Fic: A thousand dollars for a kiss: Chapter Seven
When Jeff had arrived home earlier that afternoon, Jared and Jensen had still been curled up on the sofa together.
Jeff had taken Jared’s bruised face in stride, listening to him explain what had happened calmly and clinically, and asking sympathetic questions.
Sam, when she’d come in just after supper, had been furious. She’d fussed about Jared like a mama bear, putting the now-soggy peas and corn back in the freezer and coming out with a couple of icepacks that had been hidden in a compartment of the freezer that Jared hadn’t noticed. She gave him one and then handed one to Jensen.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice the way you’re holding yourself,” she said when Jensen gave her a startled look. “Anything I need to take a look at?”
Jensen blushed. “No ma’am.”
Sam snorted. “I’m Sam, not ma’am. Does it hurt to pee? Is there blood in your urine?”
Jensen shook his head. He looked positively mortified at the attention, so Jared called it back to himself, pouting a little and complaining that his face hurt, which in retrospect wasn’t such a good idea, because Sam’s fury returned full force and she started insisting that he call the police and have his father charged with assault.
Jensen cleared his throat. “Uh, Jeff? I, uh, have to go. Would you mind giving me a lift? Sorry,” he glanced apologetically at Jared. “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
Sam was still trying to persuade Jared to press charges when Jeff got back from dropping Jensen at home, but Jared really didn’t want the drama of it all. She did persuade him to call his mom and what a painful conversation that had been. His mom had cried and then she’d got her lawyer on the other line and Jared ended up handing the phone to Sam and fleeing into his bedroom.
Jeff knocked on his door a few minutes later.
“I’m going to head out to do the coffee van,” he said. “If you’re not feeling up to it-”
“I’m fine,” said Jared, getting up off the bed and putting on his shoes and jacket. “I got slapped. It’s not a big deal.”
Jeff leaned in the door way and folded his arms. “It kind of is, kiddo,” he said. “You were kidnapped, imprisoned, physically assaulted and had some pretty hurtful things said to you by someone you should’ve been able to trust. That’s a big deal, Jared.”
Jared shrugged. “Right. Well. At least now I can relate to our clients a little better, huh?”
Jeff smiled at him with sad eyes.
They set up the van across from Jensen’s usual beat and Jared lost himself in the familiarity of the work, making coffees, handing out free sandwiches and condoms, and bantering with the customers.
When a casually-dressed guy in his late twenties sidled up to the van, Jeff side-eyed him suspiciously.
“How much for a coffee and a sandwich?” the guy asked.
Jeff raised an eyebrow and glanced briefly at Jared before explaining that they weren’t selling food, they were doing outreach work with the homeless and sex workers.
“Right,” the guy nodded. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a notepad and a pen. “You run Per vias rectas. Jeff Morgan, right?”
Jeff glanced at Jared again. “That’s right. And you are?”
The guy put the pen in his mouth and stuck out a hand. “Richard Speight,” he said around the pen. “I’m a reporter with the New York Post.”
Jeff ran a hand over his jaw. “New York Post, huh? You’re a long way from home.”
Richard raised an eyebrow and spread his arms wide. “Oh come on now, Jeff. We’re all part of the great big global village these days, aren’t we?”
“What do you want?” Jeff asked.
The reporter grinned widely. “Hi,” he said, holding out a hand to Jared. “Richard. Pleasure to meet you.”
Jared took his hand. “Jared.”
“Jared Gumm, right?” Richard said. “Adopted son of Thomas Gibson Garcia and Catherine J Monaghan?”
Jared stared at him.
“So tell me, Jared, for the record: is it true that you’re gay? And given your father’s well-publicized homophobic rants, how does he feel about having a gay son?”
“Seriously?” Jeff said, with a scowl that most people would probably have found intimidating.
Richard merely shrugged. “What can I say? The boss likes gossip, sensationalism and controversy and Thomas Gibson Garcia provides that in spades.”
Jared swallowed. He looked across at Jeff and then ran a hand through his hair.
“Richard, was it?”
The reporter nodded.
“Okay, Richard. Look. I’m working right now. I’d, uh, be happy to give you an interview, but not right now. Maybe you could stop by the drop-in center tomorrow?”
“Yeaaahhh,” Richard stretched out the word, “and give you time to line up one of mommy and daddy’s lawyers to make sure you don’t say a word? I don’t think so. I-”
“Jared!”
