Today was (insert sarcastic inflection here) absolutely great. I got to watch Benson, some steroid-pumped guy, fuck for three hours. Three hours. How many different angles do blow job needs to be shot from? I have no idea. The bright side, I’d much rather watch Benson go balls deep in a girl than Tyler—Johnny, whatever the hell his name is now. To be honest, before I started here, I thought screwing people for a living had to be pretty easy work. You spread your legs, ride someone’s face…but it’s not as simple as sex. They have to stop and start over, adjust for different angles. If that were me, I’d be so over it after the first thirty minutes…there is no way that can actually feel good to the girl.

I grab the empty bottle of lube and chuck it in the trash, and just when I’m about to walk out the door, Brandi prances inside the room, stopping in front of me. Her blonde hair is in pigtails, and she’s wearing a pair of cut off denim shorts, a checkered halter top, and cowboy boots.

“Hey, girl!” She sings, popping her gum.

“Uh, hey.”

“You finished for the day?”

“Yep.” I veer around her and start toward the door again. I glance over my shoulder as I make my way down the hall to find she’s following me.

“Benson’s fun to watch, huh?” she asks.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I always enjoy shooting with him.”

I nod because I honestly don’t care who she enjoys shooting with. Instead of heading toward the elevator, I go to the stairwell thinking she’ll go in a different direction, but she doesn’t. She follows me inside and down the stairs.

“So, how do you and Johnny know each other?”

I exhale. This is why she’s following me around. “We grew up together.”

“Oh.” She pauses. “Like friends or something?”

“Yep. Something like that.”

“And you didn’t know he did porn?”

“Nope.” Jesus how long does it take to get down three flights of stairs.

“So you took the job and had no idea?”

“Yep.”

She giggles. “Well, that’s gotta be weird then, huh?”

“Weird doesn’t touch it.”

I push the door open and walk out into the lobby.

“Well,” she says as the doors bangs closed behind her. “I’ve got to go film The Dook of Hazard. You know, we should hang out sometime. Do some girl stuff or something.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

She smiles before she turns to walk off. I’m not an idiot. I know what she’s doing, and I am most certainly not hanging out with her. I’m not hanging out with anyone from this job. Really, I am more than ready to get home and watch the fucking The Golden Girl marathon with Heather. Something that has nothing to do with dicks and vaginas and assholes. That is what I need.

The second I step outside, I feel like I’m going to burst into flames. Looking across the parking lot, I can see waves of heat rising off the asphalt. Sweat is trickling down my temples by the time I reach my car. The leather seat burns the backs of my legs when I sit down, and I curse, shoving the key into the ignition. I need the air conditioner on before I spontaneously combust. I turn the key, and—nothing happens. “Oh, shit. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” I slam my fist over the steering wheel and groan before I try to crank the engine again. It doesn’t sputter, it doesn’t click. Nothing.

I grab my purse from the floorboard, take out my phone to text Heather, but, of course, my phone is dead. I chuck the phone into the passenger seat and bang my head over the steering wheel, the horn blaring with each pound. What in the hell have I done to deserve the random shit that has happened over the past few weeks? There’s a tap on the window, and before I even glance up, I know, based on the way my life is going at the moment, who it is.

I keep my forehead pressed against the horn as I slowly turn my head and peer through the glass with one eye. Yep, there’s Tyler, and now my back is covered in sweat.

“Won’t start?” he asks through the window.

“No.” I reach for the door, and he backs up a few steps.

“Let me look.”

“It’s dead,” I say, hopping out.

He takes a seat and tries the ignition. Men.

“Tyler, I just said it was dead.”

He nods. “I know.” And then he smiles that smart-ass grin of his. Reaching down he pops the hood, then climbs out and walks around to the front of the car. He fiddles with some things under the hood.

I cross my arms over my chest and cock my hip. “Since when do you know anything about cars.”

“I’m a guy. Guy’s know things about cars.”

I roll my eyes because Tyler is not a car guy. “Please don’t make it worse.”

He pushes away from the front of the car, makes his way back to the seat, and tries the key again. “Well,” he shrugs. “Can’t do anything with that.” He grabs my purse from the passenger seat, gets out, and shuts the door. “Come on,” he calls over his shoulder.

“What? Where?”

“Do you wanna stay here. It’s getting dark. That’s when the freaks come out you know,” he laughs. “And Frankenstein.”

Huffing, I follow him to a Mustang parked a few spots over. I smile a little. Tyler had a Mustang in high school, a ratty one, but it was still amazing. “Still have the same taste in cars, I see.”

