Chapter 2
Chapter Two
SIMON
Nico: Holy shit. You guys would not believe what happened to this guy I fucked last month.
Am I allowed to say it’s been a long week when it’s only Wednesday? The drama with my fellow whores on group chat isn’t helping.
Adam: Did he get busted for dealing drugs? I heard a lot of those rich kids like to party like they’ve got no consequences
PJ: That’s because they’ve got no consequences. BTW has anyone heard from Christian? He hasn’t replied to my texts in a couple of days
“Give me your money.”
A light flickers in the hallway, stabbing me in the eye. I ignore my fellow whores’ group chat while I deal with my latest catastrophe. Two nurses stare me down—a petite Filipino named Bernadette, and a freckled redhead named Marissa. Marissa towers over me, shoving an envelope in my face.
“Patricia, on the night shift. She had a heart attack,” she says.
“I heard it was gallstones,” Bernadette counters with a raised eyebrow.
Marissa pops her gum. “Whatever. She’s in the hospital. We’re sending flowers.”
Right. Cool. “If that isn’t the most cliché thing to send a sick person. Sucks you’re maybe dying, but here’s some pollen to help you out.”
Marissa rolls her eyes. “She doesn’t have any family, dumbass. We’re letting her know we’re thinking of her. If you were in the hospital, you’d want to know someone was there for you, right?”
The thing is, nobody would be. Aside from the occasional message from my brother, I haven’t seen or heard from my family in years. And I’m not exactly buddies with my coworkers.
To avoid answering the question, I pull out the only money in my wallet; a crisp twenty-dollar bill.
My apartment isn’t in the greatest neighborhood, so I try to walk around with a small enough amount of cash that I’m not likely to be some lousy man’s payday, but enough to get out of a pickle if necessary.
Or, in this case, get out from under the disapproving stares of two pretty but mighty nurse aides who are not to be fucked with.
As soon as they leave, I return to my previous problem: trying to do something about my destroyed scrubs, while trying not to think about a certain hard-jawed, coffee-scented businessman.
Usually, I enjoy my job at Belle Argo Assisted Living.
Today’s been a real challenge. Four hours into my shift, I’ve already had to send one patient to the emergency room, been yelled at by another patient’s adult children, had my foot run over by a tired orderly pushing a meal cart, and now, thanks to an agitated dementia patient, I’ve got grilled cheese sandwich splooge on my favorite scrub top.
It’s got pictures of puppies all over.
The top, not the sandwich.
My phone buzzes again, and I make the mistake of pulling it out.
PJ: Please tell me you didn’t catch something from him.
Nico: From Christian?
Tony: He means the guy you bonked at some party. And doesn’t Christian have a second job with weird hours? Probably just busy.
Nico: Nah, but I saw my hookup’s picture in the Times this morning. Cam something. Funny thing is, he went missing last month. Disappeared the same night we smashed in the butler’s pantry at one of those rich kid parties. Weird, right?
Simon: Doing it in the butler’s pantry is weird. Having a butler’s pantry is funny.
I mean, come on. Who the fuck has a butler anymore? Not even rich people in the movies.
Michael: You’re lucky you didn’t get brought in for questioning. Does Brennan know?
Brennan is our fearless leader. Some would call him a father figure. The fine folks in law enforcement would call him our pimp.
Brennan: Brennan does know. There is nothing to do unless he’s found and he mentions Nico to the police. Nico, if anyone shows up to question you, call me. And if any of you hear anything else about this shit, you fucking call me.
Brennan’s command sends the group chat into silence. We’re all wary of him enough to avoid getting on his bad side. Especially me.
I slide my phone into my pocket and take a few deep breaths.
I’ve got a stabby attitude, and that’s not what you want when dealing with older people.
The flickering lights out in the hallway aren’t helping.
Each time I pass by this way, I’m convinced I’m about to get stabbed by a knife-wielding lunatic.
“A little dish soap and some scrubbing will help get that out.” Loretta, one of the ladies who’s been here a while, says to me as I dab at the grease stain. “You want to put it on there and let it sit first. Need to borrow a top?”
Oh, how badly I’d love to borrow a top. As in, well…
you know. It’s my professional opinion as a guy who gets fucked for money that good ones are in short supply.
That guy who pinned me to the fucking wall after catching me with his husband?
