ONE
Andre
I’m restless. Impatient. It’s a bad way to start, and it makes me angry with myself. It makes me think I should walk away from this.
But I stay where I am, my back against the brick wall, my hands in my jacket pockets, waiting for Elias Rose to emerge from his building.
I know him the second he does. All I have is the picture he submitted to the agency, his face bleached by the screen light, his shitty apartment in the background. The image wasn’t careful like most submissions. No suggestive pose, no filter, just that gorgeous face laid bare except where his shaggy dark hair obscured it, his dark eyes wide and maybe a little shocked at what he was asking for.
Was he hoping his request would be denied?
I get only the briefest glimpse of his striking face before he turns away from me and starts walking.
Doesn’t he know how dangerous it is to be that beautiful? He didn’t look around for trouble, didn’t notice me or anyone. He seems to think he’s invisible.
But as I follow him, I see danger everywhere. A car with tinted windows passing by too slowly. A guy smoking a cigarette whose eyes follow Elias for a second too long.
Then there’s me, half a block behind.
I know exactly how dangerous I am. I know how twisted and dark my soul is. That’s why I have to do things this way.
Elias walks fast, even by New York standards. His build is lean and athletic. I wonder how fast he can run.
As I pick up more detail—the way his dark hair brushes the back of his jacket’s gray collar, the way his faded jeans tug across his delicious ass with each step—I realize that I’ve closed the distance between us.
I force myself to slow down. This isn’t the fantasy. I’m not in that role right now. I’m here to judge whether Elias can handle what he’s asked for—and whether I can handle giving it to him.
I want to, god I do. I knew that from the second the agency message popped up during a meeting with my staff. I made the mistake of looking at it.
Three people asked me if I was okay. I told everyone to leave.
I’m still upset with myself about that. I’m not supposed to let my … hobby intrude on my business. Everything is supposed to stay in its own box. That’s the point of boxes. But I couldn’t finish that meeting. Not with the shit going through my head. Not with my dick that hard.
So I opened the file and saw that picture of Elias. I read what he submitted, what he asked for. So here I am. To judge. To decide.
We reach a business district, one of many in the Bronx and so different in character from Manhattan, less crowded and cold but more chaotic. The traffic lurches. Reggae music bumps out from a record shop across the street. A dog barks somewhere in the distance.
Elias ducks into the corner bodega where he works. The faded awning says Groceries – Deli – Coffee. He works from four to midnight.
I shouldn’t go in. I’m not supposed to. But I need a closer look before I can decide. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
He doesn’t look up when I enter. He’s behind the counter, swapping his gray denim jacket for a green apron, cinchingit at his lean waist over his white t-shirt. At the register, a middle-aged woman is ringing up customers and giving Elias instructions over her shoulder. His head is angled down, but I hear a quiet, “Yeah, okay, sure.”
I move on into the store to hide my interest.
Everyday goods crowd the shelves. I won’t be able to blend in for long with the shoppers moving purposefully along the aisles, so I head to the deli at the back.
I’m starting to get looks. It always happens in closed spaces, in smaller crowds. Eyes flick to me, linger when they think I don’t notice. But I do. I’ve never gotten to pretend that I’m invisible.
It used to make me so fucking angry, but I’m better now. I know how to manage myself. That’s why I’m here.
I order coffee, which I take to the small seating area, finding a spot that gives me a view of the grocery section. Elias is restocking lemons. He picks out a couple of bad ones. He cleans the edges of the bin, straightens the sign. So meticulous.
When Elias starts working on the limes, a man approaches. Elias instantly steps back. While the man picks through the limes, Elias goes into a sort of standby mode. His head angles down, his body stills. He really does think he’s invisible.
But I can see him just fine, and I know that lurking beneath that polite, withdrawn exterior is a yearning as dark and twisted as my own.
Looking at him, I would never have guessed. Who possibly could? He’s hiding in plain sight just as effectively as I ever have. More effectively, perhaps. Yet the question remains: can he handle what he’s asked for?
