Chapter 2
SAWYER
“YOU’RE SUUUCH A good brotherrr.” I swayed into Hudson as he unlocked my apartment door, and he caught me before I could take us both down, his grip tightening around my arm as he pushed the door open and steered me inside like I was an out-of-alignment shopping cart.
“And this,” he said, kicking the door shut behind us, “is why I don’t like to drink.”
“Boooringgg.”
“And yet I didn’t need help climbing up five flights of stairs.” He kept a hold on me and I shrugged him off.
“I do not need guidance,” I said, even as I stumbled over absolutely nothing and grabbed the back of my couch to steady myself. “I am perfectly capable of—”
My foot caught on the rug—stupid rug—and down, down, down I went. I fully expected to feel my cheek slap against the asshole rug, but before I hit the floor, Hudson was there blocking me with his body.
“You’re a disaster.”
“I’m a delight, thank you very much. People tune in every night for my charm and wit.”
“No, people tune in because you’re a mess and they can’t stop watching the train wreck.” He forced me back on the couch and, when he was happy I wasn’t going anywhere, walked past me to set my keys on the counter.
In the same spot Peter had left his keys every night he was here.
Seven weeks, five days, and… Shit. I didn’t know how many hours had passed now since I’d left the studio to have drinks with my brother and lost track of time.
Seven weeks.
Which, apparently, was enough time for Peter to not only move on, but be serious enough with someone to go on a weeklong trip. One he hadn’t even wanted to go on with me.
And knowing I’d be there?
I pushed off the couch and headed for the kitchen for another drink. I was already drunk, but I wasn’t at the Peter who? level yet.
“No,” Hudson said.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You need sleep, not more alcohol.”
“Now that’s where you’re wrong. This is what people do in times of emotional distress.”
I grabbed a glass but he took it from me, flipped on the tap, and loaded it up with water. The look on his face was far too superior as he handed me the full glass. “Drink up.”
I briefly considered my options as far as getting by him went, but he was too sober and I was too tired, and so water would have to do. “You’re the worst,” I muttered, then leaned back against the counter and took a couple long swallows.
“Apparently I am. I thought taking you out would get your mind off things.”
Yeah, maybe hearing about the latest book deal he and Drew were fighting over had given me a few minutes’ reprieve from the bomb he’d dropped, but the news was still there, lingering in the back of my mind, ready to pounce again.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I shook my head. “Nope.”
I’d talked him to death already, and even I was sick of hearing about it.
Like a good boy, I finished off my water and headed toward my bedroom in what I was sure was a very straight line. Hudson gave me space, but I could feel him following me.
“You stayin’ or something?” I held on to the edge of my dresser as I kicked my shoes off.
“Do you need me to?”
“No. I’m just gonna pass out, and when I wake up, everything will be back to normal.” Collapsing back onto the mattress, I let out a heavy sigh and realized how tired I was.
Of all of it. Being sad. Being pissed off. Of wondering where I went wrong.
“Try to get some sleep,” Hudson said. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
He turned to leave, and I sat up on my elbows. “Hudson?”
“Yeah?”
The swirl of alcohol in my brain made thinking difficult, and I couldn’t figure out what exactly I wanted to say. “Thank you.”
He smiled. “Always, little brother.”
A few moments later, the front door clicked shut behind him, and the apartment fell quiet in the way it only ever did when I was alone with my thoughts.
Not the most fun place to be lately.
I stared out at the lights of Manhattan through the open window, a whole world alive and thriving around me.
I’d never felt more alone in my life. Even Hudson had found his person, and Rome had no end in sight to the amount of people who wanted to cozy up to a movie star.
Funny, it was all I’d ever wanted, to find a love I’d dreamed about since I was a kid watching romance movies with my moms, and I was the lone man out. It was all Peter’s fault.
Fuck. Peter was coming.
The words played on repeat, echoing through my brain, unwelcome and persistent.
Why did he get to move on? How did two years together mean so little that he could move on in a handful of weeks?
Groaning, I scrubbed a hand over my face. Of course Peter was going to show up at my moms’ anniversary week looking perfectly put together on someone else’s arm while I—
While I what?
