Prologue #3
“I didn’t set you up on a blind date,” I finally say. Quietly, because we’re in a room full of people and I need to get my shit under control. “I called a guy. A pimp. Thought it would do you some good to get laid. It was only supposed to be one night.”
Someone drops a fork. For a moment I’m focused on the metal clattering to the polished hardwood. Anything to avoid the way my baby brother is looking at me now.
“What do you mean you called a pimp?”
My collar’s too tight. “Elliott, the events coordinator at the hotel, gave me a name and number. He had trouble getting back into the game after his wife died, and he said this nice young woman named Alexis helped him out. I thought…” Fuck me.
“I thought it would be good for you. I didn’t expect you to bring a damn moving van to your first date with the guy. ”
Shut up, Wes. The more I try to justify my actions, the worse it sounds. Alcohol has made my lips numb, yet I can’t seem to stop running my mouth.
“I didn’t—” With a hard swallow, Fallon looks away. “You know what? Fuck you, Wes. I have to go.”
My stomach twists. Desperation has me reaching out again, silently begging my brother to stay and let me explain. Except I’ve already tried and every word from my mouth sounds stupider than the last.
Still, I have to try.
He shakes me off. “Don’t. Don’t you dare grab my arm again. Don’t say another word. You’ve done enough.”
My heart sinks as he storms out of the room. Once again, I’ve tried to fix a thing and made it worse. I’ll be lucky if Fallon doesn’t hate me now.
I suppose he can’t hate me any more than I hate myself.
Troy – A few weeks ago
It’s a spur-of-the-moment decision, like so many of mine are.
Adam and I are on the way back from the gym smoothie bar when this guy comes blowing into the locker room, looking frantic.
Wes.
He looks like the kind of man every boy who secretly jerked it to shirtless pictures of Tom Hardy in high school longs to wrap his legs around. Taller, though. Sharper cheekbones. Sad, tortured-looking blue eyes.
Zero tattoos, but I’d give him a pass for that if I didn’t know the guy’s actually a massive dick. Why are the hot ones always dicks?
Right now, though, Wes is frazzled and unsure, and damned if I’m not curious about what misfortune might have befallen him. Who wouldn’t be?
Before I can wonder too much, my phone buzzes in my hand.
PJ: At the gym. Knocked off work early to meet you guys. Where is everyone? Did something happen with Adam’s blood sugar or something? Also, have you seen Wes? Fallon’s looking for him.
PJ is a friend and a male escort, like my best friend and me. Or he used to be one, before he fell in love with his client. Said client happens to be the brother of the frantic-looking dick in front of me.
Troy: Just had to handle a little something. We are allllll good. If I see Wes, I’ll let you know.
Telling PJ I’m looking right at the guy can wait until Adam and I have had a chance to say hello. Or punch him in the mouth. TBD.
Sliding my phone into my pocket, I’m grinning as Wes strides toward us, clearly lost in thought and not looking where he’s going. Oh, yeah. We’re handling something, all right.
Among our small but mighty group of male escorts in the seaside town of Belle Argo, Florida, one thing we know how to do is look out for our friends.
Wes here is the reason PJ and Fallon got together. He’s also the person who tried hardest to break them up. Some might argue it’s not my job to get my friend payback, but I disagree.
Besides, I’m way beyond tired of people thinking we’re all expendable and unfeeling because we’re paid companions. I’m worn out in general, to be honest. Some days I manage to pull myself out of bed and feel okay in spite of the daily grind, but every day gets harder.
Unfortunately for Wes? Today I’m in the mood to let him walk right into me and see what happens.
Next to me, Adam slides to the side to avoid the collision. I don’t.
“Sorry, I—” Wes stumbles back, mouth moving but nothing coming out.
“Hey, it’s Brunch Daddy.” I’m looking at Wes, but I’m talking to Adam. We’ve been calling him that since he busted into one of our weekly escort gatherings at a downtown breakfast spot to hassle PJ about dating his brother.
Super original, I know. “How’s it going, Westy?”
“It’s Wes.” He’s leaning away. Guarded. Figures. “Just Wes. My mom calls me Westlake. Nobody calls me Westy.”
“Oh, yeah, Westham.” Adam winks at me, taking a big drink of the smoothie in his hand.
Westy clearly doesn’t appreciate that at all.
“I like Westy better,” I say to poke the bear.
“It’s Wes.” The tall drink of water spits each word, jaw clenched so hard he’s got a muscle twitching.
Easy as hell to rile, this guy. Fun.
He grips the gym bag in his hands tighter and tries to squeeze past us. Not today, bitch. Today I register the split second when he scans me up and down. The flare of curiosity in his eyes, followed by confusion. The red flush that crawls up his throat.
