Chapter 2
Theo
The sun blasted through my window, revealing a view that belonged in some travel magazine—rolling hills covered in wildflowers under a ridiculous blue sky.
Definitely not Florida. What the fuck am I doing here?
Even after a week, it still felt surreal.
The moment I'd stepped into my suite at The Ranch, I almost face-planted gawking at my suite.
That queen-sized pillow-top with cherry-red silk sheets, with a velvet chaise lounge in the corner practically begging me to sink into its ridiculous luxury.
Compared to this palace? My old apartment might as well have been a jail cell with all the charm of a truck stop bathroom.
And yeah, I also noticed the naked men everywhere. They floated through the halls like an exclusive art exhibit. Hard to miss.
I was an imposter in this world of luxury hookups and rich-guy fantasies.
My first night, I unpacked my entire life into less than one dresser drawer: a couple of pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, a hoodie, boxer briefs, and my dog-eared copy of The Alchemist. Pathetic, right?
Yet as I folded each item, I imagined Casey looking at me, his innocent confusion as we talked about my decision to take this job.
I kept replaying the moment in my head, his wide eyes, the hurt, the anxiety etched on his face. Guilt twisted my stomach into knots.
Ugh.
‘Sex worker’ wasn't on my career vision board growing up, but The Ranch's fancy ‘companion’ label didn't change what I was doing here. The weird part? That flutter in my stomach whenever I thought about the actual sex wasn't dread.
I'd hooked up with men for cash before, bored businessmen at the hotel bar where I used to work.
Quick, uncomplicated transactions that never felt dangerous.
But becoming a professional in a luxury resort?
Unfamiliar territory. For the next twelve weeks, I was tied to this place with no escape—no leaving, no texting, no phone, no spontaneous trips to grab a burger or catch a movie. What if he needed me?
Whatever. Decision made. Last thing I needed was to screw up and get fired.
I glanced at the closet where my “uniforms” hung, gauzy white cotton robes that covered about as much as a sneeze. Today I'd be behind the bar again, mixing drinks with a side of flirtation, putting my bartending skills to work for a clientele that expected a lot more than a decent Old Fashioned.
“Get a grip, Theo,” I muttered, glancing at the clock.
Time to move. I slipped on the flimsy underwear that clung to every curve and bulge while somehow showing skin in places regular underwear didn't, then shrugged the robe over my shoulders.
The wristlet that designated my work status was dark—off duty for now.
Theo Bennett, the fuck-up, was back in California. Here, I was a companion at The Ranch, doing whatever it took to support my brother.
The walk to the pool bar took me through the central courtyard, an Instagram-worthy oasis with flowering vines climbing stucco walls and water features creating that rich-people ambient noise. The design created tons of private nooks while still feeling open.
At this hour, the courtyard was pretty chill. A few guests lounged around, reading or talking quietly. A silver-haired dude sketched in a notebook. Two guys made out in one of the alcoves.
Just another Tuesday at The Ranch.
Six days. That's how long I'd been here, learning the ropes of a world that felt like a parallel universe. Six days of watching naked men parade around, witnessing stuff that would make porn stars go “damn,” and reminding myself why I signed up for this circus.
I kept my eyes forward and headed toward the pool area, bracing myself for whatever I might find there.
The pool was basically the daytime main attraction—a massive mosaic-tiled masterpiece surrounded by fancy loungers and private cabanas where ‘exclusive resort’ blurred into ‘sexual playground’ real quick.
As I got closer, I heard splashing, laughter, and the thump of music from hidden speakers.
I paused at the entrance to take in the scene.
Turquoise water gleamed in the bright sun. The shallow end had built-in loungers where guests could chill in a few inches of water, while the deeper section had actual swimmers.
Around the pool, dozens of men stretched out in various states of undress—mostly the ‘undress’ part.
Tanned bodies soaked up the sun, some alone, others paired up or in groups getting friendly.
Staff moved between them, delivering drinks and towels, applying sunscreen, and handling whatever ‘needs’ popped up.
The poolside bar was a small building set off to the side with a polished counter facing outward toward the water. Behind its sleek surface, glass shelves displayed premium liquor bottles, catching sunlight like liquid jewels. I stepped up to it, my bare feet slapping against warm stone.
Pablo was already there, tattooed arms a blur as he mixed drinks with flair. He glanced over, dark eyes crinkling. “Theo! Hola mi amigo! About time, man. It's getting wild out here.”
I slid behind the polished wood under the colorful canopy. “Wild? It's not even three.”
Pablo laughed. “Brother, this is The Ranch. Might as well be midnight.” He slid a mojito down to a waiting guest, then leaned closer. “You holding up okay?”
I swallowed, eyes flicking to the pool where the party was ramping up.
Bodies glistened with sweat and sunscreen, hands wandered freely, lips met in fleeting kisses or deeper embraces.
It was like someone had choreographed a soft core scene and yelled “action” without telling me. “As okay as I'll ever be, I guess.”
“You'll do fine.” Pablo clapped my shoulder, his hand warm and reassuring. “Just remember, you're here to make sure they have a good time. Smile, flirt, look pretty. The rest happens naturally.”
I nodded, trying to channel his easy confidence and smooth charm. I needed this job to work out. For Casey, who'd always been there for me until a patch of ice changed everything. “Alright,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “Let's do this.”
For the next hour, I fell into a rhythm, mixing drinks with growing confidence. The bar work itself felt familiar, but with top-shelf ingredients and drink names that would make my old boss blush.
What wasn't familiar was everything else. At my old jobs, flirting was background music. Here, sex was the main event, playing at full volume.
