Dating Rules and Pretty Fools Chapter 2

Dating Rules And Pretty Fools – Ch. 2

By Laura S. Fox

Gay Erotica

Intended for Mature Audiences Only

This story will contain graphic depictions of sexual intercourse, strong language and it is not meant for readers who are less than 18 years of age.

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Chapter Two – Research Is the Mother of Learning

That was the fifth in two days, Otis dutifully wrote in his notepad. Of course, there could be more since he wasn't there all the time to spy on his neighbor. Also, standing in the hallway and always pretending to be busy with inspecting the light fixtures for signs that they needed changing – although that wasn't something that fell within his responsibilities – was highly impractical. There was, as well, the matter of doing all this research on the downlow so that Hudson didn't start to suspect that he was the main subject in the scientific endeavor Otis was conducting at the moment. It was only a vague idea, but he believed that his new neighbor might not take being spied on lightly.

One thing Otis had noticed was the reasonable level of attractiveness in the young men frequenting Hudson's apartment. They seem to do fairly well in the muscle department and they wore tight clothes. Some had jewelry, such as ear studs, and some had tattoos. He was completely thorough in his evaluations and he wrote down all the aspects he considered important.

For instance, the average session for each date Hudson organized in his apartment was between half an hour and an hour. Briefly, Otis had thought that his neighbor might be running some sort of tattoo business in there, but that idea was quickly discarded. Peeking around the corner when the door to 505 opened to let the newcomer out, he had observed a certain degree of intimacy between Hudson and those young men. Supposedly, tattoo artists didn't send their customers on their way with pats on the butt. Even if Otis knew close to nothing about the habits of such people, he thought it sound to conclude that those young men were Hudson's dates.

Did Hudson have a Grindr account? The mere idea made it tempting to re-install the app and hunt for those sleeve tattoos; even if people there didn't always show their faces, opting for other body parts, Otis was confident he'd be able to identify his very handsome neighbor. However, that app wasn't for the faint of heart, which he was, and wading through a sea of naked bodies with all kinds of tags attached seemed like a perilous journey.

He pulled at the collar of his dress shirt. He was thinking of seeing his neighbor naked. It was, he convinced himself, nothing but an exercise in futility. That would never happen. He was basically the opposite of those attractive young men going in and out of Hudson's apartment.

Lost in thought as he was, he missed the door opening to 505. He pulled himself back around the corner, but it felt like one moment too late.

***

Hudson waited for a full minute for Otis to emerge from behind the corner. Didn't he realize that his shadow was giving him away? He had seen his neighbor from 508 sneaking around, armed with a notepad, and scurrying away the moment Hudson opened his door. That was odd; if Otis hadn't been so strange in his mannerisms, Hudson would've suspected that his movements were being followed, which wasn't a good thing, given the nature of his operation. Could it be only some strange curiosity? Or was it something else? His gut instinct lay dormant when it came to the attractive youth living a few doors away, but he couldn't discard the signs. Otis, as in Otis like the elevator, was – not so low-key – stalking him. Hudson was curious about what that notepad contained.

It wasn't like him to postpone making things clear. "You can come out," he said loudly. Since Otis didn't appear to understand that he was the one Hudson was talking to, he continued. "Come on. I can see your shoes."

Finally, Otis peeked from around the corner. "You cannot. The angle is not right. And I'm standing far back."

Hudson crossed his arms and gave the pretty fool a hard stare. "How about you pay me a neighborly visit right now?" He pushed the door to his apartment wide open.

"Right now?" Otis asked, seemingly oblivious that he had just been caught in the act. "I have work in an hour."

"I'll be mindful of that," Hudson assured him. "Come on."

Otis didn't appear in the least disturbed by having had his cover blown and walked toward Hudson, the notepad under his arm. Then, he made a small stiff bow before walking into the apartment.

