A Quick Gig

Chapter Two

The Man Between Gigs

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Marcus Cole was not, by any reasonable accounting, a man who should have been answering a phone call from Devon Walsh at seven-thirty on a Tuesday morning.

He was, at that particular moment, lying on the floor of his apartment — deliberately, not accidentally — doing the last of a hundred push-ups with the focused, methodical unhappiness of someone who had nothing else scheduled. The apartment was on the fourth floor of a building in Midtown that had been nice approximately forty years ago and had since settled into a dignified, slightly musty middle age. The windows looked out onto a brick wall. The kitchen had one functioning burner. The Wi-Fi was, against all odds, excellent.

Marcus had learned to focus on the Wi-Fi.

He finished the push-ups, rolled to his back, stared at the water stain on the ceiling that looked like South America if you tilted your head, and answered the phone.

"You're not still asleep," Devon said. It was not a question.

"Floor," Marcus said.

"Obviously. Listen, I have something for you."

Marcus sat up. He was twenty-nine years old, six feet two, with the kind of face that people described, when they were being careful, as striking — sharp jaw, dark eyes set under heavier brows, skin the color of good teak. He had the build of someone who had spent years doing physical work and had simply never stopped. His mother used to say he looked like he'd been made for somewhere more interesting than wherever he happened to be.

She had meant it as a compliment. He'd spent a significant portion of his twenties trying to figure out if she was right.

"What kind of something?" he asked.

"The kind that pays four thousand dollars for a week's work."

Marcus looked at the water stain. South America regarded him neutrally.

"I'm listening."

Devon Walsh was his oldest friend — they had grown up two streets apart in a neighborhood that had since been rebranded as an arts district, which meant the coffee cost eight dollars and the rent had tripled. Devon had the gift, which Marcus had never been sure was good or bad, of finding his way into interesting situations. He was currently involved in, among other things, a food truck, a podcast, and apparently whatever this was.

"There's an agency," Devon said. "Prestige Connections. They provide companions for high-end events. Corporate functions, family gatherings, that sort of thing. No funny business — it's all clearly contracted. The client needs a plus-one for a week-long family retreat at some resort in the Catskills. All expenses covered, meals, accommodation, the whole thing. Four thousand dollars, no intimacy required, clean contract."

"You want me to be someone's fake boyfriend."

"I want you to consider a professional opportunity."

"Devon."

"Marcus, when is the last time you had four thousand dollars?"

This was, unfortunately, a fair question. Marcus had spent the last fourteen months working on a business proposal for a sustainable logistics consulting firm — the bones of it were solid, he knew they were solid, but the funding had stalled twice and the connections he needed were slow to materialize. He had taken contract work where he could find it: a stint doing corporate risk assessments for a mid-size firm, some freelance analysis work, a month of teaching business development workshops at a community college. He was not broke in the emergency sense. He was broke in the grinding, invisible, here-comes-another-month sense, which was in many ways worse.

He had told himself March would turn things around. Then April. Now it was May and he was doing push-ups on a floor that needed new grout.

"Tell me about the client," he said.

"Female. Late twenties, early thirties. From a very wealthy family — I mean, seriously wealthy. The family retreat is at some private estate in the Catskills. She needs someone who can hold his own in high-society conversation, doesn't embarrass her, and can play the role convincingly without making it weird." Devon paused. "Which is why I thought of you."

"Because I'm convincing or because I don't make things weird?"

"Both, honestly. You're also the only person I know who could talk to billionaires without either getting nervous or trying too hard."

Marcus thought about this. He looked around his apartment — the excellent Wi-Fi router blinking cheerfully on the shelf, the stack of business plan drafts on the desk he'd built himself from reclaimed wood, the single houseplant on the windowsill that he'd somehow kept alive for three years against all botanical probability.

Four thousand dollars would cover three months of rent. It would let him stop taking contract work and put serious, uninterrupted time into the proposal. It was one week. A week was nothing.

"What are the terms?"

"No physical intimacy. Period, non-negotiable. You play the supportive, charming boyfriend in public. In private, you're essentially just a houseguest. There's an NDA, obviously. You meet with the agency rep today if you're interested."

"Today?"

"The retreat starts Saturday."

Marcus pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. "That's four days from now."

"That is correct."

"Devon."

"Four thousand dollars, Marcus."

He stood up. Walked to the window. The brick wall across the alley had a small square of sky visible at the top — blue, clean, indifferent. Somewhere in that city was a woman who needed someone to pretend to be in love with her for a week so her family wouldn't worry. Somewhere in that city was a version of his life that had more traction than this one.

"I'll meet with the agency," he said.

"That's my man."

"This doesn't mean I'm doing it."

"Of course not."

"I'm just gathering information."

"Absolutely."

There was a beat of silence in which they both understood that Marcus was doing it.

"Send me the address," Marcus said. "And Devon — if this is one of your situations, I am genuinely going to be upset with you."

"It's not a situation. It's an opportunity."

"Those are the same thing with you."

Devon laughed and hung up.

Marcus stood at the window for another moment. Then he went to shower, because if he was going to meet with a high-end companion agency at ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning, he was at least going to be clean.

The plant on the windowsill was a fiddle-leaf fig. He had named it — privately, embarrassingly — "Persistence."

He gave it water on the way out.