Chapter Text
“...stop complaining. You're lucky I handled it at all after the stunt you pulled.”
“I’m not complaining. I’m actively dying as I talk to you.”
“That must be so sexy for your clients. You riding them while wheezing about a stitch, maybe crocheting something between thrusts, griping that your grandkids never call. Whatever it is old people do.”
“I am not--” Rafael paused, pressing his head to the cool wall, breath shallow, “--old.”
“The last time you were a twink, Elvis was still debating whether his crazy idea for a hip wiggle was too scandalous.”
“I might hate you.”
“If it's only might, I’m losing my edge.”
“And what do you mean, stunt I pulled?” Rafael pushed off the wall and started climbing the stairs again, lungs beginning to sob. “You said it was going to be a prestigious party. It was a frat house, Rita. What were they going to do, pool their allowance?”
“It was not a frat. It was the Dean. You're just getting twitchy in your twilight years.”
Rafael sighed and let her rant. His best friend of nearly twenty years, and his manager more often than he liked, was now listing every single trait of his she found disappointing.
But Rafael was good at what he did.
He could make anyone who paid for his time feel like the world had collapsed into just the two of them. He could love, hate, chase, or be chased. He could be tender or aloof, worshipful or withholding. If he hadn’t become an escort, Daniel Day-Lewis would be waking up with night terrors of Rafael perched on his chest, holding an Oscar.
That’s why he could charge what were frankly ludicrous rates.
Rafael had standards. He wasn’t cheap, but he was exceptional. His clients left believing they were sex gods, and a good number of them kept coming back. Some liked to leave gifts, watches, tailored suits, expensive cologne. A few of his best suits came from clients who wanted a serious-looking piece of arm candy for their public events.
And he delivered.
“Who has the misfortune of your company this evening?” Rita asked. Rafael imagined her standing in front of a mirror, turning at angles, inspecting a new dress. He heard several zippers, followed by creative swearing.
He tried not to picture her out of it.
The last thing he needed was to walk in there already half-hard. Laverne liked to feel dominant when he hired Rafael. Rafael doubted the man could effectively dominate a bendy straw, but he was easy money, so whatever.
“The councilman again,” he answered, passing a hallway mirror and stopping to check his hair. Good, he looked artfully ruffled and not like he had to use a defibrillator on the stairs.
“Again? Someone wants to take you to prom.”
“I thought I was old?”
“It’s an old folks’ home prom,” Rita shot back. “They serve fruit punch and play bridge.”
He smiled faintly, heard the shuffle of fabric on her end of the line, followed by another zipper and a string of soft curses. “Size eight, my ass,” she muttered, and Rafael’s breath caught. Not from exertion this time, but something more driven and private. He could picture her, every version of her, and it always did that to him.
Rita had been there the night he passed the bar, pressed a kiss to his flushing cheek, then pushed him back onto the bed because they were still twenty-somethings and the world hadn’t sharpened its edges yet. Hadn’t taken bites out of them yet. That was how they celebrated everything in those days. Half-drunk, half-wild, a lot high, tangled in the dark, riding the high of dreams that still felt within reach.
But Rafael hadn’t known when to stop. Couldn’t. The celebration became the baseline. The highs weren’t just for milestones anymore, they were daily maintenance. And like all candles lit too long at both ends, he burned out fast. Lost his first job within a year.
Escort work started as a way to make rent. It stayed because he was good at it. Very good. Rita had her reactions. She went through the stages, amusement, disbelief, worry. Frustration. But never judgment. Never that. Rita had seen him at his most dazzling and his most desperate, and her love never shifted. She didn't flinch.
God, he really did love her.
She did what she could. Whispered his name at firms that would’ve taken him in a heartbeat on her word alone. When she made partner, she offered him a job outright, no shame, no catch, just a way back in. But Rafael always declined. Not because he didn’t want it. But because it felt like rescue, and he didn’t know how to be the one dragged out of the fire.
