Free A Dangerous Game by Rick R. Reed Page B

put your cards on the table and let me know what I’m expected to do and how much I can expect to make.”
    “I can see you’re a brass tacks sort of fellow.”
    “That’s me.” Wren drank some coffee and contemplated just getting up and leaving. The whole idea of what they were discussing was stupid, immoral, illegal, and would most likely be very bad for his health. But what Dave opened with stopped him cold.
    “So we’ll just cut to the chase, as you say. For starters, I could offer you a small dwelling. That would only be temporary, of course, but until your earnings would allow you to find your own place, you are welcome to stay in one of the apartments I have as a business investment. I believe there’s a studio in a high-rise on Lake Shore Drive near Addison currently. Fully furnished with a lovely lake view.”
    Wren was ready to sign up, imagining himself going from homeless to a Lake Shore Drive high-rise just like that. And all he had to do was blow a few guys, maybe get fucked? What was the problem? He’d be doing that anyway and not improving his life circumstances.
    But what would his mother think? How would he explain to her his sudden good luck? “Hey, Mom, I know you’ve just gotten used to the gay thing. Now I’ve got a new twist for you….”
    “Being cautiously optimistic, I would say a man of your charms could expect to earn—” Dave shrugged, and his eyes rolled up a little as he calculated. “—somewhere in the mid-four figures your first full month.”
    “You mean, like, five thousand dollars?” Wren laughed. The guy was pulling his leg.
    But Chillingsworth’s face betrayed no emotion, humorous or otherwise. “Yes. I think that’s reasonable and quite possible, actually.”
    Wren didn’t say anything. His heart pounded out a tribal tattoo from within his chest. To cover up the silence and his amazement, Wren busied himself spreading grape jelly on his last piece of toast. With a shaking hand, he lifted it to his mouth and took a bite, then chewed slowly. He had never felt less hungry in his life.
    He had to admit to himself he was torn. On the one hand, he couldn’t kid himself. While he could certainly be described as being down on his luck, he was far from destitute. Later today he could go to the unemployment office, get the paperwork filled out, and money would start coming in. He might have to live at the Y or someplace like that for a little while. And if he wasn’t proud about the kind of position he took, he could get a job. Yes, the economy was not exactly the best, but even Wren, young as he was, had seen it worse. There were jobs out there for him, maybe not doing the kinds of things Wren had dreamed of as a little boy, and certainly not with the kind of paychecks that would allow him to do much better than eke out a meager existence, but he could still take pride in not striking some sort of deal with the devil. Becoming a whore—why sugarcoat it?—was doing just that. Wren feared he’d be giving up his very soul.
    Sex for him had always been, at worst, a release, a cheap and easy good time, and at best, a promise. When he became intimate with another man, sometimes there was more of a connection than just the physical. Sometimes the warmth could be felt higher up than between his legs, and there was hope that the comingling of two bodies, sweat, and semen could result in something more permanent, could maybe be the cornerstone of creating, somehow, his own family.
    Chillingsworth would have him believe that being a whore would only increase his likelihood for finding someone he could truly love, but Wren doubted it. He knew how he’d feel about a guy who’d peddle his ass. No matter how high class the enterprise supporting him was, he’d never be able to take him seriously.
    How could he ever trust someone who would do that?
    “My dear boy, I seem to have lost you.”
    Wren looked up from his empty plate. His coffee had gone cold. Other diners had entered