Chapter 2

When Blaine Anderson was twenty years old he was broke and squatting in a run down old building in Brooklyn, his only income coming from singing on the street, a hat open in front of him for tips.

Thankfully for Blaine, he was a good singer and made enough to feed himself.

He had just finished an afternoon of singing pop songs in Central Park, something that brought in the most dollars from the tourists, when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning around, his face dropped as he recognised the uniform.

“What have I told you about busking in the park, Anderson?” the policeman asked. His tone was firm, but there was a hint of pity in it.

“That I should have signed a music deal by now?” Blaine asked, laughing uncomfortably as he shoved the handful of notes from the hat into his jeans pocket before putting the hat on his head.

The policeman shook his head. “I warned you last week, I’m going to have to bring you in.” He gave Blaine a look of sympathy before taking him by the arm and leading him to his car.

“Can’t you just give me a warning?” Blaine asked hopefully, pulling the hat down to avoid the awkward stares of passers by.

“I’ve given you three; I have to bring you in,” the policeman said. He opened the rear door of his police car, holding Blaine’s head as he ushered him in. Shutting the door firmly, the policeman got in and made his way to the station.

“Jerry,” Blaine began.

“Officer Thompson,” the policeman corrected him.

“Officer Thompson,” Blaine repeated. “What’s going to happen to me?” His voice was small and unsure. He’d been warned a number of times for busking (by Officer Thompson and a few other cops he didn’t know) but he’d never been brought down the station.

Officer Thompson surveyed Blaine in his mirror for a moment before his eyes turned back to the road ahead. “Most likely a fine.”

Blaine groaned, pulling his day’s earnings from his pocket and counting the notes. He had made a killing today, what with a party of ten Japanese tourists taking pictures of the cute curly haired singer in the park. He was sure he could have made double had their party not had somewhere to be so soon.

“I don’t suppose they’ll feed me at the station,” Blaine said quietly, staring out of the window at the passing shops and people. It wasn’t a question, and it was more to himself than to Officer Thompson, who glanced back in his rear-view mirror at Blaine. When they reached a red light, Blaine found himself being hit in the face by something large and in cling film. “… What?” Blaine turned the object over in his hands, studying it as though it was expensive. “Ham and cheese?” he asked over the sounds of his stomach growling in anticipation.

“My wife always makes me too much for lunch,” Officer Thompson admitted, trying to sound as causal as possible. “You might as well have it. Who knows how long you’ll be waiting around the station for.”

Blaine nodded and licked his lips. Unwrapping the sandwich, he breathed in deeply and began to eat as slowly as he could muster. If the fine was a lot, it would mean stealing from the bins behind Wendy’s again. “Thanks.”

Officer Thompson smiled at the rear-view mirror but Blaine was too busy eating to notice.

***

By the time Blaine left the station there was little point returning to Central Park to make back the money he’d lost. All of the tourists would be back at their hotel rooms, or seeing other sights in the city. Sighing, he counted the few dollars he had been left with and decided that the silver lining was the free sandwich in the car and the free coffee in the station waiting room. At least he was going to sleep on a full stomach tonight.

It had been busy for a Thursday at the station and as Blaine’s case wasn’t priority he had to sit and wait with the other ‘criminals’. Since when was busking illegal? He wasn’t hurting anyone. He just needed to earn enough cash to get out of the hole he’d found himself in.

Life had gone downhill after his parent’s found out that he was gay. Blaine knew he was gay when he was fourteen years old, after watching his high school’s production of Guys and Dolls and had found himself drawn to the boy playing Nathan Detroit. He had managed to keep it a secret until he was sixteen when his parents caught him and one of classmates making out in his car one evening.

Blaine’s parents were not accepting of his sexuality. Mr William Anderson was a Senator for the Republican Party and he knew the scandal this would bring on his next election. Blaine was sent to Dalton Academy, his father’s alma mater, as a way to “straighten out”. Mr and Mrs Anderson thought it was all going well until his senior year.

It turns out there is something worse than a Politician’s son coming out as gay. Its two Politicians' sons caught in flagrante on school grounds. Both Blaine and Senator Phillips' son Jackson were expelled. Jackson was sent away to live with his grandparents in Michigan while Blaine was kicked out of the house.

As Blaine was eighteen he couldn’t really call child services on his parents, so he took this opportunity to start fresh. He moved to New York and spent the next couple of years waiting tables and singing in cafes. Blaine was living pay cheque to pay cheque, not earning enough to put in savings. Unfortunately, due to the economical climate, he found his outgoings higher than his incomings and lost his apartment.

