Chapter Four

“THIS GUY IS one sick motherfucker, okay?”

Arthur looks across the conference table at Cooper. He blinks.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m just… You think someone else is a sick motherfucker?”

“Oh, fuck you, Arthur.”

Jamie chuckles. “Both of you shut up. What did you find?”

“First of all, he lives in this house out of fucking American Psycho, okay? It’s all super sterile, like he’s ready to bleach some blood up at any moment. Real freaky shit. He’s got this dead-eye look like Patrick Bateman, too, or one of the Trump kids in that weird-ass picture, remember?” He shudders.

Micah snickers. “Oh yeah, I remember that.”

Jamie glares at them, and Cooper clears his throat. “So, he sat there watching Nicolas Cage movies for six hours straight.”

“I’m gonna regret this,” Arthur says, “but which ones?”

“That’s the weird thing. He watched, like, the Nic Cage movies no one sees. Not the good ones like Con Air—”

“Con Air?” Arthur interrupts. “You go to name a good Nicolas Cage movie and the best you can come up with is Con fucking Air?”

“Well, what would you say, asshole?”

“Not fucking Con Air. Raising Arizona, maybe? Adaptation?”

“He did voicework in the Spider-Verse movie,” Micah adds.

“Wild at Heart,” says Jamie.

Everyone stares at him.

“What? I like David Lynch.”

Arthur shakes his head.

“Well, he wasn’t watching any of those,” Cooper says.

“That doesn’t sound creepy; it sounds sad,” Arthur points out.

“Yeah, but at the same time, there was a fucking gang bang happening in the next room.”

“Huh?” Arthur asks, eloquently.

“A gang bang. Swear to God, full-on, one woman taking it from, like, ten dudes. All that bukkake shit.”

“What’s bukkake?” Micah asks.

“You don’t wanna know, kid,” Jamie answers.

“He works in porn,” Arthur says. “I don’t think a gang bang is super unusual for them.”

“Just, like, on a Tuesday?”

“Were they filming the whole thing?”

“Well, I didn’t see any cameras at all. They were, like, snorting coke and fucking this woman, and then everyone left, and then he went back there.”

Arthur frowns. “To clean?”

“I don’t think so, man. Looked like he would’ve had a maid service or something. The house was a nice place, even if it was weird.”

“Okay, so he hosts drug-fueled orgies and doesn’t attend them himself. It’s eccentric, but still not creepy.”

“Nah, but look at this.” Cooper puts his phone on the table and taps the screen. A video starts playing. “You know what this looks like?”

“A coke-fueled gang bang?” Micah asks.

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“Okay, but for real,” Arthur argues, “I expect they have tons of these. It’s a genre.”

“With these exact people?”

Arthur looks at him. Cooper’s face turns serious. He presses his lips together in a tight line, and Arthur nods. “I see.”

Micah shakes his head. “I don’t. What’s the matter?”

“These are the people who were at the gang bang, and the video is—”

“Posted late last night.”

“Hey, you got a membership?”

“Shut up, Micah.”

“Can I get your log-in?”

“No, dumbass. These people didn’t know they were being recorded. You can’t watch porn when the people in it don’t consent. It’s fucking wrong, man.”

“Oh shit. Oh. Okay, yeah, I get it.”

“See, this is not actually porn,” Jamie says. “This is a secretly recorded sex act. And it’s a criminal offense. Problem solved. We can hand this one over to the police. Or the FBI.”

“This is…big,” Arthur says. “Bigger than one video. If he’s been doing this…”

Jamie taps his fingers. “They’ll have to track down the people in the videos to see if they consented to being filmed.”

“Hard to get people to admit they’re involved in something like this if there’s a risk of a drug charge.”

“If he got video of the fucking, you know he has video of the coke,” Cooper adds.

Arthur nods. Jamie looks at them. “We have to tell Maurice. Micah, what did you find out about the boss?”

“Jameson? He’s one of the richest people in the city. Started the company while still in college making these crappy videos where girls flash the camera at parties. They’re really weird.”

Arthur and Jamie share a look. “They were popular in the early 2000s,” Arthur explains.

“Why?” Micah looks truly confused.

“It was a different time, kid,” Jamie says. “Keep going.”

“So, uh, he’s got some interesting friends.” He pulls up a few pictures on his phone and they scroll through.

“Mob ties. See those chips? Looks like Tommy Bianchi’s place,” Arthur says.

