Nick was the name Tina used for my clients. Most sex workers I’d known went by fake names, and technically, I did too, ’cause it was assumed my real name was Nicholas when it was Nicola. But no one called me that.
I fired off a quick response.
It’s a version of my name. Some details about you wouldn’t hurt.
I set down the tablet and threw more fries into my mouth. He was typing, and time would tell if he would give me something or not. Part of me wanted to ask Tina, but that’d be a waste. No matter how little intel a client gave her, she always got enough to figure out who someone was, and she kept it to herself.
Just as I started chewing on the last of my fries, a rather lengthy text popped up.
My name is Gideon. I’m 44 years old, 6’4”, brown eyes, brown hair, and I don’t have any tattoos or piercings. I have Asperger’s and need to stay in control for this arrangement, so please let me set the pace. I will see you on Saturday night. Expect my instructions for the evening one hour before my arrival. That’s enough chitchat. Good night.
I raked my teeth along my bottom lip and read the message a couple more times. I had to admit I was intrigued. At my brother’s music academy, I sometimes came across an autistic student, and their way of thinking fascinated me. They often had a whole other world to show you; you just needed to tap into their language.
Gideon. All right, I was ready.Chapter 2“You’re not gonna tell Pop and Nonna about this, are you?” I lifted my T-shirt and wiped my forehead.
“Tell ’em what, that you’re leaving Brooklyn or that you’re turning tricks?”
I shot my brother a bitchy look, to which he laughed.
“Fuck no, I’m not telling them about a temporary move,” he chuckled.
Good. Whenever something major was happening, we told our family as little as possible. Nonna was a drama queen, and Pop hated change. Their entire world existed across the East River in the same neighborhood where they’d always lived. I remembered when Anthony moved ten minutes away and Nonna thought he was gonna forget about her.
We’d figured out the best way to keep her calm was to continue traditions from our childhoods. For instance, I still met up with Nonna once a week at Sahadi’s, not really for the shopping but for the company and so she could see that I was alive and well.
She had two gay grandsons and still believed we faced dangers on every street corner, even though Anthony had been out since he was like thirteen, approximately…many years ago… Fuck, I had to do math here. He was forty-two. He’d been out a long time, and yet Nonna never stopped worrying.
She was also a violent, scrappy little lady. She could wrap her fingers around a wooden spoon and go, “If you ever get bullied for the gay thing, I’ll mess a fucker right up.” Then she’d do the Sign of the Cross and send a quick apology to God for cursing.
The gay thing.
Never mind that my brother was six-two and had trained in kickboxing since he was ten; our five-foot-nothing little grandmother was gonna take care of any bullies. With a wooden spoon.
“Let’s order pizza.” There wasn’t much else to do. I’d set up my keyboard in the bedroom window, my clothes were stowed away in the closet, my guitar was under the bed, and I’d left some personal items in the nightstand drawer, in the bathroom, and on the kitchen counter. Because I wasn’t moving to Manhattan without my sundae glassware and collection of sauces and maraschino cherries.
“Do they have that here?” Anthony asked with a straight face.
I snorted and sat down at the table with my phone. “Ray’s delivers. Does that work for your highness?”
My family hated Manhattan, including Anthony, which made no sense. We were the Italian-Irish Americans who’d grown up in a Latin neighborhood in Williamsburg, the part that hadn’t been taken over by rich hipsters and artists. In short, we’d lived and breathed old-school culture and Catholicism our entire lives, and Anthony’s first words as a toddler had been, “I’m gonna leave this place one day.” Probably in Spanish. At least, according to Pop, and grumpy old men never exaggerated. But apparently, my brother’s idea of leaving was to move ten minutes south to Park Slope. Granted, Park Slope had a better LGBTQ community, not to mention house prices that made any queen gasp dramatically.
Anthony was dating one of those.
While I ordered us a large pie to share, he grabbed two beers from the fridge.
Speaking of Anthony’s queen… “Don’t tell Shawn I’m working for Tina again,” I said.
I wouldn’t trust that guy to keep it to himself.
“Give me some credit,” Anthony replied and cocked a brow. “Don’t mistake my silence for approval, though.”