Chapter Thirteen
SIMON
“Look who the motherfucking cat dragged in.”
Sunday brunch is a command performance among the whores of Belle Argo. Probably has something to do with the fact that almost all of us have pasts littered with trauma, so we like to drink mimosas and pretend we’re carefree and fancy one day a week.
As I enter the back room of Gil’s with its cozy lighting and polished reclaimed wood tables, an entire gaggle of whores is looking at me with a heavy dose of curiosity.
It’s not like me to come rolling into brunch late.
Often, I’m the first one here. I love this place, and hanging out with my weird little band of friends is one of the only times I can genuinely be myself.
But after Sebastian wrung me out repeatedly, let’s say I needed a little extra beauty sleep. Also, after being gone for so long, I had to do a nice cuddle with my cat this morning. She used her claws to let me know how she felt about my prolonged absence, then stuck her butthole in my face.
I give my friend and fellow ho Troy the finger for his comment, but he only laughs and wiggles his eyebrows.
To be fair, I look like shit. While I managed a quick shower and I did drag some clean sweats and a shirt out of the laundry basket, I’m not precisely pulled together like I usually am. Not to mention, I’m still exhausted despite all the extra sleep I’ve gotten recently.
I land gracelessly in a metal and wood chair and take a moment to breathe. The last couple of days have turned me upside down, and right now, all I want is a juice and a breakfast scramble with extra crispy potatoes. Maybe then I’ll feel human again.
Though after I land in the chair, my aching ass and bruised back remind me it’ll take a lot more than potatoes to forget the way Sebastian owned the hell out of me. And the way I loved it.
To my left, two gorgeous ladies, Alexis and Eve, are talking about a concert they attended—a local-ish band called Wicked Crush.
They’re in sweats and matching rhinestone-studded flip-flops.
It’s a chilly morning for summer, but it’s Florida, so everyone still wears sandals.
Without missing a beat, Alexis slides me a mimosa as soon as I sit down.
“It’s okay,” she assures me. “Just orange juice. I made sure.”
Because I may love the idea of mimosas, but I don’t love to drink.
After leaving the farm, I experimented with an unfortunate number of substances.
I wanted to take full advantage of my freedom.
I wanted to try everything, and the high helped me hide from my family’s rejection and how afraid I was of the outside world.
It worked until the time Brennan had to call his doctor because I’d been stupid enough to mix Molly and muscle relaxers with who even knows how much tequila. I was sick for an entire day and a half after. It was enough to turn me off most of that shit, thank God.
“Bless you, my love.”
Alexis winks and goes back to her conversation.
“Hey, Simon, looking rough. What’d you get up to last night?” calls Adam from across the table.
I give him a roll of my eyes. “I was busy fucking your sister last night, so maybe leave me the fuck alone before I give you details.”
It’s a stupid response, because while some of the guys at this table aren’t gay, I am.
Long before I was forced to run away from the farm, I knew I would be in trouble if I stayed.
I’d have been expected to marry a nice girl from one of the other families in our community and have lots of babies to try and keep our dying way of life alive.
I never could think of it without my stomach tying itself up in knots.
Adam grins at me over the rim of his champagne glass. “That’s funny, because my sister is on her honeymoon in Rome right now, and her new husband is built like a professional football player, so good luck with that, man.”
He’s as full of shit as I am. Aside from an older brother he never speaks to, the closest thing Adam has to a sibling is Troy. Or maybe they’re more like a couple. None of us are sure.
“Yeah? Tell her I said congrats. Also, ask if she’s willing to loan out that hot husband of hers.” Not that I need another dick in my life right now, even if the guy was real. I sigh and slug my “mimosa,” signaling our waitress for another.
After last night, I’m aching in places I didn’t know I could ache.
I desperately need a solid week off to recover.
Despite that, I also can’t stop thinking about Sebastian, can’t stop replaying his hands and his mouth and his (shiver) teeth on me, and can’t stop my body’s reaction when I think about him slamming me against his door and spanking me like I was a Very Bad Boy, and I was his to discipline.
I even let him tell me when to come, for fuck’s sake.
I’m used to getting treated like a piece of property. I rent myself out, after all. And usually, I hate it. Why the fuck didn’t I hate it with him?