I bet he’s a good one. I bet he’s a great one, even.
The way he looked at me? Bet he fucks rough and mercilessly in the best way possible.
Anyway. Loretta’s a lovely lady, and she’s got thirty years on me, so I’m not sure she wants to hear about my sex problems.
“Here. I size up to make room for my blouse bunnies, but it should work well enough until you finish your shift.” She passes me a neatly folded square of pink fabric.
Not having Loretta’s generous chest, this top is definitely too big. If someone happens to tug the fabric the wrong way, I’ll wind up showing everybody my nipples. They’re nice nipples, if you ask me. But still.
“Thanks, babe. Usually, I keep an extra in my car, but I’m behind on laundry. It’s been a crazy week.” Crazy is one word. I don’t have a better one, but I feel like there should be one.
For a kid who wasn’t allowed to attend public school after eighth grade, I’ve studied a lot to expand my vocabulary in the past few years. Sometimes, though, I’m convinced there’s a better way to say something, but my brain can’t seem to make it happen.
Maybe there is no word for I-got-caught-by-my-client’s-fuck-hot-husband-and-I-honestly-thought-he-was-going-to-throw-me-into-a-wall-but-I-kind-of-wanted-him-to-and-I-don’t-know-what-that-says-about-me-but-I-haven’t-slept-in-days-because-I-keep-jerking-off-to-his-murder-face-and-waiting-for-some-kind-of-fallout.
For now, I’m sticking with crazy.
My phone buzzes with a text from Brennan directly to me. Since this legitimate job I enjoy doesn’t pay what I need to live or to pay back the money I owe Brennan, I make a point of checking it quickly.
Brennan: I have some requests for you this week. One party, one dinner date. Are you available?
Simon: I’m supposed to be taking time off to study for my nursing exam. But I can make it work.
Brennan saved my ass when I was forced to escape the community where I was raised.
His help is how I avoided homelessness, how I put myself through nursing school.
But his kind of help didn’t come interest-free.
While I’m not a thousand percent certain he’s the kind of guy who breaks legs when people don’t pay, I’m sure enough.
Bottom line—I’d rather not find out.
I’m only a few months away from finally paying the last of what I owe him and having enough savings to move. Belle Argo’s a nice place, but the job market isn’t smoking hot.
Until I land a better paying, legitimate job, I can’t afford to turn down Brennan’s income.
Honestly, though, having that substantial, angry dude walk in while his husband was sticking it to me shook me more than I’d like to admit.
I mean, it’s happened before. Not to me, but I’ve heard stories.
Brennan looks out for us, and thank fuck, I’ve never been arrested or attacked.
But it wouldn’t be pretty if that guy decided to try and screw me in a bad way.
I’d kind of hoped taking a week or so off would help. Get my head together. Fly under the radar for a bit.
It’ll be okay, though. Not much longer, and I’ll be done with it all.
I aim to get out of the business before I push my luck. Ollie, a former co-ho, returned to Ohio after an angry client came after him, also after having to spend time in Belle Argo General with a broken jaw.
While my Angry Husband encounter didn’t end in violence, there was banked rage in the man’s storm-cloud eyes and the rigid lines of his body.
The tight clench of his jaw and the wicked scar that hooked from the corner of his eye to the corner of his mouth gave me the distinct impression he wasn’t the type you fucked around with.
So did the bruises he left when he wrapped his fingers around my arm.
The last few nights, when I’m not anxiously tossing and turning, I’ve been anxiously jacking my painfully hard cock while I use my free hand to trace the finger-shaped marks on my skin.
Sometimes I just edge myself for hours, punishing myself by refusing to get off on fucking someone’s marriage.
Or on wondering how it would feel to have those powerful fingers wrapped around my throat.
No orgasms for you, pervert.
I don’t have to be a psychiatric nurse to know this behavior can’t possibly be healthy. I just can’t seem to stop.
Once again, I run my palm over the blue and purple bruises, the sensation giving me weird shivers.
I’d like to pass it off as some lingering nerves from the encounter, but I know it’s more.
It’s the memory of Angry Husband’s fingers digging into my skin, the heat of his stare, and a strange tightening in my gut when he wrapped his hand around my forearm.
A buzzy mixture of danger and arousal that I haven’t felt in a long time. Or maybe never. Not like this.