That night, Pete tried to get his first customer. Frank had helped him clean up and brought him to Goodwill— "the God of all stores," he called it— and helped Pete find new clothes. As it turned out, Frank had a similar taste in clothes and music, and got Pete a sleeveless gray shirt that read Suck My Richard— both agreed on the shirt as soon as they saw it—tight jeans, a red flannel shirt, and a nice pair of work boots, all for under $30.

"How do I look?" Pete asked, stepping out from behind the concrete column under the overpass. "Do I look worth $150?"

"You look great," Frank said, nodding. "So, does this make me your pimp?"

"I guess," Pete said, smoothing down his hair. "You said you've done this before?"

"Just a few," Frank said. "Usually, the way it works is that you go into the bar— you're old enough to go into a bar, right?"

"Dude, I'm 28," Pete deadpanned. "Are you oldenough to go into a bar?"

"Dude, I'm 28," Frank said.

"Impossible."

"How so?"

"You're 19 at the most, there's no way you're the same age as me."

"Believe it, bitch. Now, shut up and let me talk. So, you go into the bar and wait for a dude to hit on you. Then, you act all shy and shit and, basically just be like 'I'm not free', you know, shit like that. For some reason, this makes you more desirable and dudes'll pay more. Then, just like that, after a bit of literally screwing around, you've got yourself some money. Easy."

"What if I don't get hit on?"

"You're a throughly attractive, obviously gay man, who's wearing a shirt that says 'suck my Richard'. Trust me, you'll get hit on."

"Is it obvious I'm gay?" Pete asked.

"Yeah, kinda," Frank said. "You just kinda... Have this walk, like, yeah. I can't explain it."

"Alrighty then," Pete said quietly.

On the outside, he was nervous. Obviously. But the inside was different— he was scared out of his mind. This was technically cheating on Mikey, he thought. He couldn't voice his worry to Frank, though, as he told him that he was running away from an abusive boyfriend.

Frank's words came to his as he leaned against the bar later that night, gripping a beer bottle tightly. You'll get hit on... 'I'm not free'... This walk... they circled around in his head.

"Long night, huh?" The man asked. He was taller than Pete, with black hair and dazzling blue eyes, his arms covered in tattoos.

"Not really my scene," Pete said.

"What is your scene?" The man asked.

"Somewhere I fit in, I guess," Pete answered.

"Wanna find a place where you do fit in?"

Pete felt his face burn red and he said, faking bashfulness: "I'm... Umm... Not free... Ya know."

The man blinked once and asked: "And how much does a pretty little thing like you cost?"

Pete's heart hammered against his chest as recited the list Frank made him remember. "Twenty to French, thirty to feel, fourty to finger, fifty to fuck," he said, trying to sound bored, as if he had said it to many others men.

"You have to have higher standards than that," the man smiled. "Might I ask why you... Sell yourself?"

"Well, umm, my boyfriend used to hit me and I ran away," Pete started, peeling the wet label off of his beer bottle. "I had no money or anything. I had the bloody pajamas on my back and that's it. I like sex, too, so why not get paid for it?" He managed a small laugh.

"Got a name?"

"I'm Pete."

"I'm Andy," the man said and Pete sniffled a giggle. This man was the opposite of the Andy that Pete knew. Then, Andy asked: "How about I give you a solid one-fifty and we call it even?" Frank was right; 150 was the magic number.

"Wow, thank you so much," Pete gasped.

"Don't thank me yet, Pete," Andy said, putting his glass down. He wrapped an arm around Pete's waist and pulled him towards the exit, leaving Pete scared and breathless.

The bar that Frank had placed Pete in was close to a hotel and Andy took Pete straight to it. "I'm in this room for the night," Andy said, sliding a keycard out of his back pocket. "Lead singer's get their own rooms."

That's when it hit Pete— he was about to have sex for money. Of course, he needed the money to live, to fet back to Joe and Andy, to get back to Mikey.

By the time Mikey hit his mind, Pete's shirts were on the carpet, and Andy was sucking on Pete's neck, the same place where Mikey had in the picture that appeared in the Enquirer all those months ago. Mikey was all Pere could think about. So much, it made him push Andy away and sob out an apology.

"Andy, I'm so sorry, but I can't do this," he said quietly. "This-this is my first time doing this and I-I'm so fucking scared. I'm so sorry."

"Hey, Pete, it's okay," Andy whispered. "It really is fine. You're going through a tough time, having to leave your boyfriend and everything, and I understand. Would you be comfortable sleeping here tonight? Or would you rather—"

"I live underneath the overpass," Pete said quietly, pulling his flannel shirt on. "Anything better than that is an absolute yes."

Andy nodded and worked his clothes off, slipping underneath the covers as Pete slowly slid in next to him. "I really am sorry, Andy," Pete said quietly, turning in his arms.

"It's okay," Andy said, smiling slightly. "Would you be okay with kissing?"

"Yeah," Pete said, nodding, and pressed his lips against Andy's. Andy's hand rested on Pete's hip and he slowly pushed his tongue into Pete's mouth.

"You know," Pete whispered, pulling away. "That was just $20."

"Screw it," Andy whispered and kissed Pete again, pulling him onto his hips. In that moment, Pete forgot about Mikey entirely.

---

The guilt came the next morning. Pete opened his eyes and found the bed next to him empty, and he heard the shower running. Working quickly and quietly, Pete dressed and found Andy's checkbook. He quickly scribbled out a check for $200— the amount Andy racked up the night before— and left the room quickly.

He made quick time back to the overpass, sitting down next to Frank's sleeping form. Pete sighed and ran his hand down his face, groaning.

Frank snorted im his sleep and his head shot up. "Oh, it's you," Frank said and closed his eyes again. "Oh, wait, it's you!" he cried suddenly , turning towards Pete. "How much money?"

"$200," Pete said quietly. "I feel, like, dirty. Violated. It felt wrong doing that and knowing that I was getting paid."

"One step further away from your asshole boyfriend," Frank said. He meant it as something comforting, but it felt like a death sentence for Pete.

Notes

Two shitty chapter in one night, wow.

xoøli