Chapter 1 - Rules for dating trash

Chapter One – The Ugly Duckling

One of the stories he'd enjoyed the most as a kid – and grandma always obliged him by reading it to him on the days when he felt sick and missed school – was that of the ugly duckling turning into a beautiful swan. The ardent question on his mind had always been if such things happened in real life. Could an ugly duckling turn into a beautiful swan? Grandma never really answered that question. She just caressed his hair and kissed his forehead, to check if his fever had finally gone down, her kind smile never leaving her face.

Well, as an adult, he knew the answer to that one. Things rarely changed, and, if they did, they took a significant amount of work. Otis stared into the mirror and painstakingly arranged the long bangs of his hair so they fell over his left eye, to obscure the fact that it was smaller than the right one. Plastic surgery could do a lot of things today, wondrous things, but fixing that kind of defect wasn't on the list, or at least his research had led nowhere on that particular topic. Not that he had the money necessary for such complex procedures anyway, but it felt good to dream that fixing his face was a possibility.

He sighed as he finally managed to make his straight hair settle into some kind of draping over his smaller eye. The color of his hair didn't help the overall effect of his face on people, either. It always looked like a hair-dyeing appointment at the salon was long overdue. Otis had never set foot in one of those, but that didn't make it less worrisome that the roots of his mane always remained dark, while the rest of it was an unnatural – that was what people called it – dirty ash blond. After reading dozens of magazines abounding in beauty advice, he had ended up more dumbfounded than before. Maybe all that advice didn't apply to men.

And his strange light blue irises were surrounded by such dark limbal rings that whenever he stared too long at someone – or just looked at them with no particular interest – people just averted their eyes as if he intended to curse them or something. That staring habit of his had gotten him into plenty of trouble in school, and teachers had warned him that people would start calling him weird if he didn't cut it out. Apparently, he didn't need to blink as much as normal people. He tried to remember that himself and blink intentionally, as often as possible.

He shrugged and pulled his shoulders back, but good posture didn't fix the fact that he had almost no meat on his bones. Any clothes he wore ended up looking like they were hanging on a hanger. People complained about body fat percentage and whatnot, but was there such a thing as a meat percentage? He would have to look that up online, but later. Now, he needed to bring out the last of his grandma's things from the old place that had been in storage since forever.

***

The delivery man was already waiting outside and gave him a short, annoyed look while mumbling something under his breath. He handed Otis the tablet to sign for receiving the items, threw another look around, this time a disgusted one, and got back into his vehicle, leaving him on the sidewalk with a white credenza, a large mirror, and a handbag full of personal items. Otis considered his predicament for a little bit, but then, as always, came up with a solution. He wrapped the rope he had come equipped with through the spaces in the ornate frame of the mirror, the one his grandma had loved so much, and created a harness. Stepping into it carefully, he finally hiked the mirror up on his back, and then grabbed the handbag. That left him with only one hand for the credenza. He could just drag it along. As long as he got everything into the elevator, he would be fine.

Getting back into the building seemed like a real adventure, though. On more than one occasion, he feared that he might turn the beautiful mirror into many useless pieces, and while breaking pots and plates was a sign of good luck in some cultures, it appeared that breaking a mirror was in the exactly opposite category for most people.

He noticed that there was someone already waiting in front of the elevator. A man, at least six foot three tall, and his body obviously possessing an optimal meat percentage. And the meat was well shaped and, as far as one could tell from a distance, covered with tattoos. On both arms. He wore a tight white t-shirt and regular cut jeans that hung on his hips just right. Otis looked at him from behind and then noticed the earbuds. The man was probably listening to music or podcasts. He was probably bettering himself right now by listening to self-improvement advice. His hair was cut short and close to the head, and Otis admired the shape of the back of his head, too. He shivered just imagining how it would feel to move his hand over that short dark hair. Would it be like petting a shorthair cat?

The elevator arrived at the ground floor and the doors opened. The man stepped inside, absorbed in his self-improvement book, and turned, allowing Otis an unimpeded view of his front, too. The tight white t-shirt stretched over a chiseled chest – words like chiseled made Otis's tongue feel funny, slightly ticklish – and his abdomen looked flat, not skinny. What was that expression? Washboard abs? Otis didn't like it much. He didn't see himself rubbing soapy laundry over that man's abdomen. Or anyone else's, for that matter.

The man's was frowning in thought, but he had a very admirable face. His jawline was square, as it should be, and he had a straight nose and thick, dark eyebrows. Everything on that face was intense, strong, remarkable.

Otis continued to watch as the man reached for the control panel without looking at what he was doing. That had to be a very interesting podcast or book. Just as the doors began to close, the man looked up and saw Otis standing there. His brows unfurrowed into an expression of surprise, and now they were visible his eyes were revealed to be almost as dark as the hair on his head. He quickly shot one arm forward and stopped the doors from closing. Then, he touched one of his earbuds. "Hello there. Are you coming?" he asked in a deep rough voice.

That was another thing Otis found ticklish – voices like that. They were mesmerizing voices, indeed.

The man waved his free hand. "Hello?" he called out loudly.

Otis shook his head. The man was talking to him, obviously. "Yes, thank you," he shouted back, just as loudly.

One of the dark thick eyebrows quirked in question. "Just moving in?"

Otis began his march while dragging the credenza after him, as the man half-stepped outside to hold the door and make room for him to get inside. "No. I just had some beautiful things I needed to bring in."

"Let me help you," the stranger offered, and when he moved, Otis caught a glimpse of his neck.

He touched his self-consciously. In that respect, he was something of a crane, and a crane was a far shot from a beautiful swan, while this man… well, this man had the strong neck of a beautiful mammal, like a horse or something similar.

The man quickly moved the credenza inside first and took the handbag from Otis, placing it on top. He then stopped and threw Otis an odd look. It had to be because of the mirror and the way it hung on his back, but, at this point, he couldn't help it. He slipped inside, brushing unwittingly against the stranger. Now that he was in, it appeared that there wasn't any room left, but the stranger didn't seem to care and pushed Otis gently but firmly against the credenza until the doors closed behind him.

"What floor?"

Grandma always said that being polite opened doors, so Otis decided to show that he knew how to do that. "I'm imposing," he said. "Please, let's go to your floor first."

It was difficult to carry on a conversation like that because he was staring directly at the man's throat. To look him in the eye wasn't exactly an option because he would have to tip his head back a lot.

"No," the stranger said shortly. "Your floor?"

"Fifth," Otis said, deciding not to insist since every moment spent like this, cramped and inadvertently touching each other, was a moment that was not good for his overall state of mind.

"What a coincidence. That's also my floor. Also, you'll need help getting that out."

What a nice young man, his grandma would say. "Thank you. You are a nice young man," he said.

Hot air blew over the crown of his head, disturbing the bangs covering his smaller eye. The man had sighed, and it was not clear what he could mean by that. Was he annoyed by having to go up to his floor, cramped like that? Otis looked down by reflex.

"And what are you? Eighty?" the man asked in his gruff pleasant voice.

"I am twenty-two," Otis replied.

"Then, you're the young man here," the man commented. "We're here."

The elevator doors opened. Otis allowed the stranger to handle his belongings while he held the doors open.

"What's the number of your apartment?" the stranger asked.

Otis felt himself stiffen. Grandma was also adamant about not giving out personal information to strangers, mainly because there were so many scammers in this world. However, she also said that there were also plenty of nice people, and this tattooed man seemed to belong to the latter group. "508," he said, as soon as his deliberations regarding the stranger's intentions were over.

Without being asked, the man took it upon himself to take the credenza in his arms and carry it to Otis's door. He placed it down carefully and then gestured for the mirror, too. "Should I take that from you?"

"No, it's okay," Otis said. "You've done enough already for a stranger, which I am to you." He couldn't quite get over the fact that he had annoyed the other somehow, the way he had made him sigh while they were riding the elevator. That meant he couldn't expect any more favors or else he'd be in trouble soon. People always got annoyed when asked for too much, and Otis had to be especially careful about such things.

The man surprised him by offering his hand. "Then how about we stop being strangers? I'm Hudson. And I just moved into 505 two days ago."

"Hudson, like the river," Otis said. He realized a little too late that Hudson was still holding out his hand and shook it awkwardly. He began with a limp hand and was very much aware of how damp it was, too, and then he remembered that people appreciated a firm handshake. Therefore, he squeezed his neighbor's hand tightly.

Hudson laughed. "Ouch. Now that's a strong grip. Do you have a name?"

"Otis. Like the elevator." Hudson hadn't given him his last name, so he wouldn't either. Imitating others in social situations was a good strategy to make sure that he didn't do something that wasn't sanctioned by the general population.