Was that too much trust? The young men who had crossed his threshold over the last few days knew what they were getting into. Hudson felt an unpleasant knot tying itself up in his gut at how obliviously Otis walked in. If he were a bad man, he'd be pleased with having such easy prey walk right into his trap. He shook his head. Going through the case file day and night had clearly made his mind work in nasty ways. What they said was true, investigators had to be able to put themselves in the perpetrator's shoes to understand what motivated them, what made them act against other human beings. Whether or not that was healthy was a matter still up for debate.

He invited Otis into the small living room that served as his studio. There was a sofa, a camera set on a tripod, and other paraphernalia needed for his current line of business, lined up against the wall to the left and scattered on a table. Otis stopped for a moment, appeared to throw a quick look at the offending objects and then sat awkwardly on the sofa, only to get up a moment later, as if something had burned the seat of his pants.

"What?" Hudson asked gruffly. "I use a blanket when someone's over."

Otis blinked a few times and their eyes met. No, not their eyes. While Hudson used both of his to look at his visitor, Otis had his left eye covered, as seemed to be his habit. "There isn't a blanket now," he pointed out.

Hudson moved slowly and rested one hand on the camera. He swung his hips for a moment, while gauging the other's reactions. Otis appeared to follow his every move with curiosity... no, it was more than that. The only exposed eye showed hints of awe and fascination. It felt a tad strange to be looked at like that. As the type of man used to getting plenty of appreciative looks from members of both sexes, Hudson felt a bit thrown by that particular interest shining in Otis's startlingly beautiful eye. "Are you here for the same thing as the others?" he asked.

Otis looked at the camera, appeared to hesitate, and then shook his head. Hudson shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Why did he feel disappointed at that? Did he really expect his very prim and proper neighbor to walk in here and take off his clothes? That was crazy. "Why are you here?"

"You invited me for a neighborly visit," Otis replied promptly.

"Right," Hudson said dryly. This kid was too smart for his own good, it seemed. "Let me rephrase that." As he said the words, he walked over to his visitor, grabbed the notepad out of his hand and pushed him back to sit on the sofa. "It's clean, by the way. Why are you watching me?"

He moved back to a safe distance – safe for whom? – and began leafing through the scribbled pages. They were filled with timestamps and details about the guys who had visited him over the last few days. They weren't all there, but the precision with each of the visits had been jotted down was impressive. "Do you have a thing for tattoos?" He looked at Otis, who sat there, hands on his knees, his back straight, as if he were just about to be questioned by a teacher.

"I do not," Otis informed him.

"Who sent you?" Hudson asked and frowned in thought as his eyes glided over the next entries in Otis's strange stake-out book. This visitor must have put something in his pants, because they bulged quite uncomfortably in front. He looked as if he had stuffed a raccoon in there. Do they bring raccoons on dates now?

That must have been the guy who had come with his own chastity device in place. Now that had been an interesting photoshoot. No raccoon, unfortunately, Hudson thought and looked at Otis pointedly. "Has the raccoon got your tongue?" he asked, barely keeping in a smile.

"No," Otis replied and pursed his lips. Then, he inhaled deeply. He looked as if he was building up courage for whatever was next. "I want to ask you if you could help me and, if it wouldn't be that much of a bother, provide me with some dating advice."

"Dating what?" Hudson had considered that many different things, some of them undefined, could come out of Otis's pretty mouth, but not that.

"Advice," Otis shot the word out as if it was a toad he had almost swallowed by accident.

"And what makes you think you're going to get that here?" Hudson asked, now partially relieved that his cute neighbor was simply odd, and not someone sent to watch his every move. However, he didn't need that sort of complication, so he began to rip the pages from Otis's notebook and then tear them into pieces.

"That's not very nice. It doesn't belong to you," Otis scolded him.

"Maybe. But the things you wrote in here don't belong to you, either."

Otis appeared to ponder. Then, after some deliberation, he said, "That is true. I apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable by spying on you."

"So, you agree that you've been spying on me," Hudson said.

"Yes. But it was for research. And research is the mother of learning. I need to learn."

"What, exactly? My work schedule?"