Micah nods. “And here he is with about a dozen elected officials, here he is at a tech conference with a bunch of CEOs…”

“Fuck,” Arthur says.

“In the early days, this Ward guy was one of his star performers,” Micah explains. “I think he did the directing, and Ward thought up the…schemes? Stories? I don’t know what to call ’em. Or maybe Jameson did the publishing—that’s when all those web guys got rich, right? It’s like all those tech billionaires. Someone makes the stuff, right, and the other guy’s the face who makes the money. Jameson makes the money. Ward makes the porno.”

Cooper nods. “Lots of those casting videos where he pretends to be an agent and gets people to fuck him.”

“You know that’s staged, right?” Jamie says. “It’s role play.”

“Usually. Given the orgy…who knows?” Arthur clenches his fist. “So, do we know what they have against Therese and them? Other than wanting Kit to be in their videos. Or to not be in Therese’s videos.”

“The videos might be enough,” Cooper says. “They have a few old videos with him, and they are, by far, the most popular across all their sites.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s true,” Micah agrees. “He’s a really big deal.”

 

THE WAREHOUSE IS set up with a large bed and a fainting couch. There are thick rugs on the floor and white drapes around the set windows, which seem to billow. The setup reminds Arthur of the scene in The Great Gatsby when Nick sees Daisy and Jordan for the first time, with the billowing curtains. It’s so drastically different than the two previous days; he stands there, confused, and stares at the set. Kit stands to the side, and an assistant is styling his hair so it’s perfectly tousled. He’s wearing a well-fitted suit.

Arthur tries to not stare at him. He’s seen him naked in person, but somehow, the video he shared is more intimate. He shared it himself. He wanted Arthur to watch him.

Arthur isn’t sure what the gesture means. Is he simply messing with me for fun? He scans the warehouse doors, checks the faces to make sure they’re all familiar. He rubs his palms on his pant legs. Does this just get him off? Arthur also knows all of this is, in fact, a performance. He’s fucking on camera. But involving Arthur in the exchange—is that performative? He doesn’t know. Who’s the audience? Him? But if the audience is him, doesn’t the inclusion make it not performative, but participatory and active and… He shakes the thoughts from his head. He’s going to need a therapist when the job is done.

“Here she is,” Therese says. “Okay, people, let’s get started.”

Arthur turns, still confused, as a woman walks onto the set. She has beautiful big eyes and long blonde hair. She’s thin and dressed in a long silk robe. When did she even get here? “Jamie?” he says in a quiet voice.

“Yeah, she arrived late. All clear.”

“Hm.”

 

KIT KISSES ALONG the woman’s jawline. His hands look larger against her frame, and he smooths down the side of her robe before pulling lightly at the tie and letting it fall away. It slips to the floor with a flutter, and he lifts her and gently places her on the fainting couch. He lazily caresses her skin, and she writhes under his attention.

It looks like they have all the time in the world for this. Kit looks as if there is no place he would rather be, no one he would rather be with, and nothing he would rather be doing. He mouths along her neck and collarbones, and his hand drifts to her breast. His mouth follows.

The woman clings to him. She takes her time getting him out of his clothes.

When Kit’s face moves along her inner thigh, Arthur leaves.

“Get a good look?” Jamie asks. “Took you long enough.”

“Fuck you.”

“Just ask him out if you got it so bad.”

“It’s been three days. I don’t got anything bad.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Arthur tries to corral his feelings into words. “I don’t… I don’t want him to… I think everyone just wants to fuck him.”

“Yeah, so do you, genius.”

“But not… I don’t know.” Arthur shakes his head. There’s a reason he’s a man of action, not words. There’s a reason he’s single at his age.

“Well, have this crisis some other time.” Jamie speaks over the guards’ headsets. “Status check?”

The guards report. The warehouse is clear.

 

ARTHUR ISN’T CERTAIN if the scene tonight is easier to watch or far more difficult than the others. The mood is tender. The woman clutches Kit’s skin, raking her fingernails along his shoulder blades—not hard enough to scratch, but enough to leave faint red lines. He rolls his hips, and they aren’t fucking, exactly, though Arthur doesn’t know what to call it. If he saw them like this without the set, it would be lovemaking, but it can’t be, not really. Arthur feels like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t, like he should look away. Kit lies in repose on the bed and tilts his head back, exposing the column of his neck, and she reaches out and slides her hand from his jaw, along his throat, to his chest. She rakes her fingers through his chest hair and lets out a rapturous moan.

