Page 42 of Parting Shot

“Nick McCall, Lance Madison, and I all went into business with Evan Polley.”

“You guys all went to school together?”

“Yeah, we did. First Exeter and then Yale.”

“And you all put money into Rabbit Run?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred fifty grand each.”

Jesus. “And?”

“And that’s it. Evan didn’t do anything to build the business. I mean, he talked a good game, and it seemed like he was making things happen, but nothing came of it. He signed no one, no records were produced, and when he finally got a break with a really promising singer, he found that between what he put up his nose and what he spent on partying, he had nothing left over to launch a career with.”

“Who was that?”

“Jenna Tate.”

I knew the song. Her song. The one about the man who had beaten her and left her pregnant and alone. It was a good song about finding your own power and love and doing what was hard because it was right. It had become an anthem against domestic violence and about the joy of motherhood. But it was also about respect and the right guy, and so with all of that, the song and the video had gone platinum and viral.

“Who is she with now?”

“Capitol Records.”

“Good for her.”

“Yes.”

“What happened with Polley?”

“He partied and made promises, and when Lance finally found his own calling in producing gay porn, Evan wanted nothing to do with it.”

“So Lance did what?”

“Lance got his money back from Evan and used it to start his company, Flesh Point.”

I had actually been on his site and seen Lance Madison’s idea of porn. It was one of the classiest ones I had ever come across. His webmaster was gifted, and the guys who worked for him were all toned and gorgeous ideals of male beauty. I wasn’t into rape fantasies or bondage or fetish gear, and his site had none of those ads or pop-ups. It was just straightforward categories of college-age guys fucking: no role-playing, no bad acting, no fake scenery, scary outfits, or poorly engineered mood music. Every video showed two guys, sometimes three, a clean bed, laughing, touching, kissing, and lots of hot, sweaty sex. The man definitely knew what he was doing.

“Then what?”

“Lance started making serious money, but when Evan needed some, he refused to help him.”

It was understandable. “It follows, then, that Evan hit you up next.”

“No. He went to Nick.”

“And?”

He shrugged. “Nick couldn’t make a go of his chain of sports bars, and once his entire trust fund was gone, he went to work for his father. They buy companies and then turn around and sell them off, either outright or in pieces.”

“What about the money Nick gave Evan?”

“He’s out that, just like I am.”

“And neither of you need it back?”