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Fic: King of Wishful Thinking (1/4)
King of Wishful Thinking
Jon/Spencer | 34000 words | NC-17
"I mean...you're a really great-looking guy." Jon absolutely does not blush harder. "You could have any guy you want for free, and for a lot longer than a week."
"Thanks for the flattery, but like I said, I don't have time for the bullshit of dating. I want a professional."
Epic Pretty Woman AU where Jon is a hooker with a heart of gold and Spencer is the rich guy who loves him. This entire thing would never, ever have existed were it not for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
siryn99 and her constant cheerleading and handholding. What started as flailing in an AIM chat got, um, a little out of control. She also wrote a fantastic epilogue, which I'll link at the end. ♥ Many, many thanks as well to my insanely amazing betas, flickerofyou and sweetrecovery.
There's also a soundtrack, because I'm ridiculous like that.
Spencer has been in LA for six hours, and he's already remembering with startling clarity why he hates California. More specifically, he's remembering why business in California is always a pain in his ass.
Normally he's a seasoned pro at cocktail parties held at ridiculously expensive mansions, but tonight he's not in a mood to schmooze and network. He's just tired; he hasn't slept much in the past few days, which doesn't bode well for the meeting with Clandestine Records tomorrow. Spencer needs to be on top of his game, especially since it's the first time he'll be meeting the founder and CEO, Pete Wentz, face-to-face, not just over conference calls.
He can't begin to be on top of his game if he's popping No-Doze and drowning himself in coffee.
Of course, his lawyer, Gabe, is halfway through a bottle of Bombay and is clearly making plans to go home with one of the associates from the Santa Monica branch; he's never had a problem with hangovers the way Spencer does.
Spencer leans over Gabe's shoulder and says, "I'm leaving."
Gabe stops mid-sentence and looks up from where he's draped across her on the couch. "What? You just got here!"
"I've been here two hours, Gabe, and we've got the meeting with Wentz and his partner tomorrow. I need some beauty sleep."
"Spence, c'mon, lighten up and live a little. The Clandestine deal is gonna be a cake walk and you know it."
"What I know is that it took a month to even convince them to meet with us. Either way, I'm not staying just so I can watch you score and be bored out of my mind when I could be sleeping."
Gabe sighs and shakes his head. "You'll never get a cab out here."
"No?" Spencer smirks and holds out his hand. "Then I'm taking your car."
Gabe splutters and shoves Associate Girl off of him so he can scramble to his feet. "The Ferrari? Are you shitting me? You don't know the first fucking thing about driving in LA, and you barely know how to drive a stick."
Spencer rolls his eyes and doesn't even hesitate to reach into the pocket of Gabe's pants for the keys. "I've gotten better with a clutch, and GPS is a fantastic invention, you know?" He waves the keys in Gabe's face. "You can pick it up in the morning."
"Spencer, you bitch!" Gabe yells after him, but Spencer waves over his shoulder and keeps walking.
Unfortunately, Gabe was right about one thing: Spencer really, really doesn't know his way around LA. And apparently, neither does the GPS in Gabe's Ferrari. Spencer types in Regent Beverly Wilshire, but the display keeps reading invalid entry and trying to show him directions to steakhouses.
Spencer taps his hands on the leather steering wheel. "Fuck it," he mumbles, and backs the car awkwardly out of the massive driveway, grinding gears and killing the transmission twice before getting onto the main road.
________________________________________
Jon really feels like he knows enough facts about the Civil War to make his brain bleed.
"C'mon, one more." Brendon grins as he leans back against the brick wall between Carl's Tattoos and the local porn store that sells nothing but Spanish language pornos. "Who came up with the Anaconda Plan?"
"How do you even remember this shit?" Jon closes his eyes and tries to mentally go through all his notes from the past week's study guide.
"Dude, you have notecards all over the place. I read them in the bathroom."
Jon sighs and cracks one eye open, wincing. "General Scott?"
Brendon high-fives him and says, "You are so gonna ace that bitch."
It's been a slow night, and since Jon started taking classes to get his GED, he has Brendon quiz him during the down times. Brendon retains the information so well, Jon thinks he should go take the test with him.
He tugs at the cuffs of his leather jacket—it's actually Brendon's, who earlier in the day had talked him into trying a "gay James Dean" look tonight. His feet are getting twitchy inside his old pair of leather boots (one of exactly two pairs of real shoes he owns outside of a mountain of flip-flops), and his jeans are a little on the obnoxiously tight side, but Brendon swears he looks he looks "rugged, but not scary."
"I'd better ace it, since I'm gonna be broke next week." Jon shoves his hair back and slumps against the wall next to Brendon, watching the various locals and tourists walk by them without a second glance. "They say studying pays off, but not when it keeps you from working."
"No worries, okay? We'll figure something out." Brendon nods to himself like he's figuring out the month's bills in his head; rent's due in a few days. "If anything, I can ask Mikey to fit me in somewhere in his next shoot." When money gets super tight, Brendon does small parts in porn shoots. Unfortunately, money's never that good, and the last time Brendon did a sex scene, the guy was so rough with him, Brendon walked with a limp for a week.
"Fuck no, you're not going back there." Jon can feel the hints of his usual stress headache coming on; he's long since learned to ignore it.
"The last time was a fluke, Mikey said—"
"I don't give a shit what Mikey said, you're not going back."
Brendon narrows his eyes at Jon, then smirks. "Thought I was the one who looked out for you, Jonny Walker." He knocks his shoulder against Jon's. "Oh how far you've come, young padwan."
Jon snorts and tries not to think about two years ago, when he'd taken the last of his money and hopped a bus from Chicago to Los Angeles, hoping to meet up with his buddy Nick and start a new band on the LA scene. Nick had somehow landed in jail, leaving Jon with almost no money and no place to stay. Luckily, he'd found Brendon smoking outside of a 7-11 and had asked for a cigarette. As fate would have it, Brendon's roommate had skipped town. The rest was history.
It's a long, long cry from the music scene he'd hoped to become a part of, but it keeps a roof over his head. He and Brendon are both clean, and Brendon got out from under his pimp before Jon even knew him. It's just the two of them and the occasional turf war.
No one's out to make trouble tonight, though. Business is slow, but the weather's nice. Jon stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket (fingertips brushing over a small bottle of lube and six condoms—though usually the johns never want to go more than once) and keeps running Union Army generals through his head as Brendon hums the latest Britney Spears song under his breath.
A guy named Kevin, who's notorious for butting in on their block, saunters by and smirks at Brendon, who glares right back at him.
"Taking a walk, Kev?" Brendon asks curtly. "I'm pretty damn sure you're supposed to be down with Esther Williams, not up here with Buddy Holly." He sweeps his hand out across the stars on the sidewalk.
Kevin stops and rolls his eyes. "'scuse the shit of me for making a shortcut." He jerks his chin at Jon. "Besides, he's new, what the hell."
Jon wants to calmly point out that he's not that new, but Brendon jumps in front of him and says, "Yeah, well, I'm fucking old, and we've worked this block for the past six months, so go take your skinny ass back down there and shut the fuck up." His neck is flushed red, and Jon can hear the way Brendon's voice gets high and tight whenever he's angry and trying not to show it.
Kevin flips him off as he starts walking again. "Chill out, Urie, you're getting way too fucking uptight these days," he yells over his shoulder.
Brendon turns around and frowns at Jon. "Am I really getting uptight?" he asks, pouting his lower lip out a little.
Jon shrugs. "No. Maybe." He laughs when Brendon's face falls. "Don't worry about it, seriously."
"I think it's 'cause I'm hungry." Brendon drops his head onto Jon's shoulder and sighs dramatically. "I'm wasting away and all I get are asshole twinks trying to hound in on our block."
Jon would offer to buy him a hot dog, but he's got all of a dollar to his name at the moment. He pats Brendon's cheek and says, "You'll survive." God, he can't wait until he takes his test and can get hired at the recording studio down the street from their apartment; he'll finally be able to leave this behind.
"Oh my god, check that shit out." Brendon's head pops up off Jon's shoulder as he points to the street. A black Ferrari screeches to a halt along the sidewalk in front of them, the back right tire almost jumping the curb. The windows are tinted, so Jon can't quite see inside.
"They've gotta be lost," Jon says. He rarely sees Ferraris in this part of town, especially parked at the curb.
"Some Beverly Hills douchebag roaming the streets in his new toy," Brendon mutters.
But then the driver's door opens and a young guy dressed in a pristine suit gets out, holding his Blackberry up like he's searching for a signal. Then he swears and smacks the phone against his palm.
Jon barely notices because the guy is kind of ridiculously hot. He blinks as the guy gets back in his car and replies, softly, "Yeah, um...definitely lost."
"Shit, if all rich douchebags looked like him, I'd up my standards. Damn." Brendon makes a show out of sighing and waving his hand toward the car. "Fine, go pull your little aw-shucks-I'm-a-cute-Midwestern-boy routine and see if it gets us some rent money. But don't take any less than two hundred. No, three hundred—with a car like that, the guy can handle it." He reaches up and scrubs a hand through Jon's hair, mussing it slightly before he smudges Jon's eyeliner.
"There, you're set. Go get him, tiger."
Jon laughs. "Thanks, coach." He bites his lip for a second and steels his nerves, sliding into the laid-back, casual mode he adopts whenever he approaches a prospective john. He always makes it seem like he's just passing through, that he's no different than some guy you'd run into in a bar or a club. He slips his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and walks up to the passenger window of the Ferrari.
Just before Jon knocks, he hears, "Fucking piece of fucking shit," from inside the car. When the window slides down, the guy is slamming his hand against the navigation system in the dashboard and looks about three seconds away from annihilating it.
"Lost?" Jon asks, smiling his safest, most charming grin.
The guy huffs and smacks the navigation screen again. "Yeah, and my fucking GPS is brain-dead, and my phone doesn't get a signal out here for whatever fucking stupid reason. It's Hollywood, why the shit wouldn't I get a goddamn signal?" He pinches the bridge of his nose, other hand clenched around the gear shift.
Jon folds his arms on the edge of the window and leans into the car. He's instantly hit with the smell of leather. And money. "Where are you trying to go?"
"The Regent Beverly Wilshire. I...don't remember the address, but isn't this navigation shit supposed to be smarter than me?"
"To be honest, I don't trust computers to tell me where to drive." He turns his grin on a little stronger. "Listen, I know this area like the back of my hand. How 'bout you let me give you directions? I swear I'm better than a computer."
The guy lets out a long breath and smiles in relief. "Yeah, yeah, okay, that'd be great."
"Awesome. Just give me ten bucks."
The guy blinks at Jon. "Excuse me?"
Jon spreads his hands. "Hey, look, I'm as much a good Samaritan as the next guy, but I'm on the clock."
Realization dawns in the guy's (insanely gorgeous blue, holy shit) eyes. "You're a hooker," he says slowly.
"What I am is not lost."
The guy doesn't say anything for several moments, and Jon figures he gave it a good try. He pushes off the door and says, "Whatever, have fun finding your hotel."
"Wait!"
Jon glances back through the window as the guy fumbles with his wallet. He hands Jon two fives. "Here."