Arthur wonders what that touch feels like. He can’t see Kit’s face from where he’s standing, and he wonders how this scene feels, for him. Does he prefer this tone to the roughness of the past two nights? Or is it the other way around? Arthur’s partners tend to want him to play the brute—women and men alike. He’s big and strong, and they want to be held down.

Does Kit like that better than this? Does he like the violence, or is this better for him? Would he rather be laid out on a bed like this, kissed until he’s senseless, lips relentlessly plundered by Arthur’s? Would he like Arthur to lick along the column of his throat, pressing gently against him, giving and giving rather than taking?

The woman leans back and places her hands on Kit’s legs. She quickens her pace. Her moans grow louder, and she reaches down to help herself along.

She works him, and Kit strokes along her thighs, encouraging her with soft words. “That’s right, let me see you come, baby. That’s it…” She rides him through her orgasm as he talks to her in a low voice. “That’s it, baby, like that.” When she’s finished, she rolls off him, and he lifts one of her legs over his shoulder. He strokes her with his hand, and she lets out another low groan before he pushes back in.

 

“YOU OKAY?” JAMIE asks. “Looking a bit pasty.”

“I’m fine.”

“How many times has he made her come?”

“You said everything is acting, so probably none.”

“Maybe you should find a date for Saturday. It might make next week a little easier. This is only night three, man.”

Arthur grunts in response. Maybe I should. Otherwise, you know you’re going to sit at home and try not to rewatch that video, or any of his other videos. He wonders if Kit is going to text him again. He wonders what he does on the weekends. He asked you if you had somebody, and you didn’t ask him back, chickenshit. He shakes his head at himself. He tries to focus on the job.

 

WHEN HE REENTERS the warehouse, the woman is dressed in plain clothes. Arthur looks at Therese, but she doesn’t seem to be finishing anything up. “What’s going on?” he asks her.

“We’re done with the first part for tonight. Now, we’re going to take a short break so Kit can recover before part two.”

“Recover?”

“Yes, he isn’t a machine—or a teenager.”

He already came once, and he needs to recover so he can go again. “Right…” He looks at the woman, who seems ready to leave. “Is she…”

“She’s finished.”

“Is someone else arriving? There’s no one on the itinerary. We need to know who—”

“No, no one else.”

Arthur looks around the warehouse space. Kit is cleaning off with wipes. Nicole is standing near him with a set of military fatigues. Arthur swallows hard.

Therese looks Arthur up and down. “You know, if you’re interested, I can give you some work next week. No pressure. We’d need to do some tests first, of course—”

“No thanks.” He escorts the actress to her Uber instead.

 

IT’S A DARK night. They’re working late, and clouds cover the moon. This part of the city isn’t lit with many streetlights or open businesses, and Arthur squints at the rooftops. He doesn’t see any movement. He checks with the team. Again, there’s nothing to report. He goes inside to see if they have an estimate for when they’ll wrap up.

The set has been converted to the inside of a tent. It looks like something out of the 4077th, with cots and packs strewn about. Kit stands by one of the cots and methodically unbuttons the jacket. Arthur is near enough to see his lips are parted, and he runs his tongue along his bottom lip before biting into the pink. He shrugs off the jacket, and his chest rises up and down with his breath, as if his arousal is growing. He runs a hand across his chest, where he has dog tags, and it drifts lower. He grips himself through the pants, and Arthur can see the bulge of his already-stiff cock.

Kit’s breath is loud. He tucks the tags under the neck of his T-shirt and peels it off, over his head.

Arthur lets out an exhalation.

No, this is the hardest thing to watch. Because Kit doesn’t have anybody with him, now, he just looks like he’s desperate as hell for it and begging someone to come along and help him out.

As if he hears the breath, Kit’s eyes flit over to him. His eyebrow lifts so subtly Arthur may have imagined it. He steps back before anyone else notices him. Leave now, he tells himself, before you make a fool of yourself. He ducks into the shadow of a piece of scaffolding.

The dog tags click together as they shift against Kit’s chest. He strokes along his sides and rakes his fingers across his nipple. He rubs at his neck and rolls his head back. He licks his lips again and reaches down. His eyes search the shadows, and Arthur takes another step back.