Still, she looked after him. In her own way. Sent names now and then, clients with taste, with restraint, with enough discretion to pretend the world was kinder than it was. And she checked on him. Not obviously. Just the way she always had. With questions about his vitamin levels disguised as gossip. Casual chats about his weekend that were really body checks. Made him text her the minute he was home, no matter the time.
She’d even hired him, once or twice. By the book. But they’d slept together more often than that. Not often enough to be something and not rare enough to mean nothing. They folded comfort into sex like an old song only they knew the words to.
There were moments he considered going back fulltime to the law. Finding a firm that wouldn’t look at the gaps in his resume as long as he was a warm body and could be at the precinct in an hour. A clean desk with a potted plant and a picture of him and Rita in a wooden frame. A different life. Sometimes he still slipped into that version of himself, when it mattered, especially for other workers. Legal advice, quiet defence, the kind of help you couldn’t always ask for out loud.
He still kept sharp. Knew the law the way he knew a lover’s back, where to press, where to draw blood. A weapon or a shield, depending on the day.
And Rita? She let him be. Never pushed harder than he could handle. Just kept orbiting close enough to catch him if he fell.
That was her way of loving him.
And he’d never needed to ask for more.
“Are we still on for breakfast?” he asked, heading down the hallway towards Laverne’s room.
“Are you paying?”
He sighed. “Rita, what’s the point of being a high-flying lawyer if you’re not going to throw money around in a splashy, borderline offensive way?”
She tutted. “If you hadn’t snorted your way through your first year of employment, we could be doing Le Bernardin instead of a goddamn Denny’s.” She paused. “Too mean?”
“Yes. God, yes. That’s why I love you. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll pay for your heart attack on a plate. I’ll be the one wheezing beside it, probably attached to an oxygen tank.”
“Try selling it as you being breathless with lust.”
“I always do.”
Peter Laverne was one of the high-society names Rita had arranged for him. Her way of keeping him tethered to something safer. This would be their fourth meeting. Rafael was already mapping out his ride home in his head, eyes tracking subway routes, maybe a diner detour for fries and shake. Okay, maybe not the shake. The stairs had nearly finished him off. Laverne wasn’t one to take up the whole night. Half of it he usually spent crying in the shower while Rafael got dressed in the next room.
Laverne had that Richard Gere fantasy about him. He wanted to be Rafael’s saviour, well, Mateo’s, sweep him off into a better life, far from this terrible, tragic existence he imagined Rafael was stuck in. The wife and kids, of course, were just slightly in the way of that dream. These were always the easiest clients to cajole into shorter evenings and more money. “No, no, don’t go back out tonight. Take this. Go home, and think of me.”
Rafael raised a hand to knock, already wearing the smile he kept in reserve for this kind of client, fond, soft-edged, just a little weary. Oh, Captain, my Captain- ey.
But before his knuckles touched the wood, the door flung open.
Laverne stood there, face awash in wild, almost desperate relief. “Mateo.”
“Sorry, both elevators are out,” Rafael said easily. “I ran up them two at a time. Naturally.”
He stepped inside and leaned in, pressing a kiss to Laverne’s clammy cheek. The man’s skin was damp with nerves, or excitement, or both.
Laverne was in his fifties, edging toward soft around the middle, wrapped in one of those ugly brown suits that Rafael had learned to hide his distaste for. Expensive, certainly, but somehow still managing to look cheap. The tie was a crime. Clashing patterns, off-tone colour.
Does his wife pick those out? Rafael wondered, not unkindly, but with judgement that had lived in the marrow of his bones for longer than he could recall. Regular clients didn’t earn immunity from scrutiny. They just got better performances.
Laverne smiled at him, but not with the boyish, over eager energy that he usually greeted Rafael with, not the excitement that suggested Rafael was the secret he had gotten away with. It was more reserved. Almost cold.
And then Rafael realised that they weren’t alone.
There was a man standing near the bureau. Dark hair, dark eyes. Handsome, but not in any conventional or polished way. It was a face with character. Like that of a sidekick of the male lead in a tired romantic comedy. Something about him felt familiar, but Rafael couldn’t place it.
He was … smirking.
“He’s older than I expected,” the man said, glancing at Laverne.
