Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Trevanion B. Usher was having a great day.

He'd talked his way out of a speeding ticket, gotten a full refund on a pair of headphones without a receipt, and bought new eyeliner with an expired coupon. His mother had always told him that beauty faded but stupid was forever, so he had aimed high and set out to be beautiful for as long as he could and only let people think he was stupid.

The cop had honestly believed that Trev had gotten lost on his way to help orphans learn how to contour and was about to have massive diarrhea, hence the urgent speeds he'd been driving. The clerk at the electronics store had no problem accepting Trev was foolish enough to lose such a valuable receipt and talked down to him the entire time he was ringing up a cash refund. The cashier at the drugstore was stubborn at first, but she became desperate to do anything to make Trev go away when he started crying.

His mother had probably not meant for Trev to use her advice to get away with petty crimes, but hey, Trev did what he had to.

He always had a lie ready in case he got pulled over because the last thing he needed was cops searching his car since it was usually full of nice things that didn't belong to him. He would happily pretend to be a complete idiot because he still wouldn't be half as stupid as the clerk who gave him a refund on a stolen pair of headphones or the cashier who didn't notice him stealing a new lipstick, mascara, and eyeshadow to go with the eyeliner he was crying over.

Shame was unknown to Trev.

It only got in his way, and he had no use for it. He would use everything at his disposal to get what he wanted, and that sometimes meant putting himself in pretty degrading positions. The payoff to these stunts was always worth it in the end. After all, it kept him out of jail, put money in his pocket, and he thought stolen makeup applied better than if he'd bought it legit.

He wasn't rich by any means, but he had food in the fridge, clean clothes to wear, and he could put gas in his car. He had a job, but it was only part-time running merchandise to different vendors around the city for a local business. The merchandise was the kind that fell off the back of trucks, and Trev let one or two things fall into his front seat when it was good enough to sell or trick snotty clerks into giving him full refunds.

Trev used to dream about being a movie star or a singer when he was a kid. His mother had encouraged Trev to go to college and get a good education first. She hadn't wanted him to give up on his dreams, but she'd been a practical woman who'd said he needed a firm foundation to stand on before reaching for the stars.

He dropped out his junior year of high school after she died from a stroke. Her death wrecked him and left him completely alone in the world. His father had died right after he was born in an awful car accident, and Trev had no memory of him. He'd only ever seen him in his mother's photographs. He was a modestly attractive man with a dark olive complexion, black hair, and a fierce smile Trev saw sometimes when he looked in the mirror.

He saw his mother there too, and he was very grateful he favored her more because she had been the most beautiful woman in the entire world in his opinion. She was a gorgeous Black woman with dark amber eyes and warm brown skin. Trev saw her in his sharp cheekbones and full lips, and the rich curl of his dark hair currently dyed hot pink. His skin was lighter than hers, but its warm tones were echoes of his mother's brown skin and not the olive hue of his father's.

Trev's eyes, however, were just like his—a piercing shade of icy blue framed with thick lashes.

Trev knew he was beautiful. He was also very clever, and he could sing too. His mother said she'd had a sister who was a great jazz singer, but she had died a long time ago. Any family his mother talked about seemed to be dead and long gone, and it had just been Trev and his mother versus the universe for as far back as he could remember.

Although losing his mother had devastated him, Trev refused to succumb to depression.

He had a plan, and that plan didn't involve any time for feeling sorry for himself.

What he needed was money.

And lots of it.

Trev had charmed his way into working for an escort service as soon as he'd turned eighteen. He went on private dates, let himself be auctioned off at clubs, and never refused a job. He knew he only had so many years of youthful beauty that he could sell, and he didn't care what it took. His childhood dreams of stardom were impossible to reach, but buying a new house? Getting settled in a real home with a working bathroom and hot water? Finishing high school one day and going to college like his mother had always wanted him to?

That was a dream he could make come true.

He just needed more money.

For years, he'd saved and scraped every penny that he could get his hands on. The escort gig was good while it lasted, but his clients kept complaining that they thought he was stealing from them. Since Trev was actually stealing from them, he had to quit to avoid the police getting involved. He had other escort type jobs here and there, usually heavier on the jobs bit and less so on the escorting , but he was sick of it.

Being fucked professionally wasn't much fun when life was already doing such a grand job of it.

Even so, things weren't always so bad.

Days like today were happening more and more often, and he thought of it as a sign that he was finally headed in the right direction. His current job wasn't entirely legal, but he was in charge of his own schedule and he got to keep his clothes on. His boss respected Trev for his quick thinking and sharp wits, and she never treated him like some dumb pretty boy.

