Filthy Lucre - Ryden

4

"Hey, this Ryan Ross guy... do you think he's attractive?"

Brendon was brushing his teeth at the sink when he heard Jon shout the question from their bed. He was looking through the glossy magazine Brendon had stolen from a hotel lobby and he turned towards his friend and shrugged. He kind of did. Actually he really did, but he wasn't going to tell Jon that.

"I don't know," he said, spitting the toothpaste into the sink. "I think he's okay."

"I'll bet he's absolutely insufferable," Jon commented, joint moving between his lips as he spoke. "Just another poor, little rich boy. Did you read this interview?" he asked, tapping at the page. "I mean, it must be really hard growing up the son of a millionaire-"

"Billionaire," Brendon corrected, slipping into his jacket.

"Same thing - getting everything he wants, breaking the law and getting away with it just because his dad's fucking loaded. Man," Jon sighed, throwing the magazine down on the floor beside the bed, "what a tough old life."

Brendon smiled softly and sat down on the bed beside his friend. Jon questioned the bruised jaw he returned home with a few nights ago after the situation with Marc got out of hand and Brendon briefly explained what happened, but he didn't tell Jon how he'd been robbed. Jon would only berate him for leaving his cash out and Brendon didn't need the headache. He knew he fucked up, he didn't need Jon to remind him.

He pushed his hand up inside of Jon's shirt and let his palm rub over his ribs. Jon flinched. "I've got to get going," he said, leaning in to peck Jon's cheek, inhaling the scent of smoke and cheap aftershave on his hair.

"You got anyone booked for today?" he asked, stubbing out the joint in the ashtray by his side. Jon's hand looped around Brendon's neck, holding him against his chest for a few moments until Brendon pulled away.

"A guy at two. We got a lunch date."

"Nice," Jon nodded, "all I got to look forward to later are perverts in crappy cars. Twenty bucks a go," he smiled, tongue pushing into the side of his cheek and curled fist moving in front of his mouth before he broke into a wide smile and pulled Brendon in for a kiss.

"At least I get fed," Brendon teased.

Jon batted him away fondly and looked up at him with a sigh. "There's no such thing as a free lunch, Bren," he said. Jon was kind of cynical these days – not that Brendon blamed him. He'd been working a lot longer than Brendon had; he'd seen a lot more shit.

"You should come with me. I'll try and smuggle you in under my jacket. You look like you could do with a decent meal."

His boyfriend flipped him off, but the smile lingered on his lips. Brendon knew he was lucky to have someone like Jon; someone who cared about him in a way that no one else did – he could look past the fucked-up job, to Jon, Brendon wasn't just his career choice – he had a name and character and hopes for the future. To each other, they were both humans – flawed and desperate, but still worthy of love.

An hour after leaving the apartment, Brendon was waiting patiently in the lobby of a grand office building on Wall Street. He hoped this wouldn't take long – he had to meet a client at two for lunch in the Time Warner Center and it was all the way on the other side of town. He'd done his research, making quick work of typing all the information he remembered about that motherfucker and Marc into Google, until he found what he was certain was the old bastard's place of work. It hadn't been too difficult to narrow down his search.

He approached the front desk ten minutes later and kindly asked to speak to Mr. Marc Willis. The pretty, young receptionist arched her eyebrow and asked if he had an appointment.