[ 10:15 AM ]
When I wake, I wake ungently. Kicking, I shove away a blanket, thrusting it wherever it pleases, and leap to my feet in a tangle of fabric. Everything blurry, I mash my knuckles into my eyes, then blink away the confusion.
The boy’s face comes into view. He’s still shirtless from the night before, only wearing a loose pair of silken pajama pants. It takes me a minute to remember where I am and who the hell he is. His blue eyes beaming in the sunlight pouring in through the tall back windows, the boy holds a pan before him. Something sizzles in it. Breakfast, I suppose.
“You always wake up like that?” he asks.
“No,” I lie, untangling myself from the blanket. When did I acquire a blanket?
“I like mine sunny-side up,” he says lightly. “Hope you do, too.” He heads back for the counter, setting the pan on the stove and pulling some glasses from the cupboard. “You an OJ or coffee person?”
I guess he put the blanket over me after he woke up, or else grabbed it during the night. I rub my head in some sad attempt to tame my hair, feeling oddly self-conscious. “Coffee, black.” I pick my jeans off the floor and, poking past the wad of cash I made from Sir Spank-A-Lot, fish my phone out of them. Two missed calls from Liza, the only person in the world who gives a shit anymore where the fuck I am—or with who. Also, I got two texts from a regular client of mine wanting to meet tonight. “Smells great,” I remark, coming to the counter while typing a reply.
“It’s the biscuits. I’m making us biscuits.” Mister baby-blues moves with the fervor of a morning person, his eyes wide and flashing, his hands quick. Or he’s still nervous around me, despite our somewhat lack of action last night. “You want bacon? I can go all out if you’re hungry.”
I’m starved. “Nah, no need,” I say instead, texting the client to ask what he wants from me and if it’s gonna require props or shaving.
He slides the sizzling sunny-side-up eggs onto two plates, then snatches a potholder and draws out a tray of steaming, buttery biscuits from the oven. Just the aroma of them inspires a tide’s pull of drool inside my mouth.
“Boy’s been busy this morning,” I remark, giving him an impressed lift of my eyebrow.
“I owe you an apology.” He tosses two piping-hot biscuits onto a plate and sets it on the counter in front of me. “I really wasn’t myself last night. I’ve been through a lot lately. I hope I didn’t freak you out.”
“Nah, I’ve seen worse.” I break off a piece of the biscuit, find it scalding, then let it sit to cool on the plate. “I don’t do well with grief, to be honest. Though, also can’t say I’ve really lost anyone. Don’t keep many close friends. No brothers or sisters. Mom’s been in jail since I was four. My dad’s still around but hasn’t had a thing to do with me since I was sixteen.”
He lifts a brow, surprised. “Since you were four? Yikes. What’d she, uh … do?”
“Manslaughter, I think. Pleaded not-guilty. Got a life sentence anyway. The whole thing’s a mess. I put it behind me when I turned ten and my dad stopped taking me to see her. Said it was bad for me to only know my mom in an ugly jumpsuit. I think it was drug-related. Not sure, there were many stories floating around. Weapon was a six-inch red heel, bludgeoned a woman named Maggie over the head.”
“That’s horrible. Thanks for telling me.” His plate in hand, he turns to face me quite abruptly. “Can I be really honest with you?”
I’ve just stabbed my eggs with a fork, spilling out all the runny yolk, and I look up to meet his fierce blue gaze. “Be as honest as you like,” I tell him hesitantly, frozen in place.
“I don’t want to do the boyfriend thing,” he confesses, the plate hanging so limp in his hand I worry his breakfast might slide right off. “I really don’t. I’m just not in a place for that right now, mentally or emotionally. But I think you’re gorgeous. And you’re opening up to me, telling me about your mom, and like … I don’t even know your name. And you’re kind, too. You’re such good company. That’s so rare, you know what I mean? You just … I just feel like you ‘get’ me. I’m comfortable around you. Look at me. I’m cooking you breakfast already! Like a married couple. Sorry, like I said, don’t want to do the boyfriend thing. I just don’t want to … worry. I don’t want to care about saying the wrong thing, or trying to impress you, or—” He draws silent again, his eyes drifting off, lost.
I catch him. “You don’t have to impress me, bud. I’m far from impressive, myself.”
“What a relief,” he says, then bites a biscuit in half only to spit it back out. Fuckers are hot.
“To be honest, I think I could use a not-boyfriend, too.”
He looks up at me, hearing the words, then smiles. I’m about to ask him who died when the client texts me back. The client wants me to do that thing I did last time where I fucked myself with a dildo while he watched and jerked off. Yawn. I type that he’s going to need to pay extra for it because last time I did it I couldn’t walk right for two days.