Without a place to live, he wasn’t able to keep his job (there was some rule or law about not hiring people without a fixed address) and he found himself living on the street.

That was eight months ago.

And now Blaine was standing outside a Police Station with five dollars in his pocket and a long walk back to where he was squatting.

Blaine sat on the steps of the station and put his head in his hands, resting his elbows on his knees as he gave himself a minute to collect his thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he rubbed his eyes and was about to stand up when a shadow overcast him.

He glanced up and saw a woman, one hand on her hip, looking at him curiously. Her hair was long and blonde, tied back in a loose ponytail. Her clothes were dark; black pants and dark green t-shirt that was a size too big for her small frame.

“Hello?” Blaine asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

“What did you get?” she asked, taking a seat next to him on the steps.

Blaine opened his mouth and then closed it, unsure what to say. He rubbed his neck gingerly and sighed. “Uh – a fine. It wasn’t much, but -”

“- Enough?” she offered helpfully. Blaine locked eyes with the blonde stranger and there was something there, something that told him she understood. Maybe it was his ripped jeans; maybe it was his unwashed shirt. She could have even seen him busking in the park. It could have been any of those things, but maybe she could just sense it.

Blaine nodded, his gaze falling to his feet. “Yeah. I have enough for breakfast tomorrow, but that’s about it.”

“I’ve been there,” she said. She reached into her pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. After lighting her own, she offered Blaine one.

He waved his hand at her. “No thanks, I need my voice to make a living.”

She nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I’ve seen you in the park.” She took a drag and added, “You’re pretty good, kid.”

Blaine let out a small laugh, flattered. “Thanks. It gets me by.”

“I used to sing,” she said off-handedly.

Blaine turned to face her. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I sang down at Pooches Bar before it got closed down.” She pulled a face as though there was an unpleasant smell in the air.

“Pooches?” Blaine racked his brain. He was sure he read something about that place in the paper last year. Something about the owner disappearing or running out on the place. “What happened?”

The woman took another drag and blew the smoke in the opposite direction to Blaine. “The owner…left,” she said vaguely, her voice low and her words slow.

Blaine nodded, not noticing that the atmosphere had shifted. “Was he a good boss?” he asked.

The woman breathed in deeply through her nose, exasperated. Blaine wondered if he was annoying her with all of these questions or if he was talking too much. He never did ask if she wanted something from him, or if she was merely taking a cigarette break from whatever she did.

“He was a bastard,” she replied through her teeth.

Now Blaine really knew he should stop asking questions. He stood up. “I better get going; it’s a long walk home.”

The woman stood up too, reaching out to grab his arm to stop him walking away. “I’m looking for a partner and from what I’ve seen of you in the Park and here today, I think we’d make a pretty good fit,” she said bluntly.

Flushing red, Blaine waved both hands at the woman. “Oh no… uh…” he laughed uncomfortably. “You seem… nice, but uh. I’m gay.” When the woman laughed, Blaine felt the heat in his cheeks grow.

“You sang Teenage Dream followed by Stop! In the Name of Love, I kind of guessed you didn’t play for my team.” She said it kindly, without any prejudice. This was new to Blaine. She smiled in a way Blaine hadn’t been smiled at in years. It felt nice. After a moment she said, “I’m Quinn.”

“Blaine,” he replied. “If you knew I was gay, what did you mean by partner? Are you offering me a job?”

Quinn licked her lips and grinned. “Well, that’s one way of putting it.” She started to walk, making a motion that Blaine should follow. “I work in a particular business that highlights my…talents, so to speak.”

Blaine frowned. All he knew about this woman was that she could sing, and if she knew he could too…was it a singing job?

“You’re singing somewhere else then?” Blaine inquired.

Quinn stopped walking and turned to face him. She looked deadly serious and for some reason the hairs on the back of his neck all stood to attention. “I have other talents, as I’m sure you do.” She smirked and something in her tone was making him feel uneasy.

Quinn glanced around and then said in a low voice. “I hire out my services to people for money, and a pretty guy like you is just what I need when there’s a gay guy that needs sorting out one way or another.”

Blaine jumped back, eyes widened. “Excuse me?” he almost yelled. Catching himself, he hastily looked around to see if anyone had heard his outburst. When he was sure the area was clear he whispered loudly, “You’re a prostitute?”