He was even talking to her about getting a full-time position at her store so he wouldn't have to drive around stolen merchandise anymore, and he'd picked up some brochures for GED programs he could take online and be one step closer to his goal.

He missed his mother every day, and he still talked to her when he was home by himself. He hoped she was proud of him, that she saw how hard he was trying, and he maybe hoped more than a little bit that she wasn't paying too much attention to the amount of his boxed wine and poppers consumption or how often he hit up hookup apps.

Trev was only human, and he was so damn lonely.

He had zero interest in dating, but he did have certain physical needs he liked having met on a regular basis. He preferred to hit 'em and quit 'em and move on to the next. The men he met were usually fine with that, though there were always a handful of the wannabe hero types who wanted to take care of him and save him from his woeful life in the slums.

Ugh, as if he was a fragile little puppy made of glass who was totally helpless and begging for a big strong man to save him.

Fucking vomit .

Trevanion B. Usher did not need any damn saving, and he certainly did not need anyone to take care of him. Being beautiful did not make him weak. Being young did not mean he was defenseless. He found the very idea insulting, and it was absolutely infuriating. The exact second a man said he wanted to be his daddy or take him home to make sure he was looked after was the same second Trev was done.

He'd kicked out a guy midstroke before.

Trev figured he'd try to settle down eventually, but he already knew his standards were set incredibly high. He wanted a man who would be his partner, someone who would respect him and treat him as an equal. Yes, he wanted to be adored and romanced on the regular too, but he wanted it to be because his man truly loved him, not because he saw Trev as some poor little flower who had to be shielded from the world.

Trev was many things.

Delicate was not one of them.

With the shopping bag from the drugstore in one hand and an iced coffee purchased with the headphone's refund money in the other, Trev strolled triumphantly down the hallway toward his apartment.

Today really had been a great day.

Though his building was a dump, Trev still thought of it as home. He'd moved here after his mother died, and it was one of the few places in the world he felt safe. The hallways smelled of piss and mildew, and he didn't trust the moody elevator not to kill him, but it was the only building in Perry City with rent under a grand and apartments that had solid wooden doors and thick iron bars over the windows.

With the amount of cash he kept here, he wanted to be damn sure it was safe, and not to mention protect his most valuable asset—himself. Perry City wasn't exactly peak civilization. The crime rate was high, the police were corrupt, and the mafia ran everything. News stories of people getting their homes and cars broken into were a regular feature, so Trev left his car doors unlocked to save the assholes the trouble and hope they wouldn't bust his windows.

His apartment, however, was on the third floor, had three deadbolts, and required two keys to get into.

He wasn't taking any chances with his home.

As Trev came off the stairwell beside the dreaded elevator, he could see someone was standing by his door.

Great.

His landlord.

Camille Bransby was propped against his doorway, the fog of smoke from her cigarette filling the hall. She was a thin veil of pale white skin on a skeleton, probably a hundred years old, and she bared her big fake white teeth at Trev in a leering smile. "Hey T. How's tricks?"

"Everything is fine, Mrs. B," Trev replied sweetly. "Thank you so much for asking. How are you?"

"Swell. Just swell." Camille flicked her cigarette ashes on the floor. It wasn't as if the smoke detectors actually worked, so there was no fear of her setting them off. "The hell are you wearing?"

"Clothing, Mrs. B," he replied, making sure to put an extra swing in his hips as he strolled up to her.

Trev was wearing a magenta hoodie he'd cut into a crop top, black denim shorts, and fishnets with a scuffed up pair of Doc Marten boots. His makeup was light, only foundation with black eyeliner and a hint of pink eyeshadow—the same pink eyeshadow he'd stolen from the drugstore today that matched his pink hair.

"And what are you wearing?" Trev gestured to Camille's ever-present quilted purple bathrobe. "Is that your bedspread?"

"Very funny. That's hilarious. It's so funny I forgot to laugh." She snorted. "Listen, I got a little job offer for you."

"A job?" Trev batted his eyes. "What kind of job? Doing your nails? Maybe a makeover? Oh, do you want me to teach you how to put false lashes on? I promise I won't glue your eyes shut."

"Cut the shit, smart ass. This is serious."

Trev let his charming facade drop, asking flatly, "What is it and how much does it pay?"

"A friend of a friend needs some quality entertainment," she replied, "and it pays six months rent."

