Flash Mob Read online

  What he wanted most of all in that moment was to smoke. It bothered him that suddenly, after six years, he wanted a cigarette so bad he could actually taste the nicotine in his mouth, smell the smoke in his nose. Wait. It wasn't just a desire. He breathed deeply and could smell cigarette smoke. For a moment he thought he might be having a stroke. That would certainly solve his issues of not feeling competent or worthy of the life he was living. Yet, he didn’t feel odd or strange. His vision was still focused on his own face in the wall of mirrors.

  He moved to the door and looked out the small window. There wasn't anyone there. He opened the door and let his nose guide him down the hall, toward the small, corner rehearsal room. Jericho looked in the little window. Inside, a young man, eyes closed, smoked a cigarette clenched in his lips; he moved and moved around the room as his young muscles rippled. Jericho watched, mesmerized by the grace and beauty of the handsome young man. He wore a dingy singlet that barely contained his well developed, firm, taut, muscular body. His solid pectorals, not over developed like so many young men today, shifted gracefully as his arms moved. The package at his crotch propped the singlet up and out below the waist. The young man was drenched in sweat from his curly blonde head of hair down to his well-worn jazz shoes.

  Jericho quietly opened the door, entered the room, and closed the door behind him. The young man didn't notice. Jericho breathed deeply; he took in the smoke and musty smell of sweat in motion. He enjoyed the soft jazz strains coming from a small CD player on the window ledge. He leaned against the door and watched as the boy moved; his closed eyes exposing incredibly long lashes for a boy. The young man was oblivious to his surroundings, to the gawking older man who’d intruded into his space, or to the ash falling from the nearly ended cigarette.

  Finally, the cigarette smoked down to the filter burned the young man's lip. He came out of his revelry. The shocked look on his face told the story of Jericho's intrusion.

  "What the fuck are you looking at, man?" the young dancer spit out. He dropped the butt to the floor and stepped on it.

  "One of the most beautiful dancers I've seen in a very long time," said Jericho, worried for a moment that the boy would burn his foot through the thin shoe leather. Jericho’s eyes were wide; he knew how their amazing blue sparkled in the too bright, overhead, florescent lights. This was the kind of guy Jericho found attractive, the type of boy he dated for a few weeks and dumped.

  The guy didn't take the compliment. "So. Who the fuck do you think you are? The Great Jericho Taylor? Gonna discover me and put me in a fucking Broadway show?" The boy's words slurred a bit and spittle escaped his tight lips. The dancer was at the end of his rope and lashed out, as if this last refuge were being challenged by the intruder. He felt like a failure. New York City had beaten him and like a scared puppy he was about to run with his tail between his legs back to Ohio, to live again in his parents' home.

  Jericho's breath caught; he avoided the choices of chuckle or snarl. "Actually, I am." He took out his wallet and produced his business card, ready to show this boy his driver's license if necessary.

  "Holy shit," said the guy, whose face blushed crimson. The red streak rose from his neck, to the tip of his slightly large ears, all the way to the top of his forehead. "Mr. Taylor, I'm so very sorry." The anger dripped away from the boy's voice. A Midwest twang escaped out of his mouth. The kid dropped his face, looking at the floor.

  It took a great amount of Jericho's power not to laugh in the boy's face at the transformation from tough street thug, to embarrassed, Midwest corn-fed boy. "Not a problem. Let's start over." As if on some cue, the jazz coming from the CD player stopped. Jericho offered his right hand. "I'm Jericho Taylor."

  "B-B-Billy," stammered the boy as he reached over and shook the famous man's hand, still focusing his eyes on the floor.

  "Just Billy? Like Zorro or Cher or…" Jericho stopped his chuckle at the stupid joke. He smiled at the tongue-tied chorus boy with looks and potential.

  "Lake, like Erie," Billy said. The boy blushed an even deeper shade of red out to the tips of his ears when he looked Jericho in the face.

  The two men still held hands. Jericho looked Billy Lake square in the eye; Billy looked down at his feet again. Jericho reached up his left hand. He wanted to touch the boy's sweaty chest, or crotch, but instead lifted his fingers to Billy's chin and raised the guy's head. They again looked into each other's eyes. "Mr. Lake, you have nothing to be ashamed of or embarrassed about. I'm sorry I invaded your space."