"Okay, Otis, have a nice day." Hudson gave him another smile, the kind that made a dimple appear in his right cheek and made Otis stare a lot more than necessary, just because it was asymmetric, and there was no dimple in the left cheek too.

He took out his key quickly, feeling a bit hot and needing to get inside, away from those dark and, at least as they seemed to him, inquisitive eyes.

***

Hudson took another look at the young man fiddling with his keys and fumbling his way inside the apartment, and shook his head for a moment. He wasn't here to fraternize with the neighbors, but he couldn't act like he didn't want to know anyone there, or at least that was the justification he was giving himself. That was one odd-looking kid. Not in a bad or repulsive way but, quite the contrary, in a way that made you look a second time even if you met him out in the street by accident. Was he a model? Yeah, right. That rundown building was a nest to people of all kinds, but runway models didn't fit the bill.

Maybe no one had scouted him yet, but it should happen any day now, Hudson mused as he let himself inside his apartment for now. Otis was skinny enough to be a model, but that wasn't the striking thing about him. No, the most striking thing about him was the color of his eyes… of the eye, because Otis wore his hair over half his face, and that was all that Hudson had managed to see. That eye reminded him of Zeus, his Siberian Husky, who had to be relocated for the duration of his undercover mission since keeping him here, in this dingy apartment, wasn't an option.

The boy's eye was the same shade of blue, and the black ring around it contributed to its striking quality. He wasn't a boy, Hudson reminded himself. Otis had been quite adamant about telling him his age. Also, he had the manners of an old person, another odd thing about him. It was a wonder he hadn't smashed that mirror on his way into the building, and Hudson had kept an eye on it the whole time.

He shrugged. He wasn't here to get an eyeful of the would-be model living a few doors away from him. Or play the Good Samaritan, although, it appeared that he couldn't exactly help it when there was someone genuinely in need of assistance.

His phone beeped. He picked it up right away while taking off his earbuds. "Yeah?" he asked roughly.

"This is the last time I'm calling you until you're finished," his captain, who was also a close friend, began. "Is there anything else you need before getting started?"

"How's Zeus doing?" His captain had taken Zeus in, without one moment of hesitation.

"The girls love him. He loves them back. I'm afraid you won't have a dog anymore if you take too long with this mission."

"Thanks for the motivation, captain," Hudson said with half a smile. "Why did I agree to do this again?"

"I'd say it's because you need the paycheck, but that's not everything. You're the only guy in the entire department with the stomach for it, West."

Hudson snorted. "What you're really saying is that I'm the only guy in your department who won't have trouble staring at naked men all day long."

"That, too," the captain admitted. "So, any prospects so far? You know what we're looking for. Foreign, not too many friends, no actual job history, no means to call for help. These are their targets, and we need to identify leads, too."

For some unfathomable reason, Hudson's mind drifted to the odd-looking young man in 508. He seemed lonely, too. Again, he shook away the recent memory that kept coming back to him. It wasn't like him to dwell on things that weren't important to the task at hand. He was a master of focus.

Apparently, not so much when a striking blue eye was staring at him like its owner was trying to find a way inside his soul.

"Have a heart, captain. I'm just setting up shop. I did place the ads. Anyone who needs to turn a quick buck is going to come knocking on my door."

"Okay, I'll leave you to it. Get to the bottom of this, and I think there might be a promotion in store for you."

"Don't tell me you plan to retire," Hudson joked. "I don't want your chair. It already sags and has at least a few screws loose."

"Yeah, yeah, call me old and fat one more time." The captain laughed. After a moment, his voice turned serious again. "Don't let it get to you, okay? Don't make it personal."

"Hey, you said I was the only guy in your department with the stomach for this. Have a little faith."

"I also know there's a heart in there," the captain continued, his voice turning kind. "That's why I need to remind you that some things might be out of your control."

"A few, maybe," Hudson said. "But most of them can and will be in my control. I'll be fighting tooth and nail for it."

"I don't doubt it. Good luck hunting," the captain wished him before cutting off the convo.

Hudson took the phone apart with calm hands. From now on, he'd use a different phone and completely assume his new identity, that of a shady photographer looking for young men willing to pose in racy getups for a market with particular tastes. Ever since they had learned about the seemingly new human trafficking ring operating in the area, and a few bodies had turned up, the captain and a handful of detectives had been hard at work to find a way to infiltrate it and catch the bastards who had such a lack of empathy for human life that they used young people for the sick entertainment of others, just for the sake of money.

He brushed one hand over his eyes. The captain was right when he asked him not to make it personal. Just seeing what had been done to those young men, how much they had endured before their lives were cut short, had filled him with the sort of cold rage that never died out completely. The captain had also been right to choose him for the job, because now he was like a bloodhound with the promise of prey etched in his brain. He wouldn't stop until he took down that ring of human traffickers and put the ones responsible behind bars for good.

He sat on the couch with his laptop on his knees. For the sake of seeming to be the real thing, he had set up a site, and it looked like he had a few messages already. That meant he was starting.

***

Otis followed the words on the screen with his finger. "Date more than one person at a time," he murmured and frowned in thought. He had trouble getting one date, and the first rule was that he needed to date more than one man? He'd installed all the dating apps, but after that, he had started removing one after another, as some pictures he had seen there were too intimidating to even look at them for a second time.

He continued his research while lying on his belly on the bed. The credenza had taken up some valuable space, but it was one of the few things he still had from his grandma, which meant that sacrificing a bit of space wasn't an impossible feat. "Be authentic," he continued to read. Now that was another difficult thing to do. Being authentic, in his case, made people nervous. Sometimes, it made them laugh, but it wasn't the nice kind of laugh, and Otis could tell they were laughing at him, not with him. His intelligence was at least average, and he knew how to recognize the signs.

He turned his phone with its face down and then closed his eyes, his head resting on his right arm. "Grandma, I do want someone to love, but it's hard," he said out loud, as he'd started to do since he had been left all alone in the world. "Dating is difficult in the twenty-first century. First, a machine has to find a match for you. I did swipe right, but I believe that I've ended up talking with all the bots on each app. Bots are like fake people," he explained, since his grandma had a hard time keeping up with technology.

Today, he didn't have a lot of things to report to her. After all, not much had happened… but that wasn't true. He turned on his back and linked his hands over his belly. "I brought home your credenza. It looks really nice in the corner. It lights up the room." There was no point in telling her that there was barely any space left for him to move around in because of it. The mirror was in the hallway, causing its own kind of trouble. But it had been her who had taught him that white lies were good at times, and he was just telling one of those now.

"Ah, and there was a very nice young man in the elevator who helped me," he said, excited to tell her about Hudson. Suddenly, his dejected mood improved. "He did not appear to enjoy being called a young man, although he didn't seem older than thirty to me. His name is Hudson, and he lives in 505, just a few doors away from me." He hesitated, but in this case, not saying anything meant that he would be lying about something important. "He has tattoos on both arms. They're really impressive. And he has what you would call a brusque manner at times. However, he helped me by carrying the credenza to my door. Also, his smile is beautiful, and he has a dimple on his right cheek… it's not symmetric at all, but it didn't look strange or anything." His grandma would scold him if he admitted how obsessed he was with symmetry in the human face, so he stopped there.

"I still have trouble getting a date. Besides talking to those fake people online, it seems that when I talk to others they also think that I'm a fake person, and then they want my phone number, and I don't want to give that to someone who assumes that I'm not real." He sighed at the end of his tirade. "I need someone to teach me how to date. I'm not capable of figuring it out myself, even with the information readily available on the Internet. It just doesn't work."

With that thought, he drifted off to sleep. He'd see about the mirror later. Now, he had several hours left until his shift started, and being well-rested was important for a good and healthy life, just as his grandma had taught him.

His sleep soon turned into a world of dreams, and Otis saw himself moving down a winding slope, only to realize that it was a green serpent that reminded him of the tattoos he'd seen on his neighbor's forearm. What a silly dream, he told himself as he was dreaming, but silly dreams could also be funny, so he didn't mind them at all.

***

He was busy wiping glasses and putting them back in their places, so he missed someone calling for him. Usually, when he was working, he was as good as invisible, and being that was a good thing. There was no one to make uncomfortable with his stares and strange appearance.

His manager, a man in his forties, with a big belly, eventually had to pat him on the shoulder to get his attention.

"Yes, Mr. Smith," he said dutifully. "How may I be of service?"

He hoped Mr. Smith didn't plan on firing him, because he needed each of the three part-time jobs he was keeping to pay the rent and for all of life's necessities. His grandma had taught him how to be content with little, but sometimes, it was hard, especially when he saw something he liked, such as tiny glass figurines.