Jesus. What was with all the cracks about his age tonight?
“His hearing hasn’t gone yet, though,” Rafael replied flatly.
The man smiled wider, apparently pleased by the retort, and moved toward the table. “Drink?”
“No,” Rafael said, already on edge. His eyes cut to Laverne. “You didn’t mention there’d be company. How much company are we talking?”
God, he hated when clients made him metaphorically sigh and tap at the menu. Surprises were not part of the premium package.
Laverne coughed, awkwardly. “He’d like to join in.”
“Mateo,” the man said, stepping forward with a smooth smile. “Can I call you Mateo? I’m Adam. Obviously.”
“Adam Obviously?” Rafael raised a brow. “Irish name?”
Adam gave a weak laugh. Rafael let it go. It was a bad joke, but his chest was still pounding from the stairs, Laverne was looking at him like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and this Adam had an energy Rafael didn’t like. Something slippery.
Where do I know you from?
The question buzzed behind his eyes, just out of reach. Adam clearly thought he should know. But Rafael had learned that it was safer to pretend everyone was a stranger. Safer to act like no names had ever been exchanged, no faces memorised in the dark of the bed. Especially where reputations were currency, and a single whispered word could buy a headline by morning.
In this line of work, you were either trustworthy or you slept alone.
“Mateo,” Adam said again, voice low. “I’m in the market for trying new things.” He motioned towards Rafael with his drink. “That’s where you come in?”
“Really?” said Rafael. “Well, while I admire your adventurous approach to life, I also don’t like surprises.”
“Hmm,” he took a sip of his drink, his eyes roamed appreciatively. “Laverne’s told me so much about you…I want to see if he was exaggerating, or if you really are as good as he says.”
God. Disgusting.
Rafael gave him a tight, practiced smile and turned back to Laverne. He was not in the mood for unknowns.
He didn’t take many clients these days, not like when he was younger, juggling bad habits and rent, and the creeping dread of his father’s long illness. Back then, unknowns had been common. Back then, unknowns had meant danger. Unknowns came with a price tag.
Adam moved closer, raising a hand as if to touch his face. The gesture was slow, but Rafael stepped back before contact could be made, calm but firm. Charm and politeness weren’t free.
“Laverne?”
Laverne looked rattled. Guilty, even. His eyes darted to Adam, and then back to Rafael, like a man glancing at the weather unsure if it was about to turn.
“Adam’s a … longtime friend,” he said quickly, already fishing out his phone. “He’s respectful. And generous. I’ll cover his costs.”
Rafael said nothing, just held his gaze. Eventually, Laverne broke and looked down, fingers tapping out the transfer.
“It’s okay,” Laverne muttered. “I know the drill.”
Rafael gave a cool nod. “Thank you.”
They stood in silence, the air teeming with unspoken negotiation. Adam stayed exactly where he was, sipping his drink like a spectator at an art exhibit, his eyes drifting over Rafael’s body and making repeated return journeys.
Something about him made Rafael’s skin crawl.
The soft ping of a notification broke the tension. He checked his phone, confirmation received and slipped it back into his jacket.
There was… a hum under his skin, like static. A tickle at the back of the neck.
No. No. Probably just the unexpected company of it all. He pushed it away.
Laverne guided him toward the bed, eyes ravenous, movements eager as always but…he touched him differently. More unsure, more nervous, clumsy. As if this was their very first time. Perhaps audience participation wasn’t all Laverne thought it would be cracked up to be.
Laverne kissed him again and Rafael responded by slipping into old rhythms. He moaned, he sighed, he whispered the right words as fumbling hands pulled away at layers of his clothing, he hit every note like it was muscle memory. Hair-pulling, teasing, gasping. Theatre, but exquisite. He was good. He knew he was good.
He didn’t miss the dip of the mattress behind him. He didn’t turn. Instead he let out a whimper, the kind that suggested Laverne’s touch was divine, irresistible. As if he were lost in it.
Then, suddenly, pain.
Fingers in his hair, tight. Too tight. Not playful. Gripping.
Adam.