He smiles and opens the door for me. “Yep, and in women.”

That swoon induced heat floods my cheeks and I chastise myself for letting him get to me. “Thanks,” I say as I sit down.

Moments later, he’s behind the wheel. The engine cranks and I can feel the hum of the motor in the seat. “Where do you live?” he asks.

“Venice Boulevard.”

He backs out of the parking spot and revs the engine before pulling onto the street. “I’ll call a garage and have them come get your car. Probably the alternator or something.”

“Thanks…”

As he drives, I keep glancing over at him. When I really think about it, it gets to me a little. This right here, riding in a car with him, this was my teenage years. We rode to school together, we rode to parties together, we basically did everything together. Honestly, I barely put a thousand miles on my own car because I was always with him. And the thing about this right here—there’s nostalgia to this. Tyler is like that smell you get a whiff of every once in a while that drowns you in blissful memories.

He glances at me from the corner of his eye. “What?”

“What do you mean what?”

“You’re staring at me like a fucking creeper.”

My face heats. “I was just looking at you.”

“Yeah,” one of his dimples pops out, “like a creeper.”

And…silence. I have to get my mind off of us, so I do the only thing I can think of that will not remind me of us. “Do you like it?” I ask.

“What?” His eyes narrow, his brow wrinkling. “Do I like…what?”

“Porn.”

His head falls back against the head rest, and he laughs. “Do I like porn?”

“Yeah.”

“Watching it, or doing it?”

“Well…” I recall the first time I watched porn with him. “I know you like watching it, fucking Debbie Does Dallas—”

“Oh, that was hilarious!” he says.

“It scared me.”

“Did not.”

“I was sixteen.”

“And…”

“And you thought it would be funny to pop some popcorn and watch porn.”

He shrugs. “It was.”

“No,” I argue. “It was not.”

“We had sex that night.” He smiles. “And that was my master plan.”

“That had nothing to do with the porn.”

“It had everything to do with the porn.”

“Tyler, stop avoiding the question.”

He reaches over and grabs my knee, squeezing it, and I don’t want him to move his hand. “Not avoiding, just reminiscing.”

“Do you like doing it?”

Exhaling, he shrugs. “Sure.”

“Sure?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“That’s not a very enthusiastic answer,” I say with a slight laugh, glancing down at his hand still resting on my leg.

“Yeah, not meant to be.”

Now his thumb is rubbing over the bottom of my thigh. I should probably move it…but I don’t. I roll my eyes. “So, sure, you like that you legally get paid money to have an orgasm? Just sure?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Tyler, come on.”

He exhales. “Why do you care?”

“Just trying to understand why you do it.”

“Why not?”

“Not just anyone wants to be a porn star.”

“I just kind of fell into it.”

I don’t know what I want from him, but I want more of an answer. I want him to tell me he loves it or hates it, something other than sure because you can’t have a job like that and just be indifferent about it—and his hand is still on my thigh, just sitting there like that’s where it belongs.

I sigh. “We used to tell each other everything. You told me you pissed the bed when you were seven, and,” I cover my mouth trying to stifle the laugh at the memory of what I’m about to say. “And let’s not forget that time our Junior year after prom when we were all at the lake house and you got so drunk you peed in the bed. I’ll never forget that. You woke up and started patting around on the mattress, looking up at the ceiling.” The laugh comes out full force. He doesn’t look amused. “You asked if there was a leak. I mean, you pissed in the bed with me, and you won’t tell me that you like being a porn star?”

“It’s just a job,” he says. “That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs and removes his hand from my leg. Damn.

I swallow. “You mean to tell me you don’t enjoy getting paid to have sex?”

“Jemma, it’s not what you think. It’s work.”

“It’s sex,” I say. “Sex feels good.”

“Are you asking me if it feels good, or if I like it?” He glances over and smirks at me before changing lanes.

“Like it.”

“It’s just—just different, you know?”

“Nope,” I say. “I’m not a porn star. I have no idea.”

“Porn sex is just sex.”

“And you like sex, right.”

Shaking his head, he laughs. “Yeah, sex is good.”

“So you like being a porn star then?”

“Like I said,” he looks at me and cocks a brow, “sure.”

“So which girl’s your favorite?”

“Jemma, you know, I don’t really want to—” He shakes his head.

“You have to have a favorite, there’s gotta be one you have a thing for or something.”

“No.”

I narrow my gaze at him. “Come on, Tyler. You gotta like one of them a little, I mean you violate their bodies on camera, come on.”

“No feelings. At. All.”

