Second You Sin

by Scott Sherman

Genres: LGBT Gay; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Someone is killing New York City's hottest male prostitutes, and it's up to full-time call boy, part-time sleuth Kevin Connor to find out who. With his spectacular boy-next-door looks, quick wit, and ability to role-play even the most outrageous scenarios, Kevin is facing his most challenging position yet--to stop a ruthless killer. As Kevin begins his investigation, there's no shortage of possible suspects or motives. Could the killer be a sadistic head case with a deadly fetish? A high-profile celebrity worried that his biggest secret might get out? Or perhaps it's a right-wing politician, guilty of protesting too much from his pious and unforgiving soapbox. As Kevin gets closer to the truth, he'll find himself trapped in a scandalous web of secrets where the line between victim and predator blurs, and no sin goes unpunished. . .

Release date: May 26, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 321

Sample

Despite my unconventional choice of profession, I tried to have a normal life. I really did.

So how come weird stuff kept happening to me?

I started my week in church, like the good boy I try to be.

By the time the week was over, I’d find myself covered in whipped cream, attending a party in my underwear, defending my mother against a monster, working for a man I considered a Nazi, losing my semi-boyfriend, and fighting for my life.

But I had to do it all.

As I was soon to find out, someone was murdering the most beautiful male prostitutes in New York.

And it was up to me to find out who.

As a male hustler working in New York City, I’ve done plenty of kinky things. I’ve been tied up, scrubbed down, and hosed out. I’ve played every role my young-looking features lent themselves to. I’ve been the naughty schoolboy sent to the principal’s office for a paddling, the high school football hero treated for a pulled groin muscle by the horny coach, and the newspaper delivery boy who “accidentally” walks in on his customer in the nude. I’ve done it in the changing room of a major department store on Broadway, on a Thanksgiving float used in another store’s popular parade, and in the DJ booth of the city’s most popular dance club during an exclusive private party. With the DJ. I’ve been massaged, shaved, tickled, and wrapped in aluminum foil by some of New York’s wealthiest and most powerful men. I’ve been with guys who wore everything from tutus to superhero costumes to scuba suits.

For the most part, I love my job. If you have an open mind, other people’s kinks are fun and kind of sweet. I like that I give my clients a place to act out the desires they’re afraid to show their boyfriends, partners, husbands, and wives. As long as the activity is safe, consensual, and semi-legal, I’m down with it.

I do have my limits, though. Anything involving urine or, God forbid, that other thing, is out of the question. No how, no way, no matter how much he’s willing to pay. Not gonna happen.

Which brings me to the question of how I found myself, on this particular Sunday in November, being peed on by one Willem Patrick O’Reilly III, the golden stream arcing majestically to soak the entire front of my two hundred dollar John Varvatos hoodie.

“Pee!” Willem shouted happily. “I put my pee on you!”

Yeah, I let Willem pee on me. It wasn’t so much that he was cute (though he was) or rich (well, his parents were) but the fact that he was three years old that let him get away with it.

“Sorry, Kevin, I should have warned you he’s a soaker,” Cindy, my co-teacher in the playroom, called out as she watched Willem hose me down. “Some boys are like that. The minute you get their pants off, they can’t wait to celebrate.”

Cindy was in her mid-sixties. She wore her long gray hair in a ponytail and dressed like a hippie-Wicca from Woodstock. She didn’t seem to have a mean or sarcastic bone in her body.

“It’s OK,” I called back to her as she handed out more Play-Doh to the other kids in the class. “I’ll consider it a baptism.”

I looked down at Willem on the changing table, where he lay with a delighted grin.

“Good aim, kid.”

Willem laughed. “I pee all over you.”

“I’ll notify the awards committee,” I told him. “Now we both have to get changed.”

Willem stuck out his lower lip. “I don’t wanna get changed. I wanna play with Play-Doh!”

“Sorry, buddy,” I said. I cleaned him with a baby wipe and put a fresh diaper on him. “Now that the missile’s back in the silo, you want to get back to the other kids?”