Otis turned his head to look around, but only briefly. "What kind of work do you do, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I do mind. It's nothing kids like you should know about," Hudson said. The little neighborly visit was over, and he could safely send Otis back to his apartment.

"I am not a kid," Otis said, carefully enunciating every word. "I am twenty-two years old."

"Yeah, you mentioned that. Come on, let me see you out." Hudson gestured for Otis to get up.

Otis did, but not without reluctance. "What about the advice?"

"Look somewhere else, kid."

Before Otis had a chance to protest again at being called that, Hudson took him by the arm, not too firmly, as his cute neighbor seemed like the kind to get startled easily. They were almost at the door when an energetic knock came.

Hudson pushed Otis back a little and looked through the peephole. He wasn't expecting anyone at that particular hour, and the guy standing at his door didn't appear a good fit for the job, either. Without looking behind him, he stretched out a hand. "You, back in there," he advised and opened the door.

The new visitor was somewhere north of forty, with thinning black hair, brushed back. His face was bony, and his eyes were cold. He wore a long coat, his hands stuffed in his pockets.

"Yeah?" Hudson asked.

"Mr. Vegas," the man said, without actually asking, "it looks like you're running a business. Do you mind if I come in?"

Hudson barely had time to step aside. He looked down the hallway briefly. The presence of the two goons by the elevator didn't surprise him. Then, he turned, and froze when he saw the dangerous newcomer facing Otis, who was staring back, with all that candor that seemed to be him.

Quickly, Hudson moved between them. He pushed Otis into the small kitchenette that was, thankfully, separated by a door. "Darling, how about you go make me a sandwich?" he drawled. Then, as he turned toward his new visitor, he continued, "How can I help you, Mr.--"

"Watkins," the man replied. "Who was that? One of your... models?"

"No," Hudson replied, feeling his hackles rising. Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"Too bad. He's got a good face."

"He's not made for business," Hudson said quickly. "Now, what can I help you with, Mr. Watkins?" He made no move to invite the other to sit. Part of his cover was being an insolent prick, as well as being a guy who seemed to lack basic awareness of what kind of dangerous situation he was getting himself into.

"Yes, you're right," the man said. "You can help me. Greatly." He produced a business card from an inside chest pocket with a gloved hand. "I presume boys with the ambition of becoming part of the entertainment industry often come knocking on your door. I've seen some of your body of work on that website of yours. I'd say you have a good eye. How about you send such boys to me? I have even more venues to offer. And I bet they can use the money."

"I see. Any particular type of young man you're looking for?" Hudson didn't like the way Watkins's eyes moved to the door of the kitchenette. "He's not for sale," he said pointedly.

Watkins looked at him with a sly smile. "Everything is, usually. For the right price. But I'm not here to step on your turf, Mr. Vegas. Do you understand?"

Oh, he understood all right. That was a warning. "Yes, of course. You still haven't answered my question. What's your pleasure? Blonds, redheads?"

"Desperate," Watkins said from the tip of his lips.

"I see," Hudson said slowly. Could it be that he was lucky enough to have one of the men running the human trafficking ring knocking on his door so soon? His eyes moved toward the narrow door leading to the kitchenette. Not so lucky, though. The timing was horrible.

***

Otis felt rightfully annoyed, he believed. What was with that sudden demand for a sandwich? He wasn't there to make sandwiches, and he wasn't a darling to Hudson, either. He meditated briefly. Maybe his neighbor was demanding some sort of payment for dating advice. That had to be it. Then, making a sandwich wasn't that big a deal. The darling matter, however, was not that clear.

He slowly inspected the small space, until his eyes fell on the small refrigerator in the corner. He opened it and stared inside. A lot of beer. Pursing his lips, Otis took one bottle out and looked at the label. With a shrug, he placed it on the counter and proceeded to continue his investigations. He had been caught in the act so easily. Never before had he felt so inadequate. That wasn't true. He almost always felt inadequate in his interactions with other human beings.