Jensen. And he was heading right at Jared, fists clenched at his sides and his face pinched tight with fury.
“Jensen? What’s wrong?”
“You lied to me!”
“Jensen,” Jeff tried to intercede, “this isn’t the time or the-”
Jensen whirled on him, and for the first time in a long while, Jeff saw Dean, the tough, aggressive street kid who’d earned the respect of everyone in the network of streets that made up his home turf.
“Shut the fuck up,” the street kid growled, before turning back to Jared.
“Who are you, Jared? Tell me the truth. Who are your parents?”
Jared’s heart was pounding. This was bad. This was so bad. Jensen was beyond furious. And there was a reporter. Watching it all. He hung his head and fought back the tears that were threatening.
“Were you even gonna tell me?” Jensen’s voice was barely a whisper. “Or was I just gonna find out when we made front page news in the tabloids?”
Jared lifted his head. Yes. Good point. Jensen needed to be warned. “Yeah, uh. About that. This guy’s a reporter,” he nodded at Richard who smiled widely and flourished his notepad.
“Jensen, was it? Are you the boyfriend? How did you and Jared meet?”
Jensen’s eyes widened. “You! You were at Sebastian’s Opening! Are you working with Mark Sheppard?”
Richard frowned. “The producer?” And then his mouth fell. “Holy shit. You’re one of Roche’s models, aren’t you?” The reporter rubbed at his chin, and looked around him, taking in the loitering street trade. “There are rumors that he uses underage models, street whores that he picks up and-”
And, oh shit. Jared threw himself out from behind the trestle table and in between Jensen and Richard, because Jensen was launching himself forward, swearing like a ghetto gangsta and very clearly gearing up to start throwing punches.
“Chill out, man. This isn’t helping,” Jared caught ahold of Jensen and tried to restrain him. Jared might’ve been a little taller, and he’d been working out for a few weeks, but he still wasn’t a match for Jensen physically, especially when the older man was spitting like an alley cat. Jeff, meanwhile, was trying to guide Richard away from where Jared was struggling to contain a snarling, completely out-of-control Jensen. Richard, though, was refusing to leave, madly scribbling down notes as a small crowd of sex workers gathered to watch the show.
“Stop it, Jensen, please,” Jared said tearfully. “Please calm down. I love you, man.”
Jensen went limp in his arms and then pushed himself away from Jared.
“You don’t love me,” he said. “You couldn’t.”
“I do. I love you Jensen.”
“Bullshit,” Jensen’s eerie calm was even more frightening than his rage had been. “You wanted to fuck me, just like everybody else,” he threw his arms out wide. “At least they all were honest about it. They wanted a fuck, they paid for it, and that was that. But you? You pretended to be someone you weren’t. Just some ordinary kid with asshole parents, tryin’ a figure out if he was gay. And all the time… You lied to me, Jared. And you fucked up my fresh start, because I can never have that now. Never. So screw you.”
Jensen turned and began to walk away and Jared followed him.
“Jensen, please,” he reached out a hand and grabbed at Jensen’s shoulder.
Jensen spun around and was in Jared’s face so fast that Jared was stunned silent.
“You don’t need to be all up in my grill,” he hissed, and he was all Dean; Jared couldn’t see even a trace of Jensen. “Back the fuck off and leave me alone, ‘less you want me to smack you down hard.”
Jared blinked back tears. “I love you, Jensen,” he said.
Jensen laughed and turned away. And then he hauled his arm around and punched Jared in the face.
“Fuck you,” he said coldly, before turning and walking briskly away.
--
Jensen was a block and a half away when the panic attack hit.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! He lurched to a stop and bent at the waist, sucking in harsh gasps of air. Oh God. Oh fucking God. He’d hit Jared. He’d fucking hit Jared.
He’d always promised himself that he’d never hit his partner, never hit his children if he had any, and the first serious boyfriend his has, at the first sign of trouble he clocks him in the face. God. He’s an asshole.
The remorse hit hard. And it was swiftly followed by grief. He…he cared about Jared. A lot. And he’d had this sort of dream that they could maybe make some kind of life together. But now? Now that was fucked. Now that could never happen. Because Jared’s parents were famous. Beyond famous. They were Hollywood royalty. Every move they made was reported on E! News, talked about in the gossip mags, and even made it onto the news sometimes. And their kids have always been this big fucking mystery; it would be naïve to think the media won’t be all over Jared like a fucking rash, picking through his life, unearthing every bit of gossip and scandal they can find. He can see the headline now: Homophobe Thomas Gibson Garcia’s gay son dating whore! No-one was going to care about Jensen, but he’d be fucked by the crossfire all the same. Outed to the entire world, forever branded a whore.