Michael, who only does “boyfriend experience” escorting, is to my left, still casting me worried glances while he chats with Dean, the only one of us who’s been around longer than I have.
Dean’s older than me, and he’s been an escort since he was nineteen.
Single dad, which sounds rough as hell to me.
Especially in a place like Belle Argo, where the wealth gap is more significant than Sebastian’s dick.
Now I’m thinking about him again. Fuck.
I check around the table. PJ is on the other side of Dean, but I don’t see Christian. PJ, however, seems to be checking his phone every ten seconds. “Everything okay with Christian?”
“Oh.” PJ seems startled by the question. “Y-yeah. That’s not… He was exhausted after everything, so I left him sacked out on the sofa.”
“Then who are you furiously texting?”
No answer comes my way, but I make a mental note to check in later with Christian. We should all be checking in with each other more often. Who knows what would have happened if PJ hadn’t been persistent?
Our waitress, LeeAnne, drops my usual order in front of me: breakfast scramble, nondairy butter, cherry jam, and sourdough toast. Extra crispy potatoes.
It’s funny, but I feel more at home here than I ever did at my actual kitchen table growing up.
LeeAnne is one of the reasons why. She’s got strong caretaker mom vibes, and she always seems to know what I need without asking.
My actual mother was more of the cleave-to-your-husband sort.
Fuck. That. I refuse to cleave to anyone.
Seriously, though. This place. These people. I’m not sure where I’d be right now without everything in this room.
What about Sebastian? You were glued to him when you woke. And then there’s the part where you let him come inside—
Shut the fuck up, inner asshole.
“LeAnne, when will you and I get married and run away together?” I ask when she refills my OJ.
“Watch yourself, Simon. I’m the one who supplies your sourdough toast, after all.
” She walks around the table to where Adam and Troy are sword fighting with their breadsticks like a couple of idiots.
She grabs the back of Troy’s man bun and yanks hard enough to make him yelp.
“And you two. Knock it off before I put you both in high chairs since you act like toddlers.”
They drop the breadsticks like good little boys, but then, as she walks away, I notice one of Adam’s tattooed arms coming up to rub Troy’s back, almost in a comforting gesture.
I can never quite tell if those two are just close or if there’s something more.
I’ve never so much as seen them kiss. And until recently, Adam had a girlfriend. It’s just a vibe I get.
“Hey.” I clear my throat and turn to Michael. He’s the only one of us with brains in this entire operation. “Let’s say someone needed you to testify about a client or a former client. I know Brennan would kick our asses for breaking confidentiality, but do you think there’s any way around that?”
“It would depend,” Michael says slowly. “You’d be putting yourself at risk, not just risking Brennan’s anger. The lawyers or law enforcement could dig into who you are and what you do. You’d risk getting arrested.”
“Yeah. You’re right. Should’ve thought of that.”
Okay, I did think of it. It’s one of the reasons I told Sebastian no right off the bat. Still, it’s been humming at the back of my brain all morning. I keep trying to think of something I could do to help with his divorce.
The more I think about it, the more I realize I want to help him. And not because him getting divorced might pave the way for other things.
He helped out with Christian yesterday. It’d be nice to be able to return the favor. That’s all.
Nico’s at the far end of the table next to PJ, and as I scan the room, I catch him giving me the kind of shit-eating grin that says “I know what you did last night.”
Or maybe I’m just being paranoid.
“What the fuck is your problem?” I give him my best glare. It always works with my assisted living patients. Not with a gangly nineteen-year-old tattoos-up-to-his-neck fuckboy, though.
“I know what you did last night,” he sings.
Dammit.
“You don’t know shit. Shut up and eat your waffles.”
Next to Nico is one of our newbies. He's the only one not looking at me like my tired ass is the funniest thing ever. Ravi’s got a clean cut, glasses, and a backpack over his chair.
The kid looks as if he got lost on the way to the study group and accidentally joined a group of sex workers for brunch.
The fact that he’s got his hand raised to ask a question isn’t helping him.
Privately, I’m not sure how long he'll last. Not sure he has the thick skin needed to make it in this business.
I raise my eyebrow at Ravi, who’s still got his hand up. “You know you’re not in school, right?”
He shrugs. “I don’t like shouting over people.”
“Learn to, kid. The quiet ones don’t last long in our world.”
I ought to know. I used to be one.