"What would you say," Mr. Smith said slowly, as he usually did when talking to Otis, "if we send you out on the floor to wait on tables, too?"

Otis took his time to reply. That was the equivalent of a promotion, but did Mr. Smith understand that, maybe it wasn't a good idea to put him out in front of clients? "I am happy where I am, Mr. Smith," he said.

His manager sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "Jerry pulled a no-show on us tonight. Missy will show you what to do, and she'll be close all the time."

"Do you want me to start right now? For how long? Jerry will be back."

"Or not," Mr. Smith said with a shrug. "Look, Otis, you are very polite and you do each task well. I'm sure you will do fine. Missy is going to show you the ropes." He turned to leave but then looked at Otis again. "Just push that hair out of your eyes. It will strain your sight if you're not careful."

Otis didn't say a word and touched his hair protectively. Mr. Smith's demands were, sometimes, difficult. With reluctance, he brushed his hair back over his head. He would try not to stare at the customers too much so that they wouldn't be put off by his asymmetric eyes. And, hopefully, he wouldn't end up making a mess out of their orders.

***

"You know, you are a lot more helpful than that asshole Jerry," Missy, his colleague, said as they began wiping down the tables. "And, I have no idea if you swing that way, but the man at table three, you know, the one in the expensive suit, asked about you."

Otis didn't remember any man. He had kept his eyes averted at all times, intent on not staring and making customers uncomfortable. Mr. Smith ran a respectable restaurant, and Otis was happy to work there, because it paid the most of his three part-time jobs. However, as respectable as the restaurant was, it wasn't the kind to warrant the presence of someone in an expensive suit. "What did he ask?"

"If you've worked here long, if you're looking for something else, things like that. He might want to hire you."

"Hire me as what?" Otis asked, puzzled. What could men in expensive suits want with him? He only knew how to clean and perform menial tasks.

Missy looked at him and burst into laughter. She pinched Otis's cheek. "Arm candy, what else? Don't worry, I told him we're not that kind of place."

Arm candy was an odd term that described beautiful people who accompanied others who liked having such attractive individuals by their side for the sake of beautiful photos. So, Missy was joking. Also, she had said a truth; the restaurant didn't sell or rent arm candies.

"You are right," he told the woman politely. It wasn't nice of her to tease him, but she always seemed nice, and had a good hearty laugh, so Otis wouldn't hold a thing like that against her.

"I'm telling you, he didn't seem pleased," Missy continued while energetically wiping down one table. "And he left a measly tip if you can believe it. Cheapskate. Otis, I'm telling you. Stay away from assholes like that. They parade their clothes and car and bling just to get your attention, and then they ask you to go Dutch if you say that you aren't going to go down on them on the first date."

Missy had a considerable list of disastrous dates under her belt, so Otis knew that he couldn't go to her for advice. If anything, she appeared to struggle just as much as he did. However, she was considerably advanced in her efforts to try to get a date, since she didn't talk to bots on the Internet like him.

"What does an ideal date look like to you?" he asked, partially out of politeness and partially out of curiosity.

Missy laughed. She did that a lot. She sounded like a very happy person. Also, the huge red mane on her head made her stand out. Otis would be terrified to stand out so much. It didn't appear to bother her, however. "I suppose it would be one at the end of which the guy doesn't expect a blow job as payment for a tepid beer and a couple of burritos."

Otis felt his face getting hot. He knew the term blow job, as well. It meant oral sex, and it was the kind of thing that made him uncomfortable in a way that caused a terrible shame to creep in. He had watched some videos. They had been enough to convince him that it was a very pleasurable activity. However, it also seemed to be something undesirable. Missy, for instance, didn't want to do it, and, from what she was saying, offering a blow job would make her seem cheap, something she wasn't. Otis wanted to tell her that people didn't come with price tags, but he had learned to keep his mouth shut more often than not. Like his stares, whatever came out of it also made people laugh at him, or, at least, uncomfortable.

"What about you?" Missy suddenly asked, turning her attention to him.

He grabbed his hair and pulled it over his eye. Since Mr. Smith had gone home already, there was no need for him to protect his eyesight by exposing his asymmetric eyes to the world.

His silence didn't seem to please his coworker. Missy came near and, much to his dismay, brushed away his hair, sweeping it back. "Any girlfriend? Boyfriend?" she asked with a large smile.

"No boyfriend," he said quickly. "A girlfriend wouldn't suit me."

"Go figure. That guy's gaydar worked just fine. Too bad he was a cheap bastard," Missy commented. "Why no boyfriend?"

"I am actively looking." That was more of a grey lie. He was trying to be active in looking. So far, it hadn't worked.

"I see. What are you using? Grindr?" Otis shook his head. He must have looked horrified enough because Missy laughed. "Yeah, you don't look like the type. For a while, I thought you might be some religious nut, a cute one, but still. Your clothes are so prim and proper. However, it looks like they're not enough to keep the interested at bay." She winked at him, although Otis didn't know what she meant by that.

"I end up talking to fake people," Otis blurted out. He had meant to say 'bots', but that had been the first thing that had come to his mind.

"You're telling me?" Missy said with a snort. "The world is full of them."

So, he wasn't the only one who had that problem. That was a relief. "Do you happen to know anyone who offers dating advice?" he asked.

"I don't trust those bozos with their podcasts and whatnot," Missy said and tsked in disapproval. "The best way to get good advice is from someone real, someone you know, someone you can talk to, face to face. My girlfriends are also in the same boat as me, though. And my mom used to date in completely different times, so she's no use. My big sis is pregnant with her third. That's from her fourth beau, though. As you can see, dating experts are in short supply in my world."

Missy was right, once more. He needed to find someone with experience in the real world of dating, not read articles on the Internet. His mind took him to his new neighbor. Did he swing that way, as Missy put it? If he did, he looked like someone who'd have no trouble getting a date, Otis thought.

He continued wiping the table in front of him. It was worth keeping an eye on his neighbor. Just to see if he swung that way, at least.

TBC

Chapter 2

Ch. 2 – Research Is the Mother of Learning

Chapter Two – Research Is the Mother of Learning

That was the fifth in two days, Otis dutifully wrote in his notepad. Of course, there could be more since he wasn't there all the time to spy on his neighbor. Also, standing in the hallway and always pretending to be busy with inspecting the light fixtures for signs that they needed changing – although that wasn't something that fell within his responsibilities – was highly impractical. There was, as well, the matter of doing all this research on the downlow so that Hudson didn't start to suspect that he was the main subject in the scientific endeavor Otis was conducting at the moment. It was only a vague idea, but he believed that his new neighbor might not take being spied on lightly.

One thing Otis had noticed was the reasonable level of attractiveness in the young men frequenting Hudson's apartment. They seem to do fairly well in the muscle department and they wore tight clothes. Some had jewelry, such as ear studs, and some had tattoos. He was completely thorough in his evaluations and he wrote down all the aspects he considered important.

For instance, the average session for each date Hudson organized in his apartment was between half an hour and an hour. Briefly, Otis had thought that his neighbor might be running some sort of tattoo business in there, but that idea was quickly discarded. Peeking around the corner when the door to 505 opened to let the newcomer out, he had observed a certain degree of intimacy between Hudson and those young men. Supposedly, tattoo artists didn't send their customers on their way with pats on the butt. Even if Otis knew close to nothing about the habits of such people, he thought it sound to conclude that those young men were Hudson's dates.

Did Hudson have a Grindr account? The mere idea made it tempting to re-install the app and hunt for those sleeve tattoos; even if people there didn't always show their faces, opting for other body parts, Otis was confident he'd be able to identify his very handsome neighbor. However, that app wasn't for the faint of heart, which he was, and wading through a sea of naked bodies with all kinds of tags attached seemed like a perilous journey.

He pulled at the collar of his dress shirt. He was thinking of seeing his neighbor naked. It was, he convinced himself, nothing but an exercise in futility. That would never happen. He was basically the opposite of those attractive young men going in and out of Hudson's apartment.

Lost in thought as he was, he missed the door opening to 505. He pulled himself back around the corner, but it felt like one moment too late.

***

Hudson waited for a full minute for Otis to emerge from behind the corner. Didn't he realize that his shadow was giving him away? He had seen his neighbor from 508 sneaking around, armed with a notepad, and scurrying away the moment Hudson opened his door. That was odd; if Otis hadn't been so strange in his mannerisms, Hudson would've suspected that his movements were being followed, which wasn't a good thing, given the nature of his operation. Could it be only some strange curiosity? Or was it something else? His gut instinct lay dormant when it came to the attractive youth living a few doors away, but he couldn't discard the signs. Otis, as in Otis like the elevator, was – not so low-key – stalking him. Hudson was curious about what that notepad contained.

