The Light in Your Eyes

By Tinnean

Chapter 4

The first floor seemed more or less intact. "This was converted to a rooming house around the Second World War – there was a housing shortage in DC then."

"Hmmm." A rooming house? "Can we get the owner to do the renovations?"

"The owner skipped out. The house is in foreclosure."

"How much will it cost us to renovate it?"

"Not as much as you might think, Sweetcheeks. Oh, you'll need to put in kitchens, more bathrooms on the second and third floors and in the attic, probably another bathroom on this floor as well… Come this way." He led us through a large dining room to a good-sized kitchen. "… but once that's done…

"Sweets, I really like it. I have a good feeling about it." Paul was always having a good feeling about something or other. He was the optimist of our group.

"Let me show you the other floors before you make any decisions."

I thought the second floor was horrible, the numerous rooms cramped, and with only one bathroom at the end of the hall.

The third floor was better, but not by much. Like the second floor, there were many small bedrooms, and one bathroom to serve them.

"This used to be for the children. Their bedrooms, the nursery, schoolroom and playroom… "

For some reason, Paul fell in love with it. Probably those turrets.

"We could keep this floor for ourselves, Sweets."

"There are too many bedrooms. We don't have that many boys… " And I didn't want that many.

"You could knock down some walls… "

"Y'see, Sweets? We could knock down walls!"

"… enlarge the bedrooms you want to keep… "

"There's no kitchen."

"… and put in any size kitchen you'd like."

"There's only one bathroom on the whole floor." I huffed.

"You know there's enough room to add more."

"Let's take a look at the top floor."

"And that's another thing, John. How come this politician, if he was so well-to-do, didn't have a fourth floor for a ballroom?"

"This wasn't choice real estate back in the 1830s or even the 1840s. I have a feeling it may have been for his… " John's expression was sly, and he made finger quotes. "… second family. What need would they have for a ballroom?"

"It's awfully big for a mistress."

"He was probably what you might call prolific."

"Why, that dirty dog!" I was becoming intrigued in spite of myself. I wondered if we could find out anything about the original owner.

We climbed to the top of the stairs where a single door opened into a vestibule of doors, six in all.

"You'll have plenty of storage under the gables."

"We don't have any need for storage."

Paul frowned at me, but I ignored him.

"The attic was originally the servants' quarters." John threw open a door to the left. "The roof's angles might make things a little awkward."

"A little awkward?" The room was a square, about 10x10, large enough maybe for a bed but very little else. "Whoever rents this had better be short, or else he'll keep banging his head on the ceiling."

"But in the center of the room the ceiling is fine. I have a friend who's an architect. He'll love designing something wide open that can connect all these rooms into one usable space."

"How much will he cost us?"

"We'll work something out. I'd suggest offering this furnished."

"That's going to cost us too."

"You've got to speculate to accumulate."

I frowned at him.

"This would make a decent studio apartment, Sweets."

"Right under the roof? It'd be hot as hell in the summer."

"Ever heard of air conditioning?"

"There's no elevator. We'd never find anyone who'd be willing to climb those stairs."

"Now you're being pissy." Paul poked my shoulder.

He was right, I was being pissy. I was suddenly scared out of my wits. I could see the cost of this mounting higher and higher, and that wasn't even taking into consideration how we'd heat this mausoleum. This was a big financial responsibility.

"How can we do this, John? How will we get a mortgage? Who'll give us a mortgage?"

He grinned and stroked the shoulder Paul had poked. "You let me take care of that, Sweetcheeks."

True to his word, John got us the mortgage – he set up a dummy corporation to front for us – and the place was ours. Well, ours and the bank's.

But while we were paying the mortgage, we were also paying rent on the apartment we couldn't vacate as yet, because it was going to take a while for the third floor to be ready for us to move in.

I spent the next four months chewing my nails as project after project went over budget 'just a little.'

"We could ask Tim… "

"I will personally castrate anyone who calls Tim about this." He was having some problems of his own in Atlanta – none of the locations he'd looked at suited him – and was talking about moving to Savannah. I glared at Paul, since he was the one most likely to contact Tim. "This is our responsibility. We'll deal with it on our own."

