17. Sullivan
Chapter Seventeen
SULLIVAN
It’s kind of a long story, I guess, but there were a few distinct things that brought me to this moment where I’m pocketing another fifty bucks and rinsing my mouth of the taste of another man’s cum.
The day I got back to school after the longest month of my life at Adrian’s, I had a complete breakdown and told Chelsea everything.
I’d been sleeping like shit, more or less starving myself, and as close to wanting to end it all as I’ve ever been.
I told her the entire story. From the moment I met Adrian to the moment he finally gave me my car keys back that morning.
I told her I had no idea who I even was or what I wanted at all anymore. I wasn’t even sure music could save me.
She was shocked. Of course she was shocked.
It’s shocking that shit like this happens to people, and that there are people who do shit like this, period.
It took a while to get her to understand that college was my only way out.
Not only does it offer a temporary physical reprieve from Adrian and Quinn and all their abuses, but if I can manage to live through this—get my degree, make new connections and prove my talent to the right people, then I can survive on my own. It’s the money that’s got me trapped.
Once I calmed down and got some sleep, she had a proposal for me related to all the shit she’d been experimenting with over the summer—ever since that night on the phone where we talked about our sexualities.
Apparently, after that discussion, Chelsea decided to monetize hers.
Now, I knew some of this. I knew she’d responded to a request on a hook up app from some rich dude in Atlanta who wanted to “take care of her.”
I didn’t like it at first. It seemed dangerous, and from the jump didn’t sound so different from the shit I’d gotten myself into with Adrian.
But Chelsea actually got lucky. The man was a gentleman—of sorts—and she has a lot of autonomy in their arrangement.
And yes, it involves sex. But when she’s not with him, she’s free to live her life, he doesn’t ask questions, and she’s got more money than she knows what to do with.
She also figured out that sex work—as a side hustle—is easy money.
Plus, being naughty just fucking delights her.
The last thing that happened was I had a nightmare.
I don’t remember the dream, but whatever I was saying or doing during it freaked Chelsea out.
That was when she started talking to me about taking myself back.
What she meant by that was a version of what I’d already been doing—remastering my own body to assert what little control I had left over it.
Semi-starvation is an abuse, and all the weed I’d been smoking since I moved in with her was certainly not doing anything but make me feel like a rebel.
My thoughts were scattered at best, disorganized at worst.
She’d asked me how it felt—over the summer—when I’d been hooking up with the hometown guy.
She didn’t mean in a sexual way. She meant in a psychological way.
Like whether it made me feel powerful or not.
The truth was complicated, but my answer was simple.
Yeah, for a time, it made me feel like I was in control of my own life.
The complicated part, though, was that the month I’d spent at Adrian’s had all but dissolved my memories of what it was really like to be with Knight.
I have flashes of memories—of sounds we made—a look he gave me here and there—but I couldn’t remember what we talked about or even why it felt so hard to leave him when I did.
What I mostly remember is that I manipulated him—with blow jobs and algebra tests. And then I’d played off his seemingly helpless desire to fuck. He did whatever I told him to, and I guess we both got something out of it.
I kind of remember leaving Sunrise Point thinking I really liked him. That if he’d let me, I would figure out a way to be around for him to build off whatever we started in those empty houses, even if it meant Chelsea and I would go back to being just friends.
But the month with Adrian left me feeling fucking worthless, and not only that but soiled. Spoiled. Ruined. Too disgusting for someone as fundamentally beautiful as Knight Winters. And certainly not someone he should be associating with, even if sex weren’t involved.
Avoiding him hasn’t been hard. It’s a huge campus, and most of my time is spent in the music building. I don’t go to the games or the regular parties.
I do this instead—this “job” with Chelsea, which we’re still very much in the process of figuring out.
The parties are a recent evolution. We’ve been doing them for about four weeks.
Chelsea is extremely smart, especially with her use of social media.
She used a fake profile on a popular online app that doesn’t censor anything to find the people on campus or nearby who are hard up enough that they’re willing to pay for sex.
