Angel (The Camboy Network #3)

Chapter 4

CHAPTER

FOUR

ANGEL

Wait. What just came out of my mouth? It wasn’t what I think it was, was it?

I sneak a sideways glance at Ricky, whose jaw is on the floor.

Shoot. I did ask him about gay porn. Why did I ask him about doing gay porn?

My brain kind of short-circuited when that video popped up on his phone.

I mean, I’ve watched porn before. Pshh, who hasn’t? But it’s always been straight porn. Girls with big boobs that bounce up and down while the guy does his thing. It’s nothing mind-blowing, but it does the job.

This video though. The sounds. All that skin. The close-up shot of the guy’s thing going into Ricky’s thing . Oh god.

I keep seeing it like the image has been burned into the backs of my eyelids.

But I’m not gay. I’m not. I’ve had girlfriends before. I was attracted to them. I’ve never, you know, gone all the way, but only because I didn’t want to force myself on them. I’m a respectful guy.

I’ve never thought about other guys, never looked at other guys. I had tons of opportunities to stare when I was on the football team, but I never did. Not once. Not even a little tempted. So, no, I’m not gay and I’m not doing gay porn.

No, wait, I’m not doing any porn, dang it.

So where the heck did that question come from?

Ricky snaps his mouth shut, but his eyes are still impossibly wide. “I, uh, um, do you have to be gay to do gay porn?” His mouth opens and closes a few times before he manages to answer. “I guess not?”

“A hole’s a hole, right?” A slightly hysterical laugh escapes me before I clap my hand over my mouth. Oh good lord, what is happening to me? “Sorry! I’m so sorry. Don’t answer that. You probably think I’m a perv.”

First, I follow the guy upstairs and corner him in his childhood bedroom. Then I’m ogling a video of him dancing practically naked around a pole. Then that other video. Now I’m asking him inappropriate questions about gay porn. Something is seriously wrong with me.

I drag my hand over my face and start to stand. I need to leave. I shouldn’t have come up here in the first place.

But he stops me with a hand on my arm. It’s so small, but not dainty. There’s real strength in those fingers and calluses on his palms. It has to be from the pole dancing, from holding himself up in midair. Ricky might be petite, but definitely not weak.

“I don’t think you’re a perv.”

There’s a gentleness in his voice that makes me brave enough to glance at him again. He’s smiling, warm and kind, and there’s that fluttering feeling in my stomach again.

“And actually,” he continues with a hint of laughter. “There’s a whole subset of gay porn called gay for pay.”

“Gay for pay?” The words feel weird on my tongue. Like they’re not even English.

“Yeah, you know, straight guys doing gay porn to make money.”

Straight guys. Doing gay porn.

My heart thuds heavily against my ribs. Straight guys doing gay porn.

Straight guys—like me. Doing gay porn like what I saw in the video. The curve of Ricky’s bent leg, the roundness of his bum. His skin shimmering and shining. I gulp.

And his face. He looked so… blissed-out, like he was high from the sex. His fingers were intertwined with the other guy’s, like they were in it together, like they were connected more than just physically.

“Is that something you’d be interested in?” Ricky asks. His expression is carefully schooled. It’s a perfect balance between sensitive and curious, encouraging but not overly aggressive. There’s no hint at which answer he wants me to give.

I can’t answer. I mean, I know how I should answer. I should say no. No chance. No way. Absolutely not. I have no reason to want to, no reason why I would need to. Not straight porn, and certainly not gay porn.

But my jaw won’t move, my tongue won’t make the right shapes. My heart beats harder, faster. Why can’t I just say no?

Ricky’s lips quirk and his eyes fill with compassion and understanding. “If you are, I might know someone you can talk to. If you are. No pressure or anything. Just putting it out there.”

Is he serious? He can’t be serious. I would never consider doing anything like that.

My heartbeat roars in my ears. My throat feels tight and my stomach churns dangerously. I grip my knees so tightly, I might give myself bruises.

Ricky holds out his hand, palm up. “Give me your phone?”

I stare at his hand, not fully grasping what he’s asking me for. He wants my phone? Why does he want my phone?

Then suddenly my phone is out of my pocket and in his palm, and I have no idea how it got there.

Ricky’s thumbs fly across the screen, and a second later, his bag buzzes. “There. Now you have my number. If you ever want to…” He seems to lose his train of thought. Then he smiles, almost sheepishly. “You know, whatever, you know how to reach me.”

He holds out my phone, and when I take it I accidentally close my whole hand around his. He doesn’t pull away and neither do I. We sit there, sort of holding hands, staring into each other’s eyes.