"What about our retirement fund?" Socked away in a safety deposit box were high risk stock certificates. "We could tap that… "

"We'd take too big a hit. The loss would be too great."

"But we'd catch up... "

"No. People always say that and never do. Do you want to be hustling when you're 65?"

He subsided. The depressing picture of us as geriatric rentboys was more than enough to squash that notion.

We worked longer hours, sometimes taking on clients we'd have preferred not to. More than once one of us came home with welts. I kept a list of those johns, dreaming of one day paying them back, knowing how unlikely that would be.

The Kid came in early one morning sporting a black eye and a livid palm print on his cheek. "I'm sorry, Sweets. I didn't duck fast enough."

"Don't worry about it. Take the rest of the week off." By then the bruises would have faded and concealer would cover up what was left of them.

Most johns didn't like the reality of a rentboy's life rubbed in their faces – they wouldn't want him. And the ones who wouldn't be turned off by how he looked would only add to his bruises.

I went to the kitchen, filled a dishcloth with ice cubes and whacked it on the counter to crush them, and handed it to him. "I promise you… "

"As god is your witness?" Paul smiled, but he looked exhausted. He and Tangerine had worked a party and had gotten in shortly before the Kid.

I met his eyes. "Once we make the move, we won't be dealing with any of those sons of bitches again."

****

The first floor apartment was finished first. Whoever had done the work back in the 40s had left the kitchen alone because the boarders were going to need to be fed. The only conversion was one very large space off to the side that had probably been some kind of informal room for the family. It had been made into four smaller bedrooms. They were renovated into two that were much roomier, and the additional bathroom that John had mentioned was added. The rest of the apartment, library, living room, lounge, just needed to be refurbished, and the small porch off the kitchen enclosed and made into a laundry room.

No one would want to rent it while there was still work going on overhead, at least that was what I told myself, so we moved in, setting up folding beds in the lounge and the library. Without the drain of the additional rent, we had some breathing space.

We went to bed to the sound of workmen overhead, we woke to the sound of them packing up for the day. It took longer than the first floor, since aside from the many walls that needed to be knocked down, the plumbing and wiring all needed to be updated. Tempers ran short, and bitch slaps were frequently exchanged. By the time the second floor was done, we were thankful for the reprieve the buffer of having that floor between us and the continued work provided.

Up in the attic, the thin walls that separated the bedrooms were torn down. The wood floor was sanded, and tile was laid down where the kitchen would eventually go. The single bathroom was enlarged, and new fixtures selected to replace the chipped, dingy sink, tub, and toilet. The contractor had picked up an air conditioner that would be cut into an outside wall.

"Once everything is done, you can go shopping," John suggested during one of our trysts.

I groaned. "More money!"

"You've got to speculate to accumulate!" He pounced on me, rolled me over, and slid into me. After he'd come and I'd cleaned him off, he continued. "Go to a local department store for linens and things, and to Rockville for the furniture."

"Pushy John."

He laughed, kissed my cheek, and got dressed. "This is so much fun!"

I told Paul about it when I got home.

"We need to make a list!" He loved making lists. He found a pen and paper and muttered under his breath while he scribbled furiously. "Sheets, towels, pillowcases, blankets." He looked up at me. "You're the cook. You decide what pots we'll need."

"Gee, thanks." I started my own list. Saucepans – one, two, and three quart. Skillets – four and eight inches. That should do it. "All done."

Paul frowned at me, then went back to writing. "A set of Corelle dishes. That comes with soup or salad bowls, dessert plates, and coffee cups. Drinking glasses… Should we get wine glasses?" He saw my expression. "Uh…Okay, no wine glasses. Silverware... " He tapped the end of his pen against his teeth, then nodded to himself as if satisfied. "Okay, now for the sleeping area, we'll have to get a queen size bed."

"You know how expensive sheets and blankets are for that!"

"Ever heard of 'bed-in-a-bag'?"