“Right. Well. I just wanted to know if you’re okay and everything? I mean, it’s just that it looks like someone cornered you in an alley and beat you with a sock full of rocks.”
That’s an oddly specific scenario.
Dead silence. Everybody at the table turns to stare right at me.
Then chaos erupts. Shouts of “Boom!” and “Shiiiiiit! Simon!” and God knows what else because I’m too busy wishing I’d been smart enough to wear long sleeves to listen.
“Okay, wait.” Michael’s deep voice breaks through the noise. “You didn’t look like that when we saw you yesterday.”
That he knows of. At the time, most of the marks were covered by my clothes. Then Simon’s bruising grip had wandered all over me in the car, making me look much worse.
“And there was no group party last night.”
I glare at Michael. “How would you know? You never go to them anyway.”
“Brennan always puts a call out on the group text. There wasn’t one.”
Fair.
“Mike’s right. And you don’t do sleepovers,” Dean adds.
“I don’t think I like you two being friends,” I say defensively.
Dean and Michael are sort of weirdly related, but they didn’t get along so well in the past, now also known as the good old days.
“So the only conclusion I can draw—” Michael continues as if I’ve said nothing. “—is that when you brought a Porsche-driving pretty boy to Christian’s place yesterday, and you were wearing clothes made for someone taller than you when you got there…”
“And now you’re totally covered in bite marks and bruises,” Dean points to me. “I can see them through the fabric of your shirt.”
He can see them. Fuck me. I shouldn’t have worn white.
“Didn’t have all of those yesterday morning, though,” Michael helpfully repeats.
Eve leans over, lifts one side of my shirt, and blows a low whistle. I’m unsure what she’s seeing, but I can guess.
Alexis stands and grabs me on the other side. I try to bat both their hands away, but I’m not fast enough. “Are these finger bruises? Oh my God, they’re everywhere.”
“All right, that’s enough.” I raise my voice as I push to stand. Everybody quiets down. Alexis and Eve retake their seats. Thank fuck.
“Look, I had a date last night. It got a little wild. Don’t make it into a thing.”
Alexis leans forward. “Like a date or a date-date?”
I’m not entirely sure how to answer. “Brennan set it up.”
Crickets. I know they’re all looking at me, but I focus instead on putting jam on my toast.
“Uhm…how much did they pay to do that to you?” Ravi asks quietly. At least he didn’t raise his hand this time.
For a moment I wish I could go back in time. Back to yesterday morning when I was safe and warm and sleepy in Sebastian’s bed, nobody was abusing my friends, and nobody was giving me curious stares and pelting me with questions I don’t have the first clue how to answer.
“And who was the guy you brought to Christian’s?” Michael’s not letting this one go.
You really gotta focus when you’re putting jam on your toast, you know? Especially the cherry jam. It’s got all these little chunks in it, and—
“Simon?” There’s worry in Michael’s voice. I don’t need to look at him to hear it.
“I hope it was a lot,” Eve murmurs. “I don’t even let the clients do that stuff to me, and I do more than most.”
Just throw out a number. That’s all I need to do. Any number, and it’ll be fine. If they think it’s too high, I’ll get fist bumps, and if they feel it’s too low, they’ll all groan and tell me I should know better, but I need to say something. Anything.
In that moment where the only wrong answer is no answer, my mind is as blank as a brand-new notebook.
The longer I stay silent, the longer they do too.
Out in the central part of the restaurant, the wait staff is all singing “Happy Birthday” to someone.
For birthdays they put one of those ridiculous cone-shaped hats on your head and take your picture while making you kiss a stuffed cow. It’s humiliating as hell.
I would give my left testicle to trade places with whoever’s getting the birthday treatment right now.
“Oh, shit. You fucked him for free, didn’t you?
” That’s Dean. For one thing, I can hear the slight southern drawl in his voice.
For another, he’s usually a little slow on the draw.
Judging by the silence around the table, I’m sure everyone else has already figured it out.
I’m still refusing to look up, but there’s only so long a guy can spend spreading jam on his toast. Right now you’d think my life depended on an even butter-to-cherry ratio.
Finally, I look up, taking a bite of my toast as an excuse. And when I do, I see what I was most afraid of on their faces. Drawn eyebrows. Creased foreheads. Sad eyes.
Worry. Concern.
Pity.