Part Five

"I thought you went out on Sundays," Trent said, looking over at Blaine where he sat in one of the least comfortable armchairs and stared out of the window. "Why aren't you out there making twice as much as the rest of us?"

"I'm guessing that, after what happened to him last Sunday, he's not overeager to repeat it," Quincy provided for him, smirking over at Blaine. "Haven't you had to listen to him complain over and over and over again about Kurt who's purely fabulous in the bedroom department and yet is what anyone else would call clingy but Blaine continues to deny that and-"

"Please, just, stop talking," Blaine demanded in frustration. "First of all, it's not complaining, it's asking your opinion about certain things that happened. Second, I never said Kurt was 'fabulous' or anything about the 'bedroom department', I said I liked it and there could be a repeat performance if I ever felt so inclined. Thirdly, he wasn't clingy, I told you, I would've stayed under any other circumstances."

"You want my opinion?" Quincy asked, her voice almost dangerously bitchy. "Okay, have my opinion: you're an idiot who's getting in way too deep with a client you shouldn't have picked up in the first place because it's against Madame's policy and you're underperforming for your other clients."

"The two hundred dollars worth of tips I've made this week says differently," Blaine retorted furiously. "And if you try to give me your opinion one more time, so help me, I will recommend to Madame that you desperately want Wilfred Gray as a client."

"Dammit, you know how to control me," Quincy groaned, punching the arm of her chair and settling back into the leather. Blaine smirked to himself - the threat of sending Quincy to Madame's least desired client was always one that worked to shut her up. Three people in the building had fought like cats last month just to avoid having him, the conflict only finally resolved when Quincy had arrived and immediately been dispatched to service him.

"Sunday relaxation!" Nick proclaimed happily, collapsing into an armchair with his hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. "Hey, what's up with you, Blaine? You look like one of your best clients dropped you for Quincy."

"Watch it, Duval," Quincy snapped sulkily, running a hand through her tangled hair and tugging her baggy shirt down over her knees. Every person in the room, far from being perfectly coiffed and stylishly dressed, was wearing pyjamas and still retaining the appearance of someone who had just climbed out of bed, happy to relax on their one non-working day off the week. "Anyway, Blaine's in a bad mood because of his client last Sunday."

"Ah, the elusive, not-so-innocent-once-he-got-his-clothes-off Kurt!" Nick exclaimed grandly, smirking at Blaine. "Why don't you just go out today, run into him, take him to Harold's hotel and fuck him until this is all out of your system and you can go back to working normally?"

"He lives in New York, he went home on Tuesday, there is no conceivable way to accidentally run into him and take him back to Harold's hotel and fuck him again," Blaine answered triumphantly, ignoring the meaningful look Quincy and Wes exchanged. "And I don't know if I could fuck this out of my system. I've been thinking about him all week."

"Uh oh, somebody's got a hard luck case of the hopeless romantic slushy-face," Wes stage-whispered to sniggers from Nick and Quincy. "Blaine, don't be an idiot. How many times do I have to say that prostitutes like us don't fall in love. Especially not with clients. How is he ever going to go for you?"

"Okay, you know what, I'm sick of this!" Blaine exclaimed, rocketing out of his chair and glaring furiously around at his so-called friends. "I'm sick of all of you constantly trivialising my life because you think it's funny that I'm having issues with my feelings! You are supposed to be my friends and not constantly belittle my problems, Nick or insult the possible future of my relationships, Wes! If you think this is funny, I think you should all run off and go find someone to fall in love with before you start sticking your noses in my business!"

"A-ha, so you admit you're in love with him!" Quincy exclaimed triumphantly. "Blaine, we're sorry and shit, but you have to admit it's pretty funny that the star of this company is about to leave due to falling in love with some innocent little independent client he fucked twice."

"Not in love, not leaving, not fucking falling in love!" Blaine near-shrieked, storming out of the room as everyone stared. He knew that, as soon as he was out of the room, the whispers of scandalous gossip would start. The entire building already knew the story of his Sunday night, thanks to Quincy's qualities of telling any juicy story she managed to pick up, whether in its entirety or not, whether perfect truth or twisted lies.

He collapsed back against the wall, breathing heavily and running his hands nervously through his hair. God, everything was such a mess and it had only taken a week for his life to implode into chaos around him. He looked up at the sound of footsteps and saw David, grinning widely and swinging a suitcase from each hand.

"Blaine, are you okay?" he asked. At Blaine's withering look, he said, "Yeah, stupid question. I heard about what happened with your independent client. Can't say I understand, but good luck with whatever you decide you're going to do."

"What's with the suitcase?" Blaine asked, gesturing to the battered object. "Do you have an appointment with some sort of specialist client? Is that divorcée wanting to take you on a weekend away again?"

"I'm leaving," David confided proudly. "With Madame's blessing, I am getting out of the house of disrepute and I'm going to find my fortune elsewhere. A job, a house, a wife and a life without this job."

"Wow," Blaine breathed, more than a little shocked. "That's amazing, David. I'm happy for you." He sighed, almost longingly. "Maybe I should start looking at getting out. This is not what I imagined doing at twenty-one years old."

