Darius shook his head. “My grandfather died while I was in school. I missed the last two years I could’ve spent with him. So I went back to London and fucked around: partying, pretending I was going to find a real job.”
Darius’s bitterness was tangible.
“I’m so sorry.”
Ivan arrived with their bagels then, and Marc was glad of the distraction from the awkward moment.
“Enjoy! And if you don’t, it’s on me.”
Marc smiled. “I’m sure I’m going to love it.”
“Me too, or I wouldn’t offer.” Ivan’s rich laugh echoed around the courtyard.
Marc already knew he’d be back here. Often.
The steam rolling off his bagel sandwich warned Marc that it would burn his mouth, but it smelled so good he couldn’t wait to taste it. He bit into it, stretching the cheese until it finally broke; so much for looking suave.
“Good, isn’t it?” Darius didn’t seem to care about his lack of manners.
“Mmmhmm.”
When he finished chewing, Marc tried to resume their conversation.
But Darius wasn’t giving any more. “It was years ago. I don’t like to talk about the past.”
Or the future. Or the present, as far as Marc could tell.
Marc focused on his sandwich again. “These really are the best bagels.”
“Only in New York can you get better,” Darius said.
Marc had been to New York a few times with one of the assholes he’d dated, but he’d never had a bagel while he was there. “I’ll have to try one there sometime.”
“Yes, you should. I…”
“What?”
Darius shook his head. “Nothing.”
Had he been about to say he’d take Marc?
No, that couldn’t be it.
“So if we’re getting personal, what’s your story? How did you end up working for an escort service?”
Darius actually asked without the nudge-nudge-wink-wink most people used when asking that question. Maybe he really didn’t see it as a big deal, or maybe he just wanted to change the subject so badly, he was being polite.
Marc didn’t want to talk about himself. Even with Riley, he kept his story to a minimum because it always made him fucking angry and angsty and a ton of other shitty emotions.
“Just the typical gay kid story; my parents kicked me out after high school.”
“That’s not—”
Marc shook his head. “Trust me, it happens way too fucking much. At least they let me stay that long and I never ended up on the streets.”
“Motherfucking bastards.”
He didn’t disagree. “I haven’t talked to them since then. I got a job waiting tables at a fine-dining restaurant, which paid enough for me to share a tiny apartment with three other guys. I met a guy at the restaurant—a regular customer—who worked for a high-end escort service. He told me I should apply for a job there because it paid way better than any restaurant. I took him up on the offer, but I didn’t do it because I was desperate. I was getting by, even taking a few classes. A lot of days I enjoyed the hell out of it, and other days it was just a job, though we never tell the clients that.”
Darius laughed. “I guess not.”
“So that’s my story.” He had no doubt Darius knew he’d glossed over a hell of a lot of shittiness, but hopefully he wouldn’t call Marc on it.
“We should legalize escorts, rent boys, what the hell ever. Women too. Everyone should have the situation you did. There’ll always be people paying for sex. It doesn’t have to be dangerous for so many people.”
“Yeah. Exactly.” Marc was surprised by how passionate Darius sounded.
“So if the pay was good and you enjoyed it, why quit?”
Because you’re hot as hell.
No. No. No. That is not it.
“I can’t keep doing it forever. I was serious when I said I’d been considering a career in fashion for years. It probably sounds so stupid to say I need a direction now, but I do. I can’t be a twenty-something fucktoy forever.”
Darius frowned. “You are far more than that.”
Marc glanced up. Was Darius defending him? “I was kidding. Mostly. But thanks.”
Darius’s smile was softer, more genuine than usual and thus, far more dangerous.
“Anyway, I want to learn more about making clothes, so thanks for giving me an opportunity.”
“You’re welcome. But don’t think I’m going to be this nice once we’re back in the shop.”
Marc snorted. “Nice? I would never expect you to be nice. How absurd.”
“People irritate me.”
Marc snickered. “I’m sure the feeling is often mutual.”
“I have a skill few can emulate. People don’t pay me to be nice.”
Fair enough. “And you don’t need them to.”
“I put up with a lot from privileged shits who think I should be at their beck and call, but there are lines I do not allow my customers to cross.”
Darius might be an asshole a lot of the time, but Marc admired his attitude and the fact that he truly didn’t care about Marc’s work as an escort. Plenty of men said they didn’t and then either assumed he’d be their sex slave or kept making degrading little jabs about how he earned his money.