The only reason he’d been able to do this job in the first place was that he knew he could get away from it, knew that he could leave it all behind and move on to a new, clean, fresh life. Now? He’s going to be Jensen the Whore forever.
Jensen started hyperventilating again. He struggled to regulate his breathing and when he had it sort of under control he staggered into a nearby alley and leaned against the wall beside the dumpsters. The cold, rough brick felt reassuringly familiar and even the rotting garbage and stale Chinese takeout smell of the dumpsters was grounding. Hookers sometimes brought tricks into this particular alley-he’d brought them here himself, although not for years-but right now, it was empty. Jensen got out his cigarettes with trembling fingers and lit up. He sagged against the wall and closed his eyes, trying to let the smooth, creamy smoke soothe him. But all he could see behind his eyelids was Jared’s shocked face, his puppy dog eyes liquid with hurt.
It was going to be alright. He was going to be alright. Everything would look better in the morning. He…who was he trying to kid? Oh, that’s right. Himself.
Jensen took a final drag on his cigarette and squashed it underfoot. He wanted to go to Jared and hold him, stroke his hair and tell him how sorry he was. He wanted Jared to hold him and tell him that everything would be okay, that it was all a misunderstanding, he didn’t really have famous parents. He wanted to cry on Sam’s shoulder and have her hold him tight. But he was the bad guy. She’d want Jared to have him charged with assault. There would be no comfort for Jensen; not from Sam. Not that he deserved it. And besides, he wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t.
“Well, well, well. Look who we have here.”
Jensen opened his eyes. His belly churned as he took in the three men standing before him in a semi-circle. He didn’t know their real names, but on the streets the big black guy was known as Walker and he and Jensen had history. He ran a stable of hookers for Pellegrino, all girls, and he’d wanted to branch out into guys; had targeted Jensen to be the first. Most male hookers didn’t have a pimp and Jensen hadn’t wanted one, but Walker wouldn’t take no for an answer. So Jensen had a quiet word to Kurt Evans, his pal down at Vice, and Walker got picked up for carrying concealed, which was also a parole violation. It got him two years in County and even though he’d never been able to prove that Jensen was responsible, he’d decided to hate him anyway.
The older white guy was known as Freddy G and he was high enough up the Pellegrino gang’s food chain that Jensen had never had any dealings with him before.
Jensen didn’t recognize the Hispanic guy, but he was taller and broader than Clif, the bouncer-cum-strippers’ bodyguard down at Whiskey and Rye, which Jensen figured didn’t bode well for the comfort of his immediate future.
“Hey, boys,” he said, getting out his cigarettes and lighter again. “It’s five hundred for a gang bang, and you pay for the motel room. You’re gonna have to wait though; I’m takin’ a smoke break.”
Walker glowered at him. “I don’t swing that way, Fag. Although,” he tilted his head and sneered, “your lips could easy be a girl’s, if I closed my eyes.”
The Hispanic guy said something in Spanish and Freddy G shook his head.
“Hi Dean,” he said to Jensen. “I trust you know why we’re having this little get-together?”
Jensen tilted his head to one side. “I’d like to think it’s because of my perky nipples.”
Freddy G stared evenly at him and then gave him a thin, watery smile. “You think you’re funny?”
Jensen grinned. “I think I’m adorable.”
Freddy G showed his teeth. “We’ll see how adorable you look when we’ve finished with you, huh? Matias?” He nodded at Mountain Man and the big Hispanic guy stepped forward, cracking his knuckles.
“Gonna enjoy this, Pretty Boy,” he said.
Jensen rolled his eyes. “Monologuing? Really? Okay, sure. Tell me all your evil plans.”
Matias sneered at him. “You assed out, Puto. I’ma bust you up good.”
“Wait!” Jensen said, as Matias moved toward him. “Maybe we can make a deal?”
Freddy G laughed. “You don’t have anything we want, Dean. Come on now, boy, don’t look so shocked. You knew this was coming. That’s why you’ve been in hiding.”
Jensen nodded. “Right. I’ve been sitting around all day writing sad poems about how I’m gonna get my ass kicked. I’m working on one now. Let’s see, what rhymes with ‘Fuck you’?”