Jon beams at him as he takes the money. "Much obliged." He gives the simplest directions he can, and when he finishes, the guy takes a deep breath and nods.
"Thanks." He tries to downshift into what Jon assumes is reverse, only the car groans and the gears screech. The car jerks a little along the curb, and the guy says, "Fuck," under his breath.
"You're not giving it enough gas before you ease up on the clutch." Jon leans further into the Ferrari and points at the gear shift. "Put it back in first, then give it some gas."
The guy gives a frustrated laugh. "You know how to drive a manual?"
"Sure." Granted, Jon's never in a billion years driven a fucking Ferrari, but he figures all clutches are relatively the same.
The next thing he knows, the guy throws a fifty dollar bill at him and says, "Can you get me to the hotel? I can't drive this goddamn thing to save my life. My, um, Mercedes back home is all automatic." He laughs again, the sound nervous and too high.
Jon looks down at the fifty in his hand, then back over his shoulder at Brendon, who gives him a thumbs up. If anything, the sixty bucks he just made can pay for the bus ride back home.
"Okay, yeah," Jon says, figuring he has nothing to lose. "I'll drive you."
________________________________________
It's not the craziest thing Spencer's ever done. Well, okay, maybe it is, and if Gabe knew Spencer let some rent boy off the street in lower West Hollywood drive his Ferrari, Spencer's pretty sure he'd be buried six feet under.
Thank god said rent boy seems pretty adept at handling a hundred thousand dollar sports car.
Spencer winces. He should really stop thinking of the guy as a nameless hooker. "I'm Spencer," he says as they turn a corner. "Spencer Smith. What's your name?"
The guy glances over at Spencer, hair falling in his eyes. He's more than a little good-looking, and Spencer hates that the thought makes him blush. "It's whatever you want it to be," he drawls with a smirk.
Spencer barks out a laugh without meaning to. "Are you serious? You really say that shit to people?"
The smirk turns into a genuine smile. "It's Jon."
"Ever driven a sports car before, Jon?"
"Not unless you count the Camaro I hotwired in high school for a buddy of mine." His hands twitches a little on the gear shift. "It's, um, a nice car, though. You should really learn to drive it sometime." He laughs and ducks his head, like he completely didn't mean to say the last part out loud.
"It's not my car, it's my lawyer, Gabe's. Long story."
Jon frowns at the stoplight. "You're letting me drive your lawyer's car?"
Spencer waves him off. "Whatever. He's getting drunk off his ass at the moment with some bottle-blond associate who thinks going green means eating organic granola."
Jon grins as the light turns. "Yeah, real granola is hell on the environment," he replies, and Spencer laughs.
Soon the hotel comes into view, and Jon starts to pull over to the curb. "We should probably switch out," he says carefully, which Spencer takes to mean you probably don't want them to see me driving this car.
"It's just the valet and the doorman. If they want to gossip, let them."
Jon chews his lip for a second, then pulls right up to the front of the hotel. The valet opens the door for Spencer and says, "Good evening, Mr. Smith, welcome back," but Jon doesn't bother to wait to have his door opened. He hops out of the car and tosses the keys to the valet.
"The clutch is kind of a bitch, FYI," he says, grinning at Spencer.
The valet pauses. "...Yes, sir. Thank you."
Spencer bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He stands at the curb and watches Gabe's car drive off, wondering what happens next, if Jon will just take off as well, or if he should invite him up, or—
"So, thanks for the test drive." Jon has his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. He rocks back on his heels and smiles tentatively. "I'm just, uh, gonna get a cab with my sixty bucks."
Spencer nods, and for the first time in ages, he's at a loss for words. "Sure. Thanks for helping me out back there, I appreciate it." He holds his hand out awkwardly, and Jon looks down at it slowly, then back up to meet Spencer's eyes (god, he's wearing fucking eyeliner, Spencer hadn't noticed until now).
"No problem, Mr. Spencer Smith." There's a hint of a lisp in the way he says Spencer's name, and for some weird reason, Spencer finds that inexplicably hot. He shakes Spencer's hand, and for a moment something sharp passes between them, something that makes Spencer swallow and take a deep breath. He drops Jon's hand as he steps back with every intention of walking up the steps and going up to his suite.
Jon gives him a tiny salute and turns away, and Spencer tells himself he's watching just to make sure Jon gets a cab okay, even though he knows it's not his business. There's no reason he should want to make sure this guy, this rent boy, gets back all right. But Jon doesn't hail a cab; he walks over to the bus stop and folds himself up onto the bench.
Before Spencer can talk himself out of it, he calls, "No cabs?"
Jon looks over and shakes his head. "Naw, I like the bus. It's cheaper, anyway." His smile is slightly crooked.
Spencer can feel his cheeks growing warm as he walks over, his brain screaming, Oh god, what the hell are you even doing?. He keeps going, though, and says, "So, I have a suite. Upstairs. It's huge and a little overdone, but if you wanted to, maybe—"
"Come up?" Jon's smile has gone from crooked to full-blown.
"Um." Spencer feels so utterly lame. "Well...yes."
Jon gets up from the bench, and the ease of his walk, the casual sway of his hips, makes Spencer's mouth water. "I'm gonna need a little more than fifty bucks to come upstairs," he says quietly, and Spencer feels ridiculous relief that Jon understands discretion.
"Of course," Spencer replies quickly. "We can talk payment in the suite?"
Jon reaches out and tugs at the end of Spencer's tie, leaning in closer. "You've got yourself a deal, Spencer Smith," he whispers, and Spencer's breath stutters.
"But first, let's..." Spencer shrugs out of his suit jacket and hands it to Jon. "Put this on."
"I'm already wearing a jacket."
"Yeah, I know, just—trust me on this, okay? This isn't exactly a place that rents by the hour."
Jon narrows his eyes at Spencer, but slowly takes off his leather jacket and trades Spencer. He still stands out like a rumpled, eyeliner-covered sore thumb, but Spencer figures it's the best he can do.
The lobby is fairly empty when they come inside. Spencer glances over at Jon, who has his arms folded across his chest; the sleeves of Spencer's suit jacket cover half his hands. His expression is neutral, but Spencer can see a twitch in Jon's jaw as he stares up at the giant crystal chandelier hanging over the lounge area.
An idea hits him at the last second; he grabs Jon's elbow and steers him back toward the reception desk, where the manager, Ryan, is still on duty. Spencer likes him because he's polite without being a sycophant to anyone with a black American Express.
"Nice to see you again, Mr. Smith," Ryan says with a small smile, and his eyes only flick to Jon for a second. "Back for the evening?"
"Yeah, and I was wondering—" Spencer's phone buzzes in his pocket. When he digs it out, there's one text from Gabe: is my car still alive??
He rolls his eyes. "I was wondering if I can have some champagne and strawberries sent up?" he asks as he types back yes in the garage now, thank you.
"Certainly." This time Ryan's gaze stays on Jon a little longer, one eyebrow cocked, and Jon starts shifting from foot to foot as he hugs his arms closer to his body. "Anything else, sir?"
Spencer realizes he's still holding Jon's leather jacket in his hands. "No, ah, that's great, thanks, Ryan." He slides a ten dollar bill across the marble counter and quickly nudges Jon toward the elevators, his cheeks suddenly too hot.
"Strawberries?" Jon asks. His mouth looks like it wants to smirk, but is too hesitant to try.
Spencer shakes his head, the flush creeping down his neck as he hits the up button for the elevator. "I felt like some," he mutters, wondering once again what in the hell he's doing, why he ever thought he could pull something off like take a rent boy home and not be a complete failure.
Then the elevator doors slide open, and Jon says, "Holy shit." He pushes past the elevator attendant and flails his arms around. "Dude, you could, like, fit a fucking truck in here!" He's beaming at Spencer like he's seriously wondering if he could do just that.
The attendant's mouth falls open for a moment. "Erm, uh..." He looks helplessly at Spencer. "What floor?"
"Penthouse." Spencer's sort of standing like a dork in the doorway, watching the way Jon's running his hands over the ornate brass railings.
Jon looks up at Spencer suddenly. "You...the penthouse? Seriously?" He laughs, and Spencer thinks it sounds slightly anxious.
"I like the best." He grins and reaches over, flipping back the lapel of his suit jacket to show Jon the Armani label stitched inside. "Sometimes I'm a little compulsive."
Jon's eyes go wide. "That's—this suit's almost a year's worth of my rent or something." He laughs again, and this time he sounds more relaxed, more like the guy from earlier who'd casually knocked on Spencer's window. "I could make a mint off this jacket alone. The fucking Mexicans, man, they love their designer shit."
The attendant coughs loudly, and the door dings. "Uh, penthouse," he says, not looking either one of them in the eye. Spencer gives him an extra five as they leave.
Once inside the suite, Spencer watches with a bemused smile as Jon immediately sheds his worn leather boots, sighing contentedly as he wiggles his toes against the plush carpet. He takes the suit jacket off and throws it over the closest chair, wandering slowly into the main living room, fingers outstretched and idly skimming over the immaculate furniture.
"Impressed?" Spencer says.
Jon shrugs. "Whatever, I actually come here all the time—in fact, they do rent this place by the hour." He swings his arms back and stretches in what's clearly a forced air of composure.
Spencer snorts. "Sure they do." He's also momentarily distracted by the strip of tanned, smooth skin showing just over the waist of Jon's (tight) jeans as his (even tighter) t-shirt rides up along his back. He licks his lips and says, "The bathroom is around the corner if you want to, um. Freshen up."
Jon looks over his shoulder and smirks. "What are you trying to say, Spencer?" He turns around and folds his arms over his chest once more, only this time it's not in a vague form of self-preservation; it's completely designed to let Spencer see the flex of his arm muscles, the way the curve of his biceps mold into his shirt.
God, he really, really has no clue what he's doing. "What I'm saying," Spencer says slowly, attempting valiantly to look Jon in the eyes, "is that you're free to look around while I finish up a few things." He had every intention of going over the proposal for the Wentz meeting, but now...now he has a guy made entirely of sex standing in his penthouse.
"Maybe I'll do that." Jon holds his gaze for a moment before walking out onto the balcony. Spencer busies himself with turning on his laptop that's sitting on the dining room table. He starts to check his email, then Jon yells, "Whoa, sweet view! I bet in the daytime you can see the ocean!"
"I wouldn't know, I'm afraid of heights." He's gotten almost thirty unread emails since he last opened his inbox four hours ago. Jesus. Spencer needs a goddamn vacation.
Jon sticks his head through the opposite doorway leading out onto the balcony, frowning at Spencer. "You rent a fucking penthouse on the top floor and you're afraid of heights? Why?" He sounds genuinely baffled.
"I told you, I like the best."
Jon shakes his head, sending wisps of his bangs into his eyes as he comes back into the suite, still taking in the surroundings with an almost endearing look of awe. Spencer has been in thirteen different penthouses in the last five months; he's pretty much forgotten what it's like to not take the luxury for granted.
"So," Jon drawls, hooking his thumb into his back pocket as he stares up at the ornate mirror above the fireplace. "You've got me here, Spencer Smith. What do you plan to do with me?"
Spencer sighs and closes his email. "Honestly? I have no idea. None." He folds his arms on the table and meets Jon's eyes in the mirror. "I didn't exactly plan this," he adds softly.