“To not-boyfriends,” he says for a toast, lifting his glass of orange juice. Then he gasps. “Oh, I forgot the coffee! Sorry, I never drink it. You still want some, right?”
“Nah, no worries. Not thirsty.” I wink at him, then feed my quivering body with a tasty bite of runny egg. Some of the yolk dribbles on my chin and I give no fuck about it. “You ever had a not-boyfriend before?”
“Nope. You?”
Every day. Every night. Every weekend. And they pay. “Nope. So you’re an artist, huh?”
“Never claimed I was a very good one. But I’m pretty good with a mouse.”
“Mouse?”
“Yeah. I’m a graphics artist.” He notes the look on my face. “What’d you expect? A room full of canvases and oil paints? No, I’m not that cool. I’m a nerd, really. Computer guy.”
Fun fact: first time I owned a computer was when I was twenty. I bought my own with money from a date who wanted to watch his boyfriend suck me off while I called him names and spit on him. I remember thinking the computer in the box wasn’t as heavy as I expected it to be. Thinking back, I realize that client was a referral from Rod, my very first client, the older man who was patient and kind. Rod really got me back on my feet after my dad kicked me out, to be honest. He paid me so handsomely, let me stay in the hotel for several nights. I saw him a total of six times over the years and only twice did he take me to bed. Some nights, he just wanted to chat with me over glasses of peach Smirnoff. He was so kind.
“I’m more a phone guy,” I admit with a shrug. “It’s where I do all my business.”
“Phone business? Are you a drug dealer?”
Mercifully, I’d just shoved another forkful of egg past my lips, granting me time to consider the great and horrible question. Do I tell my not-boyfriend the truth? Is it at all possible that he might find my line of work repulsive? He did, after all, almost have sex with me last night. Judging him by his looks alone, he seems to be the type of guy who is so clean-cut and goody-goody that he’d outright kick me out of his house, were he not in this strange frame of mind where he’s reckless and daring and desperate for company.
“You wanted honesty?” I ask, giving a little lift of my eyebrow. “Is that a cheeky tell-me-if-there’s-something-on-my-face kind of honesty? Or the legit, heavy, tell-it-to-me-straight kind?”
“There’s something on your face.”
I smirk. Figures. He wants me to lie. “Well, then. I guess you can say my business is selling knives. It’s what my dad thinks I do.”
“No, I meant literally. There’s something on your face. You have egg on your face.”
“Do I?” I ask innocently, then bite the cooled-off biscuit, letting the crumbs rain down my face. He watches, his eyes wrinkling, his patience tested. He’s definitely the neat freak. He’s the goody-goody. He’s never dared himself out of this comfort-bubble of a mansion he lives in, nor lent himself to the company of an escort. He’s such a lightweight. The humor expired, I run a napkin over my chin, sparing him my brutishness.
“I want … honesty,” he clarifies, pretending to be brave. “Tell me what you do. Assuming it isn’t in … selling sharp silverware.”
Before answering, I make sure I’ve finished enough of the breakfast he’s made me. If he kicks me out after getting the truth he wants so badly, I better be ready to cab it home or walk.
He grips the counter. I notice he’s stopped eating too, his fork balanced on his plate. He’s bracing himself, I realize. He’s literally, actually bracing himself for what I’m about to say.
I do it bandage-ripping style: “I’m a male escort.”
“That’s really great,” he says too quickly. “Cool. Very, very cool.”
“And hot, too.” I finish a biscuit, chewing while studying his reaction as those pretty blue eyes of his work through the reality. Funny, he took my words at face value, trusting that my answer wasn’t a joke. “Does that disgust you?”
“Wait.” A look of concern crosses his face. “Am I being—Am I being charged for your time right now?”
“No.” I can’t say he looks relieved. Judging from his house and lifestyle, I doubt affording me would be a concern of his at all. “You can say it’s … my day off.” We share a smile. “So, does my business disgust you?”
“Why do you do it?” he asks, forcing his voice to keep light and nonjudgmental despite how very much he’s judging me right now.
The client texts he’ll pay whatever it costs. He’s been dying for weeks to see that thing slide up my ass again. I can say no, I do realize, staring at the text. I can always say no. “Because I like making people happy.”
“There’s lots of ways to make people happy,” he argues back, furrowing his brow in concentration, thinking. “Even servers at a Bar & Grill do their part in making people happy.”
“I’m not fond of making my life’s living on returning cold fries and underdone steaks to a grumpy chef. My business is in companionship, something you can’t order on a menu. What I do is noble. People don’t see it that way, but I … save lives. I’m a means to an end. I’m—”
“You’re right,” he decides suddenly, cutting me off. “You’re totally right.” A smile breaks across his face, huge and unbreakable. “Who am I to judge? Live and let live. I bet a man like you lives every fucking day like it’s his last. I bet you find so much fulfillment. I have to envy you that. You have … so much … love … in your life.” He punctuates those last words by shoveling the last bite of egg into his mouth, proud of himself, proud of me, who knows.