Willem nodded enthusiastically.

I lifted him to the floor.

“How about next time,” I said, “you try to make that pee-pee in the potty?”

Willem grimaced. “Potties are poopie,” he explained.

“But,” I said, “if you use the potty, you don’t have to get changed and you’ll have more time to play with the Play-Doh.”

Willem looked thoughtful. “I scared of potty,” he said quietly.

I knelt down. “Why are you scared of the potty, Willem?”

“My brudder said I fall in and go to poopie land.”

“Your brother’s just teasing you,” I said, thinking I’d have to mention something to Willem’s mother when she picked him up. “You can’t fall down the toilet. I promise.”

Willem took my hand. “If I go potty, you come with me?”

I gave him my most serious look. “I promise.”

Willem kissed me on the cheek. “I wuv you, Kebbin.” He ran back to the Play-Doh.

I love you, too, buddy, I thought. I love you, too.

The truth was, I pretty much loved all kids. If I weren’t making such easy money as a hustler, I could see being a teacher. In the meantime, I satisfied my paternal yearnings here at the Sunday school program of The Metropolitan Unitarian Universalist Church of Manhattan.

I started coming to the church a few months ago, after a near-death experience that found me hanging naked from the ceiling of a serial killer’s torture chamber. As said killer was choking me, I didn’t see my life flashing before me, but I did, in a very Peggy Lee moment, think, Is that all there is?

Although I wound up being saved by my semi-boyfriend, the incredibly beautiful and conflicted Officer Tony Rinaldi of the New York Police Department, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there had to be more to existence than just getting by.

I might not have made it to heaven that night, but I got close enough that I wanted to make sure I knew the password.

I wasn’t raised in a religion, so I asked friends about theirs. Eventually, I found out about Unitarian Universalism. It’s a religion that has no dogma and no ritual. They don’t tell you what to believe in or what to do. You’re encouraged to live in a way that’s honorable and respectful of the natural world and other living things. The UU principles value democracy and freedom. You don’t even have to believe in God or Jesus to be a UU—although you’re encouraged to be courteous to those who do.

UU churches are supportive religious communities that prize diversity and intellectual curiosity.

Plus, the reverend of my church is a brilliant, inspiring speaker, openly gay, and totally hot. Every week, I listen to his sermons and am simultaneously spiritually uplifted and turned on.

Sexy enlightenment? Works for me.

A couple of months ago, one of the Sunday school teachers called in sick. Reverend Jack asked if I could fill in. Although I had hoped that his first request of me would involve massage oil and nude wrestling, I would pretty much do anything he asked.

So, I helped out. Working in the preschool room reminded me just how much I enjoy being around children. When an ongoing position there opened up, I was happy to volunteer. Now, every Sunday, I attend the early sermon and help run the preschool for the second session. The kids are great, and my coleader, Cindy, is funny and warm.

She’s also been a teacher long enough to know just how uncomfortable working in a urine-soaked sweatshirt can be.

“Go see Shirley in the office,” she told me. “She probably has some T-shirts left over from some church event or something.”

Shirley-in-the-office was one of those women who seemed to work at every church in the world: somewhere between seventy and one hundred, hair pulled back in a tidy bun, harlequin glasses permanently perched on the tip of her patrician nose. She took a sniff as I walked into the room.

“Let me guess,” she said in her hoarse rasp that proved that not everyone who smoked died young. “That’s not juice.”

“It was at one point,” I offered.

Shirley gave a little shudder. “That is just one of the reasons I never had children. Filthy beasts.” She waved her hand as if shooing something away.

“Listen,” I said. “Cindy thought you might have something I could change into.”

Shirley got up slowly. Her bones creaked like a door that hadn’t been opened in years. I wanted to get her a can of oil.

“In here,” she said, taking me into a small room behind her desk. Boxes were neatly stacked against the walls. She walked over to one and pulled out a white T-shirt that said “For Sale.”

I didn’t think Shirley knew what I did for a living, but the coincidence was bizarre.