"And you always plan stuff, right?" Jon's mouth crooks up into another lopsided grin, and Spencer can't help laughing.
"Yeah, always."
"The suit gave you away."
"Armani makes me a planner?"
"Nope, your money does. You don't get the penthouse and the Ferrari by fucking around." He grins harder. "At least not the old-fashioned way, trust me."
Spencer blushes again, which is seriously starting to piss him off. "You don't plan things out?"
"Sometimes. Although my datebook was pretty empty tonight." Jon walks up to the dining room table and splays his hands on the polished top, leaning over the edge of Spencer's laptop screen.
"Y'know, you could pay me. That'd help break the ice and keep you from going another ten shades of pink," he says, voice soft.
Jon's lower lip is far too shiny. It fucks with Spencer's train of thought. "Um, yes, right. Sure." He grabs his wallet. "How much?"
He looks up and sees Jon hesitate for a second, eyes intense and thoughtful. Then he blurts out, "Four hundred," and Spencer swears Jon takes a step back toward the front door.
He tosses four hundred dollar bills on the table. "Cash okay?"
Jon stares at the money, eyes flaring a little. "Yeah, cash works for me." He sounds shocked for a moment before he snatches the cash up and stuffs it into his back pocket. His leather jacket is hanging neatly on the coat tree by the door; Jon goes over and digs through the pockets, saying, "You do magnums, or just the regulars?"
Spencer nearly swallows his tongue. "Uh."
Jon turns around and squints at him. "Naw, you probably like them comfy, right?" He holds up a gold Trojan packet. "Most rich-types usually do, anyway."
"Uh." Spencer feels like he's about sixteen. He stands up slowly and says, "Can't we just—"
"I've only got the generic Astro-Glide. Sorry, I've been kinda broke lately, but it works almost just as good." He walks right up to Spencer. "You want to get this on now or in a few?" And suddenly he's sliding his hands over Spencer's belt buckle.
Spencer cannot deal with this right now. "Jon, wait." He grabs Jon's wrists, stilling his hands. "Just...let's talk for a little while, okay?"
Jon blinks at him, gold Trojan still dangling from his hand. "Talk." His expression is guarded, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Yeah. Okay. Talk." He shoves the condom into his pocket and leans his hip against the table before asking in a polite voice, "Um, Spencer, are you in town on business or pleasure?"
Spencer sighs, rubbing at his neck. "Business. I think." He tugs his tie lose and goes into the living room, where he drops into the closest arm chair.
"Lemme guess, that makes you a lawyer like your friend Gabe." Jon follows him and promptly sprawls on the carpet at Spencer's feet, legs stretched out and his body angled straight at Spencer.
"What makes you think that?"
Jon flails his hand at him. "You've got this restless look to you."
He rolls his eyes. "And you've known a lot of lawyers?" Spencer absolutely does not stare at the snug fly of Jon's jeans.
A slow, liquid-smooth smile slides over Jon's face as he leans up and lays his hands over Spencer's knees. "I've known a lot of everyone," he murmurs, and thank fuck the doorbell rings.
The smile instantly vanishes, and Jon scrambles to his feet. "What is that?" He looks slightly freaked out, which makes Spencer want to laugh for some reason.
"No one, just the champagne," he says as he stands up.
"Oh." Jon visibly relaxes. "Might as well make myself useful, huh?" He jogs across the suite and opens the door. The room service attendant, holding a silver tray with a bottle of champagne and a bowl of strawberries, smiles politely at Jon before giving him a once-over, then smiles at Spencer.
"Good evening, sir, where would you like it?"
"Over by the bar." Spencer watches as Jon trails after the attendant, and once the tray of food is settled, the man nods at Spencer once more.
"It'll be on your bill, Mr. Smith. Have a good night." He then glances at Jon, hands clasped to his chest.
They face off until Jon glares and asks sharply, "D'you have a problem or something?" He puts a hand on his hip, causing his shirt to ride up a little over his stomach again.
The man goes bright red and clears his throat, finally looking at Spencer, who comes to Jon's aide with a five and says, "Thank you." The attendant practically runs from the suite.
"Oh wow, tip. Missed that one." Jon laughs sheepishly, and Spencer can't really grasp how a guy so blatantly sexual can suddenly become so self-conscious and funny.
"It's okay." Spencer goes to work opening the champagne bottle as Jon walks around the bar and hauls himself up onto the marble countertop, swinging his bare feet as he watches.
"Are you married? Have a girlfriend?"
Spencer smirks ruefully as the cork pops loudly, sending a flood of bubbles into the ice bucket. "Some girlfriends." He pours a glass for Jon and hands it to him. "I'm...more or less off women now."
Jon downs the glass like it's a can of Bud Light at a frat party. "Guys are lower maintenance?" he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Not exactly, but they don't expect you to propose after two dates." Spencer thinks back on the small handful of guys he's dated in the past who didn't want forever, only his money all day, every day.
He takes the cover off the bowl of strawberries and offers them to Jon. "They bring out the flavor in the champagne," he explains, and Jon beams.
"So that's why you wanted them, okay. Gotcha." He takes a bite, then raises an eyebrow at Spencer's empty glass. "Don't you drink?" he asks, mouth full.
"No, not really."
Jon swallows the rest of his strawberry. "Look, I appreciate you trying to be all seductive and shit, but let me just say, I'm a sure thing. I'm on an hourly basis and the meter's running."
Spencer's heart starts to race. "Yeah, I don't want to ruin your, um, quota."
"Awesome, then let's get started."
He takes a deep breath and blurts out, "How much for the whole night?"
Jon goes very still. "The...whole night? As in, until morning?" He's cautious again, like he thinks Spencer's pulling a joke on him.
"Morning is what follows an entire night, so yes. The whole night." He doesn't know what he's doing, but then, he's been at a loss since Jon stuck his head into Gabe's Ferrari.
Jon's eyes are wide as he chews his lip. "You—you couldn't afford it."
"Try me."
He jumps down off the bar and looks Spencer straight in the eye. "Six hundred dollars," he says, and there's a hint of something defiant in his voice.
"Done. Now we can relax." Spencer had expected him to say a thousand. He would've probably agreed to that, too.
Jon's mouth falls open. "I...are you sure? Seriously, dude, I could just blow you now and be out of here—"
"To be honest, I don't feel like being alone tonight, all right?" The words tumble out of Spencer's mouth before he can stop them. He looks away and fidgets with the cloth napkin wrapped around the champagne bottle.
"Why, is it your birthday or something?"
"No."
Jon sets his glass on the tray. "So what do you want me to do?" he asks softly.
Spencer shakes his head, laughing helplessly. "I don't know," he says, looking down at his hands. "I really don't even know."
Jon is quiet for a long moment, then says, "I'll be in the bathroom." He goes over to his coat and starts to dig through the pockets again.
"God, you're not going to, like, do a line of coke in there, are you?" Spencer asks before he can think.
"Jesus fucking Christ." Jon holds up a container of dental floss. "Is it the fucking eighties? I quit doing drugs when I was fifteen—I smoke a joint once in a while, but that's it." He ducks his head and mumbles, "I have strawberry seeds in my teeth."
Spencer is very, very rarely taken by surprise. It's about as rare as Spencer being at a loss for words. "Oh," is all he says. Jon rolls his eyes as he goes into the bathroom.
The only thing left to do to keep Spencer from completely fucking up the night is to distract himself from anything involving sex. While Jon flosses, Spencer sets his laptop up in the lounge on the couch, in front of the huge LCD flat screen. He flips through the channels and lands on Nick at Nite and a marathon of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air; he leaves the sound on low and settles into the couch, a copy of the Wentz proposal opened on his screen. Just as Jon comes into the room, Spencer's phone rings, and for the next half hour he's caught up in a business call with Bob Bryar, one of his partners back in New York.
He's only half paying attention when Jon leaves and eventually returns with the bowl of strawberries and another glass of champagne. He spreads them out on the carpet in front of the TV and lays out on his stomach like a kid watching Saturday morning cartoons, bare feet in the air as he grins and laughs at Will Smith's antics on screen.
"I still need the annual numbers from last year on Wentz Enterprises," Spencer says, watching the way Jon absently mouths at the rim of his glass, nose scrinched up as he laughs. "Hopefully the fax will come in tomorrow morning and we'll go from there."
"Sounds like you've got your bases covered, Spence. 'Night." Bob hangs up just as Jon laughs again, loud and hard. Spencer sets his phone to the side and shuts down his laptop. Jon is oblivious, too caught up in the show to notice Spencer moving down the couch to be closer.
"I haven't seen this episode in forever," Jon says. "I used to watch this show every afternoon after school."
"Before Full House, right?" Spencer props his cheek on one hand as he tugs his tie off with the other.
Jon looks up at him from the floor, eyes bright and lips still shiny from his last drink of champagne. "Actually, it was The Cosby Show, I think."
Spencer nods. "I actually preferred Family Matters," he replies with a small smile.
"You're totally un-American."
"Probably."
And just like that, the mood changes between them. What was awkward before becomes heady with tension, the same tension that's been subtly vibrating just below the surface since Spencer invited Jon up to the suite. Spencer's no longer nervous and anxious for something he can't define; right now all he wants is for Jon to keep looking at him with those dark, charcoal-lined eyes and make him feel, without having to worry about the consequences afterward.
Jon sits up slowly and crawls across the carpet on his knees to where Spencer is slumped against the couch cushions. He straightens a little and strips off his shirt, tossing it aside before spreading Spencer's legs wide enough to make room for him. He slides his hands up Spencer's thighs as he leans in, pressing almost chest to chest against him.
"What do you want?" he whispers, and Spencer shivers.
"What do you do?" Spencer whispers back.
"Everything," he says matter-of-factly, "but I don't kiss on the mouth."
Spencer reaches up and threads his fingers through Jon's hair, pushing it back from his eyes. "Neither do I."
Somehow that makes Jon smile at him as he smoothly unbuttons Spencer's shirt and splays his hands over Spencer's chest. The first touch of Jon's mouth against Spencer's skin is almost a shock; his lips are warm, soft, gentler than Spencer expected. He doesn't gasp, and he doesn't dare look away when Jon opens his fly and pushes Spencer's briefs and pants down just enough to free his cock.
"Definitely magnum," Jon breathes just before taking Spencer all the way into his mouth.
Spencer finally lets his eyes close and his head drop back against the couch. He doesn't make a sound until right before he comes, and even then it's just to tell Jon not to stop.
________________________________________
Jon wakes the next morning and forgets where he is. The light streaming through the blinds is too bright to be his bedroom curtains, and the air doesn't smell like stale cigarette smoke. He snuffles into his pillow and rolls over, scratching blearily at his chest.
Then it hits him that his chest is bare, and the bed he's sleeping in is three times the size of his own.
The car. The hotel. Spencer. Jesus, Spencer...it all comes back in a rush, like he's remembering a really great dream. Jon reaches his hand out slowly to touch the other side of the bed, only he finds it empty, the sheets cool. He curls his hand into the top sheet, sighing as he plays over the previous night in his head; Spencer sprawled on the couch, Spencer gasping his name, Spencer's hands sliding over his skin later in the shower and asking, almost shyly, if he could get Jon off as well—
Jon rolls over and blinks up at the ceiling, reminding himself of exactly where he is, which is a rich guy's penthouse in Beverly Hills. A rich guy who will be paying him a good chunk of money this morning when Jon leaves. He just needs to forget that said rich guy's name is Spencer, and that he has gorgeous blue eyes and amazing hands and a really nice laugh.
