
I check the app again. Travis is two minutes away.
One minute.
A black Camry rounds the corner, slowing as it approaches and pulls up to the curb. I push off the wall, running a quick hand through my hair before opening the door and sliding into the back seat.
“Bradley?” the driver asks, confirming who I am.
“And you’re Travis. My very own chariot to Prince Charming,” I joke. Travis doesn’t even blink.
I pull the door shut with a soft click as the interior is set in silence. The driver isn’t even playing music. Hell, he could at least have a dull as shit news channel on. But nothing. Seeing how he responded to my joke, I choose not to try and engage him in any more conversation, either.
Instead, I open the app on my phone and send my date a message.
Me: I’m in the chariot and headed your way. ETA says 3o min.
He doesn't respond, but I’m not expecting it. Since he’s paying for this ride, I’m sure he already knows. So I sit back, letting my head rest on the seat and close my eyes, getting mentally prepared for the night to come.
I stand outside my date's apartment building, taking it in for a moment. Glancing up, I have to shield my eyes to keep the sun out; it’s fucking tall as shit, maybe thirteen floors.
It’s a dream with smooth marble columns, glass so clear it seems like nothing separates the inside from the street.
Modern. Expensive. It’s the kind of place that people don't just walk into unless they belong.
And I don’t belong in this fancy world. But I do.
At least tonight, I’m supposed to. Hell, I am living out my very own Cinderella story.
Foxy is my fairy godmother, the Lyft was my pumpkin and the driver my mouse.
This apartment building is my castle. But what’s my glass slipper?
Is it my cock? Fuck me, I hope I don’t lose it tonight and have to prove it’s mine. How would I do that?
The longer I stand there, the more my mind goes straight down the drain with my whole Cinderella conspiracy.
Shaking it off, I walk through the massive glass doors like I’ve done it a million times before, confident in every stride I take even though my palms are itching like crazy with nerves.
The lobby is quiet, polished to the point that my reflection stares back at me from the white marble floors.
There’s a small podium with a well-dressed doorman standing at it beside the elevators like a guard dog in his designer suit.
I nod at him as I pass, and he returns it, as if he’s waiting for me to say something.
“Hello,” slips softly from my mouth.
He tips his head to me, but never questions who I am when it’s obvious I don’t fit in here. Just silent acknowledgment for me to proceed to my destination.
I stop at the elevator, the one to the left of the plant as the message instructs, and press the button marked PH — penthouse. I slip my hands in my pockets and rock back and forth on my heels, and wait, while still nervously glancing over at the doorman, who’s long forgotten about me.
The elevator dings softly, just before the doors slide open without a sound. I step inside, and the air is immediately different—cooler, scented faintly with cedar and vanilla. The panel on the wall lights up, but there’s no buttons for floors. Just a number pad waiting for a six-digit code.
I smirk. Fancy-ass rich guy hiring someone for company? You’d think a man with a place like this would have suitors falling at his feet, lapping up his attention like thirsty little dogs.
The elevator doors ping again, pulling me from my rambling thoughts. The security code. I laugh as I key it in.
Day. Month. Year.
The dude made it my birthday and I wonder if he does that for everyone. What if me and some psycho stalker have the same birthdate? He’s setting himself up for his own death.
I punch it in slowly, the soft beep of each number echoing in the enclosed space.
0 - 8 - 1 - 1 - 0 - 1.
The elevator doors shut as it hums to life, a quiet but powerful motion, and I’m rising—fast. There’s no stopping at other floors. Sweet. A man could get used to this.
When the elevator finally slows, I check myself one last time in the mirrored walls and get ready to step out into a hallway.
But that’s not what happens.
The elevator doors slide open directly into the apartment.
No hallway.
No buffer.
Just the entryway of a penthouse that smells like leather and money, dimly lit and styled to perfection, and the rich aroma of baking garlic bread wafting right at me.
“Hello?” I call, taking slow and timid steps down the short hallway.
“In the kitchen, down the hallway, and to the right.” A deep masculine voice drifts from somewhere further inside the apartment.
Every fiber in me screams to call out ‘Marco’ to see if he will reply accordingly.
But I don’t. Remembering I’m a rented man at the moment and here to do a job.
This client may not like my off brand comedy.
I do as he says and keep moving forward, rounding the corner, passing through a small dining nook, following the smell of bread straight to the kitchen.
“Found you,” I say, before biting on my lower lip, letting my teeth drag along the tender flesh.
He turns to face me and holy fucking hell, he’s gorgeous.
His face is striking in that classic, masculine, movie star way.
His skin is sun-kissed, with a square jaw that’s shadowed with just the right amount of stubble.
His mouth is full and firm, lips drawn in a faint line.
And those lips, fuck, they look like they’ve said dangerous things in dark rooms and I want to hear them all.
His eyes are a storm, deep-set and piercing, a cool gray or maybe blue—it’s hard to tell. The way he’s looking at me has me mesmerized, like I’ve lost all ability to form a cohesive thought, let alone speak.
“Bradley,” he says, and there’s a pause, brief, but noticeable.
Like he’s swallowing something down. Not fear exactly, but nerves.
There’s a tightness in the easy way he says my name.
Like he’s rehearsed this moment in his head too many times, and now that you’re actually here, the reality of it is catching up with him.
He clears his throat softly afterward, trying to cover it.
“Did you have any trouble getting here?”
“No,” I smile broadly, pulling myself together. “I didn’t. You were impeccable with your details.”
He nods, turning back to place a lid on the pot and putting the spoon in his hand on the stove.
“It smells delicious,” I add.
“Thank you. It’s an old family recipe. Handed down from generation to generation.” He wipes his hands on a towel, but I notice how he keeps hold of it as if it’s his security blanket. Interesting.
“A night in is nice.” I’m not sure what to say.
He’s a little more closed off than the dates I’ve been on.
Normally, I’d be sitting somewhere, drink in hand, while we laughed over something funny the other said.
But we’d also be in some social environment, not in an apartment where he may or may not have a torture chamber set up.
“Okay Bradley, rein it the fuck in,” I remind myself.
“Would you like something to drink? Wine, beer, water? Whatever you like, I’m sure I have it.” My mysterious date questions, finally placing the dish towel on the counter.
“Beer would be great. Thank you, John.” He snorts in response to my answer to him, a soft smile finally breaking on his hard face as he steps over to the fridge.
It’s only a few seconds before he’s stepping over to me, two beers in hand, extending one out to me.
“It’s actually Malcolm.”