Quinn raised her eyebrows but did not change her stern expression. She then said something that caused the contents of Blaine’s stomach to jump into his throat with such force that he needed to swallow several times before he was able to speak again.

“I kill people for money.”

“…I.I’m sorry?”

“It’s exactly how it sounds. People come to me with a problem and I deal with it.” She said this so nonchalantly, without remorse or fear of backlash. It was like she was telling him that she was a weather-girl.

“You’re serious…” Blaine had been hoping she was pulling his leg. That she really was a weathergirl and needed him to do the sports or something. Blaine was white as a sheet and it must have shown because Quinn was looking annoyed and impatient.

“You’d rather I be a whore?” she bit back.

“I’d rather you own a flower shop,” Blaine answered honestly. He then suddenly remembered. “Wait…you said you wanted me to be your partner? You want me to help you kill people? Why me?”

She considered him for a moment. “Like I said, you’re pretty. And I’m pretty. Together we can own this city. We can make our way through the dark underbelly so to speak and no one would suspect us. And anyway, I’m sure you could do with the money.”

This caught Blaine’s attention. “How much do you charge?” he asked carefully, feeling sick with himself that he was going along with this.

“Depends on the person and the length of time needed to do the job. If it’s seduction, that can last anywhere from one hour and…” she paused, licking her lips wickedly. “Well, a day, a week, a month. Like I said, depends on the person.”

Blaine nodded. “And do you actually…sleep with these people before you kill them?” She said she wasn’t a prostitute but it was possible the lines had been blurred and Blaine needed to know what he was getting himself mixed up in.

“Like I said, depends on the person.” She winked. She pursed her lips and looked at Blaine as though she was considering him. “How about this. I’m due to meet my next client tomorrow. Why don’t you sit in? See if you like it. If you don’t, fine. If you do, I’ll teach you.”

Blaine fiddled with a loose thread on his jacket nervously. He grimaced but nodded. He was sure he’d throw up if he tried to speak again.

Quinn nodded, looking accomplished. She grabbed his arm and took a sharpie pen from her pocket. Writing down an address and time on his forearm, she popped the pen back in her pocket.

“See you,” she said as she walked away. “Or not, your choice,” she added, not turning around.

***

5 Russell Place
Regents Street
6pm


Blaine arrived half an hour early, standing outside a tall building that didn’t look habitable. It was almost six in the evening and none of the lights were on in any of the apartments. Blaine spent the next fifteen minutes lingering outside the door, his fingers twitching as he looked at the buzzer for apartment five.

Taking a deep breath, he pressed his thumb hard on the bell, hearing the distinctive buzz. A moment later, a voice said, “I knew you’d come,” and the door release sound informed Blaine that he could now enter the building.

The hallway was dark, despite the lighting on the ceiling. The walls looked like they were covered in damp and the wallpaper was peeling in places. There was an out of order sign on the elevator but it didn’t matter as Quinn’s place was on the ground floor. He walked through the corridor, the lights above flickering and buzzing in the silence. Once he reached the door he found it already ajar for him.

Blaine didn’t know what to expect from the apartment itself. He looked around the room; the walls were navy blue and the carpet a deep sea green. There was a two seater sofa at one end of the room that faced a single armchair. But what caught Blaine’s eye was the desk by the window.

He approached it and saw that it was littered with newspaper clippings and headshots. They were scattered all over the desk and Blaine could see a laptop peeking underneath.

There was an adjoining kitchen, which was basic and plain so Blaine didn’t bother to investigate. He made his way into the only bedroom to find Quinn pouring over a large notice board that took up half the wall beside the double bed.

Blaine couldn’t count that fast, but he guessed there was near a hundred six by four inch photographs on the wall with black crosses striking each one. Blaine’s mouth fell open and he almost stumbled over his own feet.

“Eighty six,” Quinn said without turning around.

“Sorry?”

“You were wondering how many people,” she turned around and shot him a warm smile. “There are eighty six.”

Blaine nodded. He noticed that she was dressed differently from yesterday. When he met her she was in dark colours, blending into the shadows. Today, she wore a tight fitting red dress and lipstick to match. Her hair was wavy. She was dressed to kill… so to speak.

“So uh – do I need to know anything about tonight?” Blaine asked. He suddenly felt very underdressed, having only a bag of clothing back at his place. He was wearing yesterday’s jeans but managed to find a clean top.