He gets up and pulls his t-shirt back on, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he trudges blearily out of the bedroom. The clock on the wall reads eight-fifteen. Jon is rarely awake before noon.
Spencer is sitting at the dining room table in front of his laptop with a cup of coffee and a spread of untouched breakfast food, already dressed in his suit and tie. He glances up when Jon walks into the room and smiles.
"Good morning," he says. "Sleep well?"
The smell of fresh waffles is making Jon's stomach growl. His normal idea of breakfast usually consists of a half-burned Pop Tart or the last of the Lucky Charms Brendon happens to leave him. "Yeah, great. Forgot where I was." Jon looks out the open balcony doors for a moment, and sure enough, he can see hints of the ocean in the distance.
"Occupational hazard?"
Jon fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt as he wanders back to the table. "Yeah, I guess," he says with a laugh.
Spencer catches him eyeing the food. "I, uh, didn't know what you liked, so I...ordered everything on the menu." He uncovers the two plates of pancakes and waffles, and holds up the carafe of coffee. "How do you take it?"
"Black, just black." Jon almost groans in bliss; he hasn't had really good coffee in months, not since he ran out of the good Starbucks shit Brendon got him for Christmas. He wraps his hands around the mug once Spencer fills it and breathes it in, sighing contentedly.
"That good, huh?" Spencer is still smiling as he shakes his head.
"Dude, you have no idea." He tucks himself up into one of the dining room chairs and begins to tear into one of the waffles with his fingers, not even bothering with syrup. The coffee mug stays close at all times.
After a few quiet moments of Spencer typing away at his laptop, Jon says in between bites, "So. You never told me if you're really a lawyer or not."
Spencer glances up and smirks. He hasn't shaved this morning, and his cheeks are all scruffy, completely at odds with his tailored suit. "I'm not a lawyer."
"What, then? A really bad ass accountant?"
He laughs at that. "God, if my accountant rented penthouses every month, I'd be broke. No, I buy companies."
Jon tilts his head to one side as he starts on another blueberry waffle. "What kind of companies?"
"I buy up businesses that are in trouble and I sell off the pieces. Like..." Spencer waves his hand, nose scrinched in thought. "Like you do with a car after a wreck."
It makes sense to Jon. Sort of. "Do you get really good deals 'cause they're going under?"
Spencer shrugs just as his cell phone buzzes with a text. "Right now I'm about to negotiate a deal to buy a floundering music company for the bargain price of a hundred million dollars."
Jon's stomach bottoms out. "A...a hundred million?" The closest he's gotten to that kind of money is when he buys a Powerball ticket on the last Friday of the month.
"Of course, that's just the first bid. They might still try to highball us." His phone buzzes again with another text, and Spencer glares at it. "I've got to make a call to Gabe, I'll be right back." He gets up and goes into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
Jon stays at the table, staring at the food and thinking about this life Spencer leads, how effortlessly he inhabits it. It starts to sink in that Jon is kind of out of his league, but he shakes off the anxiety, and instead grabs his coffee mug and wanders into the bathroom. He's been fixated on the giant whirlpool since last night; he's never had a really, really nice bath before.
He sets his mug on the edge of the tub and turns the water on, sorting through the collection of bath salts and fragrances lining the counter. There's something called Springtime Lilac that smells amazing, and Jon figures Brendon can mock him all he wants when he comes home smelling like flowers; for right now, he's going to be a total girl and enjoy it.
He keeps his iPod Shuffle (bought with money made from a really generous banker who liked the way Jon gave head) in his jacket pocket, because he hates to be without music at any given time. Once the tub is filled with hot water and enough lilac-scented bubbles to kill whatever hetero tendencies still reside in his brain, Jon strips down to nothing and hops in the water with his headphones on and Prince blaring in his ears.
Eventually Jon tunes everything out around him, humming whatever song comes on and tipping his head back against the tub's edge, eyes closed and body almost boneless. Humming soon becomes singing, karaoke-style, and he's in the middle of belting out ZZ Top's "Sharp Dressed Man" when he opens his eyes and finds Spencer standing over the tub, grinning smugly with his arms crossed over his chest.
Jon's cheeks go instantly hot. He pops his earbuds out and tosses them on the tub's edge next to his iPod. "ZZ Top kicks ass," he says with a sheepish smile, sinking deeper into the bubbles.
"Totally." Spencer gestures to the bath. "Enjoying yourself?"
"Yeah. I, uh, figured I'd take a swim in your pool before I left."
"Thanks for breaking it in for me." For the second Spencer's smirk falters, but he recovers quickly, clearing his throat. "Listen, Jon, I have a favor to ask of you."
He slicks his hair back with one hand. "You wanna steal my music collection?" Jon asks, enjoying (probably too much) the way Spencer laughs and shakes his head.
"I have a bazillion gig iPod in the other room sitting in my briefcase. You should be stealing from me." Spencer glances down at his phone still clutched in his hand and sighs. "This is...more of a business proposition."
Jon bites his lip. "Okay," he replies slowly, not sure if he should be wary or not.
"That deal with the music company I mentioned—I'm meeting with the CEO and founder for a business dinner tonight. It'll be the first time we've met face-to-face and seriously talked about the details of this buy-out." Spencer rubs at the back of his neck, not looking Jon in the eyes. "And Gabe says Wentz—Pete Wentz, the CEO—is very much into forward-thinking and breaking conventions. So...Gabe thinks I should take a date to dinner. A male date."
This was not at all the direction Jon thought this conversation would go. "Does—does Wentz know you're—"
"Probably not, but it's not a secret. I don't flaunt it. Gabe thinks it'll work in our favor, since Wentz is well-known for being bisexual himself."
"And you want me to be your date?"
Spencer takes a deep breath and finally meets his eyes. "I want you to be my at my beck and call for the entire week. I don't have time to get someone different lined up for every night, and this negotiation with Wentz isn't going to be a one night thing." He laughs tightly. "Not to mention I haven't really dated in about five months."
Jon's head is starting to spin. "The whole week? You want me to stay the whole week?" This has to be a joke. "I mean...you're a really great-looking guy." He absolutely does not blush harder. "You could have any guy you want for free, and for a lot longer than a week."
"Thanks for the flattery, but like I said, I don't have time for the bullshit of dating. I want a professional."
"It'll cost you." Jon winces when the words leave his mouth.
"I figured as much." Spencer spreads his hands out in front of him. "Okay, hit me with a ballpark figure."
Jon has never been able to appropriately bargain with a john. Usually he ends up lowballing himself, and then Brendon chews him out later for not asking for more. But now—now is completely different. He's negotiating a week's worth of work.
"Six thousand," he says, heart pounding.
Spencer's eyes narrow. "Six hundred for five nights is three thousand."
"You want days, too." Jon fucking holds his ground, his knee bouncing under the surface of the water.
Spencer tips his chin up. "Four thousand."
"Five."
"Done."
Jon's mouth drops open. "Holy shit!" He ducks under the water, slapping his hands against the bottom of the tub.
When he surfaces, Spencer's leaning over him and laughing. "Is that a yes?"
Jon wipes the bubbles off his face and beams, almost too afraid to believe any of this is real. "Yes, fuck yes, sign me up."
Spencer throws a towel in Jon's face, and bubbles fly everywhere.
Once he's out of the tub and wrapped up in the fluffiest damn robe he's ever seen (which may or may not be the one Spencer wore last night—Jon notices Spencer raise an eyebrow at him as he shrugs it on), Spencer hands him a stack of bills, all hundreds.
"That's for last night," he says quickly, not quite looking Jon in the eyes. "And the rest is for you to buy new clothes for the week."
Jon bites his lip as he flips through the cash. "You don't believe in credit cards?"
"Like I'm going to let you loose with my Amex. Besides, they'd probably be able to tell it wasn't me signing for it, and then it'd just be more trouble for us both." He packs up his laptop into his leather messenger bag and grabs his card key off the dining room table, pausing for a moment.
"Do you have a cell phone?" he asks.
Jon does, but it's a pay-as-you-go phone and his minutes are always on the brink of running out. "Um, yeah..."
Spencer reaches into his jacket pocket and hands Jon a business card. "That's my contact info. Just in case you need anything." The very, very tops of his cheeks turn the faintest pink. "I'll see you this evening." He turns and heads out of the suite. "Don't buy anything with pinstripes, for the love of god," he calls over his shoulder as the door closes behind him.
"Yes, dear," Jon mumbles to himself, still staring in amazement at the wad of money in his hands. Then he shoves the cash into the pocket of his leather jacket and runs out onto the balcony, yelling, "Five thousand fucking dollars, bitches!" at the tops of the buildings spread out before him. He can't stop smiling like a crazy person; he's standing on the penthouse balcony of the Regent Beverly Wilshire, wearing a bathrobe worth more than his apartment and smelling like a damn flower bed.
Eventually he grabs the cordless phone sitting on the closest desk and curls up into one of the comfy chairs on the balcony as he dials Brendon's cell.
"'llo?" a raspy voice says.
"Dude, I called and called last night, where the hell were you?"
Brendon groans something unintelligible. "Walker?"
"Who else?"
"Man, you disappeared in that Ferrari and I figured you were set for the night. I ended up partying at Shane's." There's a shuffly sound, like Brendon's rolling over in bed. "So where are you?"
Jon beams up at the bright, early morning sky. "The guy with the Ferrari? Yeah, I'm in his penthouse apartment in Beverly Hills. His bathroom is bigger than Mikey's studio."
Brendon groans again, louder. "Seriously, do I have to hear this?" But Jon can hear the smile in his voice.
"Bren, he's—he wants me to stay for the whole week. And guess how much I got him to give me?"
"Please tell me it's got four digits."
"Try five grand."
"Bullshit!" There's a crash on the other end, something falling to the floor. Jon imagines it's Brendon's Coke can lamp being knocked over by accident. "I can't fucking believe I gave that guy up to you! Is he at least skeevy?"
Jon smiles stupidly at the phone; it's not like Brendon—or anyone else—can see. "Naw, he's nice. He even gave me money to buy new clothes. There's some big dinner tonight he wants me to go to with him."
Brendon snorts. "And he expects you to know how to buy shit for something like that? Every piece of clothing you own is at least three years old."
"Hey, it's, what, a suit and some ties? How hard can that be?"
"Shoes, too, Jonny Walker. Can't wear flip-flops with suits."
"No shit." Jon blushes; he hadn't even considered buying shoes at all. "And look, I'm gonna leave money at the front desk for you to come pick up so we can make rent, okay? I'm at the Regent Beverly Wilshire."
He hears Brendon scramble around and mumble the address under his breath as he writes down the hotel's name on whatever piece of scrap he can find. "Got it."
