Ezra sighed as he looked out the wall sized window of your penthouse. He puffed smoke from his lips, making rings fly through the air, before bringing his cigarette back to his lips.

As much as he enjoyed the life you let him live, he still can't help feeling like he could do better. What real artist fully depends on some annoying rich puppy to do his art? Him, apparently.

He hears the quiet music from the speakers and the sudden stop of the shower water from your bathroom, and gets himself mentally ready for whatever you have for him tonight.

He half expects you to jump on him every time he stays over, which is usually the case, but at least he gets that guaranteed five thousand dollars every time he comes.

The money is nothing to scoff at, and he knows better than to slap the hand that feeds him.