Whore.

Chapter 3: Scotch

Whiskey was taking effect as I stared back as Swash with what must have looked like a humorous attempt at anger. Because he was laughing. Hard. I was getting irritated.

"What do you want?"

"Is that how you should treat a paying customer?" He couldn't hide the humor as his eyes lit up in amusement. He stepped back from the door and pointed his palm in. I stood at the door. I knew I didn't want to go into this house. I was only here because I was too drunk follow the voice in my head that was telling me to run. Swash kept grinning. I don't know which part of this he found funny, seeing as there wasn't a joke said since I arrived. I followed his gaze down to my crotch and I saw why he was laughing.

I had spilled scotch on my cream-coloured pants and it made what looked a lot like a piss stain. I looked back at him, embarrassed. He chuckled again. I walked in and he closed the door behind me. I took in his apartment. It was beautiful, I couldn't lie. There was a simplicity to it that made the decorative items really pop. A tiki mask, a single red carnation in a stone vase, three paintings of lines that seemed to change colors as they moved from one canvas to another. All set against tan coloured walls, dark wood flooring and cream coloured furniture. I breathed out, realizing I'd been holding my breath since I started looking around.

"Want a drink?"

I snapped out of my admiration reverie as I nodded quietly. The scotch had really dried my throat. He got some spring water out of the fridge in the adjoining kitchen and poured it in a glass. I took it from him and doused my thirst eagerly. My head cleared a bit.

"Thanks."

He placed the glass on a marble counter and looked at me again, this time more gravely. I stared back, expressionless. He stepped back slowly and sat on the couch. This was getting weird. I had to do my job and get out of here. Maybe he'll pay well, if he could afford a place like this.

"Are we going to do anything?"
"Yeah. I'd like to talk to you."
"Talk?"

He nodded, and then looked away. Now I was getting confused.

"You brought me all the way here to talk? Can't I just blow you and leave?" I asked. Then added quietly "God knows I don't want to be here."
"I'm sorry."

Was that an apology or he wanted me to repeat what I'd just muttered? I raised an eyebrow at him and he looked up to meet my gaze.

"I'm really sorry, Michael."
"Really. Now you're apologizing?"
"I've looked for you for four years. You're a hard man to find."
"Really. You looked for me. Then how did you find me?"

He looked away again. I was getting tired of the awkward silences.

"Look, you either tell me what you want to tell me, or we fuck so I can leave." I was surprised at my own bluntness. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe I wasn't afraid anymore. Swash looked back at me and opened his mouth as if he was going to say something. Then he closed it again. That was it. I couldn't do this anymore.

"I'll get you a refund minus travel costs," I said as I started towards to door. He shot up from the couch and held my hand. His eyes looked pleading. Where was this range of emotion coming from? The Swash I knew was a hard-headed asshole who ruined my high school years. Not this almost-crying man grabbing on my arm like I was his last hope in the world.

"Please. Just hear me out. I'm finding it hard to form the words. I want you to forgive me Michael. Please."

I frowned.

"Why do you care if I forgive you? I could have lived the rest of my life without thinking about you. Then you call me up today to drag up shit that I don't want to think about? I'd like to go back to my life now Swash. The life where you're a memory I'm working to forget."
"Please don't go. I haven't been able to live with myself since I heard what happened to you. I'm really sorry. I just hope you can find a way to forgive me."
"Well tough shit. You don't just ask for forgiveness and get it. You've got a lot-" I stopped as I felt suddenly nauseous. Shit, I was going to throw up. I pushed Swash out of the way as I rushed over to the kitchen sink and threw up violently. I was retching over and over as I felt my stomach empty. My mouth tasted vile, like acid and spoiled food. I felt really weak. I was going to slip to the floor when Swash held me. His body heat was comforting, I couldn't lie. He still had that musculature from years of being an athlete, though now he had a little more body fat. It gave him a weird feel: soft yet firm. He guided me to the couch and he filled another glass for me.