Product Placement

Chapter 19 - Geekster

The next day, Francis strolled onto the grounds with Butch nearby, discussing nothing in particular. The previous night passed without much trouble. Francis had slept and Butch had hovered around and eventually got into bed with him, mooching off his warmth and the covers and the perfect mattress until Francis rolled over in the middle of the night and knocked him out of the bed entirely. Butch's only regret was that Fran's headache had disappeared while he cussed the sleepy salesman out.

That morning had fared slightly better. The hustler let Butch back into his bed and they picked each other apart and made out until they had to get ready for school. The walk there (Francis refused to let Butch paw around all over his car) was uneventful and quiet for the most part, each party occupied with their own thoughts. They'd started talking some in town, near the high school, but it was mostly pleasantries and bits of teasing.

They had forgotten entirely that reportedly Francis died a day or so prior.

Phil was the first to see them. He saw Butch first, paled, and lifted his rope as if to defend himself. Butch regarded him with a painfully bored expression and shook his head, already sick of the scout. He lit up, turned, and waited. Phil eyed him, about to dismiss the strange smoking shadow kid as an oddity before Francis came meandering around the bend, chattering quietly into a cell phone. At the very site of him Phil dropped his rope, his jaw, and his boss attitude. His knees quivered and he shook, staring openmouthed at the undead hustler.

The Wild Screaming Woodchuck Scout screamed and ran away, wildly flailing his arms and warning everyone that either a ghost or a zombie of the hustler had followed Butch from the graveyard or hell or someplace to kill everyone. Everyone, who didn't really like Phil but knew how to become a panicked mob fairly quickly, scattered like marbles upon seeing the hustler follow Butch into the school limits.

"This bodes well" The hustler sighed deeply, rubbing his temples, watching the students scatter and plead for their lives.

Butch was too busy laughing to properly give a damn, much less the luck the hustler was going to need for the rest of the day.

O/O

Francis looked around, eyeing the fanned out Ashley's standing while he sat, all glaring at him. The hustler thought briefly that this was what adults did to kids in trouble, or what they did at an intervention. He thought he should feel ashamed of himself, but he was too busy biting his lip, trying not to laugh at the memory of them screaming bloody murder and flying in different directions away from him.

"Either you like wear this or we hang this everywhere." Ashley A. stated firmly, holding up the contract, dotted with his shaky signatures and initials. "And we'll, like, tell everyone we know what horrible service you, like, provided."

The hustler looked at all of them slowly, searching for any sign of broken or forced compliance. He only found some small measure of anger and shame among smirking stone faces. He thought that maybe, possibly, he could have shirked around this scandal if they merely put up flyers. No one read anything anymore, much less one peppered with as much legal jargon as that. Francis was glad that they weren't threatening legal action if he didn't comply (theoretically they couldn't – they were under age, but still).

As it stood, however, his reputation was still on the line. He couldn't remember what was in the contract, but he couldn't deny them or snatch it from their hands (he'd tried). That left him with one option, as much as he hated it. So with a sigh he resigned, sitting back in the chair and crossing his legs.

"What do I have to do?"

O/O

It wasn't unusual to see kids wearing dressy clothing in school. Between debate clubs, Mock Trial, various sporting events and Menlo, who always had some sort of dress shirt and tie, there were quite a few besides the staff who saw fit (were forced) to look a bit better than the rest of the slouching teens.

This being said, Francis was still managing to attract some serious attention in his suit. The hustler was used to performing for a crowd, but the stare and whispers and slack jaws were becoming uncomfortable and confining. The few people who dared to scoot up and ask about the getup got a grumbled answer concerning a court date immediately after school. He drove off most of the inquiries that followed it up by answering 'attempted murder' (they usually got the hint).

It wasn't the brave souls who actually talked to him that bothered him. It was all the whispering. The looks. The stares. They were so bad at concealing their fascination with the body that lurked under the coat Francis caught himself wondering if he couldn't use this somehow to boost sales. He shook his head at the thought. His profits were suffering because no one would walk up to him (he wasn't sure which was to blame more for that- his sour mood or the suit), and he was beginning to seriously considering telling the Ashley's to fuck off and tear this stupid thing off of him.