"Yeah, but what's wrong with a double?"

"A queen will draw tenants. Besides, it will make us look like landlords who care."

"You're taking this 'landlord' thing a little too far, Paul."

He flipped me off and continued writing. "Um… a dresser and night tables to go with the bed, and a couple of lamps, maybe. For the dining area, a table and chairs and… "

"Wait, don't tell me. We have to get them a breakfront too."

This time he scowled at me. "Cooperate, Sweets. Now, for the living area, a sofa and recliner, and what do you think of a coffee table?"

"Sure. Why the fuck not?"

"Speculate to accumulate," he sing-songed and kept on writing, but I saw the grin on his face and knew he was teasing me. I would never see him as a lover, but he was the brother I'd never had. "A small entertainment center and a 20 inch color TV… "

"If whoever rents this wants to watch tapes, they can buy their own fucking VCR. And their own stereo."

"Can we get them a radio?"

This time I flipped him off.

Even though the attic apartment was finished in half the time of the first floor, it remained untenanted. No one seemed to want to rent it.

The third floor apartment took the longest. We needed even more pipes added for the kitchen and the additional bathrooms, more electrical outlets for everywhere, as well as cable connections. I chose the kitchen, since I would be doing most of the cooking, and while it wasn't huge, it was big enough to hold all the essentials – stove, fridge, microwave, dishwasher – as well as a table and chairs.

"Sweets." Paul and I were at a home improvement store, looking over the appliances.

A salesman bustled up to us. "Can I help you?"

"Get the stainless steel."

"It's too expensive. White will work just as well."

"Sweets. I saw the way you've been looking at the stainless steel." He put his arm around me and squeezed my shoulder. "Get them, babe."

The salesman suddenly looked as if he'd bitten into a lemon. He ran his eyes over us and stepped back.

"How much would your commission be on a sale like this?" I asked him.

He told me, and I nodded.

"I'll get them, darling," I said to Paul, "but not here." I took his hand and led him out of the store. "Bastard; looking down on us because we're working boys."

"Um… Sweets? I think it was because we're gay."

"That's just as bad. Let's go to Sears."

"It will cost more."

"Fuck the cost."

"That's what I like to hear."

One day when the workers were removing the plasterboard, the architect came pounding on the downstairs door, so excited I thought he was going to piss himself. Okay, that was cold, but it had been a long night, and he'd woke me out of a sound sleep.

"What's up?" I asked, yawning and rubbing my scalp.

His eyes widened. I stood there dressed only in a pair of sweat pants that dipped low on my hips, a tattoo of a dragon – a temporary tattoo – curling from my back to just the right of my navel. The client I'd seen the night before was from the Taiwanese embassy, and I'd serviced him a number of times before. He liked to think he was taming the dragon.

"What?" The architect blinked a couple of times and cleared his throat. "Oh, what I found! The original bedrooms each had a fireplace! This is fantastic! Can you imagine? They must have been bricked up when this was converted to a rooming house. What a waste! I'll have them opened up for you, design new mantels... "

"Hold on a minute, Donald Trump. How much more will that cost us? No, don't bother telling me. We don't need the added expense."

"It will be a great feature when you're ready to sell this place."

"We've barely moved into it!"

"You have to speculate to accumulate."

Either he'd picked up that expression from John, or John had picked it up from him, but either way, if I heard it again, I was going to kick someone in the ass. "Forget it."

"I think you're making a mistake."

"Yeah, well, if I decide I want them opened, I'll come to you, and you can say, 'I told you so.'"

He shrugged and turned away. "You're the boss."

"Now you remember?"

Eight of the bedrooms were converted to four. Two had attached bathrooms, two shared a bathroom, and they all had closets that were large enough to hold costumes necessary when our johns had a yen to fuck soldiers, sailors, cops, or cowboys, as well as suits, shirts, and trousers, and the tuxes we had for special occasions, including the annual Escort Ball. The remainder became the living room and formal dining room

Finally – finally – it was finished. We moved our belongings out of the first floor apartment and into our home.

