“Hey, Apollo. It’s me ... I’m just getting off work. It’s … my birthday. So, happy birthday to me. I miss you.” I end the call and push my phone across the counter in disgust.

“You’re so fucking pathetic, G,” Dave mutters as he walks into my kitchen. He yawns, scratches the scruff on his chin, and opens the fridge.

“Yeah, I know. You tell me every single day.”

“Well, someone’s gotta keep you humble.”

“Believe me, life’s doing a pretty good job at that right now.” I groan and hop up onto one of the bar stools in front of my bar-height counter and pick up my phone again. It’s a compulsion. I check my email, my texts, and then double check my voice mails to see if maybe she called in the 3.7 seconds I wasn’t watching my phone.

Dave’s right, I’m fucking pathetic.

I called her the day after our argument. I wanted to apologize. I had woken up in a panic when I remembered the things I said to her. I hadn’t meant any of them. I left a voice mail telling her I was sorry. She never called back.

After two weeks of silence, I started conjuring wild fantasies of her being sick in some hospital, unable to come to the phone.

Because surely, nothing short of being near death could keep my best friend from returning my calls.

I had no way of finding out. I’d never met Apollo’s mother, and her aunt never returned my calls either.

I’d never really thought about how alone Apollo was until I realized there was no one else in her life besides her old driver who might know where she was.

I knew when she left that she was angry. Hell, I was pissed, too. But it never occurred to me that we would stop talking to each other.

Not us. She promised to be my friend through everything. She promised that she’d never turn her back on me.

Then, two months after she left, she posted on her previously dormant Instagram account.

It was a video. Her hair was blowing wildly in the wind. Whipping against her face as she tried to keep it out of her eyes and mouth. Her luscious, laughing, mouth. “I love the desert. I’m so fucking happy!” She screamed into the camera before she turned it toward the driver, a dark-haired man with sunglasses and a very stupid grin. “Say hi, Josh,” Apollo called from behind the camera. Josh shot the finger at the camera and Apollo laughs out loud and then turned the camera around. I caught a glimpse of her chin and neck before she stopped recording.

I watched the video on a loop until my phone died.

My eyes burned with tears and my throat clogged with anger as I realized that she was off living her life and that she’d turned her back on me because I wouldn’t have sex with her. Because I didn’t want to sully our friendship with something that I did for money.

I pretty much lost my mind.

I hurled my phone across the room so hard that it chipped the drywall. And then, I got completely shit-faced and sat on my couch and deleted every single voice mail I’d saved over the last five years. I’d muttered “Fuck her,” through my clenched teeth when I hit the trash can icon on my phone.

But really, I just fucked myself.

When I woke up the next morning, I threw up. Not because I was hungover, but because I would never get to listen to Apollo’s Portuguese rendition of Happy Birthday. Or the message she left telling me how proud she was of me on my first day of classes at UCLA. Every single last one of them was gone, and the thought of never hearing her voice again made me ill.

Instead of taking the hint and moving on, I started calling her every day. It always went to voice mail. Normally, I’d just listen to her voice on the greeting she used.

But today, I had to leave a message.

It’s the first birthday I’ve spent without her since I started celebrating my birthday seven years ago.

My phone buzzes with a text and breaks up my pity party.

I pick it up.

I don’t expect it to be her anymore. But, every time I see it’s not, my stomach clenches with a feeling I’ve only recently been able to identify. It’s dread.

Apollo might never speak to me again. She was right, without my cape, I can’t fly. What do I have besides my fucked-up life, if I don’t have her sunshine to cleanse me?

I read the text. It’s from Reece.

Reece: “You guys want a ride? I’m heading out now.”

Me: “Nope, see you there.”

“Hey, Reece and O are on their way. Can you fucking get dressed? We’re gonna be late.” I shove my hands in my pocket and lean back against the counter, glowering at my shoes.

Dave lets out a long, low whistle as he walks

I lift my head and turn my glower on him. “What? You got something to say, say it, asshole.”

He laughs. “You have got to stop calling her, man. It’s been a year. It makes you so fucking miserable. And then you make the rest of us miserable.” He gives me an aggrieved shake of this head. “It’s your fucking birthday, man. You’re the hottest personal trainer in LA. You’ve got money and you can have any woman you want. You’re only twenty-three. Enjoy it. I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, you’ve got to stop torturing yourself with this chick.”

“She’s not a chick.” I curl my lip at him, but I know he’s right.

“Dude. She is.” He slaps his forehead in exasperation “You’re acting like you lost your fucking religion instead of having a fight with your best friend slash obsessive crush.”

