I know secrets.

After years of hiding my own skeletons in the closet, I know when others have their backs pressed firmly up against their own set of closet doors to keep their particular set of bones hidden securely away.

I drop the matter for Prynne’s benefit. After all, who am I to pry? Especially since it’s only our second date, formally at least. Just because I’ve decided to air my dirty laundry tonight, doesn’t mean Prynne has to as well.

We’ve crossed the bridge into Manhattan and I estimate about ten more minutes before we arrive at the Indian restaurant I picked out for tonight.

“I hope you like spice,” I say. Another banal topic to draw us away from treacherous waters. “The tikka masala at this place is the best in the city.”

It takes her a moment to mentally shift gears and get up to speed with the change in topics. “I love Indian. I mean, I’ve only had some curry that my friend Jermaine brought into work one day, he’s the one who answered the phone when you called. He let me try some, but—”

“Wait a second, that was a man?” I interrupt. I knew there was something off about the voice that answered when I called for Prynne earlier this week. Although the speaker on the other end of the line was attempting an alto, there was a definite undercurrent of bass there.

Prynne laughs. It’s deep-throated and lyrical, managing to evaporate the last remnant of a cloud hanging over the start of the evening.

“What?” I ask, now laughing myself. “Are you really surprised I asked? Does he do that just to fuck around with the customers?”

“I think it’s practice,” she says, recovering with pauses for short breaths. “Nights and weekends he goes by Jasmine, though he has yet to tell us what ‘Jasmine’ does.”

“In New York? I can think of at least a hundred things off the top of my head.”

“Please don’t tell me you know from personal experience,” Prynne teases, though there’s at least a good five percent of it that is not joking.

“Not direct experience if that makes you feel better,” I say, splitting some mighty fine hairs.

My mind immediately races to my online show. Obviously trans of all flavors (-sexual, -vestite, -curious, -whatever) have made an appearance every now and then, occasionally even getting their own themed show. I’ve learned more about the various lifestyles than I ever wanted to.

The Sex on the Line show is one thing I hadn’t counted on telling Prynne about tonight, which is supposed to focus on exactly what happened at Princeton. What happened with Meghan, I want her to know about it sooner rather than later. It isn’t that I’m worried about it coming out, at least not in these early stages, its that I don’t want it hanging over this budding…relationship? Tryst? Friends with benefits? Good time? Whatever it is we have. I want her to know the truth, learn my side of the story before her mind is spoiled by what others have already judged me with. Especially with my dad at the helm.

The radio show is a different animal. It’s one thing to air dirty laundry before Prynne has caught a whiff of it. It’s another to invite her into my own personal Fortress of Solitude. Exactly three people know who Mr. XO is: Donna, my rep at Eros, and my agent, Chris. Even Uncle Sam gets a generic title of “entertainer” on my IRS forms.

There’s also the problematic little tickle that I did lie about what I do for a living when we first met. It’s a lie that I can maintain, at least well enough to help her out with her latest romance novel. It’s also one that may end up causing the most problems when it comes to light. I’ll just have to cross that bridge when I get to it.

Prynne has been chattering on during my inner musings. “Holly thinks it’s just one of those fun variety shows, or something like Ru Paul’s Drag Race, but she’s so innocent I don’t think her mind could even fathom other possibilities. Then again, what do I know? After all, I’m just as much—” She stops suddenly and her eyes dart my way.

Are we still playing the Virgin Game, Prynne?

I smile to myself but don’t say a word. Just another thing for her to reveal in her own time.

“We’re almost there,” I say idly, easing the tension.

I hear a soft exhale as she settles back into her seat, choosing to ride in silence until we get there. It gives me a chance to process my thoughts again. How exactly can I break everything to Prynne in a way that won’t scare her off?

“The garlic, definitely the garlic naan,” Prynne says, poring over the menu with intense concentration. “And…I think the chicken vindaloo.”

“That’s going to be a bit spicy, Prynne,”

She tilts her menu to the side and gives me a pert smile. “All the more reason to try it.”

I smile and shake my head. “Have at it then.” I look up to our waiter and order the chicken tikka masala and an IPA beer.

“I’ll have one of those too,” Prynne adds in a way that makes me wonder if she’s even familiar with IPAs, or beer for that matter.

Here’s to new beginnings.

“So,” Prynne begins, leaning in as her eyes follow our waiter leaving. She brings them firmly back to me when he is apparently far enough away to give us some privacy. “What is it you want to, um, expose to me?”

Her teasing smile isn’t at all appropriate for what I have to divulge, but I suppose that’s my fault. I shouldn’t have taunted her by using the word “expose.”

“Let’s at least wait until our beers arrive.”

She gives me a begrudging smile then falls back in her chair with a more thoughtful look on her face. “Do women really…dye their hair?” She adds in more of a whisper, “down there, I mean.”

The sudden change in topic surprises me and I exhale a laugh.

“What?” she asks, getting indignant. “You’re the one who was making such a big deal out of it last weekend. I’ve been thinking about it all week.”

“Well you shouldn’t have,” I say, giving her a slightly concerned smile. “But in answer to your question, I’d say they usually don’t have to decide since there’s usually nothing left to dye, although that’s gradually changing these days. Who knows, Prynne, you may have inspired a new trend. You never know who might have been watching and learning last weekend.”