  Billy's look softened. The blush began to fade back to pink. He felt the heat growing between them. Older men, those like Jericho in their fifties or whatever, always hit on him. It didn't really bother Billy. It was one of the benefits of having a well-developed body. While not really his type, he preferred young, hot boys built like himself, he also wasn't offended. These daddies had more to offer when it came to money and prestige. They were the men who ran the world and Billy liked being with those in power because, for a simple blow job or two, he could be taken care of and treated well, for awhile at least.

  "I'm just so sorry I yelled at you. I should have known you. I've seen your picture in the Playbills and the Sunday Times. Hell, I even auditioned for you once."

  "Really?" said Jericho. He knew if he'd seen this boy dance, hell, if he'd seen him in a line on the street waiting to get into a movie, he would have remembered him.

  "Well, I attended a cattle call about a year ago. I was tapped out before they got to groups small enough for you to see." Billy still felt warm from his embarrassment.

  "I start rehearsals for a new show tomorrow. If you can tap dance and are interested, you've got a job"

  Billy Lake's eyes misted over. "Yes," he whispered.

  "Yes what?"

  "Yes, Sir," Billy said, his proper upbringing coming to the fore.

  "No, I mean yes to what?" The two men continued to hold hands, although Jericho had dropped his left hand from the boys cleft, stubbled chin.

  "Both," said Billy, his voice still barely audible. "I can tap dance and I would love a job. I was here tonight, rather sure that this was my last night in New York. I got thrown out of my apartment today. Everything I own is in that bag." He attempted to point and realized he was still tethered to Jericho. They released their grip. "Sorry," the boy said and, not knowing what else to do with his hand now that he had it back continued his motion toward the small duffle bag. "I didn't know what to do or where to go. I know the guy who works the door here and he let me use the rehearsal space until they close tonight. I've got a return ticket to Cleveland. That's it." Billy pointed to the crushed cigarette butt on the floor. "That was my last cigarette."

  "Dance," commanded Jericho.

  "Huh?" stammered Billy.

  "I need to see you tap dance," said Jericho, the twinkly smile returned to his face. "…five, six…seven…eight," he said in rhythm.

  Without thought, Billy launched into a gentle tap routine with a bit of soft shoe. Within a few steps the boy created his own rhythm with feet, hands, and little verbal grunts. As Billy tossed his head from side-to-side he cast a shower of sweat around him. Jericho watched, again mesmerized. He wanted this kid in his show, and in his bed. Jericho could already imagine the drenched sheets Billy would create with him if the guy’s current sweat patterns were any indication.

  Yet, something strange happened. Jericho couldn't explain it, whatever it was. It hit him fast and hard. He knew he would hire this boy. He looked fantastic and could dance circles around anyone else in the company. No, what he knew in a sudden, lightning strike burst was that he wasn't going to seduce or coerce this young man into his bed. He would hire him, yes, but he wouldn't make a move on him, no matter how difficult that was going to be. The thought happened so fast that Jericho didn't know the why of it. He just knew it was important. No, this one, if it was going to happen, would be a relationship. Billy Lake would be the one.

  "Excellent. You've got a job," Jericho said. "I've got to
tell you, you're in the chorus. But, I want you to understudy Jason Arrows. He's got a horrible attitude and I've got a bad feeling about him." His voice was all business now, the googly-eyed, school-boy routine had ended.

  Billy stood at attention. His six foot frame extended to its full height. Sweat covered his face and dripped from his limbs. His body-hugging singlet held tighter because of his damp chest and legs. "Fine. I'll do anything." He meant it. Billy fully expected, based on the way Jericho had been looking at him, the way so many men had looked at him in the past, that he'd be on his knees in front of this man before the evening ended.

  "Now, you need a place to stay until we get you back on your financial feet. I've got a lame guest room, but you're welcome to it."

  "I couldn't," said Billy, thinking here comes the half-court press.

  "Can't have one of my boys living on the street." He smiled at Billy. "Hungry?"