“We used these for the mannequins at the church bazaar,” she explained. “But don’t worry, wearing it won’t make you look like a dummy.” She snorted at her joke.

I waited for her to leave, but she stood there and stared.

“Uh, I’m gonna get changed now,” I said.

“I’d imagine you would,” Shirley answered. “You smell like a urinal.”

“A little privacy?” I asked.

“Honey, look at me. If I were any older, they’d hang a plaque around my neck and declare me a historical site. It’s not that often I get to see a cute young thing like you get half naked. Why do you suppose I watch those insipid soap operas—for the plots? If you think I’m missing this, you’re crazy.” She crossed her arms and nodded.

I sighed and pulled my damp hoodie over my head. Shirley whistled.

“Well, look at you. Strong little thing, ain’t you?”

It’s a reaction I often get. I’m a small guy. Just five foot three and a buck twenty-five. But thanks to years of gymnastics and weight training, what little there is of me is pretty well built.

Of course, for me, looking good is a job requirement. With my youthful features and blond unruly hair, I’m your typical boy next door. Assuming you live next door to an Abercrombie & Fitch.

I keep myself in the best shape I can—not too muscular, but slim, lean, and cut. In my clothing, I look like a skinny kid, but when I’m undressed, the results of my hard work are evident.

Shirley was getting a good show, as I had to struggle to get the T-shirt she’d given me over my head. I checked out the label. XXS.

“You have anything bigger?” I asked her.

“Sorry, that’s all we have left,” she rasped. “Keep working, it’ll stretch.” She looked down at her flattened chest. “Trust me, sooner or later everything does.”

I continued to writhe. Eventually, I squeezed into it. If it were any tighter, I’d have died from strangulation. It clung to me like a second skin, the sleeves only covering the top inch of my biceps, and the bottom stopping an inch and a half above my belly button.

“Woo-eee, look at those abbydominals,” Shirley observed. “You should dress like that all the time.” She dropped her voice down to a whisper. “Although, not in church, honey. It’s not really appropriate.”

“Well, it’s not as if I chose this. . . .” I began. “Oh, never mind.”

Shirley-in-the-office watched as I left the room. “You should wear tighter pants, though,” she offered. “Show off that cute butt of yours. Oh, yes, you’d fit right in on one of my shows.”

As I walked back into the classroom, Cindy looked at me, blinked twice, and went back to reading the kids a story. When she was done, she pulled me out of earshot of the class and nodded toward my shirt. “Didn’t they have anything in an adult size?”

I grimaced. “Shirley said this was all they had left.”

“Well,” she said, “at least it’s better than walking around soaked in pee-pee.”

“I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

“Oh, no, you look fine,” she lied. “I mean, at least you have the figure for it. Just don’t walk past the middle school classes—those twelve-year-old girls will eat you alive.”

After class was over, the parents came down to the classroom and picked up their kids. A few of them looked at me a little funny, but I tried not to make eye contact with anyone. My little talk with Willem’s parents would probably go better when I wasn’t dressed like the Whore of Babylon. A slap on my butt, though, got my attention.

“Look at you,” said Nick, a darkly handsome guy in his late thirties who tended to be on the serious side. “Where have you been hiding all those muscles? And why bring them out to play today?”

“Hey,” I said, giving him a quick hug. “Usual story. Changing a diaper, unexpected hose-down, had to grab whatever was handy.”

“Yeah,” Nick said. “Been there, hated that. Could have been worse, though. Getting painted with what comes out the other end’s a real bitch.”

Nick’s partner, Paul, walked over with their son, Aaron, in his arms. He was a really adorable kid they’d adopted through foster care.

Aaron left one arm around Paul’s neck while hooking the other around Nick. He pulled the three of them as close together as his little arms could.

“There’s your Christmas-card photo right there,” I said.

“Hey, Kevin,” Paul said, giving me a peck on the cheek. Paul was about ten years younger than Nick, fairer, too, with a shy smile and cute, floppy hair. “You still have to come over for dinner one night. Aaron is dying to show you his action figure collection.”

