Gabe Henson picked at the label on his bottle of Samuel Adams lager, more interested in getting the square of paper off in one piece than in drinking the mostly full beer. The club’s pulsing music seemed far away, not penetrating like it usually was. He ignored the throng of good-looking dancers behind him and shut down the occasional attempt by an unfamiliar face at buying him a drink. The regulars knew him, and they knew when to leave him the hell alone.

Like right now.

He hadn’t come out to Big Dick’s to find a hookup. His boss preferred his models not to have sex for a few days leading up to a scene, and Gabe had one tomorrow. He only was at Big Dick’s, surrounded by other gay men, so he wasn’t sitting at home with his mother, worrying about the upcoming scene.

And yet that particular anxiety had taken a backseat to another incident less than an hour old. He couldn’t scrub his memory of the image of the frightened, golden-haired boy who’d cowered in a corner of the break room, completely unaware of anything except the name of a friend who’d know how to help him. Although “boy” wasn’t very kind. He was at least twenty-one if he’d gotten inside. Bear hadn’t let a fake ID slip past him since the day the bar opened.

Tristan.

The name didn’t suit. It conjured up images of a long-haired Brad Pitt riding horses and seducing Julia Ormond. The Tristan from tonight reminded him more of Alex Pettyfer, minus at least fifteen pounds and with shaggier, slightly blonder hair. Not to mention a healthy dose of fear in his eyes. Eyes haunted by something that was none of Gabe’s business, but had caused Tristan short-term memory loss, according to the friend.

Gabe couldn’t imagine living with such a debilitating condition. What sort of desperation had sent Tristan into the bar alone, knowing sooner or later he’d forget where he was and why?

And why the hell can’t I stop thinking about him?

He’d extended an offer of free drinks to both Tristan and the friend—Joel? No, Noel—but he doubted they’d take him up on it.

“What’s up, bub?” Pax asked while he scooped ice into a shaker. “Who pissed in your shoe?”

“Fuck off,” Gabe retorted without anger. Pax had been bartending at Big Dick’s for over four years, and they’d always gotten along, despite Pax’s mystifying habit of changing his hair color once a month. Last month he’d gone full-on skunk black and white. This month it was cobalt blue.

Pax snickered over a bottle of tequila. “Someone’s going through a dry spell.”

“I don’t need details of your personal life, thanks.”

“Oh, bub, I didn’t mean me.”

Gabe rolled his eyes. He wasn’t going through a dry spell—exactly. He’d been having pretty regular sex for the last eighteen months. It just wasn’t the kind of sex he wanted to be having—the real, nonporn kind. Even his very occasional hookup didn’t count, because he felt as disconnected from his partner afterward as he did when he left a scene.

Not that he disliked or regretted his job. He liked sex. He liked having sex, and getting paid for it was a bonus. Even porn sex could have its own levels of intimacy. He was best friends with one of the guys he regularly did scenes with. But at the end of the day, that intimacy wasn’t real. It didn’t keep him warm at night. It didn’t go out for coffee with him after a movie. It didn’t turn into an actual, trusting relationship.

And maybe that was the point.

“There’s a hot blond number at the other end of the bar,” Pax said while he shook his drink. “Don’t think he’s a regular, if you’re looking for fresh meat.”

“I’m not looking tonight, thanks.” Gabe pried another few inches of the damp label off the glass bottle. Nearly done.

“If you say so.”

Pax moved off to pour his drinks, replaced almost right away by Gabe’s dad. The white sequined vest cast a sparkly reflection all over the bar, and Gabe tried not to squint too much. He loved that his adopted dad, Richard Brightman, was comfortable enough in his sexuality and with his looks to wear something as hideous as Richard Simmons-inspired sequins, but that didn’t stop Gabe from having fantasies of burning them all in a bonfire.

“What’s got you tied up in knots, kiddo?” Dad asked.

Lying to him was harder than lying to Pax. “Thinking about that Tristan guy.”

“Yeah, that boy has got himself a case of real bad luck. At least he’s got a friend to look out for him.”

“Right.” Another bit of the label came away. Then another. Aware of eyes on him, Gabe looked up. Dad hadn’t moved or redirected his attention. “What?”

“Don’t.”

Irritation prickled his scalp. “Don’t what? It’s not against the law to peel beer labels.”

“That isn’t what I mean, and you know it. Leave this Tristan kid be, he’s not your problem.”

“I am not making him my problem.”