Trev sipped his coffee to hide how his jaw dropped. Six months of rent was insane. He could save enough to possibly start looking at houses by the end of the year. That was too good of a deal to pass up.

It was too good of a deal period.

"Catch?" he pressed.

"Catch? Catch what?"

"What's the catch?"

"There's not a catch. You just go do your thing, and I credit you six months rent."

"Where and which thing exactly?"

"You know which damn thing."

"Where?"

"Down at the Cannery," she said. "You know it, yeah?"

"Yup."

The Cannery was the sort of place where guests could purchase intimate company for the evening. In special and very desirable cases, guests would even bid on the right to enjoy said company. People wore suits and ties, the security was tight, and it was all around a pretty fancy spot.

Trev hated it.

As an entertainer who was usually placed in an auction, he knew from experience that he could only keep a small percentage of the winning bid. It also meant he would have zero control over who he would be entertaining because it was decided by whoever had the biggest wallet. In Trev's experience, the more money a man had, the nastier they tended to be. It was one of the many reasons Trev had quit the escort service, and he was suspicious of Camille's job offer immediately.

This didn't make any sense.

Why would Camille be willing to give up six months worth of rent to help out her friend of a friend?

"Who do you know down there?" Trev asked. "Hmm?"

"What's it to you?"

"Just doesn't seem like your kinda place. Are you friends with Bob?"

"Yeah, sure." Camille nodded earnestly. "It's for Bob."

"Trick question," Trev sneered. "There is no one named Bob at the Cannery. Let's try this again." He slurped the last of his coffee noisily. "Who do you know down at the Cannery?"

"Smart little shit."

"Guilty."

"All right, look." Camille sighed. "I can't tell you who it is, but I can tell you they're in trouble with the Luchesis, okay?"

Trev flinched.

That was the mafia family who ran Perry City.

"They wanna make some important member of the family real happy, and they described his type." Camille gestured to Trev. "You're it. They told me that you used to do your thing down there, wished you still did 'cause you were so good, blah blah blah, and what do you know? He's telling me all this, and you live right here in my building."

Trev narrowed his eyes. He didn't trust a coincidence, not with this much money on the line, and he said immediately, "Six months. In writing. And that had better include sewage and trash too."

"You got it." Camille flashed a toothy smile. "I'll even notarize it for you."

"You're serious." Trev frowned. "Really?"

"Uh-huh."

"Hmm. Must be some friend for you to care so much."

"The best of friends." Camille blew out a puff of smoke. "You'll understand one day when you have some."

Trev laughed politely and then rolled his eyes. "When do?—"

"Tonight."

Well, shit.

Apparently Trev had to get himself ready to meet a gangster.

"Bring me the paperwork as soon as you have it," Trev said firmly. "I'm not budging until I see it."

"I won't even wait for the ink to dry," Camille cooed.

"Good." Trev unlocked the door to his apartment. "See ya' later, Mrs. B."

"Later, T. Be right over in just a bit."

Trev quickly stepped inside, scowling as he shut the door behind him. He locked it back and checked each deadbolt twice before he let himself relax.

Well, as much as he could anyway.

Trev's mind was racing at top speed trying to make sense of Camille's strangely generous offer. He finished his coffee and trashed the cup, pausing to greet his mother's photograph on the counter. She had always loved to cook, so keeping her picture in the kitchen made sense.

"Hey, Mama," Trev said. "You won't fucking believe this. Mrs. B. wants me to work at the Cannery tonight to help out some friends of hers and is promising me six months of rent. Six fucking months." He tapped his nails along the counter. "Something isn't right. Right? If something's too good to be true, it usually is."

He sighed, glancing over his tiny studio apartment. It was barely bigger than a matchbox, but it was clean and warm. He had decorated loudly with bright pastels, beaded pillows, thick rugs, and an army of potted plants. There was a big framed poster of the jazz singer his mother had said was his aunt hanging above the couch, a male mannequin he'd painted pink and converted into a lamp after chopping off its head, a flat-top casket stained mint green that served as his coffee table, and other eccentric bits of decor that made the space uniquely his.

While he did consider this place home, he still wanted to get the hell out as soon as he could. He wanted a fresh start where no one would know his name and he could reinvent himself. He wouldn't have to be Trev the pretty boy—he could be Trevanion the accountant.

The manager.

The chef.

The waiter.

Trevanion the anything because the possibilities were endless if he could only get out of this damn city.

Allan Electronics, the place Trev worked for, had multiple locations across the state. If his manager let him take on a full-time position, he could eventually transfer to another city and buy his dream house far away from the Cannery and anyone who might recognize him without his clothes on. He could work, go to school, and finally have the bright future he so longed for.