"And one more thing. Where, uh. Do you have any idea where I'd—"
"Find really nice shit to wear?" Brendon laughs affectionately. "Dude, Rodeo Drive. Duh."
part two
Jon/Spencer | 34000 words | NC-17
"I mean...you're a really great-looking guy." Jon absolutely does not blush harder. "You could have any guy you want for free, and for a lot longer than a week."
"Thanks for the flattery, but like I said, I don't have time for the bullshit of dating. I want a professional."
Epic Pretty Woman AU where Jon is a hooker with a heart of gold and Spencer is the rich guy who loves him. This entire thing would never, ever have existed were it not for
siryn99 and her constant cheerleading and handholding. What started as flailing in an AIM chat got, um, a little out of control. She also wrote a fantastic epilogue, which I'll link at the end. ♥ Many, many thanks as well to my insanely amazing betas, flickerofyou and sweetrecovery.There's also a soundtrack, because I'm ridiculous like that.
Spencer has been in LA for six hours, and he's already remembering with startling clarity why he hates California. More specifically, he's remembering why business in California is always a pain in his ass.
Normally he's a seasoned pro at cocktail parties held at ridiculously expensive mansions, but tonight he's not in a mood to schmooze and network. He's just tired; he hasn't slept much in the past few days, which doesn't bode well for the meeting with Clandestine Records tomorrow. Spencer needs to be on top of his game, especially since it's the first time he'll be meeting the founder and CEO, Pete Wentz, face-to-face, not just over conference calls.
He can't begin to be on top of his game if he's popping No-Doze and drowning himself in coffee.
Of course, his lawyer, Gabe, is halfway through a bottle of Bombay and is clearly making plans to go home with one of the associates from the Santa Monica branch; he's never had a problem with hangovers the way Spencer does.
Spencer leans over Gabe's shoulder and says, "I'm leaving."
Gabe stops mid-sentence and looks up from where he's draped across her on the couch. "What? You just got here!"
"I've been here two hours, Gabe, and we've got the meeting with Wentz and his partner tomorrow. I need some beauty sleep."
"Spence, c'mon, lighten up and live a little. The Clandestine deal is gonna be a cake walk and you know it."
"What I know is that it took a month to even convince them to meet with us. Either way, I'm not staying just so I can watch you score and be bored out of my mind when I could be sleeping."
Gabe sighs and shakes his head. "You'll never get a cab out here."
"No?" Spencer smirks and holds out his hand. "Then I'm taking your car."
Gabe splutters and shoves Associate Girl off of him so he can scramble to his feet. "The Ferrari? Are you shitting me? You don't know the first fucking thing about driving in LA, and you barely know how to drive a stick."
Spencer rolls his eyes and doesn't even hesitate to reach into the pocket of Gabe's pants for the keys. "I've gotten better with a clutch, and GPS is a fantastic invention, you know?" He waves the keys in Gabe's face. "You can pick it up in the morning."
"Spencer, you bitch!" Gabe yells after him, but Spencer waves over his shoulder and keeps walking.
Unfortunately, Gabe was right about one thing: Spencer really, really doesn't know his way around LA. And apparently, neither does the GPS in Gabe's Ferrari. Spencer types in Regent Beverly Wilshire, but the display keeps reading invalid entry and trying to show him directions to steakhouses.
Spencer taps his hands on the leather steering wheel. "Fuck it," he mumbles, and backs the car awkwardly out of the massive driveway, grinding gears and killing the transmission twice before getting onto the main road.
________________________________________
Jon really feels like he knows enough facts about the Civil War to make his brain bleed.
"C'mon, one more." Brendon grins as he leans back against the brick wall between Carl's Tattoos and the local porn store that sells nothing but Spanish language pornos. "Who came up with the Anaconda Plan?"
"How do you even remember this shit?" Jon closes his eyes and tries to mentally go through all his notes from the past week's study guide.
"Dude, you have notecards all over the place. I read them in the bathroom."
Jon sighs and cracks one eye open, wincing. "General Scott?"
Brendon high-fives him and says, "You are so gonna ace that bitch."
It's been a slow night, and since Jon started taking classes to get his GED, he has Brendon quiz him during the down times. Brendon retains the information so well, Jon thinks he should go take the test with him.
He tugs at the cuffs of his leather jacket—it's actually Brendon's, who earlier in the day had talked him into trying a "gay James Dean" look tonight. His feet are getting twitchy inside his old pair of leather boots (one of exactly two pairs of real shoes he owns outside of a mountain of flip-flops), and his jeans are a little on the obnoxiously tight side, but Brendon swears he looks he looks "rugged, but not scary."
"I'd better ace it, since I'm gonna be broke next week." Jon shoves his hair back and slumps against the wall next to Brendon, watching the various locals and tourists walk by them without a second glance. "They say studying pays off, but not when it keeps you from working."
"No worries, okay? We'll figure something out." Brendon nods to himself like he's figuring out the month's bills in his head; rent's due in a few days. "If anything, I can ask Mikey to fit me in somewhere in his next shoot." When money gets super tight, Brendon does small parts in porn shoots. Unfortunately, money's never that good, and the last time Brendon did a sex scene, the guy was so rough with him, Brendon walked with a limp for a week.
"Fuck no, you're not going back there." Jon can feel the hints of his usual stress headache coming on; he's long since learned to ignore it.
"The last time was a fluke, Mikey said—"
"I don't give a shit what Mikey said, you're not going back."
Brendon narrows his eyes at Jon, then smirks. "Thought I was the one who looked out for you, Jonny Walker." He knocks his shoulder against Jon's. "Oh how far you've come, young padwan."
Jon snorts and tries not to think about two years ago, when he'd taken the last of his money and hopped a bus from Chicago to Los Angeles, hoping to meet up with his buddy Nick and start a new band on the LA scene. Nick had somehow landed in jail, leaving Jon with almost no money and no place to stay. Luckily, he'd found Brendon smoking outside of a 7-11 and had asked for a cigarette. As fate would have it, Brendon's roommate had skipped town. The rest was history.
It's a long, long cry from the music scene he'd hoped to become a part of, but it keeps a roof over his head. He and Brendon are both clean, and Brendon got out from under his pimp before Jon even knew him. It's just the two of them and the occasional turf war.
No one's out to make trouble tonight, though. Business is slow, but the weather's nice. Jon stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jacket (fingertips brushing over a small bottle of lube and six condoms—though usually the johns never want to go more than once) and keeps running Union Army generals through his head as Brendon hums the latest Britney Spears song under his breath.
A guy named Kevin, who's notorious for butting in on their block, saunters by and smirks at Brendon, who glares right back at him.
"Taking a walk, Kev?" Brendon asks curtly. "I'm pretty damn sure you're supposed to be down with Esther Williams, not up here with Buddy Holly." He sweeps his hand out across the stars on the sidewalk.
Kevin stops and rolls his eyes. "'scuse the shit of me for making a shortcut." He jerks his chin at Jon. "Besides, he's new, what the hell."
Jon wants to calmly point out that he's not that new, but Brendon jumps in front of him and says, "Yeah, well, I'm fucking old, and we've worked this block for the past six months, so go take your skinny ass back down there and shut the fuck up." His neck is flushed red, and Jon can hear the way Brendon's voice gets high and tight whenever he's angry and trying not to show it.
Kevin flips him off as he starts walking again. "Chill out, Urie, you're getting way too fucking uptight these days," he yells over his shoulder.
Brendon turns around and frowns at Jon. "Am I really getting uptight?" he asks, pouting his lower lip out a little.
Jon shrugs. "No. Maybe." He laughs when Brendon's face falls. "Don't worry about it, seriously."
"I think it's 'cause I'm hungry." Brendon drops his head onto Jon's shoulder and sighs dramatically. "I'm wasting away and all I get are asshole twinks trying to hound in on our block."
Jon would offer to buy him a hot dog, but he's got all of a dollar to his name at the moment. He pats Brendon's cheek and says, "You'll survive." God, he can't wait until he takes his test and can get hired at the recording studio down the street from their apartment; he'll finally be able to leave this behind.
"Oh my god, check that shit out." Brendon's head pops up off Jon's shoulder as he points to the street. A black Ferrari screeches to a halt along the sidewalk in front of them, the back right tire almost jumping the curb. The windows are tinted, so Jon can't quite see inside.
"They've gotta be lost," Jon says. He rarely sees Ferraris in this part of town, especially parked at the curb.
"Some Beverly Hills douchebag roaming the streets in his new toy," Brendon mutters.
But then the driver's door opens and a young guy dressed in a pristine suit gets out, holding his Blackberry up like he's searching for a signal. Then he swears and smacks the phone against his palm.
Jon barely notices because the guy is kind of ridiculously hot. He blinks as the guy gets back in his car and replies, softly, "Yeah, um...definitely lost."
"Shit, if all rich douchebags looked like him, I'd up my standards. Damn." Brendon makes a show out of sighing and waving his hand toward the car. "Fine, go pull your little aw-shucks-I'm-a-cute-Midwestern-boy routine and see if it gets us some rent money. But don't take any less than two hundred. No, three hundred—with a car like that, the guy can handle it." He reaches up and scrubs a hand through Jon's hair, mussing it slightly before he smudges Jon's eyeliner.
"There, you're set. Go get him, tiger."
Jon laughs. "Thanks, coach." He bites his lip for a second and steels his nerves, sliding into the laid-back, casual mode he adopts whenever he approaches a prospective john. He always makes it seem like he's just passing through, that he's no different than some guy you'd run into in a bar or a club. He slips his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and walks up to the passenger window of the Ferrari.
Just before Jon knocks, he hears, "Fucking piece of fucking shit," from inside the car. When the window slides down, the guy is slamming his hand against the navigation system in the dashboard and looks about three seconds away from annihilating it.
"Lost?" Jon asks, smiling his safest, most charming grin.
The guy huffs and smacks the navigation screen again. "Yeah, and my fucking GPS is brain-dead, and my phone doesn't get a signal out here for whatever fucking stupid reason. It's Hollywood, why the shit wouldn't I get a goddamn signal?" He pinches the bridge of his nose, other hand clenched around the gear shift.
Jon folds his arms on the edge of the window and leans into the car. He's instantly hit with the smell of leather. And money. "Where are you trying to go?"
"The Regent Beverly Wilshire. I...don't remember the address, but isn't this navigation shit supposed to be smarter than me?"
"To be honest, I don't trust computers to tell me where to drive." He turns his grin on a little stronger. "Listen, I know this area like the back of my hand. How 'bout you let me give you directions? I swear I'm better than a computer."
The guy lets out a long breath and smiles in relief. "Yeah, yeah, okay, that'd be great."
"Awesome. Just give me ten bucks."
The guy blinks at Jon. "Excuse me?"
Jon spreads his hands. "Hey, look, I'm as much a good Samaritan as the next guy, but I'm on the clock."
Realization dawns in the guy's (insanely gorgeous blue, holy shit) eyes. "You're a hooker," he says slowly.
"What I am is not lost."
The guy doesn't say anything for several moments, and Jon figures he gave it a good try. He pushes off the door and says, "Whatever, have fun finding your hotel."
"Wait!"
Jon glances back through the window as the guy fumbles with his wallet. He hands Jon two fives. "Here."
Jon beams at him as he takes the money. "Much obliged." He gives the simplest directions he can, and when he finishes, the guy takes a deep breath and nods.