“I just can’t believe she ghosted on me.”

“Dude, you saw a video of her on Instagram with some random guy, and you nearly put a hole in the wall. She had to sit through dinner with that MILF hanging all over you making it very obvious to the whole world that you guys were fucking. What would you have done?” He asks me the question I ask myself every day.

“Please stop talking,” I groan. I am not in the mood for this lecture today. And I know he’s right.

“I’ll give you a break. But, just because it’s your birthday. I’ll also change.”

He sniffs his armpits and screws up his face. “Should probably shower, too.” He strolls out of the kitchen without a second glance at me.

He’s right. I’ve been in a bad mood a lot lately.

I should be happy I have the night off and I’m going out with my best friends.

Everyone thinks I have this amazing life. I mean, look at me. I have a nice car. I have famous friends. I’m making good money. Who wouldn’t be happy all the goddamn time?

So what if my life is devoid of any real joy? Who cares that I’m starting to forget what my dreams used to look like? I should be fucking grateful.

Because you know … I’m a personal trainer who spends more time fucking his clients than he does helping them get fit. That’s so much better than teaching and inspiring kids and making love to the girl who owns my heart.

In my darkest moments, I think my stepfather was right. Life outside of Cain’s Weeping feels like hell on earth. At least there I still had my fantasy that life on the other side would be great.

I didn’t imagine it would be easy. But, I’m not afraid of working hard. I spent the first fifteen years of my life getting the shit beat out of me and starved for days at a time by a sadistic sociopath. What could be worse than that, right?

At first, it was great.

And then, it just wasn’t.

My life has been consumed by a rolling avalanche of shit that I feel like I’ll never get out from under.

Apollo’s presence in my life had been a reminder of who I used to be—who I wanted to be. Now that she’s gone, I’m only surrounded by people who are focused on living the largest life they can.

I just want to be happy. I didn’t ever feel called to do anything like swim, play football, or play the violin. I just want to learn and then go teach. That’s not even a possibility now. What school would hire me?

Who knows what would have been if my mother hadn’t needed me? But, I would do it again if it means my mother can have the care she needs.

I ’m just so fucking tired.

I’m working for Nanette five days a week and spend the other two days running errands for Mama.

I feel trapped in a life I never wanted.

My friends are great, but I can’t confide in them. They know I’m working to take care of my mom. They just don’t know how. I wouldn’t have been able to look them in the eye again.

“Let’s go.” Dave comes out of my room dressed in a black turtleneck, black slacks and has his dark red hair styled to death.

“Did you use the entire jar of pomade?” I burst out laughing.

“No, asshole. Not all of us have magical hair,” he says with disgust. “If I don’t put this shit in it, it’ll be all over my head by the time we get to the restaurant. One of the terms of my contract for the Tom Ford campaign is that I must never be photographed looking less than immaculate. It’s a pain in my ass. Before I signed the contract, I thought it was a small price to pay for a couple million dollars and free clothes for life. He stands in front of the mirror in my hallway and stares at his reflection in disgust. “What’s left of that couple million after taxes isn’t worth the fucking hassle of getting dressed every time I leave my house. I went to the drug store yesterday. My agent called and said I’d been photographed in my sweats, shower shoes, and a white wifebeater. And that I looked tired.”

“Poor you,” I scoff and grab my jacket as we head down to the waiting Uber.

As soon as we close the door, Dave pulls out his ringing phone. “Shit. Sorry man, I’ve got to take this.” He accepts the call and starts speaking in rapid fire Italian.

I tune him out and watch LA go by and wonder how the fuck I ended up feeling like the kid standing outside the store window. Looking at everything he wants but can’t have.

After graduation, when I didn’t have classes or exams to keep me busy, Nanette capitalized on my growing visibility on Instagram and with my friends. She worked out a deal with agents and movie studios. In it, I’m the silent, beautiful red-carpet date or lunch companion, the plus one at her sister’s wedding, or for the B-list actress who doesn’t want to look like a total loser when she shows up alone.

I was supposed to smile adoringly at her, hold her hand, and keep my mouth shut.

I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of being a prop—as well as a whore. I would make more money, but how would I explain it to my friends, who thought I was making all my money training the rich and famous, if I suddenly started popping up in pictures with all of these random actresses?

When I told Nanette I’d rather not do it, she threatened to end our entire arrangement. As tempted as I was to tell her to shove it up her ass, I didn’t have any other income.

So, I did it.

Turns out the online gossip reporters didn’t care about the latest top thirty under thirty I was arm candy for.

They wanted to know who I was.