The world spins like I’m standing at the top of a skyscraper, staring down at the street below. The wind blows through the steel frame of the building, cold and biting. The soles of my feet tingle. If I step off the edge, I could fly.

I’m snapped back to reality when Ricky slides his hand out from under mine. Then quickly, faster than I can react, he darts in and plants a kiss on my cheek. Then he’s on his feet, saying goodbye, and disappearing down the stairs .

My cheek is on fire.

It only lasted a second, but I can still feel the soft press of his lips. I can still smell the whiff of his cologne—or is it perfume? I breathe deep, dragging in any lingering trace of it.

I glance at my phone. The screen is still on, showing a new text message thread. But the contact name doesn’t say Ricky. It says Rhys Rawlings.

By the time I get downstairs, he’s gone, and no one seems to have noticed him leave.

Later that night, after I’ve said goodnight to Mama, my sister Sabrina, and her infant son Jonah, I head upstairs to our duplex’s second apartment. I moved up here after I got my construction job and started earning enough to cover the extra rent Mama charged the other tenants.

For a while, it was just the two of us—Mama downstairs in the apartment me and Sabrina grew up in, and me upstairs by myself. Three months ago, Sabrina moved back in with her newborn son after her douchebag boyfriend walked out on them. And now we have a screaming baby in the house.

I love my nephew, I really do. The kid is cute as heck when he’s quiet. But look at him the wrong way and he’ll burst your eardrums. The little dude’s got lungs like an opera singer, and he seems to think the middle of the night is the perfect time to exercise his vocal cords. When he’s wailing, it sounds like he’s right next to my bed in the upstairs apartment.

We’re all suffering .

Upstairs, I kick off my shoes and drop onto the couch, head falling back to stare up at the ceiling. If I was smart, I’d try to get some sleep now, when it’s still quiet. But my mind is still racing from my conversation with Ricky earlier.

Maybe I hallucinated the whole thing. Following Ricky upstairs, sitting on that frilly, pink bed, accidentally seeing the sex video, asking insane questions about gay porn. There’s no way any of that was real, right?

And yet, my cheek is still warm from the kiss Ricky—or maybe Rhys—planted on me. My hand floats up to the spot. It doesn’t feel any different under my fingertips. There’s no cut or burn or anything. But the ghost of that kiss lingers, a very real wisp that I can’t quite grasp.

I sit up and shake my head. What am I doing? Why am I still thinking about Ricky? He left before the party ended and he won’t be back in the neighborhood for months, if not years. I won’t see him, won’t talk to him, won’t have anything to do with him, maybe forever. That conversation was a onetime freak accident.

Heck, maybe I was possessed or something because I definitely wasn’t acting like myself. I don’t go out of my way to chat with people I’m not close to. I don’t talk about naughty things like stripping and porn. I definitely have no desire to actually do porn myself—gay or straight.

Except, maybe I’m still possessed, because suddenly I’m opening my laptop and searching for Ricky Gallo.

There’s an old, defunct Facebook profile with mentions of our high school. But that’s it. No other social media accounts. No clues pointing to what he’s doing with his life now. It’s like Ricky Gallo fell off the face of the planet after he turned eighteen .

I should stop. I should close my laptop and go to bed. I did the search and didn’t find anything. There’s no point in continuing. Nothing good can come of this.

I type in Rhys Rawlings. And strike gold.

Not only is there an Instagram account, but there’s also a website called The Camboy Network, another website for a nightclub called The Bronzed Rail, and even a Wikipedia page. Ricky has his own Wikipedia page?! Jeez.

I’m a little afraid to click on any of the links. They feel like doors I won’t be able to close after they’re open. I won’t be able to unsee things, unknow things. Just like I can’t unsee that video or unknow what Ricky looks like naked.

But there’s a tiny, minuscule, microscopic part of me that maybe, kinda, sorta wants to?

I take a breath and squeeze my eyes shut. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t.

My finger presses down on the trackpad with a distinctive click. Oh no.

I peek, just one eye at first. I squeeze it shut again. There are pictures… pictures with a lot of skin… way more skin than I’m usually comfortable with. And yet…

I squint at the screen, as if it’s too much to look at directly. Air rushes out of my lungs and my eyes fly open as if the photos have punched me in the gut. I struggle to breathe, but the clear and unobstructed view isn’t doing anything to lower my heart rate or settle the churning in my stomach.

Dear lord. The pictures. Ricky—or Rhys—isn’t entirely naked in any of them, but he’s not wearing much. Sometimes only a scrap of fabric that passes for underwear. Sometimes one of those corset things or a crop top .

Sometimes he’s wrapped around a pole, legs spread wide, with dangerous-looking boots on his feet. Sometimes he’s with another guy, or several other guys. They’re all wearing just as little as he is, piled on top of one another. Hugging. Touching.