"Thanks." He tries to downshift into what Jon assumes is reverse, only the car groans and the gears screech. The car jerks a little along the curb, and the guy says, "Fuck," under his breath.
"You're not giving it enough gas before you ease up on the clutch." Jon leans further into the Ferrari and points at the gear shift. "Put it back in first, then give it some gas."
The guy gives a frustrated laugh. "You know how to drive a manual?"
"Sure." Granted, Jon's never in a billion years driven a fucking Ferrari, but he figures all clutches are relatively the same.
The next thing he knows, the guy throws a fifty dollar bill at him and says, "Can you get me to the hotel? I can't drive this goddamn thing to save my life. My, um, Mercedes back home is all automatic." He laughs again, the sound nervous and too high.
Jon looks down at the fifty in his hand, then back over his shoulder at Brendon, who gives him a thumbs up. If anything, the sixty bucks he just made can pay for the bus ride back home.
"Okay, yeah," Jon says, figuring he has nothing to lose. "I'll drive you."
________________________________________
It's not the craziest thing Spencer's ever done. Well, okay, maybe it is, and if Gabe knew Spencer let some rent boy off the street in lower West Hollywood drive his Ferrari, Spencer's pretty sure he'd be buried six feet under.
Thank god said rent boy seems pretty adept at handling a hundred thousand dollar sports car.
Spencer winces. He should really stop thinking of the guy as a nameless hooker. "I'm Spencer," he says as they turn a corner. "Spencer Smith. What's your name?"
The guy glances over at Spencer, hair falling in his eyes. He's more than a little good-looking, and Spencer hates that the thought makes him blush. "It's whatever you want it to be," he drawls with a smirk.
Spencer barks out a laugh without meaning to. "Are you serious? You really say that shit to people?"
The smirk turns into a genuine smile. "It's Jon."
"Ever driven a sports car before, Jon?"
"Not unless you count the Camaro I hotwired in high school for a buddy of mine." His hands twitches a little on the gear shift. "It's, um, a nice car, though. You should really learn to drive it sometime." He laughs and ducks his head, like he completely didn't mean to say the last part out loud.
"It's not my car, it's my lawyer, Gabe's. Long story."
Jon frowns at the stoplight. "You're letting me drive your lawyer's car?"
Spencer waves him off. "Whatever. He's getting drunk off his ass at the moment with some bottle-blond associate who thinks going green means eating organic granola."
Jon grins as the light turns. "Yeah, real granola is hell on the environment," he replies, and Spencer laughs.
Soon the hotel comes into view, and Jon starts to pull over to the curb. "We should probably switch out," he says carefully, which Spencer takes to mean you probably don't want them to see me driving this car.
"It's just the valet and the doorman. If they want to gossip, let them."
Jon chews his lip for a second, then pulls right up to the front of the hotel. The valet opens the door for Spencer and says, "Good evening, Mr. Smith, welcome back," but Jon doesn't bother to wait to have his door opened. He hops out of the car and tosses the keys to the valet.
"The clutch is kind of a bitch, FYI," he says, grinning at Spencer.
The valet pauses. "...Yes, sir. Thank you."
Spencer bites the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. He stands at the curb and watches Gabe's car drive off, wondering what happens next, if Jon will just take off as well, or if he should invite him up, or—
"So, thanks for the test drive." Jon has his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. He rocks back on his heels and smiles tentatively. "I'm just, uh, gonna get a cab with my sixty bucks."
Spencer nods, and for the first time in ages, he's at a loss for words. "Sure. Thanks for helping me out back there, I appreciate it." He holds his hand out awkwardly, and Jon looks down at it slowly, then back up to meet Spencer's eyes (god, he's wearing fucking eyeliner, Spencer hadn't noticed until now).
"No problem, Mr. Spencer Smith." There's a hint of a lisp in the way he says Spencer's name, and for some weird reason, Spencer finds that inexplicably hot. He shakes Spencer's hand, and for a moment something sharp passes between them, something that makes Spencer swallow and take a deep breath. He drops Jon's hand as he steps back with every intention of walking up the steps and going up to his suite.
Jon gives him a tiny salute and turns away, and Spencer tells himself he's watching just to make sure Jon gets a cab okay, even though he knows it's not his business. There's no reason he should want to make sure this guy, this rent boy, gets back all right. But Jon doesn't hail a cab; he walks over to the bus stop and folds himself up onto the bench.
Before Spencer can talk himself out of it, he calls, "No cabs?"
Jon looks over and shakes his head. "Naw, I like the bus. It's cheaper, anyway." His smile is slightly crooked.
Spencer can feel his cheeks growing warm as he walks over, his brain screaming, Oh god, what the hell are you even doing?. He keeps going, though, and says, "So, I have a suite. Upstairs. It's huge and a little overdone, but if you wanted to, maybe—"
"Come up?" Jon's smile has gone from crooked to full-blown.
"Um." Spencer feels so utterly lame. "Well...yes."
Jon gets up from the bench, and the ease of his walk, the casual sway of his hips, makes Spencer's mouth water. "I'm gonna need a little more than fifty bucks to come upstairs," he says quietly, and Spencer feels ridiculous relief that Jon understands discretion.
"Of course," Spencer replies quickly. "We can talk payment in the suite?"
Jon reaches out and tugs at the end of Spencer's tie, leaning in closer. "You've got yourself a deal, Spencer Smith," he whispers, and Spencer's breath stutters.
"But first, let's..." Spencer shrugs out of his suit jacket and hands it to Jon. "Put this on."
"I'm already wearing a jacket."
"Yeah, I know, just—trust me on this, okay? This isn't exactly a place that rents by the hour."
Jon narrows his eyes at Spencer, but slowly takes off his leather jacket and trades Spencer. He still stands out like a rumpled, eyeliner-covered sore thumb, but Spencer figures it's the best he can do.
The lobby is fairly empty when they come inside. Spencer glances over at Jon, who has his arms folded across his chest; the sleeves of Spencer's suit jacket cover half his hands. His expression is neutral, but Spencer can see a twitch in Jon's jaw as he stares up at the giant crystal chandelier hanging over the lounge area.
An idea hits him at the last second; he grabs Jon's elbow and steers him back toward the reception desk, where the manager, Ryan, is still on duty. Spencer likes him because he's polite without being a sycophant to anyone with a black American Express.
"Nice to see you again, Mr. Smith," Ryan says with a small smile, and his eyes only flick to Jon for a second. "Back for the evening?"
"Yeah, and I was wondering—" Spencer's phone buzzes in his pocket. When he digs it out, there's one text from Gabe: is my car still alive??
He rolls his eyes. "I was wondering if I can have some champagne and strawberries sent up?" he asks as he types back yes in the garage now, thank you.
"Certainly." This time Ryan's gaze stays on Jon a little longer, one eyebrow cocked, and Jon starts shifting from foot to foot as he hugs his arms closer to his body. "Anything else, sir?"
Spencer realizes he's still holding Jon's leather jacket in his hands. "No, ah, that's great, thanks, Ryan." He slides a ten dollar bill across the marble counter and quickly nudges Jon toward the elevators, his cheeks suddenly too hot.
"Strawberries?" Jon asks. His mouth looks like it wants to smirk, but is too hesitant to try.
Spencer shakes his head, the flush creeping down his neck as he hits the up button for the elevator. "I felt like some," he mutters, wondering once again what in the hell he's doing, why he ever thought he could pull something off like take a rent boy home and not be a complete failure.
Then the elevator doors slide open, and Jon says, "Holy shit." He pushes past the elevator attendant and flails his arms around. "Dude, you could, like, fit a fucking truck in here!" He's beaming at Spencer like he's seriously wondering if he could do just that.
The attendant's mouth falls open for a moment. "Erm, uh..." He looks helplessly at Spencer. "What floor?"
"Penthouse." Spencer's sort of standing like a dork in the doorway, watching the way Jon's running his hands over the ornate brass railings.
Jon looks up at Spencer suddenly. "You...the penthouse? Seriously?" He laughs, and Spencer thinks it sounds slightly anxious.
"I like the best." He grins and reaches over, flipping back the lapel of his suit jacket to show Jon the Armani label stitched inside. "Sometimes I'm a little compulsive."
Jon's eyes go wide. "That's—this suit's almost a year's worth of my rent or something." He laughs again, and this time he sounds more relaxed, more like the guy from earlier who'd casually knocked on Spencer's window. "I could make a mint off this jacket alone. The fucking Mexicans, man, they love their designer shit."
The attendant coughs loudly, and the door dings. "Uh, penthouse," he says, not looking either one of them in the eye. Spencer gives him an extra five as they leave.
Once inside the suite, Spencer watches with a bemused smile as Jon immediately sheds his worn leather boots, sighing contentedly as he wiggles his toes against the plush carpet. He takes the suit jacket off and throws it over the closest chair, wandering slowly into the main living room, fingers outstretched and idly skimming over the immaculate furniture.
"Impressed?" Spencer says.
Jon shrugs. "Whatever, I actually come here all the time—in fact, they do rent this place by the hour." He swings his arms back and stretches in what's clearly a forced air of composure.
Spencer snorts. "Sure they do." He's also momentarily distracted by the strip of tanned, smooth skin showing just over the waist of Jon's (tight) jeans as his (even tighter) t-shirt rides up along his back. He licks his lips and says, "The bathroom is around the corner if you want to, um. Freshen up."
Jon looks over his shoulder and smirks. "What are you trying to say, Spencer?" He turns around and folds his arms over his chest once more, only this time it's not in a vague form of self-preservation; it's completely designed to let Spencer see the flex of his arm muscles, the way the curve of his biceps mold into his shirt.
God, he really, really has no clue what he's doing. "What I'm saying," Spencer says slowly, attempting valiantly to look Jon in the eyes, "is that you're free to look around while I finish up a few things." He had every intention of going over the proposal for the Wentz meeting, but now...now he has a guy made entirely of sex standing in his penthouse.
"Maybe I'll do that." Jon holds his gaze for a moment before walking out onto the balcony. Spencer busies himself with turning on his laptop that's sitting on the dining room table. He starts to check his email, then Jon yells, "Whoa, sweet view! I bet in the daytime you can see the ocean!"
"I wouldn't know, I'm afraid of heights." He's gotten almost thirty unread emails since he last opened his inbox four hours ago. Jesus. Spencer needs a goddamn vacation.
Jon sticks his head through the opposite doorway leading out onto the balcony, frowning at Spencer. "You rent a fucking penthouse on the top floor and you're afraid of heights? Why?" He sounds genuinely baffled.
"I told you, I like the best."
Jon shakes his head, sending wisps of his bangs into his eyes as he comes back into the suite, still taking in the surroundings with an almost endearing look of awe. Spencer has been in thirteen different penthouses in the last five months; he's pretty much forgotten what it's like to not take the luxury for granted.
"So," Jon drawls, hooking his thumb into his back pocket as he stares up at the ornate mirror above the fireplace. "You've got me here, Spencer Smith. What do you plan to do with me?"
Spencer sighs and closes his email. "Honestly? I have no idea. None." He folds his arms on the table and meets Jon's eyes in the mirror. "I didn't exactly plan this," he adds softly.