He missed his grandma so much. She understood him. And now, under such duress, she'd know what to do. Otis identified a small egg, forlorn in a case for a dozen, and picked it up. He then placed it carefully next to the beer bottle. He had to look inside the cupboards, too, and after much searching he came up with one slice of bread, which he sniffed for any signs that it had gone bad. With great pains, he found some bacon behind the beer bottles.

It looked like there was barely anything else. Disconcerted, he took another long look at his meager findings. Hudson had a very unhealthy lifestyle, but it wasn't Otis's responsibility to correct that. However, he had been asked to perform a task, and maybe it would be considered payment for at least one piece of advice on dating rules.

He opened the microwave on the counter, glad to have found at least one appliance in that poorly appointed kitchen. It wasn't very different than his, but he had a breakfast maker machine that could toast the bread, fry the egg, melt the cheese, and then serve everything in a round shape Otis liked a lot. Hudson didn't look like he had anything like that in there.

He put the bacon on a plate and then broke the egg, separating it from the shell with extreme care. He punctured the yolk a couple of times with the tip of a knife he had found in one of the drawers. Then, he placed everything inside the microwave, and stared intently. His grandma had taught him a lot of tricks, how long to let the microwave do its job and all that. Pleased with the result, he assembled everything on the slice of bread. It wasn't much of a sandwich, but that wasn't his fault. Next time, he'd recommend that Hudson let him go to his place and bring back some food, or even use his breakfast maker to prepare some proper sandwiches.

After a short moment of deliberation, he opened the beer bottle. Hudson hadn't mentioned it, but maybe he liked a drink with his sandwich. Just as he was admiring his handiwork, thinking that he hadn't done a half-bad job, the door opened, and Hudson walked in with a displeased look on his face.

There was so little space in that room, that they were now standing close, so close that Otis had to tip his head back. Since he didn't have enough room to move, he made an awkward gesture toward the sandwich on the counter.

"What is that?" Hudson asked. He seemed in a bad mood. Otis knew a few things about bad moods. Some people would say he knew a lot, not just a few.

However, now it was important to insist if he wanted to learn at least some introductory details about dating. "It's the sandwich you asked for. You know, you could ask more nicely when you want people to do things for you. And your refrigerator doesn't have food. I mean, this is all I could find. And beer."

Hudson groaned and ran one hand over his face. "Jesus, kid. Did I get myself a wife or something? This visit's over. Beat it."

Otis was nonplussed for a moment. Was the sandwich he made that bad? Hudson hadn't even tasted it. "No, it's not," he said stubbornly. "You must say thank you." That was what his grandma had taught him a long time ago. When someone did something for you, you thanked them, even if you weren't necessarily happy with it.

Hudson seemed about to relent for a moment, but then he quickly grabbed Otis by the scruff of his neck and proceeded to escort him out of the room. All his efforts from the past few days were going down the drain before his very eyes. Otis dug his heels in once they reached the hallway. "I'm not leaving before you give me some dating advice."

"Right." Hudson finally let go of him. "Here it is. Consider it a freebie. Don't knock on the wrong door."

Otis dutifully took out his phone. His notebook was back there, and he didn't dare go get it.

"Are you kidding me? You're writing it down?"

"So that I don't forget," he explained. "And I'm still waiting for that thank you."

"Fuck me," Hudson groaned. "All right, have it your way. Thank you for the sandwich. We cool now?"

"No," Otis said stubbornly. "I can tell you don't really mean it."

Hudson grabbed him by the back of his neck again and turned him toward the door. "Don't let that door hit you in the ass, `kay?"

"That's not very nice," Otis insisted.

"Don't press your luck," Hudson growled, but he wasn't scary or anything. "Goodbye, kid. Stop spying on me."

Otis stared at the closed door that had just been slammed in his face for a bit. That hadn't gone too well, but things weren't that terrible either. Somehow, he felt that he could press his luck with his neighbor. Grandma wouldn't agree, most probably. She'd frown at Otis's insistence, which was a sign of bad upbringing, but he felt courageous today.

