He was.
The room was predominantly whites, creams, and golds, flowing tapestries and curtains, softening the walls, and brushing the polished marble floor.Lush, Demarco thought. The man tossed his key-card onto an entryway table and gestured for Demarco to explore.
"I'm going to change clothes. I'll be right back," he said. His English was very good, barely a trace of an accent.
Demarco nodded, walking over to the window that overlooked Mass Ave. Great view, he thought, watching the cars at the intersection of 22nd Street. The lights from Washington illuminated the sky with a pinkish glow. Beautiful views and tranquil moments like this made him grateful for living here... in the heart of a nation.
Traffic was light. He saw sparse cars other than those parked on the street. Sometimes it was difficult to believe that in a thriving city there could be such periods of peace and calm. Fortunately for Demarco, his services were often required in the later hours when the streets were quiet and it was easy to enjoy their beauty without intrusions—tourists, traffic... and all the other detractors that make large cities undesirable.
Demarco heard the man reenter the room and turned. He had dressed in a pair of dark denim jeans, a white oxford, and loafers. He was also wearing black-frame glasses making Demarco think that he had probably removed a pair of contact lenses. He was a small but beautiful man, not Demarco's type at all, but they rarely were. Demarco was a big man and that was a fetish for some. He was also attracted to larger men, or at least the same size as he... but his proclivities were—as always—sacrificed for the job... not unlike many other ambitious Washingtonians.
"My name is Abir," said the man.
"Nice to meet you, Abir. My name is Demarco."
"I am nervous, Demarco."
"It's OK to be nervous. Come sit on the bed with me."
Abir joined him and they sat at the foot of the bed. Abir sat with the etiquette of a proper English woman, legs together, hands on knees, posture perfect. "Thank you for accompanying me," he said.
"It's what I am here for, Abir."
Demarco smiled and placed his hand on the man's hand. Abir looked into his eyes and Demarco knew then that this was not going to be a sexual encounter. Abir's eyes welled with tears, and he crumpled into Demarco's embrace. They laid back on the bed and Demarco held him tight.
"It's OK. You let it all out. We have all the time in the world."
They lay there for a while. When the young man's soft sobs waned, Demarco spoke. "I am not from a country as strict as yours, Abir, but I was raised in the southern part of this country, which is not known for being the most inclusive."
"Demarco, I do not wish to have sex with you."
"I kinda figured that when you came out fully dressed," Demarco said, a pinch of his natural sass returning to set the boy at ease. "Not exactly good for my ego, you know."
"I just wanted to talk to someone. I seek... consultation."
Demarco was a little surprised. Confessional... was more what he had attributed this encounter to be. Whenever he described the types of rendezvous to Alec, he routinely referenced the anagram SOCK—sex, observation, confession, or kink—almost all of his trysts fell into one of these subcategories. He couldn't recall anyone ever having asked for advice.
"I'm all ears."
"I want to defect. I want to leave my country. Can you help me?"
Demarco weighed what Abir was asking, and then waited some more before he spoke. "That's a big thing you've been considering. I'm not saying it's the wrong thing, but have you thought about what you'll lose if you do?"
"I don't care about money. And I've made sure to secure some to survive... for a while, at least."
Demarco wondered whatsomemoney was. None of his business. But these middle-eastern royalty-type folks were bound to be loaded. The kid might be quite comfortable over here if he had access to a chunk of the family wealth.
"And that's complete. You'll have access without your father yanking the rug out from under you."
Abir looked at Demarco, confused by the idiom.
"I'm asking: is your financial preparation sound? Are you sure it won't be reversed somehow by your father?"
Abir shook his head. "No. I have saved, and used banks—American banks via the Internet. And I am not afraid to work."
"And what about your family? You would never see them again."
"I hate my father," he said without hesitation. "My mother..."