“Just sit there and try not to look so shit scared,” she said. Opening her closet, she brought out a black shirt and a navy pin stripped suit. Handing it to Blaine she said, “Appearance is everything. Put this on. Shoes are by the door.” The buzzer sounded, notifying them that the client had arrived. “Quickly.”

Blaine dressed as fast as he could. His fingers fumbling with the buttons on the shirt, which he could feel sticking to his back from nervous sweat. By the time he was ready the client had already come in. He was standing by the window, looking out, and his hands in both pants pockets. Blaine cleared his throat to make his presence known. The man turned around and Blaine suddenly felt sixteen again.

The man was tall, with greying chestnut hair. He was wearing an expensive looking three piece suit that Blaine noticed had a pocket watch in the breast pocket. Blaine swallowed hard and stood as straight as he could muster, trying to gain height and failing. The man looked at him with a familiar expression of distaste.

“And you are?”

“This is Blaine, my new associate.” Quinn had appeared from the kitchen, carrying a leather bound document holder. She took a seat on the sofa, glancing up at Blaine as she sat. Blaine sat beside her, keeping his eyes fixed on the client, who sat in the armchair opposite them.

The client crossed his legs and looked between them. His expression didn’t change.

If Quinn knew Blaine was feeling nervous, she didn’t let him know. Instead she opened the document holder and brought out a headshot of a beautiful Latina woman and a single sheet of paper that had dates and appointments listed on it.

“So Mr Bently-Turner, I’ve looked over the documents you’ve given me and it seems pretty straight forward,” Quinn said, her tone almost bored. She flicked through a few of the other pages Blaine couldn’t read over her shoulder and then neatly stacked them on her lap. “It’s really nothing I haven’t seen or done before, so if you could just give me the deposit you can go.”

Mr Bently-Turner blinked in surprise. “Oh?”

Quinn looked irritated and tutted. “You think you’re the first guy who’s found out his young wife is having an affair and is after his money?” She let out a laugh. “Please.” She stood up, dropping the document holder on the sofa and walking over to the chair, where she placed both hands on the armrests. Blaine noticed that this gave Quinn the allusion of height, but also meant the client was unable to get up.

“As we agreed. Two grand now, and then the other three after Mrs Bently-Turner and the Zumba instructor have a little accident in his studio.” She spoke in a low tone, her eyes burning into Mr Bently-Turner’s and her lip curling. “There will be no trace back to you and you’ll be free of the bitch for good. No expensive divorce, no public embarrassment, just free to spend your money on whatever you like.” She spoke the last three words in a sing-song-voice, stroking her finger down his tie.

The older man looked slightly taken back. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, reaching into his jacket pocket for a thick envelope that almost made Blaine whimper.

Taking the envelope, Quinn stood back and said. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

After he had left, Quinn counted the notes under her breath, not batting an eyelid at the amount she was holding.

“That was…” Blaine started, his voice whispery.

“Like taking candy from a baby?” Quinn suggested, taking a hand full of notes out before placing the envelope in her bag in the kitchen.

“I was going to say intense, but yeah, that too,” Blaine was grinning, feeling the adrenaline pumping through his body. “How did you get him to just give you the money like that?” He glanced up at her in awe.

Quinn made a noise of pity. “You have so much to learn. He could have hired a hit man, but he didn’t. He hired me and you know why? Because I’m the best. I’m discreet, clean and I get the job done and he knows it. He came to me through word of mouth; I didn’t have to approach him like I approached you.”

Blaine was staring at her like he was seeing her for the first time.

“It’s called respect, Blaine,” Quinn continued. She handed him the notes she had taken out. “Here, get yourself some new clothes, preferably nice suits. Anything left over, treat yourself for dinner.”

Blaine flicked through the twenties and occasional fifty dollar note, a warm flush creeping up his neck as embarrassment settled in. “I couldn’t –“

“Save it. You can’t go around dressed like a bum. You need to blend in, like I will be at Zumba tomorrow,” she said, shaking her head and smiling like a ditz.

“Who said I was in?”

“Aren’t you?”

Blaine licked his lips and considered this. If he could get powerful men like Mr Bently-Turner to do what he wanted; to not look at him like he was something they’d stepped in, to see him for the man he knew he could be, that he deserved to be, it would almost be worth it to see the look on his father’s face if he returned home. He’d be rich and feared like his father was, but twice the man his father could ever hope to be.

“What time shall I meet you at Zumba?”