"And you always plan stuff, right?" Jon's mouth crooks up into another lopsided grin, and Spencer can't help laughing.
"Yeah, always."
"The suit gave you away."
"Armani makes me a planner?"
"Nope, your money does. You don't get the penthouse and the Ferrari by fucking around." He grins harder. "At least not the old-fashioned way, trust me."
Spencer blushes again, which is seriously starting to piss him off. "You don't plan things out?"
"Sometimes. Although my datebook was pretty empty tonight." Jon walks up to the dining room table and splays his hands on the polished top, leaning over the edge of Spencer's laptop screen.
"Y'know, you could pay me. That'd help break the ice and keep you from going another ten shades of pink," he says, voice soft.
Jon's lower lip is far too shiny. It fucks with Spencer's train of thought. "Um, yes, right. Sure." He grabs his wallet. "How much?"
He looks up and sees Jon hesitate for a second, eyes intense and thoughtful. Then he blurts out, "Four hundred," and Spencer swears Jon takes a step back toward the front door.
He tosses four hundred dollar bills on the table. "Cash okay?"
Jon stares at the money, eyes flaring a little. "Yeah, cash works for me." He sounds shocked for a moment before he snatches the cash up and stuffs it into his back pocket. His leather jacket is hanging neatly on the coat tree by the door; Jon goes over and digs through the pockets, saying, "You do magnums, or just the regulars?"
Spencer nearly swallows his tongue. "Uh."
Jon turns around and squints at him. "Naw, you probably like them comfy, right?" He holds up a gold Trojan packet. "Most rich-types usually do, anyway."
"Uh." Spencer feels like he's about sixteen. He stands up slowly and says, "Can't we just—"
"I've only got the generic Astro-Glide. Sorry, I've been kinda broke lately, but it works almost just as good." He walks right up to Spencer. "You want to get this on now or in a few?" And suddenly he's sliding his hands over Spencer's belt buckle.
Spencer cannot deal with this right now. "Jon, wait." He grabs Jon's wrists, stilling his hands. "Just...let's talk for a little while, okay?"
Jon blinks at him, gold Trojan still dangling from his hand. "Talk." His expression is guarded, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop. "Yeah. Okay. Talk." He shoves the condom into his pocket and leans his hip against the table before asking in a polite voice, "Um, Spencer, are you in town on business or pleasure?"
Spencer sighs, rubbing at his neck. "Business. I think." He tugs his tie lose and goes into the living room, where he drops into the closest arm chair.
"Lemme guess, that makes you a lawyer like your friend Gabe." Jon follows him and promptly sprawls on the carpet at Spencer's feet, legs stretched out and his body angled straight at Spencer.
"What makes you think that?"
Jon flails his hand at him. "You've got this restless look to you."
He rolls his eyes. "And you've known a lot of lawyers?" Spencer absolutely does not stare at the snug fly of Jon's jeans.
A slow, liquid-smooth smile slides over Jon's face as he leans up and lays his hands over Spencer's knees. "I've known a lot of everyone," he murmurs, and thank fuck the doorbell rings.
The smile instantly vanishes, and Jon scrambles to his feet. "What is that?" He looks slightly freaked out, which makes Spencer want to laugh for some reason.
"No one, just the champagne," he says as he stands up.
"Oh." Jon visibly relaxes. "Might as well make myself useful, huh?" He jogs across the suite and opens the door. The room service attendant, holding a silver tray with a bottle of champagne and a bowl of strawberries, smiles politely at Jon before giving him a once-over, then smiles at Spencer.
"Good evening, sir, where would you like it?"
"Over by the bar." Spencer watches as Jon trails after the attendant, and once the tray of food is settled, the man nods at Spencer once more.
"It'll be on your bill, Mr. Smith. Have a good night." He then glances at Jon, hands clasped to his chest.
They face off until Jon glares and asks sharply, "D'you have a problem or something?" He puts a hand on his hip, causing his shirt to ride up a little over his stomach again.
The man goes bright red and clears his throat, finally looking at Spencer, who comes to Jon's aide with a five and says, "Thank you." The attendant practically runs from the suite.
"Oh wow, tip. Missed that one." Jon laughs sheepishly, and Spencer can't really grasp how a guy so blatantly sexual can suddenly become so self-conscious and funny.
"It's okay." Spencer goes to work opening the champagne bottle as Jon walks around the bar and hauls himself up onto the marble countertop, swinging his bare feet as he watches.
"Are you married? Have a girlfriend?"
Spencer smirks ruefully as the cork pops loudly, sending a flood of bubbles into the ice bucket. "Some girlfriends." He pours a glass for Jon and hands it to him. "I'm...more or less off women now."
Jon downs the glass like it's a can of Bud Light at a frat party. "Guys are lower maintenance?" he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Not exactly, but they don't expect you to propose after two dates." Spencer thinks back on the small handful of guys he's dated in the past who didn't want forever, only his money all day, every day.
He takes the cover off the bowl of strawberries and offers them to Jon. "They bring out the flavor in the champagne," he explains, and Jon beams.
"So that's why you wanted them, okay. Gotcha." He takes a bite, then raises an eyebrow at Spencer's empty glass. "Don't you drink?" he asks, mouth full.
"No, not really."
Jon swallows the rest of his strawberry. "Look, I appreciate you trying to be all seductive and shit, but let me just say, I'm a sure thing. I'm on an hourly basis and the meter's running."
Spencer's heart starts to race. "Yeah, I don't want to ruin your, um, quota."
"Awesome, then let's get started."
He takes a deep breath and blurts out, "How much for the whole night?"
Jon goes very still. "The...whole night? As in, until morning?" He's cautious again, like he thinks Spencer's pulling a joke on him.
"Morning is what follows an entire night, so yes. The whole night." He doesn't know what he's doing, but then, he's been at a loss since Jon stuck his head into Gabe's Ferrari.
Jon's eyes are wide as he chews his lip. "You—you couldn't afford it."
"Try me."
He jumps down off the bar and looks Spencer straight in the eye. "Six hundred dollars," he says, and there's a hint of something defiant in his voice.
"Done. Now we can relax." Spencer had expected him to say a thousand. He would've probably agreed to that, too.
Jon's mouth falls open. "I...are you sure? Seriously, dude, I could just blow you now and be out of here—"
"To be honest, I don't feel like being alone tonight, all right?" The words tumble out of Spencer's mouth before he can stop them. He looks away and fidgets with the cloth napkin wrapped around the champagne bottle.
"Why, is it your birthday or something?"
"No."
Jon sets his glass on the tray. "So what do you want me to do?" he asks softly.
Spencer shakes his head, laughing helplessly. "I don't know," he says, looking down at his hands. "I really don't even know."
Jon is quiet for a long moment, then says, "I'll be in the bathroom." He goes over to his coat and starts to dig through the pockets again.
"God, you're not going to, like, do a line of coke in there, are you?" Spencer asks before he can think.
"Jesus fucking Christ." Jon holds up a container of dental floss. "Is it the fucking eighties? I quit doing drugs when I was fifteen—I smoke a joint once in a while, but that's it." He ducks his head and mumbles, "I have strawberry seeds in my teeth."
Spencer is very, very rarely taken by surprise. It's about as rare as Spencer being at a loss for words. "Oh," is all he says. Jon rolls his eyes as he goes into the bathroom.
The only thing left to do to keep Spencer from completely fucking up the night is to distract himself from anything involving sex. While Jon flosses, Spencer sets his laptop up in the lounge on the couch, in front of the huge LCD flat screen. He flips through the channels and lands on Nick at Nite and a marathon of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air; he leaves the sound on low and settles into the couch, a copy of the Wentz proposal opened on his screen. Just as Jon comes into the room, Spencer's phone rings, and for the next half hour he's caught up in a business call with Bob Bryar, one of his partners back in New York.
He's only half paying attention when Jon leaves and eventually returns with the bowl of strawberries and another glass of champagne. He spreads them out on the carpet in front of the TV and lays out on his stomach like a kid watching Saturday morning cartoons, bare feet in the air as he grins and laughs at Will Smith's antics on screen.
"I still need the annual numbers from last year on Wentz Enterprises," Spencer says, watching the way Jon absently mouths at the rim of his glass, nose scrinched up as he laughs. "Hopefully the fax will come in tomorrow morning and we'll go from there."
"Sounds like you've got your bases covered, Spence. 'Night." Bob hangs up just as Jon laughs again, loud and hard. Spencer sets his phone to the side and shuts down his laptop. Jon is oblivious, too caught up in the show to notice Spencer moving down the couch to be closer.
"I haven't seen this episode in forever," Jon says. "I used to watch this show every afternoon after school."
"Before Full House, right?" Spencer props his cheek on one hand as he tugs his tie off with the other.
Jon looks up at him from the floor, eyes bright and lips still shiny from his last drink of champagne. "Actually, it was The Cosby Show, I think."
Spencer nods. "I actually preferred Family Matters," he replies with a small smile.
"You're totally un-American."
"Probably."
And just like that, the mood changes between them. What was awkward before becomes heady with tension, the same tension that's been subtly vibrating just below the surface since Spencer invited Jon up to the suite. Spencer's no longer nervous and anxious for something he can't define; right now all he wants is for Jon to keep looking at him with those dark, charcoal-lined eyes and make him feel, without having to worry about the consequences afterward.
Jon sits up slowly and crawls across the carpet on his knees to where Spencer is slumped against the couch cushions. He straightens a little and strips off his shirt, tossing it aside before spreading Spencer's legs wide enough to make room for him. He slides his hands up Spencer's thighs as he leans in, pressing almost chest to chest against him.
"What do you want?" he whispers, and Spencer shivers.
"What do you do?" Spencer whispers back.
"Everything," he says matter-of-factly, "but I don't kiss on the mouth."
Spencer reaches up and threads his fingers through Jon's hair, pushing it back from his eyes. "Neither do I."
Somehow that makes Jon smile at him as he smoothly unbuttons Spencer's shirt and splays his hands over Spencer's chest. The first touch of Jon's mouth against Spencer's skin is almost a shock; his lips are warm, soft, gentler than Spencer expected. He doesn't gasp, and he doesn't dare look away when Jon opens his fly and pushes Spencer's briefs and pants down just enough to free his cock.
"Definitely magnum," Jon breathes just before taking Spencer all the way into his mouth.
Spencer finally lets his eyes close and his head drop back against the couch. He doesn't make a sound until right before he comes, and even then it's just to tell Jon not to stop.
________________________________________
Jon wakes the next morning and forgets where he is. The light streaming through the blinds is too bright to be his bedroom curtains, and the air doesn't smell like stale cigarette smoke. He snuffles into his pillow and rolls over, scratching blearily at his chest.
Then it hits him that his chest is bare, and the bed he's sleeping in is three times the size of his own.
The car. The hotel. Spencer. Jesus, Spencer...it all comes back in a rush, like he's remembering a really great dream. Jon reaches his hand out slowly to touch the other side of the bed, only he finds it empty, the sheets cool. He curls his hand into the top sheet, sighing as he plays over the previous night in his head; Spencer sprawled on the couch, Spencer gasping his name, Spencer's hands sliding over his skin later in the shower and asking, almost shyly, if he could get Jon off as well—
Jon rolls over and blinks up at the ceiling, reminding himself of exactly where he is, which is a rich guy's penthouse in Beverly Hills. A rich guy who will be paying him a good chunk of money this morning when Jon leaves. He just needs to forget that said rich guy's name is Spencer, and that he has gorgeous blue eyes and amazing hands and a really nice laugh.
