Ultimately, though, what’d caused this dark void within me was the sense of being fleeting in someone’s life. To always exist on the fringes of another person’s life took a toll. According to my pop, it was something I’d gotten from my mother. She’d worn her heart on her sleeve when she was alive. I was similar. I loved people. I loved to help. It was why I worked with children at my brother’s academy. It was the most rewarding job I’d had.
Stepping out of the elevator, I glanced left then right. Eight apartments on each floor.
Three thousand dollars a week… All cash. In two months, I should be able to walk up to my brother and hand over almost twenty grand and make myself a partner in his business.
Two months. I could do this. I wanted to do this.
Apartment 2704 was mine. I turned the key in the lock and opened the door, and it was kinda fucking impossible to fight a grin. There was no entryway to speak of, and the place was small, but I loved it. It was one open space. Bathroom straight ahead, an alcove next to it just big enough for the bed and two nightstands that were already there, kitchen area to my left, closet behind the door, a small table with two chairs by the kitchen window.
The biggest window was six or so feet to the right, in the alcove, and I walked over to it with my Arby’s bag and dug out my brisket sandwich.
Fuck me, this could work. Amazing view of the best city in the world. The buildings glittered in the night. This one had thirty stories in total, and I knew there was a terrace on the roof. I’d go up there tomorrow night when I had my guitar here.
I took a bite of my sandwich and glanced down at the tiny cars on the street.
Then I took a little tour of my new home and decided there was no reason for me to return to Brooklyn tonight. There was fresh linen on the bed, shower products and toiletries in the bathroom, and even some water, fruit, and snacks in the kitchen.
Exposed brick walls painted white, state-of-the-art kitchen appliances, the softest towels, tiny spotlights under the four kitchen cupboards… There was no TV, but I spotted an iPad on one of the nightstands. Was this some fucking hotel? No pun intended.
There was a note on the table, so I sat down with my Arby’s bag and pulled out my soda and fries too. No “dear guest” or “esteemed whore” or anything; it went straight to the Wi-Fi password and some instructions.
Before each meeting, all lights had to be turned off, and the blackout curtains—whoa, blackout curtains? I snapped my gaze to the windows, and wouldja look at that. I’d missed those before. Okay, I had to shut them before the mystery man arrived, and I had to put on the sleep mask that was located in the nightstand drawer.
I didn’t know if I was insulted by the instructions on how I should shower before the meetings too. Did the client think I was some filthy pig?
Maybe he was a germophobe.
All communication would go through the iPad, and there was a list of information I was supposed to send him. “No chitchat, please.” Jeez. Throwing some fries into my mouth, I walked over to the tablet and swiped on the screen. A test message had been sent already.
I sent him a couple messages with the details he’d requested. And no chitchat.
No allergies, I prefer oil-based lube or coconut oil, minimal scarring (I was a clumsy kid), no piercings, yes to tattoos—my right shoulder and down my arm.
Five foot ten, green eyes, brown hair, I’m 27, nonsmoker, yes to alcohol every now and then, no mental (or otherwise) disabilities, no trauma in the past, no triggers. I’m not on any medications, and my test results will be ready on Monday.
I cocked my head as the “Read” sign popped up at the bottom. Would he respond? Or was his fiancée handling this too? Would she respond? I returned to the table to finish my food, and I kept staring, kept waiting, until I realized that was it. No chitchat. He would sit on all the information and give nothing in return.
I huffed and took a swig of my soda.
Screw this, I had the right to ask for something too.
After finishing the last of my sandwich, I wiped the grease off my fingers and then typed in a message.
Your turn.
The standard “Delivered” never showed; it went to “Read” immediately, making me wonder if someone still had his messages open.
That someone started typing, and it tightened my stomach a bit.
Is Nick your real name?
Not what I expected. I wanted answers, dammit. I wanted at least a name and maybe…fuck if I knew, some personal info that gave me a clearer image of him. Right now, he was just a blob.