It wasn't like him to postpone making things clear. "You can come out," he said loudly. Since Otis didn't appear to understand that he was the one Hudson was talking to, he continued. "Come on. I can see your shoes."

Finally, Otis peeked from around the corner. "You cannot. The angle is not right. And I'm standing far back."

Hudson crossed his arms and gave the pretty fool a hard stare. "How about you pay me a neighborly visit right now?" He pushed the door to his apartment wide open.

"Right now?" Otis asked, seemingly oblivious that he had just been caught in the act. "I have work in an hour."

"I'll be mindful of that," Hudson assured him. "Come on."

Otis didn't appear in the least disturbed by having had his cover blown and walked toward Hudson, the notepad under his arm. Then, he made a small stiff bow before walking into the apartment.

Was that too much trust? The young men who had crossed his threshold over the last few days knew what they were getting into. Hudson felt an unpleasant knot tying itself up in his gut at how obliviously Otis walked in. If he were a bad man, he'd be pleased with having such easy prey walk right into his trap. He shook his head. Going through the case file day and night had clearly made his mind work in nasty ways. What they said was true, investigators had to be able to put themselves in the perpetrator's shoes to understand what motivated them, what made them act against other human beings. Whether or not that was healthy was a matter still up for debate.

He invited Otis into the small living room that served as his studio. There was a sofa, a camera set on a tripod, and other paraphernalia needed for his current line of business, lined up against the wall to the left and scattered on a table. Otis stopped for a moment, appeared to throw a quick look at the offending objects and then sat awkwardly on the sofa, only to get up a moment later, as if something had burned the seat of his pants.

"What?" Hudson asked gruffly. "I use a blanket when someone's over."

Otis blinked a few times and their eyes met. No, not their eyes. While Hudson used both of his to look at his visitor, Otis had his left eye covered, as seemed to be his habit. "There isn't a blanket now," he pointed out.

Hudson moved slowly and rested one hand on the camera. He swung his hips for a moment, while gauging the other's reactions. Otis appeared to follow his every move with curiosity… no, it was more than that. The only exposed eye showed hints of awe and fascination. It felt a tad strange to be looked at like that. As the type of man used to getting plenty of appreciative looks from members of both sexes, Hudson felt a bit thrown by that particular interest shining in Otis's startlingly beautiful eye. "Are you here for the same thing as the others?" he asked.

Otis looked at the camera, appeared to hesitate, and then shook his head. Hudson shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Why did he feel disappointed at that? Did he really expect his very prim and proper neighbor to walk in here and take off his clothes? That was crazy. "Why are you here?"

"You invited me for a neighborly visit," Otis replied promptly.

"Right," Hudson said dryly. This kid was too smart for his own good, it seemed. "Let me rephrase that." As he said the words, he walked over to his visitor, grabbed the notepad out of his hand and pushed him back to sit on the sofa. "It's clean, by the way. Why are you watching me?"

He moved back to a safe distance – safe for whom? – and began leafing through the scribbled pages. They were filled with timestamps and details about the guys who had visited him over the last few days. They weren't all there, but the precision with each of the visits had been jotted down was impressive. "Do you have a thing for tattoos?" He looked at Otis, who sat there, hands on his knees, his back straight, as if he were just about to be questioned by a teacher.

"I do not," Otis informed him.

"Who sent you?" Hudson asked and frowned in thought as his eyes glided over the next entries in Otis's strange stake-out book. This visitor must have put something in his pants, because they bulged quite uncomfortably in front. He looked as if he had stuffed a raccoon in there. Do they bring raccoons on dates now?

That must have been the guy who had come with his own chastity device in place. Now that had been an interesting photoshoot. No raccoon, unfortunately, Hudson thought and looked at Otis pointedly. "Has the raccoon got your tongue?" he asked, barely keeping in a smile.

"No," Otis replied and pursed his lips. Then, he inhaled deeply. He looked as if he was building up courage for whatever was next. "I want to ask you if you could help me and, if it wouldn't be that much of a bother, provide me with some dating advice."

"Dating what?" Hudson had considered that many different things, some of them undefined, could come out of Otis's pretty mouth, but not that.

"Advice," Otis shot the word out as if it was a toad he had almost swallowed by accident.

"And what makes you think you're going to get that here?" Hudson asked, now partially relieved that his cute neighbor was simply odd, and not someone sent to watch his every move. However, he didn't need that sort of complication, so he began to rip the pages from Otis's notebook and then tear them into pieces.

"That's not very nice. It doesn't belong to you," Otis scolded him.

"Maybe. But the things you wrote in here don't belong to you, either."

Otis appeared to ponder. Then, after some deliberation, he said, "That is true. I apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable by spying on you."

"So, you agree that you've been spying on me," Hudson said.

"Yes. But it was for research. And research is the mother of learning. I need to learn."

"What, exactly? My work schedule?"

Otis turned his head to look around, but only briefly. "What kind of work do you do, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I do mind. It's nothing kids like you should know about," Hudson said. The little neighborly visit was over, and he could safely send Otis back to his apartment.

"I am not a kid," Otis said, carefully enunciating every word. "I am twenty-two years old."

"Yeah, you mentioned that. Come on, let me see you out." Hudson gestured for Otis to get up.

Otis did, but not without reluctance. "What about the advice?"

"Look somewhere else, kid."

Before Otis had a chance to protest again at being called that, Hudson took him by the arm, not too firmly, as his cute neighbor seemed like the kind to get startled easily. They were almost at the door when an energetic knock came.

Hudson pushed Otis back a little and looked through the peephole. He wasn't expecting anyone at that particular hour, and the guy standing at his door didn't appear a good fit for the job, either. Without looking behind him, he stretched out a hand. "You, back in there," he advised and opened the door.

The new visitor was somewhere north of forty, with thinning black hair, brushed back. His face was bony, and his eyes were cold. He wore a long coat, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Yeah?" Hudson asked.

"Mr. Vegas," the man said, without actually asking, "it looks like you're running a business. Do you mind if I come in?"

Hudson barely had time to step aside. He looked down the hallway briefly. The presence of the two goons by the elevator didn't surprise him. Then, he turned, and froze when he saw the dangerous newcomer facing Otis, who was staring back, with all that candor that seemed to be him.

Quickly, Hudson moved between them. He pushed Otis into the small kitchenette that was, thankfully, separated by a door. "Darling, how about you go make me a sandwich?" he drawled. Then, as he turned toward his new visitor, he continued, "How can I help you, Mr.--"

"Watkins," the man replied. "Who was that? One of your… models?"

"No," Hudson replied, feeling his hackles rising. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Too bad. He's got a good face."

"He's not made for business," Hudson said quickly. "Now, what can I help you with, Mr. Watkins?" He made no move to invite the other to sit. Part of his cover was being an insolent prick, as well as being a guy who seemed to lack basic awareness of what kind of dangerous situation he was getting himself into.

"Yes, you're right," the man said. "You can help me. Greatly." He produced a business card from an inside chest pocket with a gloved hand. "I presume boys with the ambition of becoming part of the entertainment industry often come knocking on your door. I've seen some of your body of work on that website of yours. I'd say you have a good eye. How about you send such boys to me? I have even more venues to offer. And I bet they can use the money."

"I see. Any particular type of young man you're looking for?" Hudson didn't like the way Watkins's eyes moved to the door of the kitchenette. "He's not for sale," he said pointedly.

Watkins looked at him with a sly smile. "Everything is, usually. For the right price. But I'm not here to step on your turf, Mr. Vegas. Do you understand?"

Oh, he understood all right. That was a warning. "Yes, of course. You still haven't answered my question. What's your pleasure? Blonds, redheads?"

"Desperate," Watkins said from the tip of his lips.

"I see," Hudson said slowly. Could it be that he was lucky enough to have one of the men running the human trafficking ring knocking on his door so soon? His eyes moved toward the narrow door leading to the kitchenette. Not so lucky, though. The timing was horrible.

***

Otis felt rightfully annoyed, he believed. What was with that sudden demand for a sandwich? He wasn't there to make sandwiches, and he wasn't a darling to Hudson, either. He meditated briefly. Maybe his neighbor was demanding some sort of payment for dating advice. That had to be it. Then, making a sandwich wasn't that big a deal. The darling matter, however, was not that clear.

He slowly inspected the small space, until his eyes fell on the small refrigerator in the corner. He opened it and stared inside. A lot of beer. Pursing his lips, Otis took one bottle out and looked at the label. With a shrug, he placed it on the counter and proceeded to continue his investigations. He had been caught in the act so easily. Never before had he felt so inadequate. That wasn't true. He almost always felt inadequate in his interactions with other human beings.