He gets up and pulls his t-shirt back on, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he trudges blearily out of the bedroom. The clock on the wall reads eight-fifteen. Jon is rarely awake before noon.
Spencer is sitting at the dining room table in front of his laptop with a cup of coffee and a spread of untouched breakfast food, already dressed in his suit and tie. He glances up when Jon walks into the room and smiles.
"Good morning," he says. "Sleep well?"
The smell of fresh waffles is making Jon's stomach growl. His normal idea of breakfast usually consists of a half-burned Pop Tart or the last of the Lucky Charms Brendon happens to leave him. "Yeah, great. Forgot where I was." Jon looks out the open balcony doors for a moment, and sure enough, he can see hints of the ocean in the distance.
"Occupational hazard?"
Jon fidgets with the hem of his t-shirt as he wanders back to the table. "Yeah, I guess," he says with a laugh.
Spencer catches him eyeing the food. "I, uh, didn't know what you liked, so I...ordered everything on the menu." He uncovers the two plates of pancakes and waffles, and holds up the carafe of coffee. "How do you take it?"
"Black, just black." Jon almost groans in bliss; he hasn't had really good coffee in months, not since he ran out of the good Starbucks shit Brendon got him for Christmas. He wraps his hands around the mug once Spencer fills it and breathes it in, sighing contentedly.
"That good, huh?" Spencer is still smiling as he shakes his head.
"Dude, you have no idea." He tucks himself up into one of the dining room chairs and begins to tear into one of the waffles with his fingers, not even bothering with syrup. The coffee mug stays close at all times.
After a few quiet moments of Spencer typing away at his laptop, Jon says in between bites, "So. You never told me if you're really a lawyer or not."
Spencer glances up and smirks. He hasn't shaved this morning, and his cheeks are all scruffy, completely at odds with his tailored suit. "I'm not a lawyer."
"What, then? A really bad ass accountant?"
He laughs at that. "God, if my accountant rented penthouses every month, I'd be broke. No, I buy companies."
Jon tilts his head to one side as he starts on another blueberry waffle. "What kind of companies?"
"I buy up businesses that are in trouble and I sell off the pieces. Like..." Spencer waves his hand, nose scrinched in thought. "Like you do with a car after a wreck."
It makes sense to Jon. Sort of. "Do you get really good deals 'cause they're going under?"
Spencer shrugs just as his cell phone buzzes with a text. "Right now I'm about to negotiate a deal to buy a floundering music company for the bargain price of a hundred million dollars."
Jon's stomach bottoms out. "A...a hundred million?" The closest he's gotten to that kind of money is when he buys a Powerball ticket on the last Friday of the month.
"Of course, that's just the first bid. They might still try to highball us." His phone buzzes again with another text, and Spencer glares at it. "I've got to make a call to Gabe, I'll be right back." He gets up and goes into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.
Jon stays at the table, staring at the food and thinking about this life Spencer leads, how effortlessly he inhabits it. It starts to sink in that Jon is kind of out of his league, but he shakes off the anxiety, and instead grabs his coffee mug and wanders into the bathroom. He's been fixated on the giant whirlpool since last night; he's never had a really, really nice bath before.
He sets his mug on the edge of the tub and turns the water on, sorting through the collection of bath salts and fragrances lining the counter. There's something called Springtime Lilac that smells amazing, and Jon figures Brendon can mock him all he wants when he comes home smelling like flowers; for right now, he's going to be a total girl and enjoy it.
He keeps his iPod Shuffle (bought with money made from a really generous banker who liked the way Jon gave head) in his jacket pocket, because he hates to be without music at any given time. Once the tub is filled with hot water and enough lilac-scented bubbles to kill whatever hetero tendencies still reside in his brain, Jon strips down to nothing and hops in the water with his headphones on and Prince blaring in his ears.
Eventually Jon tunes everything out around him, humming whatever song comes on and tipping his head back against the tub's edge, eyes closed and body almost boneless. Humming soon becomes singing, karaoke-style, and he's in the middle of belting out ZZ Top's "Sharp Dressed Man" when he opens his eyes and finds Spencer standing over the tub, grinning smugly with his arms crossed over his chest.
Jon's cheeks go instantly hot. He pops his earbuds out and tosses them on the tub's edge next to his iPod. "ZZ Top kicks ass," he says with a sheepish smile, sinking deeper into the bubbles.
"Totally." Spencer gestures to the bath. "Enjoying yourself?"
"Yeah. I, uh, figured I'd take a swim in your pool before I left."
"Thanks for breaking it in for me." For the second Spencer's smirk falters, but he recovers quickly, clearing his throat. "Listen, Jon, I have a favor to ask of you."
He slicks his hair back with one hand. "You wanna steal my music collection?" Jon asks, enjoying (probably too much) the way Spencer laughs and shakes his head.
"I have a bazillion gig iPod in the other room sitting in my briefcase. You should be stealing from me." Spencer glances down at his phone still clutched in his hand and sighs. "This is...more of a business proposition."
Jon bites his lip. "Okay," he replies slowly, not sure if he should be wary or not.
"That deal with the music company I mentioned—I'm meeting with the CEO and founder for a business dinner tonight. It'll be the first time we've met face-to-face and seriously talked about the details of this buy-out." Spencer rubs at the back of his neck, not looking Jon in the eyes. "And Gabe says Wentz—Pete Wentz, the CEO—is very much into forward-thinking and breaking conventions. So...Gabe thinks I should take a date to dinner. A male date."
This was not at all the direction Jon thought this conversation would go. "Does—does Wentz know you're—"
"Probably not, but it's not a secret. I don't flaunt it. Gabe thinks it'll work in our favor, since Wentz is well-known for being bisexual himself."
"And you want me to be your date?"
Spencer takes a deep breath and finally meets his eyes. "I want you to be my at my beck and call for the entire week. I don't have time to get someone different lined up for every night, and this negotiation with Wentz isn't going to be a one night thing." He laughs tightly. "Not to mention I haven't really dated in about five months."
Jon's head is starting to spin. "The whole week? You want me to stay the whole week?" This has to be a joke. "I mean...you're a really great-looking guy." He absolutely does not blush harder. "You could have any guy you want for free, and for a lot longer than a week."
"Thanks for the flattery, but like I said, I don't have time for the bullshit of dating. I want a professional."
"It'll cost you." Jon winces when the words leave his mouth.
"I figured as much." Spencer spreads his hands out in front of him. "Okay, hit me with a ballpark figure."
Jon has never been able to appropriately bargain with a john. Usually he ends up lowballing himself, and then Brendon chews him out later for not asking for more. But now—now is completely different. He's negotiating a week's worth of work.
"Six thousand," he says, heart pounding.
Spencer's eyes narrow. "Six hundred for five nights is three thousand."
"You want days, too." Jon fucking holds his ground, his knee bouncing under the surface of the water.
Spencer tips his chin up. "Four thousand."
"Five."
"Done."
Jon's mouth drops open. "Holy shit!" He ducks under the water, slapping his hands against the bottom of the tub.
When he surfaces, Spencer's leaning over him and laughing. "Is that a yes?"
Jon wipes the bubbles off his face and beams, almost too afraid to believe any of this is real. "Yes, fuck yes, sign me up."
Spencer throws a towel in Jon's face, and bubbles fly everywhere.
Once he's out of the tub and wrapped up in the fluffiest damn robe he's ever seen (which may or may not be the one Spencer wore last night—Jon notices Spencer raise an eyebrow at him as he shrugs it on), Spencer hands him a stack of bills, all hundreds.
"That's for last night," he says quickly, not quite looking Jon in the eyes. "And the rest is for you to buy new clothes for the week."
Jon bites his lip as he flips through the cash. "You don't believe in credit cards?"
"Like I'm going to let you loose with my Amex. Besides, they'd probably be able to tell it wasn't me signing for it, and then it'd just be more trouble for us both." He packs up his laptop into his leather messenger bag and grabs his card key off the dining room table, pausing for a moment.
"Do you have a cell phone?" he asks.
Jon does, but it's a pay-as-you-go phone and his minutes are always on the brink of running out. "Um, yeah..."
Spencer reaches into his jacket pocket and hands Jon a business card. "That's my contact info. Just in case you need anything." The very, very tops of his cheeks turn the faintest pink. "I'll see you this evening." He turns and heads out of the suite. "Don't buy anything with pinstripes, for the love of god," he calls over his shoulder as the door closes behind him.
"Yes, dear," Jon mumbles to himself, still staring in amazement at the wad of money in his hands. Then he shoves the cash into the pocket of his leather jacket and runs out onto the balcony, yelling, "Five thousand fucking dollars, bitches!" at the tops of the buildings spread out before him. He can't stop smiling like a crazy person; he's standing on the penthouse balcony of the Regent Beverly Wilshire, wearing a bathrobe worth more than his apartment and smelling like a damn flower bed.
Eventually he grabs the cordless phone sitting on the closest desk and curls up into one of the comfy chairs on the balcony as he dials Brendon's cell.
"'llo?" a raspy voice says.
"Dude, I called and called last night, where the hell were you?"
Brendon groans something unintelligible. "Walker?"
"Who else?"
"Man, you disappeared in that Ferrari and I figured you were set for the night. I ended up partying at Shane's." There's a shuffly sound, like Brendon's rolling over in bed. "So where are you?"
Jon beams up at the bright, early morning sky. "The guy with the Ferrari? Yeah, I'm in his penthouse apartment in Beverly Hills. His bathroom is bigger than Mikey's studio."
Brendon groans again, louder. "Seriously, do I have to hear this?" But Jon can hear the smile in his voice.
"Bren, he's—he wants me to stay for the whole week. And guess how much I got him to give me?"
"Please tell me it's got four digits."
"Try five grand."
"Bullshit!" There's a crash on the other end, something falling to the floor. Jon imagines it's Brendon's Coke can lamp being knocked over by accident. "I can't fucking believe I gave that guy up to you! Is he at least skeevy?"
Jon smiles stupidly at the phone; it's not like Brendon—or anyone else—can see. "Naw, he's nice. He even gave me money to buy new clothes. There's some big dinner tonight he wants me to go to with him."
Brendon snorts. "And he expects you to know how to buy shit for something like that? Every piece of clothing you own is at least three years old."
"Hey, it's, what, a suit and some ties? How hard can that be?"
"Shoes, too, Jonny Walker. Can't wear flip-flops with suits."
"No shit." Jon blushes; he hadn't even considered buying shoes at all. "And look, I'm gonna leave money at the front desk for you to come pick up so we can make rent, okay? I'm at the Regent Beverly Wilshire."
He hears Brendon scramble around and mumble the address under his breath as he writes down the hotel's name on whatever piece of scrap he can find. "Got it."
"And one more thing. Where, uh. Do you have any idea where I'd—"
"Find really nice shit to wear?" Brendon laughs affectionately. "Dude, Rodeo Drive. Duh."
part two