“I have Supahman and Ba-Man and Wonna Woman and ’Pider Man and . . .”

Paul bounced him in his arms. “Whoa, big man, save the whole list for later, OK? We want Kevin to be surprised.”

“OK,” Aaron whined.

“But really,” Paul said, “you have to let Nick cook for you. He makes stuffed chicken breast to die for.”

“Speaking of,” Nick said, “check out those pecs on little Kevin, huh?”

Paul blushed, which was not unusual. He was definitely the sensitive type. He was also a pretty terrific painter. He was discovered by a gallery in LA a few years ago.

I knew their move to New York was paid for by his sales. I wasn’t quite sure what Nick did, but I think he was in some kind of law enforcement. Maybe he’d get along with my semi-boyfriend, Tony. He was certainly butch enough—Tony wasn’t comfortable around anyone too flamboyant, and Nick was definitely a man’s man. He practically leaked testosterone.

Nick pulled Paul closer. “Don’t worry, baby, you know I only have eyes for you.”

“It’s not your eyes I’m worried about.”

Nick tousled Paul’s shaggy hair.

“Will you call?” Paul asked me. “We really do owe you for taking such great care of Aaron.”

“I will,” I promised. “I’d love to come over sometime.”

I meant it. They were a terrific family and I looked forward to getting to know them better.

“And wear that shirt,” Nick called out, earning him a smack on the head from Paul.

“Don’t hit, Papa,” Aaron admonished.

“That’s my boy,” Nick said, pulling Aaron from Paul’s arms and throwing him in the air. Aaron laughed with glee and Paul sighed the sigh of put-upon housewives the world over.

When class was over, I threw on my leather jacket and hurried out the door. Although it was unseasonably mild weather for mid-November, there was enough of a chill in the air that I wished I could have worn the sodden sweatshirt I carried in a plastic bag.

I kept myself warm by walking quickly through the streets of the West Village to the coffee shop where I was meeting my best friend, Freddy.

It was a lazy Sunday, with just a handful of people walking around and even fewer cars on the road. I love Manhattan when it’s quiet and sleepy like this.

I’ve known Freddy since my freshman days at New York University, when I was an inexperienced freshman and he was the charismatic and dead-sexy student-president of the school’s Gay/Straight Alliance. Thankfully, he fell into the first category of the group’s name, and we quickly entered into a fast and thrilling affair. The sex was great—Freddy’s one of the most sensual partners I’ve ever had—but it quickly became clear we made better friends than we did lovers.

Well, to be honest, it only became clear when I found out that he had slept with twelve of the fifteen guys who had joined the group that year, including two of the three straight ones. Freddy had the most voracious sexual appetite I’ve ever encountered, and when you consider my profession, that’s saying a lot. Luckily for him, he’s fantastically good-looking and has a body to die for, so getting laid is never a problem.

Relationships, however, don’t come as easily. Freddy laughs off any suggestion that he might actually want to settle down with anyone—or any three or four, for that matter. It’s a subject that’s kind of awkward for me to pursue, because, despite the fact that we both act as if we’re uninterested, there’s an undeniably strong attraction between us. Which we’ve both been denying, that is.

I was pretty sure it could never work between us. We’re better off as friends.

Freddy rose to greet me as I walked through the door. “Sweet-heart!” he called.

The coffee shop where we met had just opened a few weeks before. It was called Drip. With its drop-dead gorgeous baristas and posters of sexy shirtless boys, it attracted a mostly male crowd. It was pretty packed on this Sunday morning, and the few diners in the shop who hadn’t already noticed Freddy turned to look. As usual, the quick glances became gazes as they drank in Freddy’s lusciousness.

“Hi,” I said. We exchanged air kisses and I noticed a few patrons continued to stare. Some at me, I hoped.

Freddy had just come from the gym—his church—and he was wearing a snug long-sleeved Under Armor workout shirt and sweatpants. The white shirt hugged and accentuated every curve of his rounded biceps and prodigious chest, contrasting nicely with his chocolate brown skin. I could see why eyes bulged at the sight of him.

