Zak (Boys & Toys Season 2 Book 4) - Daryl Banner Page 0,1

of my other dozens of regulars, I truly feel the person on the other side of the screen. It’s very possible he might just be that good at faking it, but usually my sense doesn’t let me down.

Maybe Captain is my new lonely guy I’ve been dared to go the next step with.

And so against all sense of self-preservation that normally saves the lives of troublemakers like me, against all the lessons I have ever been taught by my fellow brothers of the sticky stage and screen, I stare straight into the cam so Captain feels my eyes upon his, and I say: “I’ll be there.”

Dare accepted.

There’s a moment of unsettling delay.

I keep staring that camera down like a cat in an alley, focused on its prey, a bird, as if at any slight flicker or sound, it might escape off into the night.

And then: ‘I’ve sent you the address, Zak. I will be wearing a royal blue suit jacket. I can’t wait to see you.’

Royal blue. That color fits him, somehow.

156 users. 157. Tonight could be very, very lucrative if I stand him up and stay here to serve my thirsty customers. I could literally make four hundred dollars by midnight, easy.

Already, they’re doing the usual begging: ‘Take off that hoodie.’ ‘Show me your dick.’ ‘Can I see your feet, please?’ ‘Are you cut or uncut?’ ‘Wanna strip for me, bb?’

BB … The international love word for “baby”.

I’m no one’s baby.

Except for maybe Captain tonight. “See you soon,” I tell him, fighting a pinch of doubt in my tightening throat.

165 users … 166 … 169 … 172 …

I close the chat room.

Fuck, I must be losing my mind to agree to this.

I open my email and, just as promised, find the hotel address, which I quickly put into my phone. Never been there, but the name looks familiar.

But that isn’t the only thing in the email. At the bottom, Captain writes: ‘It would mean so, so much to me if you wore the very first outfit I asked you to wear for our very first private show. Do you remember? I do.’

I read that part at least twenty times.

Um, is he sure about that …?

2

It should have occurred to me that the address is in north Uptown, but because of the excitement (or sheer terror) of meeting Captain, it doesn’t hit me where I’m headed until I’m nearly there.

And that’s a long time—because it turns out to be a long, long subway ride.

Each merciless minute stretches on, much like the deadpan stare a strange woman is giving me from across the aisle. I just glance back at her, give her a casual chin-lift of acknowledgement, then carry on staring ahead and hanging on to the bar over my head. And the creeper carries on staring at me ghoulishly.

So much of my life is spent being looked at.

You’d think I’d be used to it by now.

It’s definitely been a minute since I’ve been to Uptown, and I gotta say, even the subway station we stop at seems like it’s spit-shined and polished on the hour. When I get to the street, I’m surprised at the sleek architecture of every building, jutting into the sky like glass needles poking at the stars.

I could almost be seduced by the glittery sights, if it weren’t for the nervous drumming of my heart.

Especially when I find myself in front of the doors of the White Clover Hotel where my life will change forever.

I check my breath, then pop in some gum.

I squint at myself in the reflection of the shiny window and give my hair—and suggestive outfit—a quick sprucing. Then I pick something out of my teeth with a fingernail, despite the pompous look down the nose of a stiffly suited man walking by.

I’ve stripped to nothing on a stage in front of hundreds of screaming women and gay men, have never felt so much as a pinch of stage fright, and here I am, sweating in front of the doors of a hotel.

“C’mon, Zak Attack,” I whisper at my reflection—my mind-focusing mantra—before I enter the hotel.

The moment I step into the lobby, I realize I’m in the wrong place. Not because it isn’t the White Clover Hotel—exactly where Captain told me to meet him—but because I clearly don’t belong here. I see satin couches. I see preened plants, chandeliers, golden sconces, and mirror-polished tiles.

Not to mention fancy suits.

Stiff businessmen with their stiffer briefcases.

Ladies in their finery, ready to dine.

Watches that cost more than