Rafael pulled back, breath sharp. “No. That’s too much.”
Adam blinked from where he sat, hands lifting in mock surrender. “Shit. Sorry. Got ahead of myself.” That damn smirk was back on his face, bent and a little bit mean.
Then Adam leaned in again. He placed his hand on Rafael’s chin, fingers pinching just a little too rough and turned him into a kiss. Cautious at first, tentative, testing. Then it deepened, searching for something more. Rafael didn’t resist. Not yet. He let his body lean in, just enough to measure.
He tried on the usual masks: aloof? Teasing? Coy? Hard to get? Hard to keep?
No.
Not what this man wanted.
Oh.
Adam wanted prey.
Rafael’s stomach sank. He always hated these ones. Little boys who pulled legs off spiders, all grown up and searching for new projects, but this time with puberty in their back pocket. They had always been the worst ones.
That little tingle again, this time along the base of his spine.
But he was older now, of course he was, it seemed to be everyone's favourite subject tonight. Older and wiser.
Adam bit his lip, hungry, trying to draw him closer. Rafael pushed him back with a hand to the mouth, gentle, but final. A pause, a boundary.
Behind them, the bed creaked. Laverne rose silently and walked to the bureau, pouring himself a drink. His hand was shaking. Why was his hand shaking?
Rafael glanced back at Adam, he was watching him with his head cocked. Pupils blown wide. That nasty grin carved across his face, like he knew every fear that had ever rattled around inside Rafael’s skull.
There was a voice in his head. It sounded uncannily like Rita.
Get up. Get dressed. Wire the money back. Walk out. Now.
His thighs would hate him for it, scream the whole way down the stairs, but the voice didn’t care. It was pulsing with urgency, slicing through the haze of moans and bourbon sweat.
Move.
He pushed the voice away.
This is easy money. It meant he could lay off escorting for a few months, maybe start taking on some clients Vice tossed his way. Cassidey had already sent a few referrals. God, he missed court some days. The stink of old paper, the buzz of everyone in the hallways, feet fast and mouths faster, the grind, the satisfaction when he felt the jury bend into his palm. It made him feel real.
No. Push it away and just let his hands slide where they were meant to, let his mouth part just so. Performance was armour. Rafael had built a career, two careers, on not flinching first.
Adam pressed a kiss to his cheek. Wet, Smearing. It dragged slowly down his jaw, lingered at his neck. Rafael’s breath hitched. He played it up, shuddered, pressed into Adam’s mouth.
Adam pulled back, eyes glassy and wide, pupils like inkblots. That grin, crooked and knowing. He started undressing with sudden urgency, clothes falling off him as if they were burning, then he looked at Rafael, giving an impatient nod, fast and hungry.
Rafael paused, heart thudding.
Then he finished what Laverne had started, stripping off the rest of his layers. He placed his things at the foot of the bed. Adam leaned in behind him, lingering kisses over each newly exposed inch of flesh, shoulder, spine, the soft dip at the curve of his ribs.
But Laverne hadn’t returned to the bed.
As Adam’s mouth found his throat, teeth grazing a tendon with just enough bite to make Rafael’s tense, he kept his gaze on Laverne.
He had poured another glass, nearly to the rim and then downed it just as quickly. That… wasn’t like Laverne. Usually Laverne would be rutting against his hip, near tears and begging Rafael to love him, love him, please just love him.
But tonight he wasn’t even acknowledging Rafael was in the room.
At Rafael’s neck, a cold tingle crawled up like ants skittering across bare skin and an itch of fear that pricked sharp and sudden.
Adam pushed Rafael back onto the bed, lips trailing his chest soft then demanding, brushing over nipples until they tightened under his touch. His hand slid upward, squeezing once, twice, around his throat, sharp enough to make Rafael gasp.
Rafael grabbed at his wrist and gave a firm shake of his head. “No rough stuff.”
“Hmm?” Adam kissed at the knuckle of Rafael’s gripping hand. “What if I paid extra?”
“ No rough stuff. At all. Or I get up and walk out, understood?”
“Well, haven’t you got delusions of grandeur… whore.”