Our home. Paul's feeling was spot on this time. I hadn't been able to see its potential, but I loved it now.

And knowing that this house belonged to us… knowing that I wasn't a waste on the face of the earth… I sat down and wrote a letter.

Dear Acacia,

I'm sorry I haven't written before. I didn't because I knew that Poppa wouldn't have been happy about it. I'm well and healthy, and I've just bought a house. Not by myself, I'm not doing that well. (You're supposed to laugh here, Casey.)

Anyway, I wanted to let you know that I'm still alive. Please let Ma know. I think of you both, very often. I think of Poppa too. I guess it's not his fault that he doesn't love me any more.

My deepest love to you, my sister,

Teodore

PS If you would like to write to me, I would love to hear how things are in Tarpon Springs.

****

"John, would you mind handling the rentals for us?" I asked that Wednesday as I was undressing him.

He flushed. "I'd love to! I've already had a company making inquiries about it. They need a place for their out-of-town executives to stay when they have to come to DC, and they want both floors! It will be cheaper for them to rent rather than pay hotel bills. Isn't that awesome?"

"If you say so. Do me a favor though. Before we sign a lease, make sure they don't intend to have rentboys living downstairs."

His mouth opened and closed like a beached fish. "You don't think that's what they have in mind, do you?"

"I don't know. I could be wrong. I've been in this town a while now, and I've only ever heard of companies putting up their execs at one of the hotels or sometimes in their own homes. Why rent a place that could go unoccupied for stretches of time? It just seems not very cost-effective to me."

"I promise you, if that's what they do have in mind… "

"Just make sure they won't have boys living there. If they want boys, they can rent us. And John, that's nonnegotiable. If they don't like the deal, they don't get the apartments."

"Trust me, Sweetcheeks. I'll make an appointment with their lawyer first thing when I get back to the office."

"Cool."

"You may want to have a lawyer represent you."

"We'll get one."

"Um… Sweetcheeks?" He gestured down toward his groin.

"Lunch!" I grinned and pushed him down onto the bed, licked a path from one side of his collarbone to the other and blew across the damp flesh raising goosebumps, then worked my way down to his cock and blew him.

That evening John called, but I was already out for the night. You've got me. Now tell me what you want to do with me!

He left a message on the answering machine. "Oh, I like your greeting, Sweetcheeks, and on Wednesday… " He cleared his throat. "I just wanted you to know you were right to question this company. They'll want to use the apartment as an incentive/reward kind of thing for their executives – they do good, and they get a trip to DC, complete with hot and cold running girls. This is a very broad-minded company. They're even willing to offer boys to the men who want them. Let me know who your lawyer is, and we'll get together to hash this out.

We all met in the downstairs apartment. Sherwood, Inc. was actually a blue chip corporation, and they preferred to keep the transaction quiet, which was okay by us.

Alan Johnson, our lawyer, happened to be one of Paul's regulars. He was in his early 40s and had wings of distinguished gray at his temples. "Let me do all the talking, Pretty Boy. Just sit there and look cute, got that?"

"Yes, Alan."

"Sweetcheeks?"

"Oh." It was nice to know someone who wasn't my client thought I was cute. "Yes, Alan."

The two lawyers walked through the first floor apartment and then the second, making offers and counter-offers. Finally we sat down at the table.

"All right, we're agreed," Burdett, the corporation's lawyer, stated. "There will be a few young ladies in residence here – a housekeeper, a masseuse, a gourmet cook – who'll reside on the second floor. Their salaries will be paid by my clients, who will also furnish this apartment and pay for phone service. A staircase between the two apartments will be necessary, unless, of course, your clients wish to install an elevator." Burdett continued, unaware of our reactions. "Your clients will pay for the utilities. And of course they'll give us a discount." Apparently he considered that last a done deal.

Paul and I both stiffened and turned to our lawyer. Alan frowned.

"Why?"

Burdett's eyes shot up from the page on which he was scrawling something. "What?"

"Why would you assume you'll get a discount?"

"My client is paying very good money to rent this apartment from your clients, and they're only a flight of stairs away, they don't need to travel."

