RUSH-HOUR - Never fall for a Yakuza (BL, mxm, bxb, SAMPLE)

Chapter 2

Returning home that evening, I was once again reminded of the urgency to find a better payed job. The hell-hole I had rented an apartment in - for far more than it was worth – wasn't just home to pests with six or more legs, but also to the human kind: Drug-dealers and –users, alcoholics, and, in-between, a handfull of poor students like myself who couldn't afford the insanely high rents in better parts of the city. Since I wasn't in the mood to search for a place in the outskirts, which would have meant commuting at least three to four hours each day in an overly crowded train, I reluctantly had to accept the disadvantages of my then current housing arrangement.

My suffocatingly small apartment lay on the second floor, and I had to pass by one of the known dealers in the complex to reach it. That guy gave me the chills whenever I saw him, so I always tried to rush by his door unnoticed. But this evening, my luck was truly bad. As soon as I passed by his apartment, it's door opened, and an unhealthily thin guy came out, probably one of the dealer's customers. Right behind him – Mister Chills, staring at me with his hungry eyes as if I was some kind of delicious treat. Needless to say: I started running before he could say even one word to me, and hurried inside my own apartment.

Initially, I had planned to wait at least one night or two before deciding whether or not I would write Shota. But now, I couldn't reach my run-down, ridiculously old laptop fast enough. A mere ten minutes later, and a curriculum vitae was on it's way to my old high-school-bully. It didn't feel good at all. Maybe I had some kind of premonition of all the shit I would have to go through in the months that followed, but at that moment, I had no idea whatsoever. All I knew was I had to leave this place, as soon, as possible, before I succumbed to a set of hungry eyes in a face that was totally suiting my taste...

Right the very next day, I received a call from Shota, inviting me to a job interview with his boss two days later. Of course I found it odd that he was so interested in getting me a job at his company, and discussed the matter with Hitako. His suggestion that Shota might have been a closeted gay and therefore had beaten the crap out of me in the past, which he now regretted, would have sounded convincing, hadn't it been Shota we were talking about. No, that guy was definitely not a homophobic out of trying to hide his own sexuality.

Whatever the reason for that guy to help me might have been, I had no choice but to do my best to get this job. So I played dress-up two days later with the borrowed suit – that was a bit too short for me, like most clothes -, styled my hair in a fashionable way, and headed off to the center of the city, to the club Rush-hour.

It was just after ten in the morning, and the outer appearance of the club wasn't as impressive as in the evenings, when all the lights were on and an insanely great amount of incredibly good-looking people gathered outside, waiting to gain entry. But it still reeked of money and snobbism, and of course spilled booze and vomit in the corners.

The club was located in one of the newly build palaces made of glass and steel that were the pride of our city's major. Shota had advised me to call his cell phone as soon as I arrived, and so I grabbed my smartphone with it's splintered display and dialed his number. Instead of an answer, the door to the club opened and Shota emerged, a big, smug grin on his face and a by far too colorful to be tasteful shirt on his upper body. No man, gay or straight, should ever wear camouflage of hot pink, vibrant yellow and apple-green, finished by sparkling applications forming some brand name.

Following my appaled gaze, he started laughing: „The designer is one of our regular guests. It would be an insult not to wear his presents on days he frequently visits, don't you think?"

I have to say, Shota really surprised me. That guy had become quite a good sports who was able to laugh about himself. My anxiety faded rapidly, lulling me into a - as I was about to find out later - false sense of security.