Dad leaned in so he could lower his voice. Keep family shit private and all that. “You hanging out here with that look on your face means you’re thinking about him. You want to fix him, don’t you?”

“I don’t even know him.”

“Yeah, well, I know you, Gabriel.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you can’t fix your mother, so you keep looking for other people you can fix.”

Gabe’s hand jerked, tearing the label off and leaving the last corner. Angry now, he wadded up the ruined label and tossed it onto the bar top. “I do not want a lecture about Debbie, okay? Leave it.”

Dad raised both hands in mock surrender. “I don’t want to lecture you. You’ve listened to all of my lectures, kiddo. I just wish you heard me sometimes, is all. We both do.”

“We” included Richard’s partner and Gabe’s bio dad Bernard “Bear” Henson. He’d been Bear all of Gabe’s life, and he always would be, even though technically he should be “Dad”. Dad had as much history with Gabe’s mother Debbie as Bear did, and they both understood the burden Gabe continued to bear. Gabe couldn’t give up on her. She didn’t have anyone else.

“I do hear you, Dad. I hear you both when you talk, and then I make my own decisions. Isn’t that how you guys raised me? To think for myself?”

Dad let out a frustrated grunt. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

“You raised me that way too.”

He grinned. “Damn right, I did. Now are you going to drink that beer or let it go flat?”

“It’s probably already flat, but I get the point.”

“Good. It’s Friday. Actually, it’s Saturday but let’s not get technical. Go have fun.”

“Thanks.”

Gabe spun his stool around so he could watch the dancing bodies while he sipped his warm, slightly flat beer. He really shouldn’t be indulging the night before a shoot. Beer didn’t make him bloat up the way it used to, especially if he stuck to one, but he had to look his very best on camera, no exceptions.

The beer was more of a prop than anything else. The last time he indulged a little bit, he’d let the person he was there with drink himself into a blackout. Shane had seemed like a decent guy on a run of bad luck, desperate to let loose a little, and he had. The demons Gabe had seen in Shane’s drunk eyes were the only reason Gabe had decided to forgive him for being an asshole about waking up in Gabe’s bed. So hungover he’d practically accused Gabe of sleeping with him and lying about it.

That had pissed Gabe the fuck off. Maybe they’d fucked twice on camera for a payday, but Shane—or Colby, his stage name—didn’t fucking know him. He had no right to judge Gabe. Gabe didn’t need to get a guy drunk off his face in order to get laid, and he hadn’t been wasted with a hookup in more than two years. He’d learned his lesson.

And Shane/Colby could stay the fuck out of his life.

So why the hell had Gabe agreed to bottom for him tomorrow?

The usual reason he took risks: money. They’d get a lot of downloads for a badass top like “Tony” finally taking one up the ass.

He’d been stretching all week with his fingers and a plug, but damn if he wasn’t still nervous as hell. The only time in his life that he’d ever bottomed had been a painful disaster—probably not unusual for two drunk and inexperienced fifteen-year-olds.

A mop of shaggy golden-brown hair caught his attention, far out on the dance floor. Gabe sat up straighter, straining to catch the man’s face, pulse jumping. Surely it couldn’t be—no. The face was all wrong. Chiseled and tanned.

You’re an idiot. Tristan isn’t coming back, and he’s definitely not doing it tonight.

Gabe checked his watch. After two in the morning. Last call was at two forty-five anyway, and he had to be up early for a ten o’clock call time. As much as he preferred the chaotic peace of Big Dick’s, it was past time to go home.

* * *

The unlocked front door didn’t surprise him anymore, but it had instilled a new instinct to enter his home slowly and carefully. Check around for open cabinets or upturned couch cushions. New damage that wasn’t caused by a drunken rage and might indicate an intruder. Debbie didn’t remember the little things like locking the front door and flushing the toilet.

He prayed for the day when she forgot how to walk to the nearest state store.

The front room didn’t appear much different than when he’d left eight hours ago. A pile of unfolded laundry on the couch. Pizza boxes on the coffee table already overflowing with Debbie’s magazine subscriptions. The familiar odors of cigarette smoke and sour wine mixed with something greasy and old. He locked the front door, then followed the smell into the kitchen. Half a dozen white takeout boxes littered the kitchen table, some of their contents sprawled on the old metal table. A few black flies buzzed around the mess.

“Fucking fantastic,” Gabe said to the ceiling. Her room was overhead, but she’d probably drunk enough to sleep until noon the next day. She always ordered lo mein when she made a conscious choice to try for a blackout. Something had upset her tonight, and he’d hear all about it when he got home from his scene tomorrow.

