An Ordinary Man

Chapter 2: Stairway to Stardom

Chapter 2: Stairway to Stardom

His Adam’s apple bobbed. Those eyes widened even further, then narrowed. “And if I impress you?”

I chuckled. “That’s one big ‘if.’”

I looked the kid over, this time with a professional eye. Thin, but wiry rather than scrawny. He’d have the strength to last through a hard day’s shooting. That bronze skin hinted at Latino or Native American ancestors, but those green eyes…An exotic mix, interesting enough to work with onscreen. He’d have his followers all right.

Now to see if he could use that body properly.

“But,” I continued, watching the hope flare up in his eyes again. “If you do somehow manage to come up with something I haven’t seen two dozen times before…”

He swallowed hard again, his gaze darting around the room, looking for a likely casting couch.

“J.T., if the unforeseen does happen,” I finished, “we’ll go back to Los Angeles, and I’ll put you in my next picture.”

I glared at him until the wide grin faded. “And I’ll take the plane fare out of your first paycheck.”

He circled the room, glancing back to see if my reaction would give him any hints. I leaned against the wall and crossed my arms, keeping my face impassive. The kid was going to choose some run of the mill f**k scene and I’d be off the hook. He paused at the sofa, running long fingers over the faded velvet. He shot a quick look at me. I gave him no clue: no grin, no frown, no shrug.

He shook his head. “Not a casting couch,” he murmured. “Too easy.”

My eyebrow rose. Maybe the boy did have some native intelligence. He checked out the balcony. I’d have to nix that idea if he picked it. I’m too old to be arrested for public indecency—even if the idea of having the kid in broad daylight, with the shadows from the palm fronds playing over that golden skin, was stirring a buzz at the base of my c**k.

The kid ducked back inside the room, his gaze fixed on a point just over my right shoulder. I turned. The narrow staircase.

“The old slave stairs,” he said softly, crossing the room to pull the doorway back open.

“Is that what it is?” I followed the lad inside. The narrow space was heavy with heat and humidity. I imagined dark bodies clambering silently up and down the ladder-like stairs, moving softly behind the walls while their masters lived in opulence less than two feet away from them. I suddenly realized that J.T.’s green eyes were watching my face, reading me like a script.

“I think maybe you’d like that,” he whispered. “Like having me in the dark, like a master with his slave.”

My shoulders tightened and I crossed my arms again. He’d not gotten my fantasies out of any magazine interview. The boy was that good at reading faces. I’d certainly never acted on those fantasies, at any rate. Master and slave, indeed. I had all the willing flesh a man could dream of, parading itself past me in hopes of a movie deal. I could have ten J.T. Pierces waiting in my office with a snap of my fingers.

He reached behind me to fasten the door shut, then moved slowly until he stood in the golden shaft of light from the tiny window. As he glanced back over his shoulder, those green eyes sparkling in the sunlight, I knew I’d have to have exactly that color of spot for his scene. His skin almost glowed in the yellow beam.

“I want you naked,” I said.

Without a word, he wriggled out of the ridiculous outfit. I caught the scent of him, musky with sweat, salty as the ocean breeze. He posed, feet slightly spread, hands behind his back, eyes on the floor. I felt that buzz deep within my balls again. In the shaft of afternoon sun, he seemed a bronze godling in some jungle clearing. Those thick lashes shaded his high cheekbones until they seemed almost bruised. My mind began to work, even as I stepped closer. Golden lighting; rich, deep backgrounds. I saw a savage native seduced by a white trader. An Indian prince on silken pillows. A young slave alone with his master.

I knew then that I had to have this boy.

I ran a hand over the smooth chest, feeling his hard n*****s crinkle beneath my palm, then slid my fingers around to squeeze the tight, rounded ass. The muscles clenched under my fingers as he spread his legs wider. I put both hands on him then, kneading the firm muscles. Oh, to be eighteen again. As the old song goes, like a rock.

I waited until he could no longer stand still, until he ground himself against my hip, groaning his need. “Impress me,” I commanded.

He grabbed his shorts and slithered past me on the stairs. Fishing a condom packet from a pocket in the clothing, he ripped it open. He knelt below me now, using the shorts as a cushion, leaning toward the growing tent in my trousers. He hovered there, not moving. I gradually realized he was waiting for another command, and my c**k throbbed.

“You may—um—proceed,” I muttered, feeling a bit uneasy. I fulfilled other men’s fantasies. It wasn’t often one of mine was acted out. J.T. bent to fasten his lips onto my belt buckle. I felt my eyebrows creeping upward as he maneuvered my trousers open without using his hands. Graceful and dexterous—I could work with this combination, all right.

Once my c**k bobbed free of my clothing, J.T. rolled the condom onto it, again using his mouth rather than his slender fingers. My eyebrow quirked upward at that little trick. He glanced upwards once, as if to make certain that I was watching, then swallowed my shaft in one long gulp.

He pressed his face against me, trembling slightly from the effort. I could feel his throat muscles tightening around my c**k like a silken glove. I put one hand against the wall, dropping the other into that soft, black mane. I’ve probably had as many blowjobs as this kid had given out, both professional and amateur. I won’t say his was the best I’d ever gotten, but it was damn close, and he made up for any lack of ability with sheer enthusiasm. I actually believed the kid loved the feeling of a thick rod inside his throat.