"You know what, I'm going to tell you something that no one else in this building will ever give you the good fortune to hear," David announced, carefully putting his luggage down and looking at him seriously. "Go for it. Find this guy you like and get out of here. If you manage to hold onto him and he makes you happy and you make him happy, you don't need this job. You've got talent, squirt, and you can make it out there in the big wide world."

"Thanks man," Blaine said, almost a little choked by David's words. David smiled and hugged him tightly, clapping him gently on the back a few times. "Good luck out there in the cold, scary world."

David grinned at him, picked up his suitcases and left the building. Blaine looked after him for a long moment before he turned on his heel and ran lightly up the stairs to his room, where Trent had made him tidy up that morning and every wooden surface gleamed with polish. With David leaving, the man who had helped him in the early days and initiated him into the business, it truly made him think about the chance of leaving the life of prostitution behind and moving on to a new life.

Could a new life mean maintaining a relationship? There had been two short flirtations, one when he was seventeen and another when he was twenty, but both had barely managed to stagger on when the men had discovered his profession. Leaving the profession behind could mean having a boyfriend, being able to come home at the end of a day at a real job and be greeted by someone who loved him. It could be everything he'd ever wanted at sixteen, before the prostitute ring.

But no, he had a life and a lucrative career and it would do him no good to dwell in thoughts and daydreams of a life he couldn't have anywhere in the near and dear future.

Blaine sighed heavily and rolled over to check his catalogue of clients for the week. His usual regulars plus a couple of people Madame was trying to ease her business by starting them off with her best workers. His train of thought was only interrupted by his phone merrily chiming in a new text. Blaine, you've got a pair waiting downstairs looking to discuss the possibility of an appointment with you - Madame.

Blaine groaned as he dragged himself off his bed and quickly flattened his hair and dressed in slightly more formal clothes. It didn't seem that dressing like a slob in front of potential clients would make them want to hire him any more. Trailing down the stairs, he found a rough-looking man with a mohawk standing in the foyer, his arm around a very beautiful curvy woman.

"Noah Puckerman," the man said gravely, shaking his hand in a business-like manner. "This is my friend, Santana Lopez. And she is just a friend, not my secret girlfriend. That seems sick, to bring my girlfriend to book an appointment here."

"Not at all," Blaine said charmingly, trying not to roll his eyes at the fact that some big tough guy is bringing a very beautiful woman with him and saying she isn't his girlfriend. "What are you looking for, miss?"

"It's Lopez, Santana Lopez," the woman said, looking him shamelessly up and down. "Well, I'm looking for sex. I'm a single girl and I haven't had sex in six months and I just need something to take the mind off my life." She looked left and right shiftily. "Is there a more private place we can discuss this?"

Blaine ushered her into one of the consultation rooms, everything dark polished wood and classy pale leather that squeaked loudly when Santana sat down, her long acrylic nails tapping on the arm of her chair. "So, Ms. Lopez, what exactly are you looking for from this encounter?" he asked, all perfectly groomed and serious business. "And what is your back story?"

"I told you, single girl whose had no sex for six months and I swear I'm ready to hump a mannequin to satisfy my libido," Santana said sweetly, smirking at him. "I'm just looking for sex. But I'm currently living with my parents, so I'm hoping you'll have a place for us to do this."

"Yes, I know of just such a place," Blaine said easily, thinking of the hotel and firmly pushing away the memory of Harold's devastated face as he had run out of the place. "Any specialist sex? Whips, chains, anything?"

"Not really, but I would like you to wear a blindfold," she requested. "Meet me there at eleven tomorrow morning, your boss said you don't have an appointment." She got up to leave, but paused in the doorway to turn with an almost frightening smirk on her face and add, "Oh, and I expect you to be naked and prepared for me to rock your world when I get there."

Blaine grinned professionally and waved her and the man out, hearing him say, "Did you get the appointment?" and seeing the little smirk she responded with. Only when they were gone did he trail back up to his room and collapse face-first into his bed.

Maybe it was time to get out of the profession. A woman had to come to the place and ask for him to be naked and blindfolded in a hotel room when she turned up at eleven o'clock in the morning to use him and leave without so much as a thank you.

"Thank you. I really liked that."

Unbidden, Kurt's words as both of them knelt on the white slippery floor of a shower as the water ran cold over quivering, sated bodies swam back to the forefront of his mind, reminding him yet again that this absurd obsession with the man needed to stop. He'd barely been able to service his clients over the last week, and he'd dreamt of Kurt nearly every night.

Most terrifying had been the dream the night before, when he'd dreamt of simply kissing Kurt. Without roving hands or duelling tongues or moans panted into each other's mouths, just simply lips pressed against lips, moving in practised perfect tandem. Just a sweet, simple, tender, loving kiss. The sort of thing that made Blaine break out in a terrified cold sweat.

He was a prostitute. There were no relationships. No boyfriends. No sex outside of what was professionally required. And certainly no falling in love.