"Neither do the girls. Are they giving you a discount? No, I didn't think so. So my clients get their regular fee, plus any tips those gentlemen who require their services are inclined to give."

Burdett frowned. "We can bring our own boys in."

"Not in this apartment, you can't." Alan gave him a shark's grin, and I was glad to have him on our side. Paul looked proud. "Didn't you read the lease? If you won't use my clients, it's going to cost your clients even more. They'll have to rent a hotel room for the executives who prefer boys. Actually, you're getting quite a good deal. The chances of them being busted in a hotel room are greater. Behind these doors… well, if anyone was so nosy as to inquire, these gentlemen, as the landlords, have a legitimate reason for being here." He pushed his cuff back, studied his watch, and prepared to stand. "Pity this lease is for two years. I'll have to insist my clients rethink it when it's time to renew."

"All right, all right. No discounts." There was the sound of grinding teeth.

"I'm so glad you could see it our way."

Paul leaned toward me and whispered in my ear, "Wow. I think I'm turned on."

"You're a sick puppy, Paul," I whispered back.

"I am, aren't I?" He grinned, and we turned our attention back to the two lawyers.

"Bastard."

"Why, Richard. I'm cut to the quick!"

"Sure you are, you old ambulance chaser. You know I had to make the attempt on my client's behalf."

"I know. I expected nothing less."

"Are we still on for dinner at the club?"

"Of course. I'll even buy."

"Yes, you will. You gentlemen are lucky to have such a cutthroat working for you." He gathered up all his papers, then paused. "Although how you were able to get Alan Johnson… " He shook his head and walked out.

"Alan?"

"Richard is an old friend of mine. Oddly enough, we've never butted heads before. Thank you for the opportunity, Pretty Boy. I've enjoyed this immensely." His smile this time was warmer and indicated how much he'd enjoyed it. He gathered his own papers. "I'll see you get copies of all this."

"Thanks, Alan."

He held out his hand, we shook it, and he left.

I locked the apartment door, and we climbed the stairs to the third floor. "Let's go to bed." It was late for us.

"Good idea." Paul yawned. "I could use some more sleep."

****

A couple of weeks later, Paul brought the mail up.

"Anything interesting?"

"Bill. Bill. Catalogue. Magazine. Junk. Junk. Junk. Sweets, here's a letter for you. Who do you know in Tarpon Springs?"

I couldn't catch my breath. I took the envelope from him and examined the return address. "It's from my… my sister."

"You have a sister?"

I nodded, intent on carefully slitting the flap. A sudden thought hit me, and I stared up at Paul. "Suppose she didn't want to hear from me? Suppose she tells me never to write her again? Suppose she tells me that as far as she's concerned, she doesn't have a brother? Suppose… "

"Sweets, suppose you just read the letter and see."

I swallowed. My hands were shaking as I took the single sheet of loose-leaf paper from the envelope.

My very dear brother…

"Read it out loud, Sweets."

"My very dear brother,

"We have often wondered what became of you, and have prayed for you every night since Poppa sent you from our home. Mama was sure she had seen you once, a few months after that horrible day, but that could not have been you getting into a very rich car." I looked up at Paul. "It probably was me. I'm glad my mother never realized what I was doing."

He patted my arm. "Go on."

"Poppa is still very angry, and will not permit your name to be mentioned. I have heard him and Mama fighting. They do not know I know this, but for a long time after you left, she would not let Poppa sleep in their room. He would pretend to have gotten up early, but I saw the sheets and pillows on the sofa more than once before he could put them away.

"We miss you very much, and hope that someday you will be able to come home to visit. Or if not, Mama asks if perhaps we could meet with you somewhere close by.

"I miss you, my brother, and hope to see you again one day. Please write to me.

"Love,

"Your sister, Acacia"

"Ah, Sweets."

"I can't go home." I didn't realize until Paul put his arms around me that I was crying.

"Will you write her back?" He ran his palm up and down my back soothingly.

"Yes." And then I panicked. "What do I tell her if she asks what I'm doing?"