Hosted a radio show where I told callers not to text their ex while actively thinking about mine?
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I scoffed out a laugh as I fished my phone out of my pocket. I was not going to be the ex-boyfriend moping in the corner alone.
“Don’t do it,” I muttered to myself, unlocking the screen. “Absolutely do not do it.”
But my thumbs hovered, bad decisions loomed, and I had finally run out of fucks to give.
I opened a browser.
One night a few months ago I’d had a caller tell me about a website he used to hire someone to make his ex jealous at a party. At the time I’d thought who would really do that? because hello, desperate much?
If only Past Me could see Pathetic Me right now, sitting alone on my bed and wishing I could remember the name of the site he mentioned.
NYC fake boyfriend discreet, I typed, not believing those words were really staring me back in the face. But I refused to be the only guy without a date at this thing, and Peter knew my friends, so they were out.
The search results loaded, and I scrolled through, looking for anything that sounded familiar and legit. I was fine with random hookups, but that wasn’t what this situation called for. I needed a goddamn professional.
I clicked on the first few websites, but they weren’t at all what I was looking for, so I tweaked my search: professional gay fake boyfriends NYC very discreet.
Bingo. The first non-ad website that popped up was exactly what I was looking for.
If I hadn’t been drunk, I doubt I would’ve filled out the lengthy questionnaire, and I would’ve definitely thought better about taking a picture of my driver’s license to sign up and be vetted.
But this site had a minimum income level threshold, catered to professionals and celebrities, and claimed to be very experienced and very discreet.
Drunk Sawyer thought that was a great idea.
I plumped a couple pillows against the headboard and sank down onto them, phone in hand, and started scrolling. So many filters to choose from: age ranges, preferences, body type, professional experience, ratings and reviews, availability.
“Oh sweet God, you’ve officially lost it,” I told myself…even as I clicked on the next profile and read the entire damn thing.
And then another.
And another.
The only problem was, the profiles were full of everything you needed to know about these guys, down to their pants size, but they didn’t include photos of the men. All the red tape and no pictures? How did I know the guy would be hot enough to make Peter jealous?
No, that didn’t matter as much as having a physical body beside me who knew how to handle these kinds of situations.
I wasn’t actually looking for someone to be attracted to; I just needed someone charming and attentive and convincingly into me for the week without any complications. There was no getting hurt that way.
“Yes,” I said, taking a deep breath and letting all my reservations go as I exhaled. For the first time all night, I felt the tension in my chest ease, because this was a solution to my problem. I just had to find the right fit.
Could this end up being a complete and utter disaster? Absolutely. But it was a plan, and that was better than nothing.
I skimmed through a few profiles until I found one that made me want to send them a message. The site said you could schedule an in-person meet before the agreement, so if it came down to it and the guy was terrible, I could back out, no problem.
Without any more hesitation—thank you, liquid courage—I hit the Contact button and wrote:
Hello, #9821, I’m looking for someone to accompany me to a private family event next week. Discreet, professional, able to play the role of my boyfriend.
I agreed to the compensation terms and asked for a quick meetup, and then…before I could talk myself out of it…
I hit send.
The message whooshed away, and I stared at my phone for a long moment. Any second now panic and regret would set in, maybe when I was sober, but right then all I felt was a sense of resolve.
“Well,” I said, throwing my arm over my face. “No going back now.”
There was a soft chiming sound, and I looked down to see a new notification on my phone screen.
“Oh shit.” I sat up quickly, opening the message. My breath caught at the five-word response.
I’d be happy to meet.
My pulse immediately quickened, heat rushing to my face as I typed back a time and location for the next day.
I’ll be the one in the blue tie. See you then.
A disbelieving laugh escaped my lips as I dragged my hand through my hair.
Holy shit. This was happening. I’d just agreed to meet…an escort.
“Just a meeting,” I told myself. An introduction. Nothing more, nothing complicated, nothing real. Just a simple transaction, something to make Peter realize what he’d lost and that leaving me was the biggest mistake of his life.
I only hoped I hadn’t just made the biggest mistake of mine.