He missed his grandma so much. She understood him. And now, under such duress, she'd know what to do. Otis identified a small egg, forlorn in a case for a dozen, and picked it up. He then placed it carefully next to the beer bottle. He had to look inside the cupboards, too, and after much searching he came up with one slice of bread, which he sniffed for any signs that it had gone bad. With great pains, he found some bacon behind the beer bottles.

It looked like there was barely anything else. Disconcerted, he took another long look at his meager findings. Hudson had a very unhealthy lifestyle, but it wasn't Otis's responsibility to correct that. However, he had been asked to perform a task, and maybe it would be considered payment for at least one piece of advice on dating rules.

He opened the microwave on the counter, glad to have found at least one appliance in that poorly appointed kitchen. It wasn't very different than his, but he had a breakfast maker machine that could toast the bread, fry the egg, melt the cheese, and then serve everything in a round shape Otis liked a lot. Hudson didn't look like he had anything like that in there.

He put the bacon on a plate and then broke the egg, separating it from the shell with extreme care. He punctured the yolk a couple of times with the tip of a knife he had found in one of the drawers. Then, he placed everything inside the microwave, and stared intently. His grandma had taught him a lot of tricks, how long to let the microwave do its job and all that. Pleased with the result, he assembled everything on the slice of bread. It wasn't much of a sandwich, but that wasn't his fault. Next time, he'd recommend that Hudson let him go to his place and bring back some food, or even use his breakfast maker to prepare some proper sandwiches.

After a short moment of deliberation, he opened the beer bottle. Hudson hadn't mentioned it, but maybe he liked a drink with his sandwich. Just as he was admiring his handiwork, thinking that he hadn't done a half-bad job, the door opened, and Hudson walked in with a displeased look on his face.

There was so little space in that room, that they were now standing close, so close that Otis had to tip his head back. Since he didn't have enough room to move, he made an awkward gesture toward the sandwich on the counter.

"What is that?" Hudson asked. He seemed in a bad mood. Otis knew a few things about bad moods. Some people would say he knew a lot, not just a few.

However, now it was important to insist if he wanted to learn at least some introductory details about dating. "It's the sandwich you asked for. You know, you could ask more nicely when you want people to do things for you. And your refrigerator doesn't have food. I mean, this is all I could find. And beer."

Hudson groaned and ran one hand over his face. "Jesus, kid. Did I get myself a wife or something? This visit's over. Beat it."

Otis was nonplussed for a moment. Was the sandwich he made that bad? Hudson hadn't even tasted it. "No, it's not," he said stubbornly. "You must say thank you." That was what his grandma had taught him a long time ago. When someone did something for you, you thanked them, even if you weren't necessarily happy with it.

Hudson seemed about to relent for a moment, but then he quickly grabbed Otis by the scruff of his neck and proceeded to escort him out of the room. All his efforts from the past few days were going down the drain before his very eyes. Otis dug his heels in once they reached the hallway. "I'm not leaving before you give me some dating advice."

"Right." Hudson finally let go of him. "Here it is. Consider it a freebie. Don't knock on the wrong door."

Otis dutifully took out his phone. His notebook was back there, and he didn't dare go get it.

"Are you kidding me? You're writing it down?"

"So that I don't forget," he explained. "And I'm still waiting for that thank you."

"Fuck me," Hudson groaned. "All right, have it your way. Thank you for the sandwich. We cool now?"

"No," Otis said stubbornly. "I can tell you don't really mean it."

Hudson grabbed him by the back of his neck again and turned him toward the door. "Don't let that door hit you in the ass, 'kay?"

"That's not very nice," Otis insisted.

"Don't press your luck," Hudson growled, but he wasn't scary or anything. "Goodbye, kid. Stop spying on me."

Otis stared at the closed door that had just been slammed in his face for a bit. That hadn't gone too well, but things weren't that terrible either. Somehow, he felt that he could press his luck with his neighbor. Grandma wouldn't agree, most probably. She'd frown at Otis's insistence, which was a sign of bad upbringing, but he felt courageous today.

Don't knock on the wrong door. Yes, it was a good piece of advice. Otis believed that it was Hudson's way of saying that he shouldn't go for men that weren't right for him, seeing how he hadn't actually knocked on any door, let alone the one to his neighbor's apartment. He didn't plan to opt for men who weren't right for him. Even better, that little piece of advice from Hudson also helped remove a heavy rock from his chest. Now, he had the confirmation that Grindr wasn't the right app for him.

***

Hudson entered the kitchenette in a state of annoyance mixed with alarm. He had been unreasonably hard on the kid, but it was for his own good. Watkins, if that was the man's real name, had instantly took to Otis, smelling blood in the water like the fucking shark he was. Even without having a nosy neighbor getting up to no good, the present situation was bound to become dangerous sooner rather than later. Hopefully, Watkins got the message that the pretty airhead he had happened to meet there was off-limits. And, although that was where Hudson nurtured many fewer hopes, Otis also understood that it wasn't a good idea to stick his nose into other people's business.

Absentmindedly, he took the sandwich from the table and began eating. The yolk dripped over his fingers. "Fuck," he groaned, and then realization hit him. It was a damn good sandwich. He only needed to be careful not to get yolk all over himself.

So, Otis from 508, Otis like the elevator, Otis who was – only heaven knew why – in terrible need of dating advice, that Otis also knew how to make a sandwich. Hudson shrugged. The chances were Watkins wouldn't come sniffing around too often. A man who needed two goons to guard his ass didn't prefer visiting dingy apartments all the time. That was a man who wasn't exactly at the top of the food chain, but obviously had ambition. This little meeting had been a means to impress Hudson – Mr. Vegas, as his undercover nickname indicated – by catching him with his pants down, so to speak. It looked like Watkins appreciated a business partner that would cause no trouble.

However, trouble was exactly what he had in mind to cause certain people. The game was afoot. There was just a little pinprick that made him itchy, and it had a name. Hudson shrugged again. He was reading too much into everything. However, he'd keep an eye on his nosy neighbor, one of the reasons being that he wanted very much to see that other eye.

***

Confusion was natural, Otis thought as he joined Missy at waiting tables on the floor, promoted as he seemed to be to that role since Jerry had chosen to be a no-show for good. Mr. Smith had promised him a raise, too, and that was a good reason to be happy and dedicate himself to waiting the tables. He enjoyed doing his job competently, but it was getting difficult with him thinking of his handsome neighbor all the time. There was also the matter of that ugly man who visited Hudson that day. Otis scolded himself; it wasn't nice to call other people ugly. It was only how the man had looked at him, with the sort of curiosity one would have toward an animal, that had made Otis think of him as repulsive.

Missy woke him from his conflicting musings by nudging his elbow. "That man is here again," she whispered.

"What man?" Otis asked. Did she mean the ugly man visiting Hudson that time? But, how could she—He was being silly again. She meant someone completely different.

Missy moved even closer. She was so short that even with someone like him, she had to push herself up on her toes to reach his ear. "Don't look. It's the guy in that well-cut suit at table three. It looks like he likes that table. And you."

Otis tried to look in the direction indicated, but Missy hissed at him again. "Don't look."

"How can I look at him without looking?"

Missy pushed a menu into his hands. "He just asked for you. I would've flipped him off, but our dear boss doesn't exactly take well to what he calls my antics. Now, go. Whatever he offers, say 'no'."

"He'll ask for food. I can't tell him 'no'," Otis replied, feeling more confused than before.

Missy rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

No, he didn't. But, armed with the menu, he walked toward table three with what he hoped was a deferential smile, and not the kind that freaked people out.

***

The customer at table three was alone. He wore, indeed, what looked like a well-cut suit, as Missy had put it, in the sense that it draped well on his body. Unlike Otis, he had a reasonable meat percentage to show off, and the suit jacket stretched across his shoulders as it should. He had dark hair that looked greasy in the restaurant light; he probably used some hair product, Otis decided. It was too shiny to be just dirty. Especially, since the rest of the man appeared to be clean.

"Good evening, sir," he said quietly.

The man, who had been absorbed in something on his phone, raised his eyes and smiled when he saw him. He looked younger than Otis had thought while eyeing him from afar. He moved his arms in wide gestures, as he put his phone down and then accepted the menu from Otis's hands.

"Hi there, pretty eyes." He began leafing through the menu with one hand while he touched his tie pin with the other. It was silver and drew attention to itself by being in contrast with the black tie. Everything the man wore was black, including his dress shirt. Except for that pin.

After what felt like no longer than a minute, the customer handed Otis back the menu and ordered with something akin to affectation. Otis knew that word because it could be mistaken with affection. The affectation in this case came with ordering the most expensive things on the menu, not that they had a lot of those. "I will have to ask the cook," he said. "It might take a bit."