The trash can was overflowing. He pulled that bag out and tied it off. Shoved the Chinese cartons into another bag, along with the box of red wine on the counter. It was half-full, and he’d catch hell tomorrow, but he didn’t care. Tonight he seriously didn’t fucking care. He hauled the trash bags out the back door and stuffed them into the cans by the steps. Then he spent ten minutes tracking and smashing the black flies with a plastic swatter.

He fucking hated flies.

After a quick blast of air freshener, he turned off the lights and went upstairs. Debbie’s room was the first door, and it was wide open. He peeked inside because the bedside lamp was on. The bed was messy, the sheets all over the floor, but no Debbie.

Irritation overrode concern. It was late, he was exhausted, and he had to deal with her wherever she’d passed out for the night.

His room was out of the question. He kept the door locked when he wasn’t home—not only so she didn’t unearth his porn stash and sear her eyeballs, but also because he simply didn’t trust her. He didn’t trust her not to steal the Burberry watch he indulged in after his first scene and hock it for booze money. He didn’t trust her around any of his things, so he kept them locked up when he wasn’t home.

At the end of the hall, the bathroom door was ajar. He flipped on the light. Debbie was asleep on the bathroom floor, wrapped up in her yellow robe. He dropped the toilet lid with his foot, then flushed the evidence of her dinner and drinking. She hadn’t vomited on the floor or herself—good luck for which he was insanely grateful.

As much as he wanted to leave her there, he needed to shower in the morning, and that wasn’t happening with his mother passed out on the linoleum. In these moments, Gabe thanked the universe that he’d gotten his build from his father. All six foot two and 210 of him could pick up five foot three, buck-nothing Debbie with little fuss or stress.

The woman couldn’t eat six cartons of noodles in a week. Such a waste of money.

She didn’t stir during the short walk to her room, or when he put her down. The sheets took a minute to get in order. He checked that there was a trash can on both sides of the bed, turned off the lamp and shut the door.

Business as usual in Debbie Harper’s house.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Bear gave him a sad smile and said, It’s not your job, Gabriel. It’s not your job.

Gabe didn’t disagree. He also didn’t know how to quit.

What else did he have to do with his life if not take care of his alcoholic mother?

* * *

He had to give Colby credit for being as gentle as possible. Agreeing to bottom for the first time since he was fifteen had been an agonizing decision for Gabe, but the payday for first bottom during a three-way was his deciding factor. Chet even had mercy on him by allowing him to pick who topped him. Even though Gabe was good friends with his other scene partner Jon “Boomer” Buchanan, Boomer was sometimes a clumsy top.

Colby—he still had a hard time referring to him by his real name while working—was a decent guy who did porn like someone was holding a gun to his head. His story intrigued Gabe, but he’d never asked. Today had been Colby’s last shoot, anyway, so it didn’t matter. If Colby/Shane came to work at Big Dick’s as a dancer, then Gabe would make an effort.

Gabe had prepped for a long time in the shower that morning. Colby did quite a lot of manual prepping on-screen, and Boomer had rimmed him for a while, which had felt fantastic. The actual penetration had hurt, but not unbearably so, and Gabe managed to come. Chet was happy with the footage, so Gabe chalked it up as a win and escaped to the upstairs shower to clean up.

Jon would call him later to make sure he was okay with how everything went, because he was a good guy like that. They regularly worked out together, and even though they’d filmed more than half a dozen scenes, there was zero romantic anything between them. And that worked for Gabe. He liked having a friend who listened to his crazy family problems, didn’t judge and didn’t expect sex in return for his time and attention.

After a quick shower to wash away the day’s sweat and bodily fluids, he slipped into a pair of running shorts and a T-shirt from his gym bag. His phone flashed at him. Six missed calls, all from Debbie. No messages. Gabe glared at his cell phone, wanting his sudden flash of irritation to erase every single call record. When it didn’t, he used his finger.

Deleted.

Chet was waiting for him by the set house’s front door with a check in hand. “Excellent work today, my boy, very good film. Here’s the advance you asked for.”

Gabe hesitated in taking the check. Chet was an anomaly in the porn industry because he paid his models one of two ways. First was cash upfront, no royalties, which was industry standard and the get-money-fast option that people like Colby usually took. Gabe was a royalties guy, which usually meant no money upfront, but he earned a decent percent back on all downloads. Debbie’s latest stunt with the unsecured loan had made Gabe stoop to asking Chet for an advance against today’s video.