She’s good at keeping it secret and locked down, too—at least, so far.
I’m not delusional enough to think she can do this forever.
The group she’s created consists of two kinds of people.
The kind who want to make money, and the kind who want to spend it.
On weekends, our house has become a house of ill-repute.
What she offers is discretion and a judgment free zone.
We even have security. Our other roommate Harrison, who Chelsea grew up with, is a big guy who patrols the halls to make sure nothing is getting out of hand, and all the consent rules are being followed.
He gets fifteen percent of the earnings once the night is over, and so far, we haven’t had any problems.
It’s a little like living in a bubble that’s inevitably going to pop, but there’s something about it that appeals to me and my fuck everything state of mind.
So that’s why I’m standing here, in the bedroom I share with Chelsea with minty fresh breath waiting to see who’s behind the opening door. My next paying customer.
A pit forms in my stomach when the familiar bulk of him comes into focus, and he steps into the room, closing the door behind him.
Knight and I stare at each other for a long moment, and the slime I’ve tried so hard to scrub off my skin feels like it’s suffocating me.
He looks impossibly good. Glowing and tan and conditioned to within an inch of his life.
He’s let his hair grow out some, and it’s a reckless, wavy shamble that frames his face perfectly.
I attempt to speak, but the most I can manage is, “Are you—did you—”
“I met Chelsea. I assumed you were here, so I asked.”
That could mean anything. “Did you pay her?” It’s a dumb question. The money exchange happens here. With me directly. So, I guess what I’m asking is if he expects something he’s willing to pay for, or if he just wanted to say hi.
His brow furrows momentarily, and I realize I definitely gave something away with the question.
I made it sound like Chelsea’s my pimp, and it would be a reasonable assumption given that he somehow found his way here.
I suddenly don’t want to hear his answer, which is obviously going to be no, so I ask another, more important question. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“I came with some friends.”
“From the team? What the hell are they doing here? You guys know what goes on here isn’t exactly legal, right?”
“It’s not legal at all from what I understand,” he says. “And yes, they’re aware but apparently this is discreet?”
I shrug because how the fuck would I know since I’m literally part of it. “I mean, no one’s been arrested, but you didn’t answer my question.”
“What am I doing here?” he asks, then shrugs. “Peer pressure?”
I huff, and it’s almost a laugh. I almost smile, but I’m way too conflicted about him being in my room to make the mechanics work. “Um. How are you?”
“Fine, I guess. I can’t complain.”
I nod, still standing stock still just outside the bathroom door.
He hasn’t moved either except to run a hand through his pretty hair and then put both his hands in his jacket pockets.
I admit, I don’t know what the hell to do with mine, either.
He’s seen me stark naked, and I feel so utterly exposed I might as well be now, too.
“So, your girlfriend is interesting,” he says.
“Yeah, well…” I don’t know what else to say about that either.
“Are you all right?” he asks, and I guess it’s a fair question. I don’t think I’ve ever been this awkward around him, but I mean—we haven’t seen each other in months, much less been alone in a room together. My room. A room where I perform sex acts for money.
Harrison’s distinct check-in knock sounds on my door.
“All good,” I call out, which is the agreed upon code that he can circle back around later.
Knight seems unsettled by the exchange. “Who was that?”
“My roommate.”
He nods, his gaze not leaving mine. “What are you doing here, Sullivan?”
Fuck everything, right? I don’t care if he knows. What difference does it make? “Give me fifty bucks, and I’ll show you.”
To his credit, he doesn’t look all that surprised. There’s a slight raise of his brows, and a tiny grimace, but other than that, all he does is blink.
“I’m actually seeing someone,” he says.
“Oh.”
His words ricochet off my chest and then around the room. Like they’re going to hit me at some point, but maybe I’ll get lucky?
He doesn’t stop there, though. “I mean, it’s a secret. And long distance, so it’s not like—necessarily serious, but I mean, yeah. There’s someone. A guy.”
“Good for you,” I choke out.
“Is it?”
“Is it not?”