Page 70 of Darling
“I’d love to hear about your relationship with Sir Christian Darling.”
“Never heard of him,” I say in a disinterested tone, quickening my step as my throat tightens.
“Is that why you were seen leaving a hotel with him last weekend?” He’s British, that’s the accent, but it’s nothing like Christian’s. I stop and turn to him, and I’m glad I put on my sunglasses because I’m certain the look in my eyes (terrified) isn’t going to match the tone I’m about to say this in.
“Stephen, was it?”
He nods.
“Stephen, I don’t know what it is you think you saw, but I was at work last weekend. Not hooking up with some… Sir Christopher guy in a hotel.”
“You fuck guys for money, that’s what you do for work, right?” He has a nasty little smile on his face now.
“I’m an adult content creator,” I say as calmly as I can.
Stephen ignores this. “My theory is that Sir Christian Darling paid you a lot of money to fuck him in that hotel last weekend. Maybe you didn’t even know who he was, why would you, he probably used a fake name. But he’s a respected politician in the UK, and since he could very well be the next prime minister, a story like that would be worth a lot of money, mate.” My hand is shaking, and this hot coffee is begging to be thrown in this fucker’s face.
“Last weekend I filmed a scene in New Jersey with a guy called Cole Sanders, you can look him up. You can ask him. Hell, you can even watch the video online in a couple days. He didn’t pay me, and I didn’t pay him. That’s not how it works, you clueless fucking asshole.”
“There are pictures of you and Darling leaving the hotel together.”
I scan my memory. We’d been careful, I fucking know we had. Because I’d lost count of how many times I’d held myself back from touching him, smiling at him. It was hard that morning because it was the morning I realised that I loved him. I loved him, and I’d had to pretend that I didn’t, just in case someone was watching.
This asshole and whoever he works for had been watching, and now they want to fucking ruin him for it. My fingers curl into a fist by my side.
“Pictures of two men leaving a hotel at the same time? Slow news day in England, is it?” I laugh as I turn and continue walking. “Fucking loser.”
“I don’t think you understand how much we’d pay for a story like this. You’d be a millionaire.”
“I don’t think you understand how much I don’t give a fuck. Now get the fuck off my property before I call the cops.” I’m on the path up to the complex now, and I see Doreen sat in her usual spot. My stomach drops. Had he spoken to her first? He’d been waiting across the street for me, near my car, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t come snooping around here first, found my apartment empty, and approached her with some questions. All he’d need was a picture of Christian and a few words: ‘Hey ma’am, do you recognise this man? Have you seen him around here at all? Perhaps he came with the guy who lives in apartment 4c?’ But that would only be feasible if this guy suspected it to be more than just a one-time thing, an escort sort of deal.
I close the gated entrance behind me, glaring at him through the bars. He’d begun walking back to his car. A burgundy rental.
“Morning, honey,” Doreen says. “How you doin’ today?”
“Good, Doreen, you?” I take a seat next to her on the bench, setting down my shopping bag and my coffee. I’m still shaking, and I don’t trust myself to hold it steady.
“Oh, I’m fine, hun. Just fine. That boy botherin’ you?”
“Not really.” Tentatively, I ask, “Did he bother you?”
“No, but I saw him hoverin’, thought maybe he was waitin’ on the agent for 6a.”
My shoulders drop with relief. “I don’t think so, looks to be getting in his car now.”
“You and your friends have fun last night?” she says, turning to me.
“We weren’t too loud, were we? Sorry about that.”
She waves a hand. “Not at all, darlin’. I saw that beautiful girl arrivin’ last night, is all. Then the other one, the boy with the neck tattoo.”
“You just tell me if we’re ever too loud, they can get a little crazy when they’re let loose.”
“You know I will.”
I reach into my bag and pull out the tray of peaches I’d picked up at the store and tear open the packet, offering her one. She takes it with thanks.
“That older looker of yours hasn’t been ’round for a while,” she observes. I almost curse at the close call. If he’d asked her, if he’d had a different theory about Christian, he’d be fucking cooked.