Read Online Third You Die (Kevin Connor Mystery) by Scott Sherman - Free Book Online
Authors: Scott Sherman
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his twenties. He’d bought into my mother’s insane idea to disrupt the formula of her inexplicably popular show. Whatever happened to “Don’t mess with success”?
Not to mention the absurdity of imagining my mother as some bastion of journalistic truth seeking. Unless you count the TV listings or coupons, I don’t think she’s ever read a newspaper. As far as general information, if it wasn’t covered on Entertainment Tonight or in US Magazine, she didn’t know it happened.
And yet . . . my cynicism wasn’t particularly attractive, either. What, exactly, was so threatening about my mother’s and Andrew’s enthusiasm? Instead of being appalled by their desire to elevate what they did, what if I let it inspire me? Hadn’t I just done it with my own life—left the safety of easy money and the freedom to do as I pleased for the chance for a “real” job and a life with Tony?
It was easy to be bitter and sarcastic and predict disaster. Yeah, my mother doing any kind of real investigatory work had the potential of being a total fustercluck. But even a possible train wreck is better than staying parked in the station your whole life. At least it’s forward motion. Maybe, just maybe, we could even stay on the tracks and get somewhere. Somewhere better.
Who was I to say otherwise?
“Okay,” I began, “if we were going to do this, where would we start? It’s not like we have a crack team of reporters to get on the case.”
“How hard can it be to find news in New York City, Kevin? Everything happens here,” Andrew said. “Keep your eyes open. Watch what’s going on around you and look for angles no one’s seen yet. There isn’t a place in the world with more stories, Kevin. We just need to find one.”
I went back to my office and thought about what Andrew had said. What stories did my life offer?
“My Boyfriend’s a Closeted Cop?” Naw, I didn’t think Tony would like that.
“My Best Friend’s a Big Old Slut?” Naw, I didn’t think Freddy would like that.
“My Mother’s Driving Me Crazy and She’s the Star of This Very Show?” Naw, someone’s mother driving them nuts hardly qualified as news.
What else? In my time as a call boy, I’d serviced more than a few celebrities and politicians whose public personas were vastly different from their private lives. I’d also heard a lot of secrets. The sexual act can establish a sense of intimacy that’s way out of proportion to the reality of the relationship. Men who should have known better poured their hearts out to me.
Hadn’t someone told me he had a tale to tell? Something potentially explosive? That could blow the lid off an entire industry and even put people in jail?
Who was that? Oh, yeah. Brent Havens. The World’s Cutest Porn Star. (And this, mind you, from a guy who normally doesn’t go for “cute.”)
Brent had been so interested in me that I thought his tease of a “big story” might have been nothing but a way to get some attention. If it wasn’t, though, it could be just what I was looking for.
My mind raced through juicy, lurid possibilities of what Brent might know. “Secrets of the Adult Video Industry.” What could they be? Boys forced into making films against their will? Payoffs to politicians to ensure legal protections?
Penis sizes enlarged through the use of special effects?
Now that would be news.
My mind reeled.
He’d given me his number . . . on the inside of my wrist. I remembered scrubbing it off in a defensive move to avoid any awkward questions from Tony. Damn.
Wait. I’d made a preemptive move, too, and snapped a picture with my iPhone. I opened Evernote and there it was. I dialed Brent’s number, practicing in my head a greeting that sounded interested but professional.
No point in leading the boy on. Especially since I didn’t completely trust myself to resist his advances.
This, I explained to myself, was all business. Brent hadn’t been sure he wanted to tell his story. If
Not to mention the absurdity of imagining my mother as some bastion of journalistic truth seeking. Unless you count the TV listings or coupons, I don’t think she’s ever read a newspaper. As far as general information, if it wasn’t covered on Entertainment Tonight or in US Magazine, she didn’t know it happened.
And yet . . . my cynicism wasn’t particularly attractive, either. What, exactly, was so threatening about my mother’s and Andrew’s enthusiasm? Instead of being appalled by their desire to elevate what they did, what if I let it inspire me? Hadn’t I just done it with my own life—left the safety of easy money and the freedom to do as I pleased for the chance for a “real” job and a life with Tony?
It was easy to be bitter and sarcastic and predict disaster. Yeah, my mother doing any kind of real investigatory work had the potential of being a total fustercluck. But even a possible train wreck is better than staying parked in the station your whole life. At least it’s forward motion. Maybe, just maybe, we could even stay on the tracks and get somewhere. Somewhere better.
Who was I to say otherwise?
“Okay,” I began, “if we were going to do this, where would we start? It’s not like we have a crack team of reporters to get on the case.”
“How hard can it be to find news in New York City, Kevin? Everything happens here,” Andrew said. “Keep your eyes open. Watch what’s going on around you and look for angles no one’s seen yet. There isn’t a place in the world with more stories, Kevin. We just need to find one.”
I went back to my office and thought about what Andrew had said. What stories did my life offer?
“My Boyfriend’s a Closeted Cop?” Naw, I didn’t think Tony would like that.
“My Best Friend’s a Big Old Slut?” Naw, I didn’t think Freddy would like that.
“My Mother’s Driving Me Crazy and She’s the Star of This Very Show?” Naw, someone’s mother driving them nuts hardly qualified as news.
What else? In my time as a call boy, I’d serviced more than a few celebrities and politicians whose public personas were vastly different from their private lives. I’d also heard a lot of secrets. The sexual act can establish a sense of intimacy that’s way out of proportion to the reality of the relationship. Men who should have known better poured their hearts out to me.
Hadn’t someone told me he had a tale to tell? Something potentially explosive? That could blow the lid off an entire industry and even put people in jail?
Who was that? Oh, yeah. Brent Havens. The World’s Cutest Porn Star. (And this, mind you, from a guy who normally doesn’t go for “cute.”)
Brent had been so interested in me that I thought his tease of a “big story” might have been nothing but a way to get some attention. If it wasn’t, though, it could be just what I was looking for.
My mind raced through juicy, lurid possibilities of what Brent might know. “Secrets of the Adult Video Industry.” What could they be? Boys forced into making films against their will? Payoffs to politicians to ensure legal protections?
Penis sizes enlarged through the use of special effects?
Now that would be news.
My mind reeled.
He’d given me his number . . . on the inside of my wrist. I remembered scrubbing it off in a defensive move to avoid any awkward questions from Tony. Damn.
Wait. I’d made a preemptive move, too, and snapped a picture with my iPhone. I opened Evernote and there it was. I dialed Brent’s number, practicing in my head a greeting that sounded interested but professional.
No point in leading the boy on. Especially since I didn’t completely trust myself to resist his advances.
This, I explained to myself, was all business. Brent hadn’t been sure he wanted to tell his story. If
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