Today, I’m not in the mood to suffer hypocrites. I’m in the mood to create a little chaos.
“Look, never mind.” Wes moves to push past us again. “I’m late meeting Fallon. We’re supposed to be working out while his boyfriend is fixing up his little ice cream stand.”
Ooh. Judgmental much? Wait until he finds out PJ’s here at the gym after all.
“Oh, right,” I say. “Is that why you’re in a hurry? Don’t wanna have to deal with PJ? We’ve noticed you seem to have a real beef with our friend.”
He looks down at where I’ve got my hand wrapped around his wrist. I didn’t realize I had even grabbed him until now. He doesn’t pull away though, so I hang on.
“There’s no beef.”
What a filthy liar.
Every time Wes is around us, he’s looking down his nose with some flavor of contempt or judgment. Like simply standing too close to a sex worker might give him an itchy rash.
Fuck this guy.
With a tug of his arm, he pulls out of my grip and heads for the bank of lockers in the back corner of the locker room. It’s the farthest from the showers, and the cubbies here look older and more beaten up, so not many people use them.
Wes doesn’t seem to notice we’ve followed him until Adam asks, “You homophobic or something?”
Which makes Wes jump. Heh. Nice.
“Hom—what? No. Of course not. I’m the one who set up PJ and Fallon on their first date. Would I do that if I were homophobic? What I am is control phobic.”
His face reddens, every word spilling out faster than the last.
Ah. It’s coming together now. Fallon is submissive. Apparently, Wes isn’t comfortable with someone bossing his little brother around.
Which I guess is…nice-ish? Sort of. Also fucking ignorant.
“It’s just that we remember the day you came storming into our weekly brunch spot looking ready to throw down with PJ.” I wave my hand, gesturing between me and Adam.
Our weekly escort brunch is a little bit of connection and normalcy in an ocean of getting paid insane amounts of money so long as we’re willing to overlook getting used and tossed out like red cups at a party. Plus, there are mimosas and French toast. It’s a good time.
None of us like having our good time fucked with.
The one single time things got ugly? Wes’s fault.
“Right,” Adam agrees between sips of the green smoothie I bought him. Gotta keep that blood sugar happy. “And then there was the way you lost your shit at Fallon’s birthday party last month.”
Pretty sure I can smell Wes’s brain catching fire. He’s actually kind of sexy when he’s frustrated. Full lips parted, eyebrows crouched low, clenched fists making those forearm veins pop out…
Bet the guy’s got a great O face too.
“I walked in on them fucking when I went to ask if we had more ice,” he whisper-yells. “Nobody wants to see their little brother getting choked by his twenty-year-old boyfriend.”
Hmm. “Pretty sure PJ’s, like, twenty-three. Twenty-four?” Adam’s better with that stuff, so I give him a nudge.
“Twenty-four, I think,” Adam agrees. “Or twenty-five? No, I think he’s about a year older than you, so that would be twenty-four.”
Wes rubs a hand across his forehead. “Look, guys. This is pointless. I told you I don’t have a problem with?—”
I don’t give him a chance to finish. Little does Wes realize, this entire time he’s been arguing with us, he’s also been stepping backward. Adam and I have matched him inch for inch until he’s practically cornered in this way-back section of the locker room that hardly ever gets used.
There’s a bench seat running between the lockers for people to sit on, put their shoes on, or whatever. He stumbles back and sort of awkwardly lands sideways.
“What the fuck are you…?” He doesn’t finish. Instead, he glances around with wide eyes like he’s only now realizing he’s alone with us.
“Look, whatever this is?—”
Adam, who almost always knows how to read me, puts a hand on Wes’s shoulder. He’s got a pretty strong grip for someone on the leaner side, and I sort of envy the way his fingers dig into the place where Wes’s neck meets his shoulder.
Wes winces a little, but he doesn’t protest. If anything, I could swear his shoulders relax under Adam’s grip.
Iiiinteresting.
Encouraged, I straddle the bench in front of him, grabbing one of his legs to pull it over to the other side so we’re mirroring each other. Then I scoot forward, hooking each of my legs over each of his, effectively putting us crotch to crotch.
Wes’s eyes widen. I swear I can hear his breath catch.
It takes a lot to surprise me, but I’m surprised right now.
I expected protesting on Wes’s part, like an enhanced game of gay chicken where at some point he’d tell us to back the fuck off, maybe even threaten to throw hands.
I most certainly figured that would happen before I got close enough to grind my dick against his.
But Wes isn’t saying no. He’s staring, lips parted and breathing shallow. I’d bet my classic convertible that the heat in his wide blue eyes is genuine.