A quiet chuckled echoes down the line.

York shivers.

'That I am,' Comes the baritone. 'You interested?'

'And if I am?' York is still hesitant.

'Then I need to know a few things.'

'Like what?' York says defensively, as though in his mind there's no way he couldn't be suitable for this. His ego is far too concrete.

'How big are you?' Comes the question.

'Er, like six one?' York stumbles.

The voice laughed coyly. 'I think you misunderstand me. Not how tall are you - how BIG are you?'

York understands now. He's aghast. 'Hey listen here, buddy! I don't know what kind of screwed up definition of the word 'pretend' you're aware of, but there's no way I'm gonna let you-'

'Alright, alright, calm down.' The voice cut in. 'Jeez, have a sense

of humor. I'm straight too. Don't worry I don't want anything to do with your ding-dong. Was just playing. Whoever gets this gig needs to be able to roll with the punches, you know? My ma won't let up. You need to be prepped.'

York pursed his lips. He wasn't so sure any more. 'So what do I have to do?'

'Dinner, some chit chat. Maybe hold my hand, if we're struggling.' The voice sounded casual, as if paying an actor to pose as your homosexual life partner was an every day occurrence. 'Is this your cell number?'

'Yeah, why?' York pried. He still wasn't sold.

'Cool, I'll text you. Let's get together for a beer. Talk some more. Hammer out the details.'

'Sure.'

After he hung up, he just kept saying it to himself. Twenty K. It's twenty K.