"That's all right," the man said joyously. He had a boyish face when he smiled. Although the well-cut suit suited him well, when he smiled like that, he looked like a boy stealing his older brother's clothes so that he could pretend to be someone else. "I can wait if you keep me company."

"I can't," Otis said curtly. "I have other customers."

According to Missy, this young man wanted him as his arm candy. That could mean exactly that, or it could mean that the customer in front of him was interested in getting a date. Since it appeared that he wasn't right for Otis, being so young and wearing his older brother's clothes, the best course of action was to follow the advice offered by Hudson.

"What other customers?"

It was a slow night, and there were only a couple of other tables occupied. Missy was on the job. Therefore, his lie, as white as he intended it to be, didn't hold water. The correct thing to do was to let him down gently, either he was interested in some strange sort of arm candy, or a date.

"I will be right back," he said, nodding shortly.

"Don't take long," the customer called out after him.

The cook, after mumbling something about wannabes and crooks, most of which Otis didn't understand, agreed to prepare the meal the young man wanted. Without any reason to linger in the kitchen, Otis returned to table three.

The smile from before grew wider on the young man's face. "I'm Jackie," he said, but without offering his hand like Hudson had. "And you are," he pretended to squint while reading Otis's tag, "Otis. It's a pretty name."

"Thank you. Yours is pretty, as well," Otis replied dutifully.

"Come on. Sit down," Jackie offered.

"I can't. It's against the rules," Otis said and stiffened.

Jackie grinned, rubbed his chin in thought, and then stared at him. His green eyes were like those of a kid, too, round and pretty. They widened and moved, and they were very expressive. And his eyelashes were very curly, Otis noticed. Was that how Hudson saw him that caused him to call him a kid?

"I have a feeling that you don't like me too much, Otis."

"That is not true. I like all our customers the same."

Jackie laughed, and he didn't seem like he was laughing at Otis, as people usually did. "Ah, straight through the heart, huh?"

"I don't understand what you mean," Otis replied, and he was being very sincere. What was happening to him while looking at this young man who seemed interested in him was very strange. A few days before, he would have felt happy about it. There was finally someone interested in him. Could it be that he was starting to become arrogant because he was waiting tables now and was no longer comfortably hiding in the back?

Or was it something else entirely?

"What I mean," Jackie said and leaned back, hands behind his head, "is that, for some reason, my usual charm doesn't seem to be working on you."

Otis let his eyes linger over the taut body underneath the well-cut suit. It had to be a wonderful body, judging by what he could see of it. However, he needed to make it blatantly clear, because leading people on was not right. "I'm sorry. It is not your fault. You're too young for me."

Jackie gave him a startled look. "For real? If I wasn't sure they don't hire underage people in this place, I'd say you were like sixteen or so."

"I am twenty-two," Otis replied, slightly aggravated now. He didn't look that young. He was sure of it.

"And I am twenty-six," Jackie said, sounding and looking quite exasperated. "Who are you calling young?"

They must have started talking too heatedly, because Missy appeared by their side. "Otis, you may go. I know you wanted to leave early. I'll take over. Good evening, sir," she said in a sugary tone, addressing Jackie. "So happy to see you here again."

Otis didn't wait to listen to any more. He gave a formal farewell and disappeared. He must have looked that young to Hudson, too. No wonder the man called him a kid. And that wasn't good.

TBC

Chapter 3

Ch. 3 – Serious Business

Chapter Three – Serious Business

The merchandising opportunity had fallen through. Not that it had been that much of an opportunity, Otis thought as he began calculating his ins and outs, seeing how the people who were supposed to give him work rarely called him. One of them had commented on his looking like he couldn't lift a box if his life depended on it, and that had hurt because it wasn't true. Maybe he wasn't fit for heavy lifting, but surely he could lift a box. Or even two.

That left him with his part-time job at the restaurant and the dog-walking business. Otis liked the sound of that. Dog-walking business. It meant that it was justifiable to take it seriously, and Otis found himself a lot more at ease in the company of Fidos and Buddies than in that of humans. He was so lucky that Mr. Smith had promoted him to waiting tables. It was enough to make ends meet already, and Missy had also assured him that he'd start raking in more than decent tips. So far, he had gotten a few, but he had only been in his new position for a few days. It felt rather good, and he silently thanked his grandma for teaching him good manners. So far, from what he could gather, he had gotten the biggest tips from his elderly customers. Just like his grandma, they appreciated a young man who knew how to behave without being rowdy or obnoxious like so many youths today (as grandma used to say), and that Otis could understand.

Well, it wasn't only the elderly part of their customer base leaving him tips. There was also Jackie. The boyish customer in the well-cut suit appeared relentless in his pursuit of arm candy, although it left Otis feeling rather odd. Maybe Jackie was the kind who liked unusual things and unusual people. Definitely, since he was frequenting a restaurant that appeared to cater more to people of a certain age, that was a bit odd about him. That evening, when he and Otis had talked for the first time, Jackie had left Missy a generous tip, but only after having her promise that she would share it with Otis. And then, the following day, he had appeared again and, while Missy refused to send Otis over to take his order, he hadn't gotten mad and had just looked at him from afar. The glances Jackie threw his way, while indulging in his expensive food, made Otis go through the stages of an unknown illness. At times, he felt hot all over and, at others, he sensed a cold gripping him as he started to sweat.

Jackie left good tips, according to Missy. In Mr. Smith's book, he was a good customer. Missy had started to mellow toward him, as well. She had laughed at something he said at least once, and Otis had noticed that it was her pleasant, good-natured one, not a fake one. That meant that she was beginning to like Jackie, at least a little.

In the meantime, Otis had struggled to keep clear of his handsome neighbor. After all, the last conversation they had, things hadn't gone down too well. Otis had managed to snatch one piece of advice from Hudson, but it now looked like an appetizing morsel that left him wanting more. One way or another, he had to find a way to apologize properly for spying on his neighbor – it had the be the spying that had made things sour so fast – and then make a new attempt at obtaining new advice from someone as accomplished in the dating sphere as Hudson appeared to be.

Only those young men didn't appear to be there to date Otis's neighbor. Hudson had mentioned his work… but he hadn't cared to disclose what that was all about. There had been a camera, and some objects hanging on a wall… Otis closed his eyes and tapped the pen against his lips as he struggled to remember. He recalled something that looked like a leash, and another object that appeared to be a muzzle meant for dogs. And the camera, of course. However, none of those frequenting Hudson's apartment appeared to be pet owners. That left Otis more puzzled than ever. There had to be something else. Without a moment's hesitation, he began searching for other uses of muzzles and leashes on the Internet. And it only took him a few quite interesting answers from the bots roaming the vast virtual world to make him close the browser and turn his phone with its face down.

Was Hudson into that sort of thing? Otis shuddered as his mind wandered. Just imagining himself wearing a leash and coming to rest his chin on Hudson's knee, his tongue lolling out, waiting for a treat, made his entire body tremble in the most impossible ways. He lay on his back, and placed both hands on his belly, waiting for the trembling to fade. Before, he had thought that his neighbor was out of his league, looks-wise and everything, but now, he had confirmation that was true. He would never be able to assume the kind of alternative lifestyle the Internet had just explained to him, where leashes and muzzles were not used on pets.

It would be better if he didn't think about his neighbor so much. Otis decided that he would do everything tonight not to think of Hudson at all. His brain needed a breather, obviously, because all night he dreamed about tattooed arms closing around him and impossible heat scorching his skin.

***

"How did you get those?" Hudson questioned as he took the young man's hands in his and turned them slowly. The chafing was bad. There were scars and scabs there, which meant that whoever had done that to him hadn't cared about letting him heal. Or was it a sign that his latest model preferred to torture himself?

"You know," the reply came. "The usual way." He drawled the words while wedging his knee between Hudson's legs and looking up.

"Oh, yeah? And what's that?" Hudson continued while taking in the marks on the thin wrists and making mental notes about the human being in front of him.

He was nineteen, he called himself Jasper – which Hudson suspected to be a fake name – and he looked like someone whose innocence had been robbed from him some time ago. His washed out looks – blond hair, pale skin, eyes of such a light blue they looked watery – didn't make him stand out as far as appearance went, but the languid way he carried himself sent the right message. He was available and willing.

"Can I blow you?" Jasper, most probably fake Jasper, whispered and freed his hands to palm Hudson's crotch.

"No need for that," Hudson said, moving away. He should ask his captain for a serious bonus after this; he hadn't had a proper erection in days. The pictures from the case file were haunting his dreams. And he had thought himself tough, capable of stomaching most anything. This time, it looked like there was a piece of him waiting to be snatched by the darkness of that world.

"I won't ask for extra," Jasper whined. "You're paying well."