  Billy didn't respond, even though he'd been doing everything in his power to keep his stomach from growling during his first meeting with The Great Jericho Taylor.

  "Well, I'm starving, so you'll have to come along. Get some street clothes on and grab your things, boy," Jericho said playfully. He did feel playful. By deciding to slow play a personal relationship with Billy he'd taken the pressure off. His usual single-mindedness about getting a young man into his bed was gone. He felt lighter, almost excited by the prospect of getting to know this one; about playing a little cat and mouse, or, dare it be said, falling in love.

  Falling in love, silly, thought Jericho. I'm old enough to be this one's father, almost old enough to be his grandfather.

  Billy stripped down to his dance belt, giving Jericho a show when he turned his back to the director and pulled on sweat pants, exposing his perfect, hairy ass. He really wanted to strip out of the wet stinky dance belt, too, but he believed if he were naked at this moment that Jericho Taylor would have his way with him and the job would be gone once the old man shot his load. Billy pulled on a long-sleeve shirt and left it unbuttoned, giving himself some time to air dry while he changed into cleaner socks and his sneakers. Billy gathered up his few belongings and shoved them into the duffle bag. Jericho led them down the hall into the large room he'd been rehearsing in and collected his own things.

  They headed out of the building onto Lexington. Billy offered a wave but no explanation to his doorman friend while Jericho hailed a cab.

  "47th and 7th" Jericho barked at the driver before turning his attention back to Billy. "Cleveland, huh?" Jericho asked, making small talk. He resisted the urge to put his hand on the kid's thigh. That was a move for the old Jericho. He was new and improved now, his mission to fall in love was growing on him.

  "Suburb of," said Billy. He liked Jericho's style. He was direct and forward. He knew what he wanted and he was in charge, which was obvious from the way he commanded everything. Billy anticipated Jericho's hand on his knee or thigh. Just the thought of the director's hands on him caused him to get an erection. He was glad he’d left the dance belt in place, it helped contain his frequently hard dick. Although, because it was still damp from the workout, his cock didn’t easily stretch to its full length. Billy wanted to offer it some assistance, but decided not to.

  "I played Cleveland years ago. Shit, that was about twenty-five years ago. You probably weren't even born yet. It was a national tour of Cats. The theater was great. Was it The State?"

  "We've got a State Theater downtown," offered Billy. He'd seen a touring production of Cats as a really young kid, but didn't say anything about it to Jericho. He was only twenty one, so it couldn't have been the same tour.

  "Nice theater. The town was a dive though. Nowhere to go near the theater to eat or get a drink. We ended up back at our hotel. No room service, no mini bar. I thought we'd starve to death that week, or maybe die from DTs." Jericho looked out the window toward the memory, seeing the quiet streets of downtown Cleveland instead of those of New York City that bustled around him. As they entered Times Square, he flashed back to reality and enjoyed the knowledge of how far his life had come from those bus & truck, chorus-boy touring days. He’d made a lot of money living for several years out of suitcases while playing a different town every week.

  "Things have been cleaned up a lot." Billy continued talking about Cleveland, his hometown pride on the surface, still anticipating a hand on his knee or in his damp crotch. "There are a few bars and restaurants downtown now, too."

  Billy and Jericho were in two different places.

  The cab pulled up to the corner. Jericho paid and they got out on the street in front of the Grand Royal Theater. "Our soon to be home," he said.

  "Really?" Billy said, touching the brick wall of the building. He reached toward his shirt pocket for a cigarette and remembered he'd smoked his last one. He moved his hand back to the cool bricks. The early March night air was chilly and caused gooseflesh to form on Billy’s damp skin. He thought about digging through his bag for a jacket or sweater, but instead chose to just be in the moment.

  "In eight weeks we start previews." Jericho's tone belied his own fears. He felt fear every time he started a new show. But, this was his first Broadway revival. The expectations of theater goers with memories of the first, second, or even third time they'd seen the same show before could be devastating. They expected the show they loved, but they also wanted something different. Mounting revivals in New York is more difficult than a new show. Jericho thought he might cry. Deep down, he believed this would be the show that would end him. Of course, he felt that way about every show, and each one, year after year, decade after decade had been successful, some had even been Tony winning hits.

