An Ordinary Man

Chapter 1: Hot Charleston Afternoon “Look, pal, if I wanted an audience, I’d yodel.” I could feel my temper slipping. Damned kids, always so certain they were the next star Armand Bettencourt needed. I was tired of them mobbing my studio, and I damn well wouldn’t put up with one interrupting my vacation. He’d trailed me through the city long enough. If this kept up, I’d have to start using an alias for hotel stays. I have to admit, though, I wouldn’t have thought anyone on the East Coast would recognize me. I glared back at my young follower. He smirked at me from his perch on the back of the wrought iron park bench across the street. He’d wrapped his arms around his parted knees, offering me a glimpse of the barely covered basket between. Why did hustlers think a man wanted skin-tight shorts that showed everything they were offering? I’d have had more class, if I wanted to sell myself. I turned my attention back to the crumpled tour brochure in my fist. This was my first time in South Carolina, and I was going to enjoy everything that Charleston had to offer. Besides, who knew when a novel experience might stimulate a director’s creativity? The tourist brochure suggested that I visit a historic house during the hottest part of the day. I dabbed at the sweat beading on my face with my already damp handkerchief. That would certainly be better than remaining in this oven. I also doubted that my young tag-along would follow me past the ticket booth. The nearest such house on the map, the Aiken-Rhett House, should be a mere three blocks to the right. I turned resolutely in that direction, ignoring the sticky sheen of sweat, and trudging bravely through the heat waves rising from the sidewalk. After all, as every local had reminded me since my plane touched the ground: it wasn’t the heat that got you, it was the humidity. Ten minutes of struggling through Charleston’s humidity brought me to my destination, panting and dripping. I’d swear I passed an old lady walking her goldfish in the thick air. The worst thing was that the sweat didn’t evaporate and cool you off. No, it pooled at the small of your back and soaked your clothing, dripped into your eyes and turned your carefully combed hair into a hopeless mess. At home, the heat behaved properly. Stepping into the shade brought cooler air. Here, it just brought darker heat. I stood at the gate for a long moment, one eyebrow c****d at my destination. The Aiken-Rhett House seemed badly in need of funding. Its peeling plaster walls had once, I thought, been the color of ripe peaches. Patches of it had fallen away in spots, revealing crumbling bricks beneath and making the house look like it was molting. I slung my camera bag around to my back and climbed the oddly proportioned marble staircase. People must have had smaller feet in those days. White marble, too—must have been a b***h to keep clean. They’d probably had a servant just for that task. I glanced behind me as I banged the brass knocker against its polished plate. The kid smiled hopefully from beneath a palmetto tree, both thumbs hooked in the waistband of those skin-tight shorts. He flipped his long, black hair back over one shoulder with a move that I had to admit was graceful. And the face beneath that cascade of hair was pretty enough, I’d grant you. Huge eyes, framed by a mass of dark lashes, and a mouth that begged to be kissed. I scowled, a curse rising in my throat. I swallowed the curse as I heard the massive door creak open before me. A tiny hand appeared at the edge of the wood, and a little old lady peered out at me. She looked as if she might be as old as the house. Perhaps she’d been the original housekeeper. I stared at the door for a moment. I couldn’t see how the old biddy had managed to shift the thick oak slab. I stepped inside, where a blast of air conditioning hit me like a wall of ice. I could almost feel the sweat freezing over. My clothing crackled as I shifted so she could shut the door behind me. I thought about giving the kid outside a cheery wave, but settled on keeping my eyes firmly on the interior of the house ahead of me. The old lady teetered up yet another small set of white marble steps, explaining that the original citizens of the Holy City (as they termed it) had built upwards to catch the sea breezes. In a proper Charlestonian mansion, the first floor was actually the second. The lower floor held the kitchens and storage rooms. She led me past an impressive, curving staircase and deposited me in an ornate parlor—after relieving me of the fee, of course—to await the next scheduled tour. I glanced out the front window. My tag-along was nowhere in sight. The street rat had given up trailing me. Probably had just enough money for a bus fare back to whatever crappy apartment he shared with seven other hustlers. He’d have to hit the streets tonight and earn his bread and butter. For a moment, I imagined those cupid-bow lips wrapped around a thick c**k. My mind automatically supplied the proper lighting for the scene: soft and dim, to suggest a smoky evening street corner. Perhaps a fog machine. A spot on the kid’s mouth, of course, just a bit on the blue side to play up his dark coloring. I shook the daydream out of my head. The young hustler wouldn’t annoy me any further, and that was all I wanted. I circled the room, reading the placards mounted at strategic locations along the wall. I was lucky, I read, to be able to tour an authentic mansion in the process of being restored. My tour fee would help pay for reproduction wallpaper, perhaps, or repairs of the badly neglected roof. I wondered when they’d get around to re-plastering the outer walls. I shrugged and peered out the door for another look at the great, curving staircase. Before and after photos would have been fine with me. I studied the old photos they did have mounted on the walls. I had to admit that the building in its prime was an impressive structure. This was like seeing a decrepit old lady standing before a painting of herself in the bloom of youth. I did like the ornate sofa in the middle of the room. One of those round parlor seats that might have accommodated a good half dozen young men. I’d have to see about getting one of the things for a film. A