Matias came at him and Jensen ducked into him, twisting up and jamming the lit butt of his cigarette right into Matias’s eye. Matias howled and let go of Jensen, grasping at his face, swearing and staggering backwards blindly.
Walker moved in then and let fly with an upper cut. Jensen’s head slammed backwards and his jaw snapped out of place, and then Walker was on him, pummeling his ribs, his stomach, his face, with fists like concrete blocks, until Jensen dropped to the ground and curled himself into a fetal position. His head spinning, his vision blurring, and his face and torso throbbing and swelling and hurting, Jensen wrapped his arms around his head and tried his best to protect his vital organs. Walker put the boot in then, kicking and snarling, and Jensen tried to keep his gasps and whimpers quiet, tried to ignore the ache in his kidneys and the blood trickling down his neck and the spray of Walker’s sweat every time he let loose with a kick. A howl was wrenched from Jensen’s unwilling throat as he felt his ribs crack, and after that he didn’t care that he was crying like a little girl, the agony was too much, it was just too much, and Jensen could feel himself going under. The last thing he heard was Osric’s voice, shouting: Stop it! You’re killing him! Stop it! Jensen!!! No! And then Osric screamed, a terrible, inhuman scream, and Jensen lost his battle with consciousness.
--
He feels kind of numb. And that can’t be right. He remembers what happened and there should be pain. A lot of pain. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe that’s why he can’t feel himself. He thinks that he would like to open his eyes, but his eyelids are too heavy. He remembers something about people putting coins on the dead’s eyelids to pay for their boat trip to the afterlife. Maybe that’s why he can’t open his eyes. Although…it’s not an American custom, right? Maybe he’s really a gladiator in ancient Rome. Maybe he’s had lots of lives. That’d be nice, because this one kind of sucked. He thinks he can hear voices, but it doesn’t really matter because he’s very sleepy and thinking is hard and his brain is floaty.
He goes back to sleep.
--
Jensen woke up to the sound of snoring and the smell of disinfectant. He opened his eyes to the sterile brightness of a hospital room and stared up at the white tiled ceiling for a moment before turning his head to see who was snoring. Chris was hunched on a chair in the corner of the room and for a brief moment, Jensen was bitterly disappointed that it wasn’t Jared. Of course, it couldn’t be anyone but Chris; Chris was his next of kin; his emergency contact. Maybe one day that might have been Jared, but not anymore.
Jensen turned away from Chris and quietly took stock. His ribs were bandaged, there was gauze stuck to his face, and…Jensen reached a hand downwards…they’d put in a catheter. Awesome. He was also hooked up to a PCA pump, which was all sorts of bad. Jensen swallowed and pushed the call button.
The nurse who responded was an older woman, mid-forties at least.
“You’re awake,” she chirped needlessly, taking up his chart and scanning over it. “How are you feeling?”
“Numb,” Jensen said. “What’s in the I.V?”
She gave the answer that Jensen had expected; Morphine
“Take it out, please,” he said.
Her eyes shot up and she gave him a hard look. “Recovering addict?”
“Yeah.”
She removed the line quickly and then checked his blood pressure and temperature before removing the catheter too.
There was a jug of water on the side table and she poured him a glass (plastic) and showed him how to raise and lower the bed.
“So when can I get outta here?” he asked as she helped him to sit up.
She told him that was up to the doctor; that a doctor would be in soon to look him over.
“Your…brother?” she nodded at Chris and Jensen nodded. “He gave us your insurance information. There’s no hurry to leave.”
Jensen snorted. “I fucking hate hospitals.”
She raised a disapproving eyebrow at his language, but didn’t comment. “Is Excedrin Extra Strength alright with you for pain management?” she asked.
Jensen said that it was. As soon as she’d gone, he turned to Chris. “You can stop pretending now, dude.”
Chris opened his eyes and sat up with a grimace. “Woke up while she was takin’ out the catheter. I was tryin’a give you some privacy.”
Jensen rolled his eyes. “So how fucked up am I?”
Chris ran a hand through his hair. “You got three busted ribs. Apart from that, just a heap of bruises and abrasions and a concussion. And dude? I’m sorry about the drip. I didn’t even think to tell ‘em.”
Jensen shrugged. He took a long drink of water and then put the glass on the side table, wincing slightly as his stomach muscles pulled and his ribs strained.