But for that, he knew he still didn't have enough money.

And getting more money meant taking the job at the Cannery.

This had to be the last time.

"The last time," he said out loud. "It's going to be the last damn time. I don't care who Mrs. B's stupid friend is. I'm just gonna have one last little private party, do my damn thing, and get the fuck out of there."

His mother's smiling photograph gave no reply, and Trev couldn't shake the knot forming in his stomach.

While he was waiting for Camille to return, he kicked off his boots, put away his new makeup, and then kept himself busy trying to find something to wear tonight. He had a vast wardrobe of all things slinky and seductive, and he was debating between a tiny lace thong or a sequined jockstrap when his phone buzzed.

It was his neighbor, Juicy Cusack.

do u know what time it is?

Trev snorted and typed back.

You literally just texted me. Check your phone, sweetie.

Trev waited calmly for a reply.

oh right thanx

Juicy was the closest thing to a friend Trev had, though Juicy didn't usually remember Trev's name even on his good days. He was pushing every bit of ninety years old—a bachelor with no family to care for him and who probably belonged in a nursing home. There was a nurse who came by twice a week to check on him, but Juicy insisted she was a spy and there were listening devices hidden in her ponytail.

He had a penchant for screaming at things no one else could see and often accused other tenants of being aliens from another planet. He ordered Chinese food every night at precisely eight o'clock after taking his dog out for its evening walk. That might have been the most normal thing about Juicy except he didn't actually own a dog.

Juicy would drag an empty leash behind him and carry poop bags to clean up its invisible messes. When people gave him odd looks, Juicy would bark at them and then apologize profusely for his pet's poor behavior.

Trev thought Juicy was odd but harmless, and he'd earned Juicy's favor when they first met by asking what his dog's name was.

Juicy had smiled and told him it was Barkimus Winchester III or Barkie for short.

Ever since then, Juicy had taken a liking to Trev, and Trev had the unique honor of being the only person Barkie didn't bark at.

Trev's phone buzzed again, and it was another message from Juicy:

i may end up with extra sesame chicken 2nite if ur hungry

Trev smiled and texted back that he would be working tonight but thanked him all the same.

It was not unusual for Juicy to claim that he just so happened to accidentally order Trev's favorite Chinese food so he had an excuse to visit. Trev enjoyed hanging out with Juicy, strange as he was, and listening to his wild stories. It was impossible to be sure what was true and what wasn't, and Juicy's tales ranged from being a combat pilot to a Michelin starred chef or even a neurosurgeon who saved a former President.

Trev's phone dinged again.

fine me and barkie will eat it all

Barkie is on a diet!

Trev quickly reminded him.

The vet said he needed to lose weight, remember?

hes old i can spoil him

Trev chuckled and was getting ready to reply, but Juicy had already sent another text.

be careful tonight they want blood

Trev frowned.

Right.

Because that wasn't foreboding and creepy or anything.

Trev knew Juicy wasn't all home upstairs and had said many other odd things before, but the warning sent a shiver up his spine. He was already having second thoughts about the job tonight and now this.

Maybe he shouldn't?—

There was a knock at the door.

Trev hated how he jumped. He groaned as he hurried over to check the peephole and see who it was. When he confirmed it was Camille, he showed her in. He eyed a folder in her hand. "Is that my contract?"

"No, it's the funny papers." Camille scoffed. "What else would it be?" She shoved the folder at him.

Trev opened it to retrieve the paperwork inside. He ignored the dread creeping into the back of his mind and focused on one night of work earning him six full months of rent. He scanned the agreement twice to make sure everything was in order before he signed. "There. Done."

"Thank you." Camille smirked. "My friend will be expecting you. Just tell them you're there for the big party. They'll know what to do."

"That's it? No name?"

"Trust me. They'll know what to do, I said."

He resisted the urge to say that he wouldn't trust her to tell him the correct color of the sky that day, instead batting his eyes and drawling, "Can't wait."

"You have yourself a good time," Camille said as she gathered up the paperwork to scoop back into the folder. "I'll send you a copy later. Be seein' you."

"Bye." Trev followed her to the door so he could lock up behind her. He checked the locks to make sure they were secured and then turned his attention back to his wardrobe. He had a few hours to kill before he needed to leave, and he still had to figure out what to wear. He wanted to make sure he looked extra delicious to ensure a lasting impression.

After all, tonight wasn't going to be an ordinary job.

He had to entertain a gangster.