Hudson ignored him and took his seat on a chair behind the camera. "It might come as a surprise to you," he said, crossing one leg over the other at the ankle, "but I don't fuck my models."

"Are you sure you're in the right business, man?" Jasper asked, trying to hide how hurt he was that his overture had met such a blunt refusal. "I mean, all the guys into this stuff," he gestured vaguely at the walls, "fuck. Don't tell me you don't have a working wiener or something weird like that."

Wiener. That was the type of thing a kid would say. Hudson consistently asked his models for their IDs, but he had seen so many fake ones so far that it had turned mostly meaningless. In the case of the age-ambiguous fellow in front of him, he had every reason to believe that he was dealing with a runaway. The accusation, however, stung more than it should. Hudson had no issues with his equipment, ever. Now, it looked like he was going through some old-age crisis, and he was several good decades too early for that.

"I happen to have all I need at home." As he said the words, the flash of a singular blue eye, its iris rimmed with black, crossed his mind.

"Oh, really? What is he like?" Jasper asked and crossed his arms.

"What other kind of work do you do?" Hudson asked abruptly. Just thinking of Otis in front of this messed-up youth made him feel dirty. And why was he thinking of his neighbor as if he was the imaginary boyfriend? He needed to get out more, probably, he thought with grim humor.

"I can do everything," Jasper bragged, opening his arms wide. "I hustled on the way here, you know."

"Anything since you got here?" Hudson asked. "Has anyone approached you with some proper offer?"

Jasper took his interest as something else. He offered a toothy smile that must have looked cute in his mind. It only made Hudson pity the young man more. "You know you can have me all for yourself, daddy."

Hudson could only do this much not to roll his eyes. He had just turned thirty. But probably, for young men like the one he was looking at now, he looked old enough to be called that. Would he look the same to Otis? Would he think the same type of stupid shit? No, Otis, despite his oddities, appeared to have an unusual kind of intelligence.

And he was doing it again, letting his mind wander to his strange, beautiful neighbor while he had a job to do, and one that required all his attention and everything he had, his soul included. "You're into daddies?" he asked, forcing himself to smile. "What kind?"

Jasper seemed to understand that Hudson's interest was only professional, so he straightened his back. "The kind that pays, you know?"

"I see. And have you found some lucrative business so far?"

Jasper narrowed his eyes. "You think I'm lame. You think I can't find men to pay for my ass and mouth. That's why you're asking."

"Yeah, that's why I'm asking," Hudson said in a level tone, forcing his smile into a smirk.

Jasper huffed in annoyance. "I'll have you know that I'm already working."

"Oh, yeah, where?"

There was only a short moment of hesitation, and Hudson grinned more, showing his teeth. Jasper relented. "The Bouncing Bunny. I suppose a family man like you doesn't go there. But it's got class," he argued, as if he was being contradicted in some way. "And customers pay big bucks to have us boys all to themselves."

All right. That was one trashy venue to look into then. He wasn't crazy to send anyone to Watkins, not unless he found someone he hoped would infiltrate that organization successfully and that he could control from afar. And, while Jasper fit the bill, with his lost innocence and wan smile, and the desperation shining in his eyes, he wouldn't send him to the chopping block, either.

However, Watkins was bound for a little visit. Hudson was curious about what was on offer. "The Bouncing Bunny, huh? I might try it out," he said.

That appeared to confuse Jasper. "But I'm right here. You don't think that there are prettier boys than me there, do you?"

"And if I do? You said the place's got class," Hudson mirrored his words from earlier. He was cruel on purpose.

Blotches of red appeared on the pale skin. "You're an asshole. I'm not going to do anything for you." He got up and grabbed his jacket.

All for the better. Hudson didn't care too much about his current fake job. He had selected several sets of pics so far to update the site and make it look like an alive and well-to-do place, but he didn't want to have possibly underage strays undressing for him and his camera. That also meant that The Bouncing Bunny was going to get a new prospecting customer and soon. If all the boys there looked as young as Jasper, he had a little tip to offer to the right department. However, he needed to see if The Bouncing Bunny was part of the human trafficking ring or not.

***

It hadn't worked at all, Otis thought grimly as he walked back home. The restaurant wasn't very far from his apartment building, and he liked the exercise, regardless of the weather. He had tried to think less of Hudson, but quite the opposite had happened. It hadn't helped that Jackie hadn't been there tonight, as usual, to serve as a distraction. It baffled Otis to the extreme that so much of his mental space was inhabited by his neighbor. Maybe it was all because he had unfinished business with the man. In life, one needed to have guts; he had read that exact thing somewhere, but he didn't recall where. And this type of situation required guts.

He would knock on his neighbor's door tonight. He would apologize again for the spying, and then he would offer payment for the dating advice he needed. Was Hudson expensive? As someone who had just come into a little bit of money, Otis thought it right to provide himself with a little extravagance. Of course, there was the matter of not exactly knowing his neighbor's rates when it came to that kind of thing, but maybe they could work something out, like business partners. Yeah, that sounded about right.

And, before he lost all his courage, he decided to do it right now. As grandma used to say, no moment like the present, and there was also that nice quote she used about the present being a gift. That was a gift Otis was planning on putting to good use tonight.

He decided to take the stairs instead of the elevator, and by the time he reached the landing on the fifth floor, he was already breathless. However, the restless energy that had propelled him into action was now a bit subdued, so that he could control his thought-mouth coordination when talking to Hudson.

He paced the landing a few times, determined to get his breathing under control before doing what he was there for. Once he decided he no longer sounded like he had run a marathon, he stepped in front of 505 and knocked. There was a chance that Hudson wasn't home, and that would be a tad disappointing, especially since he worried that his newfound courage might deprecate before he got the chance to try again.

He was still lost in thought when the door opened in front of him. Hudson was there, right in front of him, and the way he looked rendered Otis speechless. He wasn't wearing a shirt and that left his chest bare. The beautifully shaped pectorals made Otis's mouth go dry and, to escape them, he moved his eyes lower, over the well-defined abdomen, only to have them come to rest on two symmetrical tattoos engraved over the external oblique muscles. They represented some sort of gun, the barrels pointing at the V the lower abs were making at a slanted angle. Otis felt a new kind of terror flaring inside his mind. He couldn't tear his eyes away. They were glued there, while his mind was supplementing the details that were still hidden to the naked eye by low-cut blue jeans, hanging over sexy hips.

"You have more tattoos," he whispered.

Hudson sighed, like it pained him even to talk to Otis. "Are you here for an inventory of my tattoos? And my eyes are up here."

Otis finally managed to unglue his eyes from the sight of those gun tattoos and looked Hudson in the face. "Do you need an inventory of your tattoos? I wouldn't mind."

Hudson laughed and crossed his arms, leaning against the door jamb. "Why are you here, Otis?"

"Right." Otis reached into his pocket and took out the tip money he had collected over the last few days. "As you can see, I have come into a little bit of money. Now, I can pay."

Hudson blinked once and then frowned, although the corners of his lips curled upward, a clear sign that he couldn't be mad. "For what?"

"Dating advice."

***

Hudson had been killing time before the opening of The Bouncing Bunny, and the last thing he'd been expecting was to see his nosy neighbor at his door. And now, Otis was there, handing him a few neatly folded bills with both hands and leaning forward, like a Japanese businessman offering his card. This wasn't a good time. In one hour, he'd be out the door, heading over to a shady venue that probably exploited youths who didn't have anywhere to go or were unable to fend for themselves, young men who sold their bodies like they were nothing. And now, he had this young man standing there, so unlike all the men that had visited his apartment over the last few days.

It wasn't a good idea to have Otis over. No, not a good idea at all. However, some of the weariness that had been growing in him since he had taken over the case seemed to lift the moment his eyes met that singular amazing blue eye. Without thinking twice, he moved out of the door and gestured for Otis to follow. "Come on in, then."

Otis moved past him and Hudson closed the door behind them, not before looking – force of habit – up and down the corridor for any sign of suspicious strangers.

"So, what do you want to know?" he asked.

Otis sat gingerly on the sofa, but only after Hudson insisted. "About dating. I can pay." He was still holding out the neatly folded bills.

"Put that back in your pocket. I'm not charging for this. But, first of all, let me get this clear. What makes you think I could give you dating advice?"

"You date a lot," Otis pointed out, as if it were some obvious fact that Hudson wasn't aware of.

He actually dated very little. Ever since making detective, he hadn't paid much attention to dating anyone. Hooking up, yeah, he did that, but getting involved with someone? That hadn't been in the cards for a long time.

"What exactly makes you think that?" Hudson was standing, but at a fair distance, so as not to startle the strange, beautiful creature sitting on his sofa. However, it appeared that even so his mere presence was tangling up Otis's speech. The words coming out of the pretty mouth that made him think that a term like Cupid's bow was aptly applied were a stuttered mess.