veritable smorgasbord of flesh in the round, against red velvet. The scene would be amazing. I peered out into the hall once more. The room across the way was less lavishly decorated than the parlor. I could see peeling wallpaper and a faded oriental rug. Dust sparkled in the sunlight streaming through the windows in that room. I checked my watch: still over half an hour until the next tour. I am not a patient man. Still, if I left the building now, I’d run into my young stalker, perhaps lurking behind the nearest oleander bush, a bright pink flower trapped in those long black locks. He might even now be scrambling up the crumbling brick wall, trying to peer into the windows. I stepped into the hall, ready to duck back into the parlor if the little old lady spotted me. I saw no sign of her, nor did I hear the click of her sensible shoes on the hardwood floors. Perhaps she had a closet where she hid until the doorbell rang. A battered, oddly slender door hid in the shadows behind the grand staircase. I stuck my head inside. There, hidden in the walls of the building, was the oddest set of stairs I’d ever seen. So steep they were practically a ladder, and so narrow that my shoulders nearly brushed the wall on either side. I had no idea what they might be for—thus, I had to find out where they led. Once I pulled the narrow door shut behind myself, I truly appreciated electricity. Only a small window set a little above my head lit the stairway. Instead of the lemon polish redolent in the main part of the house, this space smelled stale, as if nobody had been here in years. The door fastened with a simple hook and eye, which I flipped shut. No sense risking my snooping being interrupted. I fumbled my way up the stairs, arriving in a sitting room on the third floor (which was the second, if viewed from the local perspective). I pulled out my camera for a few shots of the ornate Victorian sofa, envisioning finely dressed young men dallying before the marble fireplace. Again, soft lighting to suggest gaslights. Perhaps a real fire in the grate. I could get some period costumes from that costumer at the big studio across town. A frock coat pulled back to drape over the velvet sofa, spotlighting an erect c**k. A cravat framing a pretty face eager for the taste of that organ. I snapped back to the present and continued prowling the room. Huge windows ran from floor to ceiling, framing a balcony that ran the length of the room. I stepped closer to find that the panes slid upwards into the ceiling, creating a doorway onto that balcony. I took a step onto the creaky wood. I could, indeed, feel a cool breeze from the ocean—and catch a glimpse of the next room, where a small knot of tourists was headed for the stairs. That must be the previous tour. I ducked back into the sitting room. The teenager stood just inside the doorway, one slender hand on the back of the velvet sofa. For a moment, even my brilliant wit eluded me. I stood with my mouth open, unable to believe my eyes. Then, my blood began to boil. “How did you—?” I sputtered. “You didn’t pay—-” He grinned, perfect white teeth sparkling against bronzed skin. “I told the old biddy downstairs that I had a message for the famous director.” I scowled at the boy. “What part of the word ‘no’ do you not understand?” He cringed back a step when I strode toward the narrow doorway. At least he had the brains to worry, though not enough to stop following me. In addition to my lack of patience, I am justifiably known for my temper. I gave him one of my better glares, then brushed roughly past him. I ignored the way that hard, lean body felt against my arm, ignored the tang of sweat that bit the back of my nose and stirred the root of my c**k. I could get a dozen of these pretty street rats, just by walking outside my studio and waving a fifty-dollar bill in the air. “So I ain’t worth a second glance, is that it?” he called softly after me. I paused, struck by something in the smooth voice. All right, maybe I remembered another young hustler, trying to make it in the glitz and glamor of the Los Angeles film business. Maybe I was just worn down by the heat (and humidity). I turned back to study the youngster more closely. Those huge eyes were the most amazing shade of green, startling in the dark face, and framed by lashes thick enough to make any woman on earth jealous. But those eyes held old pain like a faded photograph. This one was a true street rat, not the smooth body salesmen I was used to. This one’s sort sold his body just to stay alive. A real, working hustler. That might make a change from the sophisticated models I’d been using lately—what the hell was I thinking? I shook my head and turned back for the door, speaking over my shoulder. “Tell you what, kid. You show up at the studio, prove you’re legal, and we might work something out.” I was safe: he’d never be able to afford the airfare. “I’m legal.” I rolled my eyes. “When was the last time you saw chicken in an Armand Bettencourt film?” Silence. I glanced back. He’d dug a grubby plastic card from somewhere in those painted-on shorts, and his fingers still held it out in my direction. His shoulders had sagged though. The card started to slip. I heaved a sigh and snatched it from him before it could tumble to the floor. I didn’t look at the thing for a moment, but glanced out of the window instead, watching the leaves of the palm tree outside sway in the sea breeze. What was I getting myself into here? I didn’t need to start adopting strays, for God’s sake. I certainly didn’t need to drag home a grubby street rat and try to work an Eliza Doolittle transformation. I dropped my gaze to the card. It was curved from long storage in his back pocket. One corner was bent almost to snapping point. The plastic laminate was peeling. J.T. Pierce. Turned eighteen…three months ago. I closed my eyes. “All right,” I heard my voice growl. “You’ve got one chance to impress me.” I tried to glower at the teenager. I crossed my arms and gave him my best crabby director look, trying to ignore the hope blooming in those big eyes. “Where do you want to go? I know all the best motels.” I held up a finger and he stopped babbling. “I didn’t say I was going anywhere, kid. You’ve got one chance: here…and now.”