Don't knock on the wrong door. Yes, it was a good piece of advice. Otis believed that it was Hudson's way of saying that he shouldn't go for men that weren't right for him, seeing how he hadn't actually knocked on any door, let alone the one to his neighbor's apartment. He didn't plan to opt for men who weren't right for him. Even better, that little piece of advice from Hudson also helped remove a heavy rock from his chest. Now, he had the confirmation that Grindr wasn't the right app for him.

***

Hudson entered the kitchenette in a state of annoyance mixed with alarm. He had been unreasonably hard on the kid, but it was for his own good. Watkins, if that was the man's real name, had instantly took to Otis, smelling blood in the water like the fucking shark he was. Even without having a nosy neighbor getting up to no good, the present situation was bound to become dangerous sooner rather than later. Hopefully, Watkins got the message that the pretty airhead he had happened to meet there was off-limits. And, although that was where Hudson nurtured many fewer hopes, Otis also understood that it wasn't a good idea to stick his nose into other people's business.

Absentmindedly, he took the sandwich from the table and began eating. The yolk dripped over his fingers. "Fuck," he groaned, and then realization hit him. It was a damn good sandwich. He only needed to be careful not to get yolk all over himself.

So, Otis from 508, Otis like the elevator, Otis who was – only heaven knew why – in terrible need of dating advice, that Otis also knew how to make a sandwich. Hudson shrugged. The chances were Watkins wouldn't come sniffing around too often. A man who needed two goons to guard his ass didn't prefer visiting dingy apartments all the time. That was a man who wasn't exactly at the top of the food chain, but obviously had ambition. This little meeting had been a means to impress Hudson – Mr. Vegas, as his undercover nickname indicated – by catching him with his pants down, so to speak. It looked like Watkins appreciated a business partner that would cause no trouble.

However, trouble was exactly what he had in mind to cause certain people. The game was afoot. There was just a little pinprick that made him itchy, and it had a name. Hudson shrugged again. He was reading too much into everything. However, he'd keep an eye on his nosy neighbor, one of the reasons being that he wanted very much to see that other eye.

***

Confusion was natural, Otis thought as he joined Missy at waiting tables on the floor, promoted as he seemed to be to that role since Jerry had chosen to be a no-show for good. Mr. Smith had promised him a raise, too, and that was a good reason to be happy and dedicate himself to waiting the tables. He enjoyed doing his job competently, but it was getting difficult with him thinking of his handsome neighbor all the time. There was also the matter of that ugly man who visited Hudson that day. Otis scolded himself; it wasn't nice to call other people ugly. It was only how the man had looked at him, with the sort of curiosity one would have toward an animal, that had made Otis think of him as repulsive.

Missy woke him from his conflicting musings by nudging his elbow. "That man is here again," she whispered.

"What man?" Otis asked. Did she mean the ugly man visiting Hudson that time? But, how could she—He was being silly again. She meant someone completely different.

Missy moved even closer. She was so short that even with someone like him, she had to push herself up on her toes to reach his ear. "Don't look. It's the guy in that well-cut suit at table three. It looks like he likes that table. And you."

Otis tried to look in the direction indicated, but Missy hissed at him again. "Don't look."

"How can I look at him without looking?"

Missy pushed a menu into his hands. "He just asked for you. I would've flipped him off, but our dear boss doesn't exactly take well to what he calls my antics. Now, go. Whatever he offers, say `no'."

"He'll ask for food. I can't tell him `no'," Otis replied, feeling more confused than before.

Missy rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."

No, he didn't. But, armed with the menu, he walked toward table three with what he hoped was a deferential smile, and not the kind that freaked people out.

***

The customer at table three was alone. He wore, indeed, what looked like a well-cut suit, as Missy had put it, in the sense that it draped well on his body. Unlike Otis, he had a reasonable meat percentage to show off, and the suit jacket stretched across his shoulders as it should. He had dark hair that looked greasy in the restaurant light; he probably used some hair product, Otis decided. It was too shiny to be just dirty. Especially, since the rest of the man appeared to be clean.

"Good evening, sir," he said quietly.