“I appreciate it, Chet.” Gabe tucked the slip of paper into his gym bag.

“If things are getting tight, I can fit you in more than twice a month.”

“I’ll think about it.” He still received regular monthly payments from his library of past scenes, but padding his collection might move that decimal point over one more place. “Call me when you need me again.”

“Take it easy, Tony.”

Gabe took in a deep breath as he left the house, and exhaled long and slow on the walk to his car. It was a ritual he used to shed himself of Tony, the guy who walked into that set and did his job, fucking like a champ and always with a smile. Sure, Gabe enjoyed himself. Regular sex without any of the baggage, and always, always safe. All of the models were tested for STDs regularly, and nobody fucked without a rubber at Mean Green Boys.

Two years ago, Gabe had contracted a pretty gross case of oral gonorrhea from a hookup he’d blown and then fucked. Despite Richard’s status, the incident had finally wised Gabe up to the dangers of casual sex, and he’d gone without for a while. He met Jon at the gym one afternoon, and after their paths crossed several times in one month, they started regularly working out together. Gabe had enjoyed the friendship, and he’d learned Jon was fastidious about avoiding infection.

One day after showering together, Jon had joked about Gabe “being in porn with a cock like that”. Gabe had laughed it off, even after Jon went on about the benefits of good, regular sex with very little risk. A few days later, Gabe got a call about doing a modeling interview with Chet Green. It went well, Chet threw dollar signs at him, and that was that. Signing on with Mean Green Boys had been a bit of a no-brainer—plus he needed the money that he couldn’t get as a career waiter.

His drive from the residential home in Camp Hill, across the Susquehanna on the Capital Beltway, and then north to his place on Harris Street took about twenty minutes. He tried to ignore traffic and the other drivers, tried to ignore whatever his mother wanted so badly that she’d called him six times without leaving messages. He rolled down the windows and concentrated on the hot July air and the humid, oily odor of the city.

He’d worked up a good sweat by the time he parked in front of the aging blue house. The yard needed to be tended. He put that on this afternoon’s mental to-do list. Physical exertion would help him forget the faint discomfort in his ass.

Something inside the house shattered before he could slide his key into the lock. The knob turned, which told him she’d been out at least once since he’d left for the shoot, because he always locked the door behind him. They had a basement full of old QVC packages from before he’d wrangled all of Debbie’s credit cards away, and they didn’t live on the best side of town.

He stepped into chaos. The complete opposite of the relative order from the night before. Cushions were off the sofa, magazines littered the floor. A dining chair was on its side. Movies and books were scattered across the carpet near the television. From the door, he couldn’t see the source of the shattering sound.

“Mom?”

Debbie stormed out of the downstairs bathroom, her robe fluttering like a cape, curly red hair wrapped around her head like a frizzy shower cap. She stabbed a finger in the air as she sailed toward him like a snorting bull. “Where is it? Where did you put it?”

Gabe held up his palms and took a step to the side. “Where did I put what?”

“My wedding ring! You took it off while I was sleeping, and you hid it somewhere. Where is it?” Wine-soured breath puffed in his face. He had nearly a foot of height on his mother, but she still somehow managed to seem bigger than him. More domineering, just like when he was a kid and she knocked him around.

“I didn’t take your ring,” Gabe said. “You hocked it when I was thirteen, and you accused me of stealing it then just like you’re doing now.”

“I had the ring last night.”

He despised these mornings. Hangover-inspired rants about events from long ago, usually something that she’d decided was Gabe’s fault. The wedding ring had gone missing more than ten years ago after a particularly nasty fight between Debbie and Bear, and she’d blamed them both for taking it. Bear had eventually tracked the ring down to a local pawn shop, whose owner swore Debbie sold it to him herself.

One of the fun side effects of excessive alcohol abuse was memory loss.

“You haven’t had the ring for ten years,” Gabe said. “All that happened last night was me picking you up off the bathroom floor and putting your drunk ass to bed.”

Her hand snapped out, quick as always, and cracked hot across his cheek. His head didn’t move because she didn’t have that kind of strength anymore, but the slap hurt. She tried again, and he caught her wrist, his temper flaring. He squeezed until she whined, and then he let go.

Her big green eyes filled with tears. Her chin trembled. On a long wail, she fled the living room. Her footsteps thundered upstairs, ending with the slam of her bedroom door.

Gabe rubbed his face where his cheek still stung. Then he started cleaning up her mess.

Again.