Chapter Text
The bathroom was like a steam room when Ian got out of the shower. He wiped the mirror with his hand and sighed, leaning forward to examine the mark on his throat, a small rosebud of a bruise. He sighed and pursed his lips together, pushing his wet hair back from his face. Chris was going to throw a fucking fit.
“Told you, you can’t mark me up,” He called over his shoulder.
A head poked out of the shower, the older face of the man creased in sympathy, “Did I? I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Ian lied, forcing a pleasant smile while he shrugged.
The man’s name was Parker. Married CEO of some big marketing company. He had a thing for flirty redheads, and Ian could fit the bill.
He saw Parker maybe once a month, twice at most. He was nice, trying to impress Ian with room service and gifts. Ian’s “regular” client list was small, but if he had to pick, Parker would probably be his second favorite. Favorite was a strong word though, especially when applying to people who paid you for sex. Plus, Parker had this thing where after a while, he just annoyed the bejesus out of Ian —but of course Ian couldn't show that, had to keep playing the game.
“You sure you have to head out already? I ordered room service,” Parker asked, head popping back into the shower.
Ian rolled his eyes again at the man’s I’m trying to be casual about this, but I’m also trying to squeeze in a quick blow-job before my time’s up tone. He unwrapped the towel from around his waist, using it to dry himself off, “I would, but I’ve got a paper to write.”
Another lie. There was no paper. There wasn’t even a college to write the paper for.
“That’s too bad,” Parker said. “Envelope is on the dresser.”
“Of course it is,” Ian said under his breath to himself; he pulled on his boxers and jeans. Parker didn’t mean anything by it, but the whole “on the dresser” thing put a bad taste in his mouth, like the cash was quietly taunting Ian, here’s your money, whore.
“I’ll let myself out,” he said loud enough for Parker to hear.
The shower cut off and Parker stepped out, wrapping a towel around his hips. He gave Ian a slow grin, settling up beside him at the bathroom counter. Ian gave him a look, eyebrow arching, playing the game. Arch the brow, let the eyes wander, pull a little smirk —twist the mouth from a snarl to a breathy laugh when a hand grabs at the crotch of your jeans.
Ian heard the question before it even left Parker’s mouth. He’d heard this question every fucking time he met with Parker. Every fucking time.
“Still can’t get that kiss, huh?”
Ian lifted his shoulders, “You know how Chris is.”
He told clients that his boss didn't allow kissing (his pimp, to be specific, but Ian rarely used the word because it seemed so harsh). This was a lie: his boss didn't care about kissing, he just didn't want his workers marked up. It was Ian who had the rule, he did not kiss clients on the mouth. Ever. No matter how loyal and regular they were.
For someone who enjoyed the hell out of kissing, this was odd for Ian, he knew. But kissing was intimate. Kissing wasn’t something he wanted to be paid for. Seemed silly on the surface… he’d fuck for money, but not kiss? Yeah, that was exactly it. Because fucking could be wildly impersonal. But kissing? Shit, kissing was nothing but personal.
Parker sighed, sliding his hand from the front of Ian’s jeans, up his abdomen, to his chest, and finally resting on his shoulder, “I suppose I’ll have to live with that.”
“I’ve heard I’m terrible at it anyway,” Ian lied, because he was fucking good at kissing, thanks. “Not missing much.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Parker narrowed his eyes with a teasing smile; he dropped his hand from Ian’s shoulder, “Alright, I’ll let you go, since you’re busy tonight.”
Ian pulled his shirt on and smiled back at Parker, “Until next month?”
“Until next month,” Parker nodded.
“Can’t wait,” Ian winked, walking a couple steps backwards out of the bathroom; he gave the older man his best bedroom eyes.
His face fell as soon as he turned around to see where the hell he was going, just needing to get the out of there before Parker annoyed him into an actual coma. Ian took the envelope of cash off of the dresser, grabbed his jacket, the new watch Parker bought him (Marc Jacobs), and closed the room door behind him on the way out.
As soon as Ian walked out of the double doors of the hotel, he lit up a cigarette and started making his way towards the black SUV parked across the street. The dark tinted passenger window rolled down, revealing a light-haired man with a scruffy goatee and sunglasses.
“Hey,” Ian greeted, leaning against his elbows on the edge of the door. He passed the envelope to Chris, making sure to keep his cigarette away from inside the car.
“You got an appointment tonight,” Chris said while he counted through the money. “Your groupie.”
Ian rolled his eyes, despite the twist in his belly, “He’s not a groupie.”
He had exactly four regular “top-dollar” clients. Parker —who liked his redheads; an actor he saw a few times a year that was deeply closeted, but really wasn’t fooling anyone; this thrity-something year old plastic surgeon named Anthony who he saw whenever —he had a thing about being called a dirty boy and having his own underwear shoved into his mouth; and a guy named Mickey that actually wasn’t too much older than Ian.
Mickey was special to Ian, that might have skirted the line between client-attraction and actual-attraction (two very different things). Mickey was interesting, and real, and was damn good looking; he was Ian’s absolute favorite client, bar none.
“Dude’s calling for your ass every damn week. He’s a groupie,” Chris snorted a laugh, holding out a handful of money.
Ian took his cut, seven-hundred dollars, and shoved it into his jacket pocket, “He’s got money to burn, why’re you complaining?”
Chris eyed him, instead of answering he sighed heavily, “Please tell me that’s not a fucking hickey on your neck.”
“Okay,” Ian responded, pressing his lips together, waiting for the lecture.