Her cheeks go bright pink, a cute reaction considering how uninhibited she was this time last week. The waiter comes back with our beers and she quickly picks up the bottle and takes a long sip. Just as quickly, she winces after actually getting a taste.

“Good grief, that’s awful. I mean, I don’t have much of a taste for beer but that taste like…bitter grapefruit.”

“It’s an acquired taste,” I say taking my own sip.

“Blech,” she gurgles, her tongue falling out as she frowns down at the bottle.

“How about a glass of wine instead?” I get the attention of our waiter again. Anything to lubricate her sensibilities. Hopefully that will liberate her mind when she learns all about my sordid past. Prynne nods and when the waiter comes back, I order a glass of chardonnay for her.

Instead of waiting for him to bring the glass back, I decide to plow forward with my story. I’ve waited long enough to rip this band-aid off. “I’ve spent the last week thinking about last Saturday.”

A small, nervous smile comes to Prynne’s face as she no doubt focuses on a particular part of that night.

“Mostly about how it ended,” I continue, which transforms that smile into a proper frown.

“I’m sorry about that, Rhys. It’s just that…” She sighs, her eyes rolling up as she works out how to finish that statement. I save her the trouble.

“It’s just that you didn’t want to talk about your family,” I finish.

“My family is…complicated.”

I respond with a short laugh that ends in an exhale and my own eyebrows raised in understanding. “Trust me, Prynne, I know complicated when it comes to families.” My eyes focus on her again. “Which is what I wanted to talk to you about tonight.”

Prynne’s eyes are wide with interest and curiosity, wondering where I’m headed. Before I can continue, the waiter comes back with her wine. I allow her a sip before I go on.

“I suppose I should give you a little background first. My parents are what most people would call rich.” I roll my eyes up to the side and correct that statement, “Well, my father was well-off. Very well-off, but nothing compared to my mother’s side of the family.”

The Ashetons made their money alongside many a tycoon during the turn of the century, creating the kind of wealth that would survive not only the Great Depression, but generations of idle, reckless heirs. I’m sure great-great-grandfather Henry Asheton would consider Rhys Conners (Princeton reject, Sex Jock extraordinaire, not-so-secret exhibitionist) firmly in that camp of degenerate offspring.

“There are things that go along with that sort of pedigree, which I’ll save for later,” I feel a wry smile come to my face as I stare absently at some spot over Prynne’s shoulder. “For example, there were certain expectations I was supposed to meet. Obligated is probably the more appropriate word there.”

My attention comes back to her and I feel how tight my smile is. “A lot of kids in my situation end up squandering everything they’ve been given. Trust me, I’ve seen it, first hand. Who knows? I might have ended up the same. My father of course saw to it that I didn’t. I suppose I have him to thank for that.” I lift up my bottle of beer in mock salute and take a long swig.

Prynne is just staring back at me, her face a mixture of interest and wariness, no doubt wondering where I’m going with this.

“He’s a firm believer in public service. Or maybe just the idea of being seen as doing something good for the country, along with the power and prestige that comes along with it. It was made very clear that I was expected to surpass him—he’s an appellate judge for New York—perhaps even become president one day.”

I think about what my own set of handlers would do with Mr. XO and Sex on the Line, not to mention my fondness for being naked in front of certain hotel windows. How the fuck would they be able to spin that? On the other hand, considering how ridiculous the political sphere has become, it wouldn’t be such a difficult task. Hell, these days, it might even be a bonus.

“What?” Prynne prods as I chuckle softly to myself.

“Nothing,” I say with a smile, shaking my head. “I was just thinking about what the press would do with everything I’ve done at the Sexton.”

“Oh,” she says, looking off to the side in thought. A slight crease comes to her forehead and a tiny frown to her mouth as she seems to consider the idea. It’s enough to pique my own interest, but before I can prod she blinks and turns to me with a bright smile. Too bright. “I’m sorry, go on.”

I look at her a moment, wondering whether or not to dig into what that was all about, then I remember that this is my story, not hers. Anything she wants to tell me, she can when she’s ready.

“No problem. I just want to start off with the disclaimer that I’m telling only my version of events. I wanted you to hear my story from me, not anyone else, just in case, before we go any further. Frankly, I don’t know where this is going but…” I heave a heavy sigh, “it’s better that this comes out sooner rather than later.”

The smile is gone from Prynne’s face. She doesn’t look scared, thankfully, but definitely on edge. With that sort of introduction, I can’t blame her.

“It began at Princeton. I was a junior and yes, I had a bit of a reputation. I liked living on the edge, so to speak. If you can’t go wild in college, when can you?”

Prynne twists her lips and rolls her eyes. “Maybe for some.”

I remember where she went to college and laugh. “Well yes, for some. I wasn’t a complete manwhore, at least not enough to raise any red flags when it came time for my eventual run for president, which I’m sure my father was coordinating even back then.” I hear the slight tinge of resentment in my voice and take a breath to help brush it off.

My eyes roll to the side as the memory unfolds in my head. “Her name was Meghan Rosedale.”