As I worked, I couldn't help noticing the activities around the pool. Two men locked in a deep kiss on a shared lounger, hands exploring tanned skin. A threesome disappeared into a cabana, sheer curtains closing with a suggestive rustle.
One guest lay face-down as a companion, blond and tanned, straddled his thighs, firm hands kneading muscles with long, firm strokes. This was clearly no regular massage; the companion's movements were slow and sensual, his body rolling with each touch.
I swallowed hard, watching oil glisten on the guest's back. The companion leaned down to whisper something, lips brushing against his ear before trailing kisses along his neck and shoulders.
Heat stirred in my belly as the guest rolled onto his back and the companion sank onto him with a soft moan. Part of me couldn't look away, even as another part felt like I was intruding on something private.
Fuck.
A group of men walked over and sat at the bar, fresh from swimming, judging by their damp hair and towels.
They wore what technically qualified as swimwear, though ‘dental floss with ambition’ might be more accurate.
They all had that polished, perfect look of guys who vacationed on yachts and had personal trainers on speed dial.
Their gazes, like mine, were fixed on the sensual scene unfolding between the companion and his client.
“And who's this?” one asked, and I realized with a start he meant me. I turned to find the entire group staring at me. The speaker was around forty, with salt-and-pepper hair and a tan that screamed “I winter in Bali.”
“This is Theo, our newest addition,” Pablo said, gesturing toward me. “He's still learning the ropes, so be gentle with him.”
The double meaning hung in the air. The men chuckled, and I managed what I hoped was a professional smile. “What can I get for you, gentlemen?”
“Depends on what's on offer,” Salt-and-Pepper replied, holding my gaze a beat too long.
Jesus Christ. Is everything a proposition here?
“The usual menu, sir,” I said, nodding toward the drink list. “Though if you have a special request, I'll do my best to make it happen.”
Another round of knowing chuckles. Seriously, these guys could turn a weather report into innuendo.
“I'll have a mojito,” Salt-and-Pepper decided. “Fresh mint, not too sweet.”
The others ordered—whiskey neat, two gin and tonics, and a martini with specific instructions about olive brine that I committed to memory. As I prepared their drinks, I sensed their eyes on me, assessing, speculating.
It wasn't entirely unpleasant. There was something kinda intoxicating about being the focus of so much attention. Is this how it starts? I wondered, muddling mint with practiced movements. Going from freaked out to... liking it?
The lack of my phone was helping with that transition.
No constant reminders of my real life, no ability to check on Casey or Google ‘how to stop feeling like an imposter at a sex resort.’ At first, the phantom sensation in my pocket had been like missing a limb.
What kind of 24-year-old survives without Instagram?
But after a few days, the anxiety faded.
Without that constant digital tether, I was actually.
.. present. Noticing things. Like how the air smelled of chlorine and expensive cologne, or how the light hit the pool water just right to create dancing patterns on the cabana walls.
I'd also noticed the complete absence of women at The Ranch, something they'd explained during orientation but hadn't fully registered until I'd been here a few days.
Initially, it had seemed weird, almost cultish.
But watching these men now, completely uninhibited, I understood the reasoning.
No women meant no performing, no peacocking, no subconscious need to project whatever society had programmed them to be.
Just men being authentically themselves, without judgment.
I could see how liberating that was, especially for guys who spent their regular lives hiding behind carefully constructed personas.
I finished the drinks and arranged them on the bar in front of them. “Here you are, gentlemen,” I said. “Will there be anything else?”
“Join us for a round?” Salt-and-Pepper suggested, patting the empty stool beside him. “We'd love to hear more about you, Theo.”
I hesitated, caught between the need to be friendly and my reluctance to get too personal. I was still in my training period and not seeing clients yet, and wasn’t sure how to explain that.
But before I could answer, Renato Ricci materialized at my side like a guardian angel in form-fitting attire.
Powerfully built, with broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, he carried himself with the quiet confidence of a man in charge.
“Theo,” Renato's smooth voice cut through the tension. “I need to borrow you for a moment.”
I nodded to the men, professional smile firmly in place. “Enjoy your drinks, gentlemen. Pablo will take excellent care of you.”
Renato guided me away with a light touch on my elbow. Once we were out of earshot, his expression softened. “You alright?” Unlike us “Companions,” the supervisors got to wear actual clothes, though what Renato wore usually looked painted on his muscular body.
“Yeah,” I said with a nod. “Still getting used to... all this.” My hand waved vaguely at the sexual carnival around us.
“It's a lot to handle,” Renato acknowledged, dark eyes flashing. “But we have more pressing matters. Mr. Stone needs our best champagne delivered to Villa 6 immediately.” His eyes crinkled when he smiled. “Really wants to impress this new guy.”
I followed him across the plaza to a service room where a silver ice bucket waited, condensation beading on its surface. Inside sat a champagne bottle with a name I'd butcher if I tried to pronounce it. From Renato's careful handling, I guessed it was pretty pricy.
“Villa 6 is our most private accommodation,” Renato explained, placing the bucket on a serving tray with two crystal flutes. “This delivery needs to be prompt and discreet.”
“Got it. Prompt and discreet.”
“Down the path past the west gardens.” He handed me the tray, our fingers brushing. “Remember, you're not just delivering champagne—”
“I'm delivering an experience,” I finished, recalling Master Ibrahim's words from orientation.
Renato smiled. “Exactly.”
I balanced the tray carefully, taking a deep breath and shifting my thoughts from anxiety into determination. The weight of the champagne was nothing compared to the demands of the role expected of me here at Dove Canyon. Time to deliver.