Chapter Six
Ash’s BMW pulls up to the curb near the waterfront. He puts the car in park and gives me a warm, easy smile, leaning over the center console. He tells me to have a good day, to take my time, and to not stress about applications today. “Just breathe, Jax,” he says.
I step out onto the sidewalk and watch his taillights merge into the bustling morning traffic.
I take a deep breath. The salty breeze coming off Elliott Bay mixes with the smell of roasting espresso from a nearby cafe. My stomach doesn’t twist with hunger. My shoulders aren’t braced against the cold wind. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, just being okay. Being warm. Being safe.
I reach into the pocket of my jeans. My thumb brushes the smooth, cool metal of the credit card Ryker handed me yesterday.
I still feel a little weird about having it, a guy I barely know basically funding my existence, but Ash was adamant this morning that I shouldn’t feel guilty.
He said they want to provide for me. They want me to use it.
I head toward the cafe. Instead of hovering outside checking the prices on the window, trying to calculate if a plain black coffee will bankrupt me, I walk inside.
The bell chimes above the door. I order a fancy vanilla latte and a warm chocolate croissant without hesitation.
The cashier rings it up, naming a price that would’ve made me nauseous three days ago.
I just tap Ryker’s card on the reader. The little machine beeps.
Approved. No declined card or embarrassing shuffle out the door.
I take my paper cup and pastry outside, finding a wooden bench facing the water. The sun peeks through the morning clouds, warming my face. I bite into the croissant. Flaky, buttery pastry melts on my tongue, and I groan quietly. It’s the best thing I’ve tasted in weeks.
A giant green and white ferry moves through the dark water, heading toward the islands across the Sound. Seagulls cry overhead, diving for scraps near the docks.
My life turned upside down overnight. I’m a kept boy.
A sugar baby. The idea should probably bother me more than it does.
My parents would have a stroke if they knew.
My dad would give one of his red-faced lectures about sin and damnation, while my mom would weep into her hands.
But they aren’t here. They cut me off. They made their choice, and I made mine.
And if I’m being honest, I’m not hating this new arrangement.
My mind drifts to last night in Ash’s bed.
My face heats up just thinking about it.
He was so patient and careful. I expected to feel weird, or grossed out, or panicked.
Instead, I melted into the mattress. I liked the way his mouth felt.
I liked the way he touched me. The idea that I’m into guys, or at least into these guys, is still settling over me, but it doesn’t feel like a crisis.
It’s more like a relief. I don’t have to pretend anymore.
I don’t have to force myself into the little box my family built for me.
I finish the croissant and toss the napkin into a trash bin, dusting the crumbs off my jeans. The day is mine. No scrambling for shelter. No begging for dishwashing shifts. Just time.
I wander down Alaskan Way, weaving through tourists and locals.
The air is crisp but manageable. I climb the stairs up to Pike Place Market, letting myself get lost in the maze of vendor stalls.
I pass the fishmongers throwing salmon across the ice, breathe in the scent of fresh cut flowers, and browse a few artisan shops.
I buy a small bag of fresh cherries from a fruit stand just because I can.
I don’t feel like a trespasser anymore. Before, store owners eyed my dirty clothes and hovered near the door, waiting for me to steal something.
Today, dressed in the clean, fitted clothes Ash bought me, nobody looks twice. I blend in. I look like I belong here.
By the time my stomach rumbles for lunch, the sun sits high over the water. I find a seafood place with a wooden patio overlooking the piers. A hostess seats me at a small table facing the boats. I order clam chowder in a sourdough bread bowl and an iced tea.
While I wait for my food, I pull out my phone.
My working phone, since Ash quietly added me to their plan.
I scroll through local job boards just to see what’s out there, but there’s no urgency clawing at my throat.
I can take my time. I can figure out what I want to do with my life, instead of taking whatever awful job will keep me from starving.
The waiter drops off my food. The chowder is creamy and packed with clams, the sourdough warm and crusty. I eat every crumb, cleaning out the bread bowl until there’s nothing left. When the check comes I slip Ryker’s card into the leather folio.
I leave a generous tip. Ryker won’t care, and the waiter looks thrilled.
Walking back out into the afternoon sunshine, I stretch my arms over my head.
My muscles aren’t tight with anxiety. The constant, gnawing fear of the streets is fading, replaced by a weird, thrilling anticipation.