“Damnit, Ian,” Chris bit out at him, shifting the car into drive. “You can’t be seeing your clients all marked up, you know that. We are trying to sell a fantasy and that doesn't include marked up twinks begging for cock.”
Ian took another pull from his cigarette, jaw clenching to keep himself from being stupid and snapping. Chris was normally a pretty cool guy, but then there were times when he was just a fucking prick. If it were anyone else, Ian wouldn't have a problem putting them in their place.
“Can I get a ride home?” Ian asked.
“Where’s your car?”
“Home.”
Chris sighed, hitting the unlock button, “Put that shit out and hop in.”
The ride was pretty silent; Ian mostly just looked out of the car window, watching big buildings turn to fancy houses, to less fancy houses, to his neighborhood. It landed somewhere between real shitty and could be worse.
He could have been in a nicer apartment building, closer to downtown. He definitely made enough money for it. But the end goal was college, so he couldn't exactly see the point in blowing all his money on a nice apartment with a view, when he was hardly at home anyways.
“He’s expecting you at ten, at the hotel. Don’t be late,” Chris said as he pulled up to the apartment building.
“I’m never late, Chris,” Ian reminded him.
Chris nodded, “I’ve got shit to do tonight. Bring the money home and I’ll be come by here tomorrow morning to collect, got it? And cover that hickey up… put ice on it, something. You look like a damn middle-schooler.”
Ian slid out of the SUV and nodded, “Got it.”
“Ian,” Chris called before Ian shut the door; he gave him a knowing look. “I’m going to be here early tomorrow morning, understand?”
“Yeah…” Ian frowned.
“You need to be here with my money.”
A grin pulled at the corner of Ian’s mouth, “I will, damn. Have I ever scammed you? No… I wouldn’t do that shit, you should know that by now.”
“I do know that,” Chris sighed, “I’m just saying, I don’t want us to have problems. You know Scott tried to pull shit with me, and he’s been laid up for the past week and a half. You’re my only ginger, gotta keep you working. So I’m just putting it out there, okay? Have all my money when I come to collect, I’m trusting you.”
Chris honestly wasn’t that kind of pimp. He didn't beat on his workers to keep them in line, or just because he could. Ninety percent of the time, he acted as more of a friend than anything —in this line of work, he was the kind of boss you wanted to have; he looked after you, and he demanded respect for you, from clients. And while Chris didn’t throw threats around… he did make promises. You got on his bad side, you disrespect him, it was quick and volatile. This didn't just apply to his workers, but to clients too. The guy did not put up with disrespect.
Ian hadn't experienced this first hand, but he’d seen the aftermath. It wasn’t ever hospital-trip-worthy (for a reason, but Chris could definitely put you in the hospital if he wanted to), but you’d be out of the job for the next couple of weeks. Which wasn't good, that’s how you lost clients and money. Good money.
Ian held two fingers up to his forehead, “Scouts honor.”
Chris barked out a laugh and shook his head, “Alright, go get pretty for your client.”
“I’m always pretty,” Ian rolled his eyes, giving his boss a wicked grin before he closed the door to the SUV.
Ian lived on the third floor, across from an old cat lady who tried to give him these truly disgusting casseroles, saying he was too skinny (he really wasn’t too skinny, but that was besides the point). His apartment was little, having only what he really needed, and not much else —otherwise it would be cluttered and start stressing him out, and then that was a whole other mess to deal with.
Even though he’d already showered at the hotel, he took another one, turning the water on as hot as he could stand it.
It wasn’t that Ian necessarily hated doing what he did. Sure, it made him feel dirty and used up sometimes, and some clients would look at him and treat him like a whore who wasn’t worth much more than his body. Yeah, that was the downside of it. He could get out any time he wanted. But this was how things played out for him so far in his life.
The reality: He had debt and serious medical bills to pay off, medications to pay for that were fucking expensive. Also, he was trying to get into college. A good one. So that required more money as well.
After his family found out what he was up to, found out he was a damn escort, there’d been some kind of fucked up intervention because they thought he was off his meds, and slipping into that reckless, self-destructive mania. Ian wasn’t off his meds, so he got pissed (mostly because they had him questioning if his behavior and choices were his own, or his bipolar —he’d just gotten on new, effective medication and felt decent about himself though, so Ian figured these decisions were his and his alone).
The intervention turned into a full-blown Gallagher family fight, directed at him, so he left. Whatever. Eventually, even though he hadn't spoken to them in months now, he would like to get them the fuck out of South Side. They were still his family and he still loved them, after all. But for now, they could just mind their own fucking business.
He was trying to give himself a good life. He was trying to give his family a good life, or at the very least a restart. So he had plan, and if that meant he had to get paid to fuck or get fucked, to speed up the timetable of that plan, then so be it. This was the bed he had chosen to lie in and he was going to stick it out until this part of the plan was over.
It could have been really bad, he could have gotten picked up by a pimp who smacked him around and thought he was a piece of shit. He could have still be stuck in Canaryville, working at a diner and getting nowhere in life, or some other kind of dead-end job. There was an end to this, Ian could see it.
This part of his life wasn't permanent, it was just part of his routine for now.
So he took his shower, scrubbed himself clean again, stood under the water and breathed for a few minutes, sorting himself out. Then when he got out, he took his medication, he threw on some clean sweatpants and sprawled on his bed.
He had a few hours until he had to meet Mickey, so he set his alarm and closed his eyes, making sure he was well rested for his favorite client.