My Instagram following grew to over a million in a matter of weeks.

The B-list actresses decided they didn’t want such a hot date after all, and that business dried up.

Nanette has upped my private clients as punishment for her losing those contracts. It’s getting harder to do my job.

Last week, I had to wear a cock ring to stay hard. I need to figure something out.

I’ve done everything for my mother, and if I stopped now and couldn’t make that next payment, I would have lost everything—including Apollo—for nothing.

We pull up to the restaurant, and I slip my sunglasses on again. Being with Dave means photographers and those lights blind me.

“Why the fuck do you insist on checking on twitter every time you go somewhere? I know you like playing chicken with your own life, but I don’t want to be collateral damage.”

“You think one of my little preteen fans is going to beat us to death with her selfie stick?” He rolls his eyes.

I slide out of the back of the car. It only takes a few minutes for us to be spotted.

Thank God the restaurant has bouncers, and they keep Dave’s screaming superfans back.

When the door shuts behind us, the sound of them calling his name stops as abruptly and completely as I imagine it would feel like if we stepped into a vault.

I look around the restaurant. It’s one of the most exclusive places in LA. But when your friends are masters of the universe, exclusive no longer means out of reach.

We walk through the dark, gold leaf walled restaurant and people wave at Dave and call his name.

Strangely enough, a couple of people call out my name, too.

That’s weird. Maybe they’re Instagram followers.

Dave stops at a table ahead of us. “Hey, man. I didn’t know you were in town,” he says to the man sitting at the table.

I smile and keep walking. “I’m going ahead,” I say to Dave.

“No, man. I want to introduce you. I’ve meant to shoot Dean an e-mail about you for months now, but I’ve been fucking busy.”

I walk toward the table. The guy looks familiar, but so do half of the people in here. He’s got blond hair styled like Dave’s, and he’s wearing a suit that I know costs the same as one day at the facility my mother’s living in during her treatment.

“Hey, Dave. I didn’t know you were in town, either.” He nods at his companion. “This is my wife, Milly.”

I look down at her and smile politely at the beautiful red-haired woman, who looks like some sort of Egyptian goddess, sitting across from him. She smiles back politely before she looks at her husband and says, “Dean, no business tonight, please?”

She turns her smile on us and says, “I hate to rush your reunion, but it’s our first trip together alone since our daughter was born. I’m sure you understand.”

I nod. Her honesty is refreshing. I wish I could tell everyone to leave me the fuck alone, too.

“Sure, no problem, Mrs. Orleans,” Dave says, sounding politer than I’ve ever heard him.

“Mr. Davis.” I look up, startled to find Dean talking to me.

“Yeah?” I answer a little haltingly.

“Here’s my card. Call me on Monday. I’d like to talk to you about representation.”

I glance at Dave who’s nodding vigorously at me, and I take the card.

“Sure, thanks. Nice to meet you.” I glance at Milly. “Well, sort of.” And we all laugh as Dave and I head to the table where Reece and Omar are waiting.

“Who the fuck is that? Why did he give me his card?” I ask Dave as soon as we’re out of earshot of their table.

“Dude, you should be thanking me, that’s only the best talent agent in the country.”

“Why aren’t you working with him, then?”

“He wouldn’t take me on as a client. Said he needed clients who would take his advice and he didn’t think that was me. I’m glad. He’s a hard-ass. Margaux’s lazy as fuck,” he says about his agent with a shrug. “I am, too, so it works. I think you should work with him. If he’s interested in talking to you, then you better jump on that. He’s got the Midas touch when it comes to endorsements and shit. You’re like disciplined as fuck. You’re totally wasting your life working for Nanette on this personal trainer to the stars bullshit. Look how people react to you, Graham. You could be famous. Like, for real. Not just Instagram famous, but like on tv or something. And if anyone can do it for you, it’s him.”

He jerks his thumb over his shoulder in Dean’s direction.

I get calls from “agents” all the time. I’d gotten all sorts of offers since I started showing up on red carpets and shit. So far, they’d all been offers to do porn.

“Sure, I’ll call him,” I say noncommittally. I have no plans to do that. I’ve had enough offers to last me a lifetime.

“Oh, yes. You sexy motherfucker. I’m so close.”

I look down at the bare back of the woman who currently thrusting backward on my cock. She’s moaning and calling my name, and every time I hear it pass her lips, I have to remind myself that this is how I pay for the treatment my mother’s receiving. The treatment that’s working.

This client, Angelina, at least that’s what she said her name is, is one of my regulars. She fucks at least two of Nanette’s other “trainers” and she only comes to me when she’s in the mood to be fucked really hard.