"Tell her you're going to school. It's the truth."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's a good idea." I let him continue petting my back. "But what do I tell her if she asks how a student can afford to buy a house?"

He brushed the hair off my forehead and gave a lopsided grin. "That you won the lottery? Worry about it if she asks. Now, go wash your face. We've got to go to work."

****

John didn't have much luck renting the studio apartment. Possible tenants would look at the neighborhood – the gentrification project had fallen through – the odd configuration of the apartment, the flights of stairs, and would quickly ask to see something else.

"See," I groused to Paul. "We could have gotten away with a double bed!"

"Patience, grasshopper. You'll see!"

It wasn't until about six months after the last of the workmen had left that John brought someone to take a look at it who didn't have a problem with the floor plan or the fact that he'd have to walk three flights of stairs because there was no elevator, or that he'd have to have his laundry sent out. I'd put my foot down about a stackable washer and dryer for the studio. 'There's not enough room.'

I got a look at the man as he was leaving. Tense and wiry, with an underlying air of danger about him – something guaranteed to lure a client interested in walking on the wild side – he was competition we didn't need.

We learned he'd already signed the lease when Paul and I saw him moving in. He didn't have much to move, just some boxes that held his clothes, I guessed, a long, flat case, and a big statue of a dog.

"John." My foot was tapping, and he eyed it nervously.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Sweat beaded along his hairline. "I don't know what it was about that man! He walked around the place, took out a tape measure and measured it! I went to take a phone call, and when I came back, he was crawling out from under the bed. He even looked under the sofa and chairs! Then he said, 'I'll take it on one condition. No one uses the storage.' I'll tell you the truth, Sweetcheeks! I was scared to tell him 'no.'"

I looked at the lease agreement. "Mark Vincent. What does he do?"

"I… I think he works for the Huntingdon Corporation."

"The name doesn't ring a bell. Okay, Paul and I will wait until he leaves for work, then go into the apartment and see what we can learn about him."

"Be careful, okay?"

"Do you think we're kids? We can handle ourselves."

"Just be careful." John swallowed. "Um… Sweetcheeks? Baby? You're not too mad at me, are you?"

"What?"

"Are we still on for Wednesday?"

I wasn't happy about this situation, but John was a very good real estate agent. Something about the man must have really shaken him. I patted his shoulder. "No, John, I'm not too mad at you, and yes, John, we're still on for Wednesday."

He hugged me, his smile lighting up his face. He was a good-looking man, and I couldn't understand why someone hadn't snapped him up already. Well, their loss was my gain. It was one of my easiest hours. He never asked for anything beyond a blowjob and a straightforward fuck, although he did like to talk sometimes.

Paul and I waited until Vincent left for work, then tip-toed up the stairs. For some reason, even with the man out of the building, we felt the need for caution.

The key I used – tried to use – to get into the studio apartment didn't work. The son of a bitch had changed the lock.

"If we ask him why he changed the lock, he'll say if we know it was changed we must have tried it," I said to Paul.

"Yeah. And if we tried it, then we know why he changed it."

"We'll just have to keep an eye on him." We gave joint sighs, and went back down to our apartment.

Paul ran into him on the stairway one evening when Vincent was going up and he was going down, and he told me about it.

"What do you want?" Vincent had growled when Paul planted himself in front of him. I was proud of him for that, because even with Paul's latest growth spurt, Vincent still had almost eight inches on him.

"I want to make sure you keep your mitts off our johns," he'd growled back. "It took us a long time to get such an elite group of clients, and I don't intend for anyone to steal them away from us!" I could picture Paul giving him a Clint Eastwood-squinty glare, picture him poking Vincent in the chest, trying to make him give ground.

Only Vincent hadn't. "You think I'm a rentboy? I'm flattered. I think. Listen, kid..."

"Kid? I'm no kid! I'm seventeen!"

Vincent had laughed. "Listen. I don't work the streets. I have no interest in working the streets. Your johns are safe from me." And he'd gone up to his apartment, shaking his head