A Dangerous Game Read Free Page B

773.
    “What does it mean?” Wren fingered the lettering on the card.
    “It’s the name of my business. It’s French. It means ‘to connect, to find love.’”
    Wren nodded, getting it. “So, what? You run some kind of escort service?”
    Dave shook his head. “‘Escort service’ sounds so tawdry. I prefer to think of myself as a facilitator whereby men can meet other men. I like to think I help open a door to happiness . Yes.” Dave smiled, revealing rows of teeth that were so perfect and white Wren wondered if they were veneers or even dentures.
    “Happiness. I see. Well, that’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.”
    “Are you perhaps in the market for some happiness, Wren? And for making some money while you’re in the pursuit of it?”
    Was this for real? Was this guy asking him to join his escort service?
    Wren reminded himself that he had nowhere to go, no pressing engagements, nothing more to do this evening, really, than lick his wounds and contemplate his future as one of the multitudinous ranks of the unemployed in the good old US of A. So he bit. “Sure. I’m in the market for, as you put it, happiness. And my creditors would say I’m also in the market for some money.” Wren felt a sad grin slide across his face as he remembered that his wallet was stolen. The little money he had in his checking account, which amounted to approximately three hundred dollars last time he checked, could have already been depleted if someone had indeed picked his pocket.
    Wren frowned as he remembered writing his ATM PIN number on a Post-it and tucking it into his now gone-missing wallet. Would the bank cover it if he reported a theft? Or would he just lose his money? And what was he doing sitting here anyway, when he should be at home, calling his bank and getting replacements for the contents of his wallet lined up?
    But Dave obviously couldn’t hear the turmoil going on in Wren’s head. He simply smiled at Wren, giving him a foot in the door. Why he was giving him a foot in the door, Wren had no idea. There was no way he was going to be an escort, for fuck’s sake! He was better than that!
    Yet Wren was too polite to just get up and walk away, especially now, when he could tell by the look on Dave’s face he was winding up to give his pitch. But he couldn’t resist applying a pin to the older man’s bubble. “But I don’t think I’d ever consider being an escort.” Wren looked around himself, at Arliss and the new dancer who had joined him on the stage, plus the other Tricks “entertainers,” who now mingled through the crowd, scantily clad in things like G-strings, jockstraps, and combat boots. “Besides, what would you need me for when you have all these lovelies who would jump at your opportunity?”
    Dave rubbed his chin, seemingly pondering what Wren said. “My young man, first of all, I really prefer not to think of the fellows I employ as ‘escorts.’ They are not rent boys either. They are companions, handsome young men who trade their time in exchange for money. Time. It’s an important consideration. How they use that time—whether it’s to see a play, take a moonlight stroll on the beach, or do something more risqué—that’s up to them and their client. I do not engage in the commerce of sex for money. That’s much too indiscreet for me. I, as I said, facilitate time and companionship for people who might otherwise be too busy to arrange it for themselves. And really isn’t that what any working person does? Sells his time in exchange for money?”
    “I suppose.” Wren took a long swallow of his V&T, which was getting weak as the ice melted. He wanted to advise Dave to “Tell it to the judge” but thought now was not the time to be a wiseass. Truthfully, he just wanted Dave to finish up so he could make a polite exit. Suddenly all this talk of money reminded him, imperatively, that he had more pressing concerns that overrode being a barfly, no matter how much he wanted