I have a trial month with three gorgeous guys who want to take care of me.
Who want to use my body, sure, but who also want to make sure I enjoy it too.
I’m going to have to sleep with all of them. Soon.
I guess I’ll find out exactly how deep this goes. But for today, for this afternoon, I’m just going to enjoy the view.
Ash texts me around three, telling me to meet him outside a high-rise downtown.
When his BMW rolls up to the curb, I slip into the passenger seat.
He flashes me a bright smile, asking how my afternoon was while weaving through late afternoon traffic.
I keep the answers vague but positive, leaning my head against the cool leather headrest.
We take the elevator up to the penthouse. The doors slide open, and the faint sound of a baseball announcer’s voice echoes down the hall, mixed with the crack of a bat and the roar of a televised crowd.
Aiden is sprawled out on the living room sectional in a faded grey t-shirt and gym shorts, a backward cap keeping his dark hair out of his face, his bare feet propped up on the glass coffee table, a bowl of popcorn resting on his chest. He looks up when we walk in, flashing an easy grin.
“Hey,” he calls out, tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth. “Grab a seat. Game’s actually getting good in the bottom of the sixth.”
Ash pats my shoulder and heads for the kitchen to start dinner, leaving me standing near the edge of the rug. I hesitate for a second, unsure of the dynamic, before walking over and dropping down onto the cushions next to Aiden.
He doesn’t miss a beat. He nudges the popcorn bowl toward me, his eyes on the screen as the pitcher winds up. “You follow baseball at all back in Utah? Or is it all just skiing and pretending the Jazz are going to make the playoffs?”
I snort, grabbing a handful of popcorn. “Hey, leave the Jazz alone. But yeah, mostly outdoors stuff. Dirt biking out in Moab, hiking the Wasatch front. We didn’t really have a local major league team to care about, so my brothers and I mostly just played pickup games.”
“Pickup games build character,” Aiden says, pointing at the TV as the batter fouls a pitch into the dirt.
“Better than half these rookies coming out of college thinking they’re hot shit.
You should see some of the kids I have to coach down in Tacoma.
I had a guy last week trip over his own cleats trying to steal second and he tried to blame the groundskeeper for the dirt being too soft. ”
I laugh. “Did you buy that?”
“Hell no, I made him run poles until he couldn’t see straight,” Aiden says, grinning over at me. “But they’re good kids mostly. Just need to get their heads screwed on right.”
We fall into an easy back-and-forth. He asks me about growing up with so many siblings, and I tell him about the chaos of trying to get a turn in the bathroom or the fights over the last piece of toast at breakfast. He tells me about growing up the son of a legend, the weird expectations that came with his dad’s name, and how he prefers the grit of coaching over the spotlight of playing.
It’s normal. He doesn’t bring up the arrangement. He doesn’t look at me like a piece of meat, and he doesn’t treat me like a fragile charity case either. I appreciate it more than I can put into words. I relax, stop feeling like I have to be aware of everything at once.
A bit later, Ash comes out of the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with chips, salsa, and a few bottles of beer. He sets it on the coffee table, pushing Aiden’s feet out of the way with a fond roll of his eyes, and squeezes onto the sofa beside me.
The couch is roomy, but with all three of us on it, space gets a little tighter. We all shift to get comfortable, and my thigh bumps against Aiden’s.
I freeze for a second, expecting him to pull away or shift his weight. Guys usually do. But Aiden just stays where he is. The side of his leg rests warmly against mine. The contact is casual, just a natural byproduct of sharing a couch, but my skin hums where our jeans press together.
Aiden leans forward, reaching across the table to scoop some salsa onto a chip. When he sits back, settling into the cushions again, his hand drops naturally onto my lower back.
He doesn’t grope me, doesn’t rub or squeeze. He leaves his hand there, his broad palm resting against my spine, the heat of his skin sinking through my t-shirt.
I don’t flinch or pull away. I let myself relax into the sofa, my breath evening out.
I lean back a fraction of an inch, pressing just the slightest bit more into his palm.
Aiden takes a sip of his beer, laughing at something Ash says about the umpire’s terrible strike zone, his thumb brushing idly against my shirt seam. It feels surprisingly nice.
The easy atmosphere shatters the second the front door beeps and swings open.