I throw my hands up. “Guys are weird. There is no way I could have sex with somebody over and over and not eventually get some kind of feelings toward them.”

“Well, you’re a girl.” His hand comes back to rest on my thigh, higher than the first time. “You’re wired differently,” he says.

“Wired differently...” I laugh and stare out of the window.

“Titch, it’s just different. It’s work. I get paid for it. There’s nothing to it.” He exhales before glancing over at me. “Look, when we ran into each other and ended up having sex—that happened, and I wanted it to. I wanted to fuck you, it’s all I could think about from the moment you got in that cab, and then once we started, I couldn’t get enough of you.” Pausing, he gently rubs his hand over my leg. “That was the kind of feeling that makes your eyes roll back in your head. It was organic. What I do at work, it’s just the mechanics. There is nothing there. At. All.”

I have that little quiver in the pit of my stomach, that nervous flutter and excitement—but I shouldn’t. I swallow. “Yeah…okay.”

“That bother you?” he asks.

“What?”

“That I compared it to sex with you?”

“No,” I lie.

“Just so you know, you’re the first person I’ve slept with outside of work since I started.”

“Oh, God, is that a compliment or what?”

“Definite compliment.” His hand comes off my leg to point out the window. “Turn here?”

“Oh,” I glance out the window. “Yeah, the second turn is my apartments.”

We pull into the entrance, the car bouncing over the speed bumps. I direct him to my unit and before he’s fully put the car in park, I’m hopping out. “Thanks,” I say, as the engine shuts off.

“It’s rude not to invite me in,” he says, climbing out of the car.

“Tyler…”

“I just gotta piss.”

“Fine.”

He follows me up the stairs and to the door. When I step into the apartment, I expect to find Heather sprawled out on the couch, but the living room is empty. I point to the hall. “Bathrooms right there.”

“Thanks,” he says and brushes past me.

I drop my purse on the kitchen counter and the second I hear the bathroom door click shut, I scurry down the hall to Heather’s bedroom and find the door open. She’s not here. The toilet flushes and the taps turn on. I hurry back into the living room.

The door creaks open, and seconds later, Tyler’s standing in the middle of the room dragging his hands through that dark hair of his. “Like your apartment,” he says.

“Thanks.”

God, he’s just standing there. What is he doing?

“Where’s your roommate,” he asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Hmph…” He takes a seat on the far end of the couch, then smiles at me. My gaze falls to his mouth as he bites down on his lip. Why is that piercing so sexy? Jesus. Tyler rubs his hands down the legs of his worn jeans. “So,” he says, “what do you wanna do?”

“Tyler…”

“Yeah.” He smirks. “What, titch?”

“You said you just had to piss.”

“I did.”

“And?”

He shrugs. “And I did, and now I’m sitting on your couch. Funny how that worked out, huh?”

I narrow my gaze on him. He narrows his on mine, a proud grin on his lips.

“You are so…so…” I exhale. “Just, God.”

He laughs. “Stubborn? No shit. It took me six years to get you to kiss me. That’s determination.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

Turning to face me, the smile fades from his face. “Look, I know this is weird, but the thing is Jemma, I just want my titch back.”

I glare at him because surely he doesn’t think it’s this easy? “You know what hurt the most?” I ask, fighting that tightening sensation in my chest. “That we broke up, and that was it. It was over. All those years of friendship…and you just let it go.”

His eyes fall to his lap, and he nods his head. “Yeah, I know.”

“Why?”

Shrugging, he clasps his hands together and leans over his knees. “Ever since I saw you that first day…” a short lived laugh slips through his lips. “Even as a kid, I just wanted to be close to you, you know, there was always that what if that drove me to pick at you, to chase you, to love you harder, and then when we broke up, well, there was no more what if. At least not the kind of what if I wanted.” He glances up from his hands, his eyes soft. “I was stupid and hurt and angry at myself for moving.”

“You had a scholarship.” I swallow because this is getting to me and I don’t want it to.

“Yeah, but I had you.” He reaches out, trailing his hand down the side of my face, and out of instinct, I turn to his touch, my eyes closing. “Had I stayed, I would have kept you,” he says, and I pull in a hard breath. “I was jealous. I hated fighting with you all the time.”

When I open my eyes, his face is so close to mine. “We were both jealous.”

“It was stupid.”

“It was.”

His gaze drops to my lips, his thumb grazing over my jaw. There’s a moment where our eyes lock, where it feels like we should kiss each other. My heart drums in my chest, my body heating. If I kiss him there is no way it will stop there. I swallow, forcing my brain and vagina to have a very long conversation about why this is a bad idea.