The man, who had been absorbed in something on his phone, raised his eyes and smiled when he saw him. He looked younger than Otis had thought while eyeing him from afar. He moved his arms in wide gestures, as he put his phone down and then accepted the menu from Otis's hands.

"Hi there, pretty eyes." He began leafing through the menu with one hand while he touched his tie pin with the other. It was silver and drew attention to itself by being in contrast with the black tie. Everything the man wore was black, including his dress shirt. Except for that pin.

After what felt like no longer than a minute, the customer handed Otis back the menu and ordered with something akin to affectation. Otis knew that word because it could be mistaken with affection. The affectation in this case came with ordering the most expensive things on the menu, not that they had a lot of those. "I will have to ask the cook," he said. "It might take a bit."

"That's all right," the man said joyously. He had a boyish face when he smiled. Although the well-cut suit suited him well, when he smiled like that, he looked like a boy stealing his older brother's clothes so that he could pretend to be someone else. "I can wait if you keep me company."

"I can't," Otis said curtly. "I have other customers."

According to Missy, this young man wanted him as his arm candy. That could mean exactly that, or it could mean that the customer in front of him was interested in getting a date. Since it appeared that he wasn't right for Otis, being so young and wearing his older brother's clothes, the best course of action was to follow the advice offered by Hudson.

"What other customers?"

It was a slow night, and there were only a couple of other tables occupied. Missy was on the job. Therefore, his lie, as white as he intended it to be, didn't hold water. The correct thing to do was to let him down gently, either he was interested in some strange sort of arm candy, or a date.

"I will be right back," he said, nodding shortly.

"Don't take long," the customer called out after him.

The cook, after mumbling something about wannabes and crooks, most of which Otis didn't understand, agreed to prepare the meal the young man wanted. Without any reason to linger in the kitchen, Otis returned to table three.

The smile from before grew wider on the young man's face. "I'm Jackie," he said, but without offering his hand like Hudson had. "And you are," he pretended to squint while reading Otis's tag, "Otis. It's a pretty name."

"Thank you. Yours is pretty, as well," Otis replied dutifully.

"Come on. Sit down," Jackie offered.

"I can't. It's against the rules," Otis said and stiffened.

Jackie grinned, rubbed his chin in thought, and then stared at him. His green eyes were like those of a kid, too, round and pretty. They widened and moved, and they were very expressive. And his eyelashes were very curly, Otis noticed. Was that how Hudson saw him that caused him to call him a kid?

"I have a feeling that you don't like me too much, Otis."

"That is not true. I like all our customers the same."

Jackie laughed, and he didn't seem like he was laughing at Otis, as people usually did. "Ah, straight through the heart, huh?"

"I don't understand what you mean," Otis replied, and he was being very sincere. What was happening to him while looking at this young man who seemed interested in him was very strange. A few days before, he would have felt happy about it. There was finally someone interested in him. Could it be that he was starting to become arrogant because he was waiting tables now and was no longer comfortably hiding in the back?

Or was it something else entirely?

"What I mean," Jackie said and leaned back, hands behind his head, "is that, for some reason, my usual charm doesn't seem to be working on you."

Otis let his eyes linger over the taut body underneath the well-cut suit. It had to be a wonderful body, judging by what he could see of it. However, he needed to make it blatantly clear, because leading people on was not right. "I'm sorry. It is not your fault. You're too young for me."

Jackie gave him a startled look. "For real? If I wasn't sure they don't hire underage people in this place, I'd say you were like sixteen or so."

"I am twenty-two," Otis replied, slightly aggravated now. He didn't look that young. He was sure of it.

"And I am twenty-six," Jackie said, sounding and looking quite exasperated. "Who are you calling young?"

They must have started talking too heatedly, because Missy appeared by their side. "Otis, you may go. I know you wanted to leave early. I'll take over. Good evening, sir," she said in a sugary tone, addressing Jackie. "So happy to see you here again."

Otis didn't wait to listen to any more. He gave a formal farewell and disappeared. He must have looked that young to Hudson, too. No wonder the man called him a kid. And that wasn't good.

TBC