It didn't take a genius to realize that Otis was ogling him. He was trying not to, but the way he bit his bottom lip, turning his eyes away only to move them back was so endearing that Hudson felt something akin to a wave of pleasant sensations moving through his chest.

"You are comfortable with other men," Otis finally explained.

"And you're not?" Hudson asked and moved closer, drawn to the pretty man in front of him.

Otis shook his head slowly, while his only visible eye remained glued to Hudson.

Hudson smiled and put one hand on Otis's head, running his fingers through the silky hair, marveling at the strange contrast between the dark roots and the rest of it. Otis stared at him, his lips parted, moist and inviting. What would it take to have him? Hudson wondered. What would it take to scare him off, as he should?

The fascinating blue eye blinked slowly, so slowly that it seemed unnatural. Hudson felt enthralled beyond reasonable thought. He tipped Otis's chin, caressing it and then leaned over. He closed his eyes as he brushed his lips against the soft mouth waiting for him. There was no resistance, just a sort of startled passivity. Hudson waited against himself to be pushed away, but, when nothing happened, he moved his tongue to taste the pretty lips properly. A small soft moan escaped Otis's mouth, and Hudson took it as an invitation. He cupped the blond head with one hand to help himself into that maddening kiss.

Otis tasted amazing. Hudson wanted more—

He almost stumbled and fell on his ass when he was pushed away. Otis rushed out of the room and then the front door opened and slammed shut, while hurried steps faded away.

He looked around, a bit startled and confused. What on earth was he doing, flirting with his neighbor? Then, he winced as he felt the not-so-familiar-lately straining in his pants. He grabbed his crotch and groaned. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he asked, his words bouncing back to him in the empty apartment.

For days, he had looked at attractive men in all kinds of sexy outfits and getups, or wearing nothing at all, and his dick had remained as limp as if it served no particular purpose but hanging around like an old wino at a seedy bar. And now? It was up and about only from a mostly innocent kiss.

Hudson increased the grip on his erection until the itch went away. He had work to do; getting hard over his pretty neighbor was not part of it.

***

Otis clenched his hand into a fist over his chest. His heart was hammering. He was sweating so much that his shirt clung to his back, and his cheeks were burning in shame. What had just happened? Why? His brain struggled within the confines of his skull, searching for a way out. Was that what a real kiss felt like? And people weren't instantly dying or combusting from them? How was it possible?

Without actually doing any thinking, he began undressing, decided that he needed a cold shower. His entire body was burning. He stepped under the spray and gasped when he felt the water on his skin. The shock alone helped him focus a little. He put both hands on the wall and stayed there.

Hudson, his neighbor – what was his last name? – had just kissed him. Otis touched his lips briefly. There was nothing left there, but Otis couldn't shake off the overwhelming sensations washing over him, not entirely. He let his forehead rest on the cool tile wall and took deep breaths.

His very handsome, very sexy neighbor, had kissed him. Did he kiss all the men coming into his apartment? What kind of work did he do, again? Otis squeezed his eyes shut, but it wasn't helping. His imagination worked in unbecoming ways. Otis pressed between his legs; his neighbor made him have sex thoughts, strange thoughts that involved him spread naked on the man's sofa, wearing nothing except for maybe one of those leashes on the wall. Hudson would bring a hand to caress his back slowly until he reached lower.

That was just as far as he could go. Otis was only dimly aware of his breathing growing ragged, harsher, as the tension in his body gave in. The cold water carried everything away, even the signs of that shameful release. He shuddered, his eyes still close. Hudson should never know that he had been thinking of him like that. It was wrong; Otis knew it, and yet, he couldn't bring himself to feel bad about it. His body trembled for a while, first from the slowly fading eddies of pleasure, and then from how cold he felt.

He turned off the water and walked back into the room, using a towel to dry his hair and rub it against his skin. He needed to be careful about not catching cold, especially now that he had just gotten a promotion at work.

That had been a kiss, he thought, as he lay on the bed, his arms spread out to his sides, his eyes on the ceiling. "Grandma, someone kissed me today," he whispered, as his cheeks began to burn. Of course, he wouldn't tell her about what that kiss did to him, but he could tell her something else. "It was like nothing I've ever felt in my life. It was amazing."

***

Finding The Bouncing Bunny hadn't been an easy feat. The place wasn't listed anywhere, Internet research hadn't produced much, and if those weren't signs that something was very wrong about the place, Hudson didn't know what else it could be. However, his street smarts didn't let him down. He knew how he looked, with his tattoos and rough appearance. He had led a different kind of life before becoming a detective, running wild, doing whatever he believed would make him feel free until, quite soon, he had come to the realization that so-called freedom was overrated.

Asking here and there as he walked through rundown neighborhoods finally brought him to the front of what looked like a door leading into a cave. It was quite apropos; shady dealings weren't meant for sunlight. He entered without being challenged by anyone, but once he was inside a heavyset man on the north side of two hundred and fifty pounds put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, pal."

Hudson took in the long stage that was probably meant for some type of striptease entertainment. There was no one dancing in skimpy clothes on the elevated dais at the moment. There were very few clients, too, and they were all nursing drinks.

He waited for a moment to reply to the brute palming his shoulder just enough to prove that he was someone people didn't usually mess with. "Hi," he said and turned his head to face the man. "I've heard good things about this place," he added. "Although it looks kind of empty."

"You here for boys?" the brute asked.

Straight to the point. Hudson nodded.

"They don't happen until later. Go to the bar. Drink."

What a pleasant welcome, Hudson thought dryly and obeyed. This kind of place was probably concealing its usual source of income by providing outrageously expensive drinks to the patrons. He took a place at one of the tables around the stage and waited as his eyes began scanning his surroundings.

***

A couple of hours later, and what would count as an enormous expense as far as drinks went – Hudson had chosen the path of moderation while trying not to come across as frugal – the show started rolling in front of his eyes. The boys, because they could hardly be called men, presented themselves with languid moves that appeared to whet the appetite of those watching at a snail's pace. Hudson pondered. He had gotten into the place without any problem. That meant that the owners who ran the club weren't worried about the police. It also meant that, most probably, they had some solid fake ID business helping them, to prove that their employees were of legal age. That was one theory. Hudson was all the more intrigued.

"Hey, family man," someone called for him. Jasper stretched on his belly and came level with Hudson's eyes. "I thought you were too good for the likes of me."

Hudson smiled and waved a bill in front of the young man, watching how his eyes followed it avidly. "I thought I'd try it out. Say, what's the usual MO around here? Who do I ask for a special lap dance or something?"

Jasper pouted but grabbed the bill from Hudson's hand, putting it carefully into his skimpy underwear. "You could have had me for free. Don't tell me you want to pay now."

"Maybe I'm here for the atmosphere," Hudson joked. "How about you and a friend? How does that sound?"

Jasper turned his head, and it took Hudson only a moment to realize that he was searching for someone with his eyes. "I'll go ask and arrange something," he said, all business-like. And then, as if he had just remembered that he was supposed to be in this for pleasure, too, he offered Hudson the same toothy grin as before. Just like then, it was lackluster, and only a sign that something important had been lost some time ago.

The brute from before came to escort him down a long hallway, his attitude somewhat deferential now that Hudson was a paying customer. "Do you like'em young?" he joked and neighed like a horse.

"The younger, the better," Hudson said with a shrug.

"We got all kinds here," the brute said and opened the door to a red room, in which a round bed was placed in the middle with a couple of chairs around it. Despite the shocking crimson color, upon a closer inspection, the appointments appeared cheap as if they had been shopped for at a discount store for used things.

Hudson made a show of trying the bed springs and nodded as if he was satisfied with it. He had his back to the brute and wasn't in the least surprised when the man grabbed his arms and began searching his pockets. "Hey, man, what the hell?" he protested for show.

"A photographer? Like for newspapers and shit?" the brute asked.

"No. I'm an artist," Hudson said with self-importance. "Erotic photography."

"Is anyone paying for it?"

"Yes."

"So, you here to take photos of them boys?"

"Yes. I will pay."

"You be damn sure you pay," the brute said and pushed him away. Then, he pushed the stolen card into Hudson's chest. "But no funny business. No newspapers and shit. We don't need that kind around."

"I'm not a reporter." He was someone much worse than that for the kind of business they ran at The Bouncing Bunny. But he wasn't keen on volunteering that information.

The brute seemed convinced. "Well, enjoy yourself, photographer. No funny business," he repeated and wagged his finger at Hudson.

Hudson put his hands up and offered a grin full of teeth. "No funny business," he promised.

TBC