Page 3 of Chained
Terry grinned and shrugged. “I just turned thirty.”
That brought a nod. “Better. Too old to make a start in the industry, but you can pass for twenty-five, so it’s all right.” He emptied the glass in one long swallow and set it on the billiard table, which Terry thought was a no-no. “What made a man your age suddenly decide to be a movie star? Or was it your secret dream all along?” He said the last part mockingly, with clasped hands and upward gaze.
“I, uh, didn’t. I mean, I never really thought about it. But this guy came up to me while I was eating dinner, and—”
“Yeah, yeah.” Whitaker waved a hand dismissively. “He said you have the face of an angel and oughtta be in pictures. I know that part.”
What Whitakerdidn’tknow was that the long-time associate who’d referred Terry to him was also an informant for the Bureau. And it was Townsend who’d really chosen Terry, probably because Terry was young enough and good-looking.
He tried an ingratiating smile, one that made him look not especially bright. “It sounded exciting—a great opportunity. I really appreciate you taking the time to meet with me today.”
Whitaker didn’t smile back. Instead he stalked behind the bar, where he rustled in a drawer, eventually pulling out a crystal ashtray, a silver lighter, and a pack of Marlboros. He lit one of the cigarettes and left everything else on the bar. Then he spent a few long moments smoking and squinting at Terry. “Strip.” He ground out the cigarette.
“I…. Excuse me?”
Whitaker spoke with exaggerated slowness, as if addressing an imbecile. “Take off all your clothes.”
Terry didn’t have to act dumb now—hefeltdumb, and a hot blush spread over his face. “Why do you want me to undress?”
“For Christ’s sake, I’m not gonna fuck you, kid. I gotta see what kind of raw material I’m working with here.” He lit another cigarette and took a long drag.
Shit. Terry wasn’t exactly shy, but this felt weird.. The door into the room remained open, and the three dogs watched his every move. If he refused, the assignment would fail. So he slipped off his jacket and set it on the billiard table. His fingers stayed steady as he unbuttoned his shirt. The shoes and socks were easy—the slacks, less so. It took a force of will to strip out of his underwear and then just stand there, naked as the day he was born. He kept his hands at his sides and tried not to think about the gun hidden inside his coat.
After what felt like a century of scrutiny, Whitaker jerked his chin. “Turn around.”
Terry did, working his jaw as he faced the wall. He wasn’t embarrassed about his body, which he kept in good shape, but he hated being… examined.
“Back this way,” Whitaker said, but when Terry reached for his clothing, he shook his head. “Not yet.”
“I don’t feel—”
“Shut it. You know what an actor is? A talking hunk of meat. You wanna be in the business, ya gotta learn that real fast. Everything you got there, from your pretty face to that big dick you’re probably so proud of, that’s a commodity that I’m gonna have to sell. I need to see if it’s worth the effort.”
Terry had always been under the impression that actors—good ones, anyway—were a lot more than that. They were artists who used their talent and hard work to bring characters to life. But this didn’t seem like the right occasion to argue his point. “I don’t want to do porn,” he said.
Whitaker barked a laugh and ground out his cigarette. “I see. You havestandards. Look. It’s all porn—even the shit that wins Oscars. Doesn’t matter whether you’re playing Macbeth on screen or doing half of a DP of some bitch with tits the size of New Jersey. Either way, you’re selling your ass.” He came out from behind the bar, strolled around the billiard table, and paused to pat the dog that sat alone. The dog didn’t react. Terry turned to face Whitaker as he drew close—close enough to almost touch. Whitaker was shorter than him by three or four inches yet somehow seemed to loom. He smelled of scotch, smoke, and expensive cologne.
“My actors do the big-budget kind of porn. No Oscars, but also no fucking. Action films. Buddy comedies. Slasher pics. Chick flicks.”
“I’d like to do all of those,” Terry said. He put a little waver in his voice, hoping he sounded both eager and nervous.
Whitaker had strange eyes—larger than they ought to be and with irises so dark that his pupils were invisible. Townsend had said that Whitaker was entirely human, but those eyes made Terry wonder.
“Are you queer?” Whitaker asked quietly.
Terry wasn’t exactly out at work, although Townsend probably knew. Townsend knew pretty much everything about his agents. Now, just for a moment, Terry considered lying. But the more falsehoods he accumulated, the harder it would become to play his part. Besides, Whitaker’s gaze seemed to penetrate him.
“I’m gay.”
Whitaker gave a slow nod. “The truth. Maybe there’s hope for you, kid. I don’t give a shit who you like to fuck. Hell, a taste for cock’s nowhere near as twisted as some of the shit I’ve seen. But you gotta keep it quiet. I can supply you with more ass than you know what to do with—boys who know to keep their traps shut. But if you’re gonna be a movie star, you can’t be seen with studs at the Probe.”
“I don’t go clubbing.”
“Why not?”
“It makes me uncomfortable.” That was honest too. Although he loved to dance, he’d been afraid that being too open about his sexuality would get him booted from the Bureau. Later, some of the gay men he knew had become sick—young men suddenly wasting away to skeletons before dying. Terry had felt relieved he’d avoided the same fate, yet also obscurely guilty, as if by staying mostly in the closet he’d somehow betrayed others.
“Well, that’ll make things easier. If I decide to take you on, I can get you all the tail you want.Safetail.” For some obscure reason, he looked at the solo dog and laughed. The dog twitched his ears and turned his head away.