Rafael's jaw tightened, breath catching. But before he could respond, Adam’s mouth crashed back onto his lips, tongue forcing its way in, greedy, dragging Rafael closer like he was trying to consume him. The hand that Rafael had pinned at the wrist flexed beneath his grip, and the other one, the free one, began to wander and found his throat once more.
It squeezed.
Harder this time.
Rafael’s hand clenched, instincts screaming.
That tingle of unease had now surged in full blown alarm.
No.
No.
He had to get out.
With a sudden shove, he pushed Adam off, hard. The movement was sharp, final, punctuated by a glare that could’ve turned glass to ash.
“That’s enough. I don’t do third warnings,” he snapped. “You can have your bisexual awakening elsewhere. This is over.”
Rafael’s feet hit the floor with a solid thud. His ears were flushed with heat, mouth dry. He scanned the room quickly, eyes hunting for his scattered clothes at the foot of the bed. “I’ll refund you,” he muttered, bending to grab his pants. Then, to Laverne’s still turned back: “And you can lose my--”
A sudden sharp pressure in his lower back, an impact, unmistakably deliberate. His body pitched forward with a shocked gasp, knees buckling before he could stop. The floor met him fast and unforgiving, the carpet doing nothing to soften the impact. His shoulder hit first, then his hip, and the breath left him ragged and exhaled. The pain bloomed second to the humiliation.
He didn’t move. Not at first. Just lay there, jaw clenched and heart thudding with fury, the carpet fibre was coarse against his cheek.
The son of a bitch.
He pushed himself up slowly, every movement controlled, precise as if his body belonged to someone else. His voice, when it came, was quiet but coiled tight: “Touch me again and I’ll remind you how much you paid to be beneath me.”
He didn’t turn. His anger was brittle and white hot.
Fuck this, fuck Laverne, his call could go the machine the next--
Another blow, this time to the backs of his legs. His knees gave out with a jolt, slamming back to the floor. The humiliation was worse than the pain, and Rafael moved on instinct, heat rushing to his face, he went to surge upward, ready to strike, ready to burn this whole fucking room down.
But the hand was back.
Fingers twisted in his hair, yanking his head back in a savage wrench that stole the breath from his throat. His neck stretched, eyes yanked toward the ceiling, body frozen under the sharp, animal pressure of the grip.
“Don’t,” Adam said, voice low and amused, that fucking amusement, into his ear. “Not yet, Mateo.”
Rafael’s hands curled into fists at his sides. His teeth clenched hard enough to ache. Panic was circling, ready to strike. He fought to keep it at bay.
Behind them, Laverne didn’t say a word. The silence was a kind of violence on its own.
Rafael forced his breath to slow. He counted it out like a performance. One, two, three. His heart was roaring, but his voice came cold when he finally spoke.
“Let. Go.”
Adam didn’t let go.
Instead his grip tightened, fingers twisting deeper into Rafael’s hair until the roots screamed, until pain bloomed sharp and hot across his scalp. Then with a careless, rough shove, he released him, forcing Rafael’s head forward like he was discarding something used.
Rafael exhaled, a sound that fell between a sigh and a shudder. Relief washed through him, sharp and bitter.
He stayed where he was, arms braced against the floor, head bowed. His cheeks burned, and not only from rage.
Adam lingered behind him, still too close. The heat of his body a whisper at Rafael’s heel. Threat, tension, interest all dressed up as power play.
Rafael knew better. This was no game. He was in danger.
He stayed still, not from fear, although oh, yes, that was in the wings, but from calculation. Let the predator think it had the upper hand. Let it lean in close. Let it crow. And while it snapped its teeth, frothing, run.
Rafael swallowed hard. Ten paces to the door. His pants lay within reach. The shirt? Let the freak have it; it was worth the sacrifice. Pride was out. Survival was everything.
He tensed, eyes on the exit, he began to push himself up, bracing.
And then he heard it. A sharp, swift sound slicing the air. Like a jump rope whipping past.
He knew.
He knew one second before the belt snapped around his throat.
But one second wasn’t enough.