My gaze zeroes in on the places where skin meets skin. Thighs. Arms. Chests. Backs. Acres of skin that looks so soft and supple.

My eyes flick up to his face. His eyes are dark and sultry, outlined in makeup. His lips hold just a hint of a smile. His hair falls in waves over his shoulders. It’s purple, red, blue, pink, green, orange, a different color in every picture.

I can’t help staring at the angle of his jaw or the length of his neck. There’s something so…

I try to draw in a strangled breath. Oh god, what’s happening to me? My chest feels like it’s about to explode.

I push my laptop away and lean forward, hands braced on my knees, and force myself to breathe. I feel funny all over. So hot that my brow is damp. Everything tingles and my clothes feel too tight and rough on my skin.

And I’m hard, I realize, as I cup myself. Oh my word, I’ve gotten an erection from staring at pictures of a naked Ricky—Rhys. Who is a guy. A man. How— What— I don’t?—

No, I shouldn’t be turned on by a man. I’m not gay. I’ve had girlfriends. I like women.

I close my eyes and try to conjure up an image of a naked woman. Boobs. Curves. Shapely legs. Long, silky hair. She giggles and tosses her hair over her bare, elegantly rounded shoulder. But when she peers back at me, it isn’t a woman at all—it’s Rhys .

My eyes fly open. I can still see him. The sparkle in his eyes. The tease of his smile. I squeeze myself through my jeans. The friction eases some of the pressure, but it’s not enough. I need… more, or less, I don’t know.

I don’t remember ever feeling like this before. Aroused when I don’t want to be. Achingly hard after only a few pictures. I don’t usually react this way. I’m not usually so responsive.

Dang it. I need to come. There’s no other way to get rid of this erection. I’m too worked up for it to go away on its own.

I close my eyes and try to imagine a woman again, but all my imagination gives me is Rhys. Rhys in the pink, sparkly thong. Rhys leaning against a bronze-colored pole, round bum sticking out. Rhys sprawled on some other guy’s lap, legs spread open, bulge on display.

I lean back, undoing my jeans with unsteady fingers. I stick my hand into my boxers and grip myself tight. I’m leaking enough pre-cum to slick up my palm—thank goodness, because I don’t know if I even have lube in the apartment.

The slide of my hand over my dick feels so good that my whole body shudders. But it’s still not enough. I need more.

I know where I can find more.

I sneak a glance at my laptop, my ears heating as if the stupid computer is judging me. Am I really going to look at porn? Of a guy I know? Gay porn? Even when I’m not gay?

My dick twitches in my hand and another I shudder again.

I don’t care anymore. It’s not like anyone will know. I’ll delete my browser history and it’ll be like it never happened.

I lift my hips off the couch and push my jeans and boxers down around my thighs. My laptop sits next to me, showing a series of thumbnails. I don’t look at them too closely, just click on a random one.

It starts playing and I forget to breathe. Rhys spins around a pole, rolling his body, arching it. He spreads his legs wide and holds himself there while the camera zooms in on the dark shadow between his ass cheeks. He goes to his knees. Writhes around on the floor.

Then someone else comes onto the stage—the same guy from the video I saw on Rhys’s phone. He’s fully clothed, while Rhys is only in a thong.

The other guy pulls out his dick and Rhys greedily sucks it down. He takes it all the way, eyes fluttering, spit leaking out the sides of his mouth. The guy fists Rhys’s hair and thrusts into his mouth. Rhys’s jaw hangs open as he lets the other guy use him.

I jerk myself harder and faster than I’ve done in a long time. I’m so close. So close.

The scene switches. Rhys is on all fours with the other guy taking him from behind. The narrow strip of fabric of his thong is pulled to the side, framing Rhys’s ass cheek. It’s so round, so plump. What would it feel like under my palm? Bouncing against my hips?

Oh shit, crap. My balls pull up tight.

The camera moves in for a close-up view of the guy’s dick sliding in and out of Rhys’s hole. It just… disappears. There one second, gone the next, then there again. But it’s not really gone, is it? It’s inside Rhys’s body. It’s inside Rhys .

“Shit. Shit.” My hand flies over my dick. I reach down with my other one to tug on my balls.

Inside Rhys. I could be inside Rhys. I want to be inside Rhys.

I come, arching off the couch as I spray myself. Ropes and ropes of cum shoot out of me, landing on my hand, my shirt. I don’t remember ever coming so hard before. I didn’t know it could take over my entire body like that.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t jerked off in a while, so all the cum has built up in my balls. But I don’t think that’s it. I think it’s because of Rhys.