Chris got up from the chair and came and perched on the edge of Jensen’s bed. “Shit, son,” he said. “What the fuck were you thinking? You knew Pellegrino had people looking to fuck you up. Why were you down there without someone to watch your back?”
Jensen shrugged. He didn’t want to tell Chris that he’d had a fight with Jared; that they’d broken up. That would make it too real.
Chris sighed. “Osric’s pretty fucked, you know. He found you and screamed like a mofo; got everyone’s attention. But one of them, an older, white guy, Osric said, tried to burn his eyes out with a cigar while some big black dude held him down. It ain’t,” Chris’s voice broke slightly, “it ain’t lookin’ good. He could go blind from this. ”
“Fuck,” Jensen pressed a hand to his mouth. “Oh fuck. That’s…that’s messed up, man.” He remembered jamming his cigarette into Matias’s eye, the way it had sizzled and Matias had screamed. He remembered hearing Osric’s blood-chilling scream, just before he’d passed out. “Fuck, Chris,” he said. “That’s on me. I jammed my cigarette in this one guy’s eye when he attacked me. Guess they wanted payback, so they took it out on Osric.”
“Yeah. And blinding a witness is probably a smart move. Makes it hard to pick ‘em out of a line up. Course, you know who they are, but they know you ain’t gonna tell.”
“Right,” Jensen agreed. “Cops’ll pass it off as a trick gone wrong and I’ll let ‘em. I’ll let my pals in Vice know the real score though; they can do whatever they want with the info, but I sure as Hell won’t be testifying.”
Chris got to his feet. “I’ll go and let the others know you’re okay. Let them come in a couple at a time to see you.”
Jensen frowned. “The others?’
Chris raised his eyebrows. “What? You didn’t realize everyone’d be out there in the waiting room? Danni’s been ballin’ her eyes out for hours; Gen and Misha are with her. Felicia’s there, Jared’s fuckin’ beside himself, Jeff and Sam too. We’re your family, man.”
Danni came in first, with Felicia. She cried all over him and hugged him so hard that it made his ribs hurt badly. She’d brought him toiletries and a change of clothes, which he appreciated. Felicia was white-faced and mostly quiet. She told him Osric’s eyes were bandaged, that he’d had surgery and the doctors were quietly hopeful that he’d retain some sight, but they wouldn’t know for sure until the bandages came off.
Gen and Misha stuck their heads in next and brought him a pack of Marlboros and a lighter. Neither of them really seemed to know what to say to him. Gen rambled on about llamas and what eco-friendly pets they were and Misha told him a story about going to the races once and all the horses were in drag. “No joke, Jensen,” he said seriously, “they make them wear dresses. It’s called dressage.”
Jared, Jeff and Sam all came in together, with matching red-rimmed eyes, and Jensen was so ashamed that he could barely look at them.
By the time Sam had cried over him, stroked his hair and fussed over him as if she were his mama, and Jeff had patted his arm and done the gruff, fatherly thing, Jensen had tears running down his cheeks. He didn’t understand why they cared and he didn’t understand why they weren’t mad at him for punching Jared; Jared, who so far hadn’t said a word.
Jeff and Sam left, but Jared stayed, sitting on the chair where Chris had been sleeping earlier.
“Can we talk?” Jared said.
Jensen looked up at the ceiling. And then he shrugged.
“I’m really, really sorry,” Jared said. “I should’ve told you. I know I should’ve. I was just…scared I’d lose you. Scared you’d back away if you knew who my parents were. I am so sorry, Jensen,” he sucked in a shaky breath. “I love you.”
Goddamn it. He was still fucking crying. Jensen wiped at his face.
“I’m sorry I hit you,” he said when he’d gotten himself together. “That was a dick move.”
“Is there,” Jared hunched forward in the chair and bit at his bottom lip. “Is there a chance? Can we…can we try to…get past this? The whole thing with my parents?”
Jensen looked at him then, and the hopeful, yet sadly resigned look in Jared’s expressive eyes was like a spear through his heart.
“I…I want to,” he said. “But…I’m sorry…I don’t think we can. I don’t wanna be Jensen the gold digging whore who hooked the innocent rich boy for the rest of my life,” Jensen bit at his bottom lip and tried not to look at the pain in Jared’s eyes. “I can’t be with you without the truth coming out and I don’t want that. I want to be able to move on with my life, put all this behind me.”
“I understand.”
Jensen could see Jared’s bottom lip trembling and the way he was wringing his hands together, even though he was trying not to look.