I have to take a moment to decide whether he’s being facetious and horrible and sarcastic, or if he means what he says.
“So, like, where do you get your customers? Isn’t it illegal, what you do? Oh, and have you ever been caught? I’d imagine you’d be stressed out, like, all the time.” He stuffs his mouth with another bite of biscuit, waiting anxiously for my answers.
“No,” I say patiently. “Never been caught. You are correct, my business isn’t exactly legal. This isn’t Nevada, after all.” I shift my weight on the counter, propping myself up with two tired elbows. “I have to be really careful, that’s why I only do referrals.”
“You make a lot of money?”
“Not as much as you’d expect. Really, such a small percentage of escorts actually make good money. I still drive the same tired truck I’ve always had. I live in a tiny apartment off Brandy and 25th. I’ve been really lucky so far.”
“You do sell knives,” he says after taking a generous gulp of OJ. “Your sort of knives don’t cut food, though. You cut through a man’s soul, get right down into what makes him tick, right? I bet you’re good at reading people.”
I so am. “Most of the time.”
“It was my dad who died.”
Our eyes hooked on one another, I slowly set my fork down. He’s either waiting for my reaction, or building up his nerve to saying something else. When too much time has passed, I opt to keep things as light as possible. I can read more than just his body language; I know what he really means by wanting a not-boyfriend. He doesn’t want me to treat him like a fragile little egg; he’d rather me handle him like the tough strip of bacon. “You were close?”
“I was. Very. He loved me. Even the gay part of me that my mother only tolerates.” He rolls his eyes.
“Sucks that he’s gone, huh?”
“He was always out of town on business. So really we were just, like, close in some ways. He wanted me to be a business major and go to his alma mater, but figures, being the little shit that I am, I turned my back on all that and went into graphics. I’m pretending maybe he’s not really dead. Maybe he’s just away on some business meeting and, like, he’ll just never … ever … come back.”
I come around the counter, drawing closer to him. He straightens up, lifts an eyebrow expectantly as I gently tug on the drawstrings of his pajama pants. “My only friend in the world is an ex-girlfriend from high school.”
“Ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name’s Liza. I always worry that one of these nights, I’m going to meet a client and, like, not come back. It’s scary because … no one else knows that I do what I do. I’m afraid I’ll like … ‘go away on business’ and … and not come back. And no one will know I’m gone.”
He kisses me so suddenly, I make a snort of surprise. When the electricity starts to happen all through my body, I bring my hands up to cradle his smooth, boyish face, and his fingers respond by touching my abs, pressing into them and tracing upwards to my nipples.
Just as abruptly, he pulls away. “I’m your friend now, too. I’ll give a shit when you go on your businesses and whether or not you come back. Okay?” I’m about to respond when he crushes his face into mine once again. I taste his citrus-flavored lips and a hint of the breakfast we’re sharing too. Our mouths pull apart. “Is this too intense for you?” he asks worriedly. “I have a tendency to come off kinda strong.”
“I can handle it,” I say and realize at once.
His tongue pushes into my mouth, invading me, and he breathes hard as his hands grip the flesh of my torso, gripping me like a cliff from which he’s desperately hanging. I’m a generous person. I’m a good person. I’m a healer.
Then we tumble to the hard, unforgiving kitchen floor. His pajama pants slide off as easy as a sock, and he grinds his naked body against mine, humping me. Still raping me with his tongue, ravishing me with his overwhelming energy, he moans. Deeper and deeper the kiss goes, so much so that it begins to hurt. I worry his teeth will draw blood from my face, that he’ll at any moment decide to bite off a chunk of me. He’s so unstable, he admitted it himself. The unpredictability of this guy, I think that’s what’s drawn me so inescapably to him.
The boy that keeps me guessing.
The moaning grows strong, the humping stronger until my whole body is thrusting up and down with his every push. He grips me aggressively, his moans turning to growls as his hard cock slides up and down my abs. His mouth drops to my ear, causing me to worry that he means to bite it off, and suddenly the whole world is the sound of his heavy breathing and his grunts of pleasure.
When he cums, the cry of ecstasy he makes is beautiful, and during it, he gently gnaws on my earlobe like some cute ferocious animal.
I feel his body relax, all his weight released onto me. I bring my arms around him into an embrace. I’ve never had a boyfriend. Not once. Not ever. I suppose, technically, I still never have. What a strange feeling, it suddenly occurs to me, to bring someone such pleasure and not earn a single dollar from it.
“Name’s Bradley,” he whispers in my ear.