  "Um, Mr. Taylor?" Billy continued caressing the bricks.

  "Please, call me Jericho."

  "Jericho, what show have you hired me for?" If it were lighter, Jericho would have seen Billy blush bright pink again.

  The guy was too sweet, too innocent to believe. " 42nd Street." Jericho was reminded of himself when he was a young, company dancer. He didn't know anything about the world. He trusted everyone, only to be burned over and over. Everything Jericho learned, he'd learned the hard way. He resisted his urge to pull Billy tight to him, to kiss him hard, to press him up against the theater wall and grind their crotches together…Jericho stopped his thoughts. He'd read enough self-help books to know that the only way to break a habit was to break it, cold turkey. That's how he'd given up cigarettes.

  The two men stood for a moment longer; each entertained their own thoughts, fantasies, dreams, and fears about the upcoming production, about life. Without his sexual fantasy of the moment, Jericho's fear returned. It grew deep within him, its grip palpable, crippling. It was as if his fear was a living entity, capable of shutting Jericho down completely. He quietly said a prayer to the theater gods that he'd be able to keep his feelings of fear at bay long enough to get the show mounted. The director took two deep breaths and reached to his top pocket for a cigarette. It was only when he didn't find one that he remembered that he'd quit long ago.

  Billy, excited about his great good fortune, to have been saved from the jaws of disappointment and a humiliating Greyhound Bus ride back to Cleveland, about having to leave his adopted, New York City home, rubbed the wall of the theater. He'd been in the city for two years, going on cattle call auditions for everything, whether he thought he was right for the role or not. He'd used all his savings. Like so many hopeful actors, he'd waited tables, delivered pizzas, and survived on meager tips and the kindness of newly met friends. It seemed every young hopeful in the city was in the same boat, living day to day, mostly on hope, cheap slices of pizza, and all-you-can-drink $6 beer blasts.

  Jericho placed his hand on the small of Billy's back, feeling the strong curve where his tight ass and spine met. He wanted this boy in his bed more than he'd wanted anyone for a long time. Jericho made no sexual advance. "Come on, there's excellent Chinese right around the corner."

  Billy's knees went a little weak at
the touch on his back. It was his spot, almost like a G-spot. Whenever any man touched him there, handsome or not, attractive or not, Billy went weak-kneed. If they added any serious pressure, enough to cause the dancer to take action, they could have him. Jericho could do anything to or with him at that moment and Billy would acquiesce. Yet, nothing more happened. Billy not only allowed himself to be drawn along, but raised his own hand to Jericho's back. Arm and arm, the men walked two blocks and turned north onto 9th Ave.

  "Hold on," Jericho said, dipping into a corner bodega. He bought two packs of cigarettes and handed one to the boy. They smoked and walked another block to Chin Chin Changs.

  "Get us a table for two and order me a glass of white wine. I need to make a call," Jericho said to Billy. "Oh, get that look off your face. I'm not dumping you here. I need to let my assistant, Sara, know you're joining the company. There's paperwork to deal with," he said in an attempt to reassure Billy's visible fears. “And, you look cold.” The boy didn't move. "Okay, fine, stand over there," Jericho pointed to a spot, "and wait for me." The kid did as told, lighting a fresh cigarette from the cherry end of the other. Jericho fished around his bag for his phone and before dialing he lit another cigarette. Jericho made a silent vow to quit smoking again once the show was mounted. He hit the speed dial for his assistant, Sara.

  * * *

  Billy Lake couldn't believe his luck. Instead of being on a bus back to Cleveland, because of a chance meeting, he was curled up snug in a guest room in Chelsea under the care of a famous Broadway director and choreographer, The Great Jericho Taylor. Billy had to admit, even if just to himself in the quiet of the little room, that he was surprised Jericho hadn't made a move on him. He felt a twinge of disappointment. Most men, especially older men, couldn't resist his hard, taut body. He'd seen the unmistakable look on Jericho's face in the rehearsal room. There was energy between them, yet the old man hadn't made a move, not even a hand on his thigh during the cab ride home.