Jared stood up. “We can still be friends though, right?”
Jensen faked a smile. “Sure.”
Jared nodded and walked slowly to the door. He turned around just as he reached it and looked back at Jensen, his face contorted with grief, and tears running down his cheeks. “I love you, Jensen,” he said.
Jensen made himself meet Jared’s eyes. “I love you too,” he said.
--
Jared couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed half the night going over everything he could’ve done differently; should’ve said differently. The other half of the night he spent crying helplessly into his pillow, trying to muffle the choking sobs that were shaking their way out of his chest and up his throat.
He finally fell asleep just as Jeff was getting up and woke up around midday to the incessant ringing of the doorbell.
Jared hoped that it would be Jensen-ridiculous, really, given that he was in hospital and pretty banged up- and he rushed heedlessly to the intercom, in just his pajamas.
It was the delivery guys from Sunset Discount Furniture Mart with the double bed he’d chosen; the one big enough for him and Jensen to sleep in.
Jared buzzed them in numbly, taking delivery of the bed he’d ordered with such disastrous joy only yesterday. It came in pieces, which he had the guys stand against the wall in his bedroom. He tried not to see it as a metaphor.
The delivery guys took a long sideways look at Jared’s red-rimmed eyes, bruised cheek and general disheveled appearance and wisely kept their mouths shut, doing their job and leaving quickly.
Jared barely noticed them go.
He looked at the bed and went on another crying jag, sinking to his knees on the bedroom floor and weeping fat tears until he had a headache. Break ups hurt.
Jared forced himself to his feet and gathered together some clean clothes. He headed to the bathroom to shower and change. And then? Then he would go and visit Jensen. The hospital had two lots of visiting hours: 2 to 3 in the afternoon and 7 to 8 in the evening. Jared would spend every minute he could at the hospital. He loved Jensen and Jensen loved him. Maybe, if he was persistent (in a totally non-stalkery way) Jensen would change his mind.
When Jared walked out of the bathroom Jeff, Sam and that reporter Richard were sitting on the sofa.
Jared frowned. “Who’s looking after downstairs?”
“Alona and Missouri,” Jeff said. “Jared…Richard wants an interview. And I think you should give him one. It’ll give you an opportunity to get out in front of this; have some say into what is said about you.”
Jared looked forlornly at the door and then nodded. It made sense. Maybe he could try to turn this into something positive, turn it into an article about homophobia, with his dad as the bad guy.
“Okay,” he sat down and looked at the reporter expectantly.
Richard ran a hand over his mouth. “Are you okay, kid?” he said, his voice surprisingly sincere.
Jared faked a smile. “Not really.”
The reporter waited silently for him to elaborate. Jared looked away. He didn’t want to talk about Jensen, about the breakup. But he was going to have to give some explanation for why he was such an emotional wreck. He ran a hand across his mouth.
“I, uh, I guess now I know how our clients feel.”
Richard frowned. He got out a voice recorder. “Do you mind?” he gestured at the recorder.
“No. Go ahead.”
Richard pressed record. “You are Jared Gumm, adopted son of Thomas Gibson Garcia and Catherine J Monoghan?”
Jared agreed that he was.
“You just told me that you now understand how the clients here at Per vias rectas Drop-in and Outreach Center feel. As I understand it, the drop-in center caters to street kids and the homeless, a lot of whom are prostitutes, and a lot of whom are gay. In light of that, would you mind expanding on why it is that you now understand those clients better?”
Jared ducked his head. Richard wanted a story. One that would capitalize on the gossip, sensationalism and controversy that Thomas Gibson Garcia provided. And he would get it. Jared would keep the focus off himself and Jensen and firmly on Thomas. His dad liked the spotlight; Jared would make sure it shone on him, in his starring role as a homophobic, abusive father and a cheating husband; the villain of the piece. Jared looked up from beneath his bangs and gave Richard a tremulous smile, letting his puppy dog eyes disarm the man completely.
“Yesterday my dad disowned me,” he began, absently prodding at his bruised cheek.
Richard tracked the movement with his eyes and his lips thinned. Jared watched as the reporter’s mind changed gears, the story morphing (Jared hoped) from an untrue, sensationalist piece about a celebrity’s entitled son sampling the rough trade he was supposed to be helping, to the one Jared wanted him to write; the one about the two-faced hypocrite who was always the first to throw a stone, even at his own son, and who thought the rules didn’t apply to him.
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