When Kit undoes his pants, Arthur has to squeeze himself to keep his body in check. Kit pulls himself free of his pants, and he’s thick and hard. He holds it in his hand and plays with it a bit before he gets started. Arthur wonders what it feels like, what the weight of it is, how it would look in his hand instead. And then Kit’s eyes find him. Arthur freezes, as if Kit’s gaze pins him down. He sees Kit’s lips curve up as his eyes dip down to where he has a grip on himself.

Arthur releases himself, and it almost looks like Kit’s bottom lip comes out a bit, suggesting a pout. He strokes himself, letting out a husky moan.

He slides the pants down and sits on the cot to kick them off over his boots. Arthur can’t decide if it’s ridiculous or sexy as hell, and the sentiment must show on his face because Kit smirks. He tucks himself back into his tight black briefs, and he turns around so he’s kneeling on the cot. He looks over his shoulder at the camera, then back to Arthur. He leans forward so he’s on his hands and knees with his ass up. He reaches back and grips one cheek, and Arthur’s fingers tingle. He tries to even his breathing. Kit kneads his flesh. He teases himself.

Then he smiles again, promising all sorts of things, and tucks a finger into the waistband.

Arthur holds his breath.

The elastic stretches, and the fabric comes down, revealing his gorgeous, luscious ass. Arthur can’t help it; his hand moves on its own. He holds himself tight and tells himself not to rub. “Yes,” Kit whispers, like he’s encouraging him to play. He strips the briefs the rest of the way off and spreads his legs.

It’s harder because it’s more real. Kit may get fucked a lot of ways, but touching himself—it might really be like this. This could be what he likes…

Kit’s mouth opens again, and he pulls on his ass, exposing himself. His hands explore, and he lets his touch graze and linger before retreating. He grips his cock. He flips himself over so he’s sitting on the edge of the cot. Arthur squeezes himself harder. His dick throbs, and he knows he’s absolutely wrecking his own boxer briefs. Kit’s cock is beautifully hard and flushed a deep pink. He runs his eyes down to where Arthur has a hold on himself, and he does the thing with his tongue again, letting it slowly trace along his bottom lip.

You need to go, to do a perimeter sweep. Quit objectifying him. Instead, he lets his palm rub against his cock and bites back a groan.

As if he’s rewarding him, Kit leans back a bit on the cot, maneuvering himself against an oversized pack as a cushion. He lifts his booted feet up onto the edge of the cot so they bracket him, and Arthur gets it—the boots and the dog tags are the only things he’s wearing, and they go so perfectly with his thick dusting of chest hair. Kit keeps his eyes on him. He stares at him and strokes himself. He starts fast, then slows down before speeding up again. He plays with himself. He reaches up with his free hand and toys with the dog tags, and his fingers drift to pinch his nipple. He reaches to where a small black bottle of lube seems to have appeared from nowhere, and he squeezes it into his hand and strokes over himself again, lifting himself up off the cot to afford a better view.

He stays there for a while, pleasuring himself with abandon. He makes noises, though they aren’t words. They’re throaty and loud.

And then, again from nowhere, he pulls out a toy.

It’s slender and black, and Arthur has to bite down on his knuckle as Kit prepares it. He gets onto his knees, sideways, so Arthur (and the camera) sees him from the side. He clutches his cock with one hand, lazily stroking, and, with the other, steadily rocks the toy against himself. As he works it inside, he lets out a low, desperate groan. He strokes himself harder, and he closes his eyes for a moment, tilting his head back.

The spotlight cascades over him like some sort of Baroque painting. He is the most perfect thing Arthur has ever seen. Arthur sees his thighs flex as he clenches around the toy, and it’s all he can take; he grips himself again, but nothing can stop him—he rubs his palm across his cock twice, and he’s overcome. He knows it’s obvious on his face. His jaw drops as pleasure washes through him, and Kit looks back, recognizes the look, and flips around onto his back, legs spread, and follows him over the edge.

Arthur grips the scaffolding as his pulse slows, and a camera closes in on Kit, blocking his view. The terrible bathroom is a few yards to Arthur’s right, and he rushes to the door. As he closes it behind him, he hears Therese, angry, hiss, “What the actual fuck, Kit?”

Arthur closes the door, wets a paper towel, and ducks into a filthy stall to clean himself off.

 

THE SET TEARDOWN goes fast. The night is late, and everyone is on edge. Therese is pissed as Arthur escorts her and Nicole to their car.