Forgetting that I was wearing the “For Sale” T-shirt, I slipped off my leather jacket. Freddy’s mouth dropped.

Although I think it kind of titillated him, Freddy never really approved of my job. I winced, anticipating the drubbing about to come my way.

“Are we really that desperate for business?” he asked. “Have we taken to wearing promotional appeals on our chests? What’s next, darling, a sandwich board that says ‘Johns wanted, inquire within?’ Shall we take out an ad in the New York Times? ‘Cute young man available for hand jobs and light role-playing’?”

I noticed that the men at nearby tables had stopped talking as they hung on Freddy’s every word.

“I mean, really,” Freddy continued. He held up his hands in wonder. “Are times that bad? I know the economy is rough, but I thought sex was one of those commodities, like gas and toilet paper, that people are always willing to pay for.”

One of the guys at the next table laughed so hard he spit coffee through his nose. Nice.

“It’s not my shirt,” I whispered. “And could you keep your voice down? People are looking at us.”

“Consider it free advertising,” he told me.

“You’re horrible.”

“I know. And I’m sure there’s a fascinating story behind why you’re dressed like such a whore today. Besides, of course, the fact that you are such a whore. You’ll have to tell it to me one cold snowy night by the fire. But for now, how about I get you a coffee and a muffin or something. What do you . . .” Freddy paused and took a sniff. Then another.

“Is that . . . pee I smell?”

I blushed. “Oh, yikes. Really? Sorry.”

Freddy put his hands to his face in mock horror. “Watersports? On top of everything else, now you’re letting men urinate on you?”

Anyone who hadn’t been looking at us before was definitely staring now. I willed myself invisible.

“All right,” Freddy continued, “let me just get the coffee and something for us to eat. In the meantime,” he stage-whispered, “maybe you could freshen up a bit.”

Freddy got up and I tied the top of the shopping bag that held my Willem-soaked sweatshirt a little tighter. A middle-aged man who looked like the principal of my high school walked over and handed me his business card. “You sound like a lot of fun,” he whispered into my ear. “Do you get into pig play, too?”

I didn’t know what “pig play” was, but I suspected it wasn’t for me. I grabbed my bag, Freddy’s jacket, and pulled Freddy out of the coffee line. “We’re leaving,” I hissed at him.

“Why?” Freddy said. “Did you just make a sale?”

Freddy struggled to keep up as I race-walked down the street. Even with my shorter legs, I could make pretty good time when I was mad.

“Would you wait a goddamn minute?” he called. “What is this, Chariots of Fire?”

I stopped and turned to him. “I couldn’t very well stay there after everyone heard you call me a big golden shower–loving prostitute!”

“I didn’t say you loved golden showers,” Freddy clarified. “A lot of people have jobs they don’t like.”

“Arrggh!” I threw up my hands.

Freddy tousled my hair. “I love how cute you are when you’re embarrassed, do you know that?” He grabbed me in a great big bear hug. “It’s not your fault that Auntie Freddy likes to tease, darling.”

As always, I was surprised by just how strong and warm Freddy’s hugs were.

“Whatever,” I said, finding it hard to stay mad at him when his embrace felt so good.

“Actually,” he began, stepping back, “I wanted to leave anyway. I slept with two guys there, and I was afraid there was going to be an awkward encounter.”

I reminded Freddy that it wasn’t unusual for him to run into at least two or three former lovers anyplace we went.

“I know,” Freddy said. “But I slept with both of them yesterday . So, you can see where it could have gotten a little dicey. You know how some people are so touchy about every little thing.”

“I cannot believe,” I said, “that you call me a whore, when you have more sex in a week than I do in a month.” I wasn’t exactly sure my math was right, but I went with it anyway.

“But, darling,” Freddy explained, “I do it for love. You do it for money. That’s what makes me a ‘free spirit’ and you a ‘whore.’ ”

“Love? I bet you didn’t even know those guys’ last names.”

“Oh, I don’t love them,” Freddy said. “I love cock, darling. The guys are just what’s attached.”