When he’d wrung me dry and left me wobbly-legged, I helped him back to his feet and watched him struggle into his shorts. “I’m going to work your ass off, kid. You’ll give me every ounce of emotion you possess.”

He grinned up at me from beneath those long bangs. He spread his legs and cupped his ball sack through the thin shorts. Not even in front of a camera, and already a diva. “I said emotion, not balls.”

Which reminded me. “I need to get you in front of a camera.”

He backed up a couple of steps and posed in the sunlight again.

“Not here.” I grabbed the wiry wrist and tugged him back down to the narrow doorway. “And not in that damn outfit, either.”

I didn’t have to ask if the boy had anything more suitable. The rest of his closet would hold jeans and T-shirts, maybe one button-down shirt if he was lucky. I was starting to feel like Professor Henry Higgins indeed. I listened at the doorway for a moment, then flipped the lock up and crept back into the room, dragging J.T. along with me.

“You want me on the sofa?”

“I want you in a studio, but my hotel room will have to do, damn it.” I wanted a professional cameraman. I wanted lights and backdrops and costume changes. I wanted a shaft of sunlight on that bronze skin.

I wanted that tight ass wrapped around my shaft.

The old lady stared as we slipped down the marble stairs. I handed her a second tour fee without speaking, and shoved J.T. out the main door ahead of me.

“I will have fond memories of this house,” I muttered truthfully. The old biddy glanced pointedly at my crotch and raised one eyebrow. I shifted my camera bag to cover the growing damp spot over my c**k.

J.T. stood on the porch, bouncing on his heels as he waited for me. He looked like a damned teenager eager for an amusement ride. The skin-tight shorts had ridden up to show the bronze globes of his ass cheeks. One of his sneakers had come untied.

“First, you need some actual clothing,” I told him firmly, raising my arm to signal a passing taxicab.

The cab driver didn’t bat an eye when I asked for a decent men’s clothing store, and shortly we stood in the lobby of M. Dumas and Sons on King Street. The salesman gave J.T. a withering scowl as he approached. That changed to an obsequious smile as he spotted me behind the boy. I knew exactly what he was thinking, too. Well, let him think. It might add some spice to his obviously humdrum life.

When I asked for the works, the manager himself appeared. Mr. Dumas was a nice, Southern gentleman. He even took one of my business cards, though I doubt he bought the story that I was outfitting a new star for my stable. Honestly, I’d be thinking the same thing they were thinking. Middle-aged man with scantily clad spring chicken? Kid’s lucked out and found a sugar daddy.

I rather enjoyed the show that followed our entrance. I was ensconced in a quite comfortable chair with a cup of coffee. J.T. was quickly hustled into one outfit after another, and shoved out of the dressing room for my approval. I nay-sayed the formal wear—let the kid save up for his own evening suit. A couple of the outfits looked like something my grandfather would wear, so I nixed those as well. But by the end of the afternoon, I’d blown quite a monetary wad, and J.T. would actually be admitted into my hotel.

The kid had a shell-shocked expression as we loaded up another taxi with his boxes and bags. The casual shirt and jeans he was now wearing had cost more than he’d have made from one trick. Hell, his new sneakers cost nearly as much. Mr. Dumas had an eye for coloring, too. Every one of J.T.’s outfits was designed to show off that exotic skin tone and those big eyes.

J.T. said little as we rode back to the bed and breakfast. I leaned forward, away from the scorching faux leather seat, and tried to find the stream of the taxi’s air conditioning. I’d be more than happy for a second shower once we got back to my room.

The John Rutledge House Inn billed itself as a bed and breakfast, at any rate, though it catered to the upper crust. I’d have styled it a small hotel. The kid’s eyes popped as we maneuvered my purchases up the marble steps and into the lobby. We’d missed afternoon tea, but would be in time for evening sherry and conversation. A bellhop hurried over to relieve us of our burdens. Not one of the other hotel employees said anything other than “Good afternoon, Mr. Bettencourt,” though I caught more than one eye following our progress to the grand staircase. J.T. had the sense to wait until I’d tipped the bellhop for his service and closed the door to my room. Then he let out a low whistle.

“If I’d known you were this rich, I’d have made you pay for that trick.”

“I am paying, boy. And I’m taking all this out of your paycheck, rest assured.” I started unpacking, hanging the new clothing in the closet alongside my somewhat dated suits. “We’ll need to find you a suitcase, too.”

“I got a suitcase. It was a graduation present.” The kid prowled the room, fingering the rich fabrics on the chairs and peering out the window at the Broad Street traffic below. Finally, he threw himself onto the king-sized mattress and stared up at the canopy with wide eyes. “I didn’t know there were places like this. All I ever see is cheap motels.”

I let out a snort. “Dressed like you were, that’s the only place that would let you through the front door. I didn’t outfit you strictly for my own enjoyment. It may not seem fair, but people do judge you on the way you look, kid.”

His thick brows lowered. “And how you talk, too, I reckon. I know I sound like some dumb country hick.” He rose to his elbows and gave me a challenging stare. “But they like the way I’m put together.”

I turned to eye my young protégé. The rust-colored shirt was cotton instead of silk—the kid needed a shower before he changed into something really dressy—but it made the V of tanned skin at his neck glow, and the green of his eyes seemed to leap out at you from behind those dark bangs. Yes, I could well understand how a man would turn and watch something like that strutting past.

“They do at that, kid. And I’m going to make sure a lot more men appreciate the way you’re put together. But for now, let’s get those photos and get ready for dinner.”