“Anticlimactic again,” he mutters to Jamie.

“Was it?” Jamie huffs out a gravelly laugh. “Whatever you say.”

Arthur glares at him. He can’t know; he’s just trying to get me to reveal something. He collects the guards’ earpieces. “Yeah, well, hopefully it holds.”

“Right. And the rest of us will leave the last one for you.”

“Last one?”

“Escort him to his car, dumbass.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. See you tomorrow, Arthur.” Jamie fires up his bike, and Arthur looks up to see Kit lingering by the warehouse door. “Oh,” Jamie adds, “next time, maybe don’t disappear for a half hour.”

Arthur blinks. He nods, knowing there isn’t anything he can say to explain his absence. He watches Jamie drive off. “You need to clear out of here,” Arthur tells Kit. He walks over to make sure everything is locked tight.

“I am. I…” Kit purses his lips. Then he gives a wry smile. “I wanted you to walk me to my car. Security, you know.”

“Yeah.” Arthur walks with him, quiet, and Kit opens his car door and leans against it. They stare at each other.

“Thank you,” Kit says. His gaze dips down to Arthur’s mouth and back to his eyes. His eyes are shadowed with fatigue in the darkened lot.

“For what?”

“Protecting me.”

Arthur nods, brief and tight.

“I…” Kit scratches his shoulder. “I like your shirt.”

Arthur looks down. It’s simple and black. “Thank you.” It rolls off his tongue like a question. He looks at Kit, who is wearing faded jeans and a plain white shirt. His jacket is navy blue with worn cuffs, like it’s been lived in. Arthur wonders if it’s a favorite. He thinks he likes him this way: no suit, no costume, nothing but him. His five-o’clock shadow is darker than the night before. He wants to tell him he likes what he sees, but he doesn’t know where to begin.

Kit looks away. He silently sinks down into his seat. Arthur watches him start the car, and he watches him drive away.

 

I GOT THIS picture, Kit texts an hour later. The image is of Arthur standing by Kit at his car door. Kit sent a screenshot. It’s from Ward, with a message: I saw those looks. Tonight.

Arthur is enraged. He realizes the angle means Ward must have been close—in a neighboring building on the ground floor or across the parking lot. “Fuck,” he curses. He should’ve seen him. There’s no way he should have missed that.

I’m sorry, Arthur texts in response. I should have spotted him. It won’t happen again.

Were you distracted?

Arthur stares at the question, wondering at the tone. He sighs, shaking his head at himself.

I’m sorry, he sends again.

Don’t be.

Arthur reads the message and sets the phone aside while he strips out of his clothes. He puts on clean boxers. When he picks the phone back up, Kit has sent him another URL.

I’m not watching another video.

Not ready for more yet?

I told you.

You watched. You liked it. I saw. Do you know what you looked like?

I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.

You were so tense and tight, but your eyes gave you away. And your mouth. Looked like you would beg me for it if you were able.

Arthur doesn’t reply.

Kit continues anyway.

Do you know how hot you are? Fuck, Arthur, when you came like that… Some things you can’t unsee.

Arthur knows the last statement is true because the past three days have given him plenty of images he’ll never forget. He presses his palms against his eyes.

Why are you doing this?

What?

Texting me like this.

Maybe I find you interesting.

I don’t like to be played with.

Maybe I’m not playing.

Then what would you call it?

Talking.

That wasn’t talking. Last night wasn’t talking. Neither was tonight.

A few minutes pass before Kit responds.

I should’ve waited for you to ask for pics, right?

Arthur reads the message several times before responding.

What?

Before sending anything. Usually everyone asks up front. And I know you wanted them.

No.

You don’t want them?

That’s not what I mean. I mean that isn’t talking. Talking is telling me your name. Telling me what you do the other 50 weeks of the year. Telling me what you do for fun.

After a few minutes, Arthur assumes Kit is finished talking. “Or he fell asleep,” he tells himself.

The text arrives later.

I play the guitar.

It isn’t much, but Arthur’s chest tightens.

Are you any good?

Yes, actually.

Arthur rolls his shoulders. He feels soft and relaxed. He doesn’t know how to respond, but it doesn’t make him feel tense.

Maybe someday I’ll send you a video of that.

I’d like that.

Good night, Arthur.

Good night.

The phone rings a minute later. “Kit?”

“Someone broke into my apartment.”