Because, lately, that’s all I can do.

When I’m fucking these women—some of them older than my mother—making them feel good, pretending that I loved being with them, I resent my entire existence.

The nice car, the polo membership, all of the things I used to think would make up at least in part for everything else I’d given up don’t mean a thing to me.

The worst part of it all was that Nanette demanded her pound of flesh.

I hated that more than anything.

But with her taking fifty percent and my mother needing to be in a facility because she needs round-the-clock care, I don’t know how to stop.

“Grab my hair, Greg,” Angelina screeches and I fist a hand in her hair and thank God for the Viagra I took because there’s no way in the world I would have been able to get it up for her today. I’m glad she can’t remember my name. I think hearing it from her now might make me sick.

The creak of the hotel door behind me sends a shot of panic through my body. These rooms are always reserved by the client. I pull out of her and cover myself with one of the pillows as a short, balding man who looks to be in his early sixties, dressed in an immaculate gray suit, walks in.

“Who the fuck are you?” I demand, approaching him with the intent to throw him the fuck out.

“Oh, it’s okay. He’s my sugar daddy. He just wanted to watch. Since he can’t do it himself,” Angelina drawls.

I look down at the bed. She’s rolled over onto her back, and she’s grinning at us from the bed. She’s rubbing her clit and licking her lips.

“I didn’t think you’d mind. Nanette said you’d want the extra money we paid for it.”

“I do fucking mind.” I drop the pillow and try to shove my still hard cock into my jeans.

“Oh no … don’t do that,” she says as she comes up to her knees. She looks at the man who’s standing watching me, and says, “William, get on your knees and suck him off, now.” The man, who sports a gold wedding band and looks like he’s some sort of corporate executive does exactly as she asks and drops to his knees in front of me, his hand reaching for my fly before I slap them away.

“Hey … get your fucking hands off me. I am not doing this shit,” I tell her.

“Why not? If you close your eyes, you can pretend it’s my mouth,” she says, smiling lewdly as she watches us expectantly.

“No thanks, I don’t know what Nanette promised you, but no.” I pick up my shirt.

“Nanette didn’t promise me anything. She sold this session with you and him. I’ve paid for it,” she says, her smile disappearing.

“Well, actually, I paid for—”

“Shut up, William.” She interrupts the man who is on his knees in front of me, his eyes glued to the bulge in my jeans.

“Well, I’m sure she’ll give you your money back,”

“I don’t want my money back. I want you to let him suck your dick. And because you’ve been so difficult, I want you to eat my pussy while he does it.”

“Oh, yeah, that’s not happening. My mouth doesn’t touch you. And I don’t want his mouth on me.” I step around the man and start toward the door.

“Do you do this for fun?” she calls after me.

I stop and turn around. “What do you think?”

“Well then, if you do it for the money, why do you even care? You have a cock. You can stick it in anything, and it’ll feel good.” She climbs off the bed and walks toward me.

“His mouth, my cunt, my ass, his ass,” she drawls. “What does it matter when you’re just a whore?”

That word.

I want to feel offended, but it’s true. It’s what I am.

She’s right. He’s just another mouth. I’m not attracted to him, but I’m not attracted to her either. I can’t do this anymore.

“Wow, come lie on the bed, we’ll make you feel good.”

“No. But thanks for the offer,” I say, and then I walk out.

As I walk to my car, I pull out my wallet and grab the card I’d stuck inside on my birthday and call the number.

“This is Dean,” he answered his phone before the first ring.

“Hey, uh … this is Graham. Graham Davis. We met at Rivera last week?”

“I remember. What took you so long to call?” he asks. There’s no humor in his voice.

“I’ve been working this week,” I respond, surprised by his tone. “If I called at a bad time—”

“If it was a bad time, I wouldn’t have answered. I’m not taking on new clients, Mr. Davis.”

“Okay …” I’m confused and turn his card over in my hand and wonder what the hell is going on.

“But, you are something special,” he says slowly.

My hackles rise at those words. I’ve heard them plenty of times, and I know where this is going, “Look, if this is some sort of sex thing, you can forget about it. And maybe try to find something redeeming to do with your life. You’ve got that beautiful wife and a baby to think about; there’s more to life than getting laid.”

He bursts out laughing, and I hang up. A second later, I get a text from his number, “And you’ve got some morals, too. My name is Dean Orleans. Google me. Look at my client list and then call on me back. But, only if you’re ready to work harder than you ever have in your life. Because that’s what it’s going to take for what I have in mind.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” I ask, excitement lighting up every nerve.

“I want to make you a star.”