But he knew better. He had no choice. So Francis clenched his jaw and held himself high, carrying on about his business despite the stares.

Then suddenly there was a wolf-whistle from the shadows, and Francis was groaning already, his hand flying up to his temples on reflex alone. Another one sounded, coupled with a low, lecherous laugh. A smirking face and embers greeted him, then unabashedly licked his lips and winked.

"Oh baby, nothing like a man in a suit all prim and proper." Butch cooed, low enough that only the hustler could really hear "Makes me wanna mess it up."
"Shut. Up."
"C'mere and say it again – slower."
"I will beat you within an inch of your life."
"Oh baby sexy…" He grinned impossibly wide "How much for an hour?"

Butch beckoned the hustler into his alley, and much to both their surprise Francis wandered right in. He reasoned it was an escape, that no one would bother him aside from Butch, and he knew he could deal with one catcalling son of a bitch, even if he was sure Butch was going to be the worst of them all. At the very least he could rough Butch up a bit and he wouldn't run scared. Not that he planned on it coming to that.

But then Butch looked at him and grinned again, and the hustler wanted badly to punch him.

"Not another word." He warned "I'm not in the mood."
"If it makes you feel any better, it really does look good on you. I'm even diggin' the glasses."
"They're fake." Francis deadpanned, tapping the frame "And they're starting to give me a headache"
"How much longer?"
"Just for the rest of the day."
"Is that what they say?"
"No. It's what they're going to get. The shipment comes tomorrow. I'll put a hold on their account."
"Blackmail? I'm surprised at you"
"You'll be surprised when I smash one of their faces in." He sighed, removed the glasses, and rubbed the bridge of his nose "This is fucking humiliating."
"What the hell are you going on about?" Butch snapped, "The Ashley's call that getting even with you? You're a total fucking catch like that. People are drooling over you."
"I look like a geek." Francis spat, pulling the glasses off his face and rubbing his eyes again. "Could they have found some more obnoxious frames?"
"It's what they do." Butch admitted, shrugging "But they're in this season. What the hell are you doing talking to me for? Go get yourself some tail."
"It'll be hard to come by."
"Again, what the hell are you talking about? Expensive suit, nice frames, a fucking briefcase. You've got the body, the look, and you fucking reek of money. You're sex on legs, HK. They'd be falling all over you if they didn't think you were gonna snap their neck."

The hustler turned to counter him, a comeback sharp and ready on his tongue, but then he stopped. Something was… off. Very off. Francis shut his mouth and stared quizzically at the other male. Butch stared back, squirmed, and hid behind his cigarette. He didn't like the turn this suddenly took. It was kind of freaking him out – they way Francis looked at him.

"You seriously find me attractive." Francis stated finally, a smirk breaking over his face.
"I do not!"
"You just gave me like a million complements."
"I was being nice!"
"You said I was sexy."
"So? You say I'm cute! That doesn't mean anything."
"But did you mean it?"
"I'm getting out of here." Butch dismissed, turning away and searching for a smoke.
"Did you mean it?"
"Go away!"
"Butch!" Francis grabbed the back of Butch's jacket, tugging him back. "Do you really think I'm good looking?"

The other man clammed up immediately, looking stubbornly away, but Butch was flushed, and that was enough of a tell. Francis was mildly flattered, but then again he sort of expected it. Why would Butch sleep with him if he wasn't at least somewhat physically attracted? Still, it was strange to have Butch admit it, as roundabout and unintentional as it turned out to be. It boosted his self-esteem some – he hadn't realized how badly he needed that boost. Suddenly he felt less like an asshole and more like (as Butch said) a damned good catch.

"Thanks, Butchy boy." Francis murmured, forcing the struggling male's head back and stealing a kiss "I know you didn't mean it but I feel better now."
"Damn."
"I'll make it up to you."
"Your place later?"
"Sounds good."
"Keep the suit on."
"No promises."
"Killjoy."

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