He hadn’t even tried to sleep, and with only a handful of hours the night before, he was running low on reserves. Pausing to stub out his sixth cigarette in the past twelve hours, he pulled himself out of the car, venti quad-shot Americano in one hand and his duffel in the other. The studio sat in a warehouse district a few miles from Trevor’s place. He’d been to the neighborhood before—a nearby set of buildings held a popular gay dance club and a shop that sold everything from the most basic sex toys to leather harnesses. Trevor thought this building might have had a club in it years ago, too, though he’d never been there himself. He followed the directions he’d been texted around the side of the building, to the door with a 303 over it. He rang the bell and waited to be let inside, deliberately not bothering to take deep breaths to calm the inevitable nerves that came before every shoot. This time, he needed to hold on to that rush, the energy running through him, if he wanted to get through the shoot and get out of here.