Somewhere inside Freddy was a person yearning to love and be loved, thoroughly, with his whole heart and soul, and not just a frighteningly efficient sex machine.

At least, I hoped so.

We reached the door of another coffee house a block away. “Listen, Mr. Romance, why don’t you peek in and make sure there isn’t anyone inside you’ve fisted in the past twenty-four hours? Let me know if the coast is clear.”

“Good idea,” Freddy said, entering the door.

A moment after he disappeared from sight, I heard someone calling my name. I turned and saw Randy Bostivick, one of the city’s most beautiful and popular male hustlers. Randy and I both worked for the same escort agency, run by the inimitable Mrs. Cherry.

Randy had been jogging. Although he was as big as a body builder, Randy kept himself lean through strenuous aerobics and liberal doses of crystal meth and steroids. While meth was usually a devil best avoided by anyone looking to live past the month, Randy tolerated it like he absorbed everything else life threw at him: with grace, a tremendous appetite, and no apparent bad effect. I suspected he might be the child of Norse gods.

As he waited for me to come over, he bounced on his heels, causing his massive pectoral muscles to bounce like happy puppies under his loose tank top. His skimpy nylon shorts were split up the sides to reveal thighs thicker than my waist.

“Hey, Rands,” I said, walking over to him by the curb. He picked me up effortlessly, his hard biceps pressing into my back like . . . well, there’s really nothing like an impressive bicep, is there? Warm and hard as a hot water pipe, yet still somehow pliant and inviting to the touch.

“How’s my favorite little cupcake?” he asked, squeezing. I struggled to catch a breath.

“Good, but, BTW, you’re killing me here.”

“Sorry,” he said, setting me back down. “Look at you. So sweet and scrumptious. I could eat you up right here.”

Randy was a boy of simple pleasures, at least two of which, food and sex, he frequently confused. He was almost always in a good mood, except for the occasional ’roid rage, which, while intense, usually passed quickly.

“Let’s see the goods,” Randy said, his meaty paws unzipping my jacket. I loved the feeling of Randy’s hands on me. We had gotten it on once, when we were both hired to perform at a gay bachelor party, and the experience was highly memorable.

“Whoa,” he said. “‘For Sale’? Putting it right out there on your T-shirt? That’s really smart. I should do that.”

“It’s not what you think,” I began.

“What’s on the back?” Randy asked, turning me around. “A price list?”

I pulled my jacket closed again. “It’s cold out here, bro.”

Randy shifted from foot to foot, keeping his body in motion. “Not for me. Working up a sweat, baby.” He took my hand and put it on his heaving wet chest, his nipple as hard as a pebble under my palm. “See?”

I snatched my damp hand back. “I’ll never wash it again,” I promised.

“Ha!” Randy laughed. “You’re a funny kid. So cute and young. Like a lamb chop, you know, tender and sweet with mint jelly, just waiting to be bitten into. Goes down smooth as butter. Yum.” Randy smiled with the memory of a meal or a screw long remembered. Who could tell with him?

“So,” I said, “how have you been?”

“Great, but did you hear about Brooklyn Roy?”

Brooklyn Roy was another hustler, although as far as I knew, he was working legit now, having scored a role in the chorus of whatever musical Matthew Broderick was appearing in on Broadway.

Roy was a handsome guy, if a little bland. He had the kind of generic good looks that promised his eventual casting as the friendly, unthreatening neighbor on a TV series targeted at older women. Cute enough to bring home but not so much that you’d pine for him the next day. Randy and I had run into him a few times at the clubs.

“Yeah,” I said, “he’s in a show, right? Good for him. I don’t remember the name.”

“Dead.”

“That’s a horrible name for a musical,” I said.

“No, Brooklyn Roy. Dead.”

“What? How?”

“Mugging. Or gay-bashing. He was found a couple of weeks ago on Bleecker. His wallet was gone and his head was smashed in with a lead pipe. The police aren’t calling it a hate crime, but I’ve been hanging out on Bleecker these past f. . .