4. Chapter 4
4
Brody
LA native, computer nerd, and a lover of nature. When I’m not working, I spend my time playing video games, trying and failing to learn to cook, and hiking or hitting the gym. Not a major fan of crowds, but I’ll brave them for the right person. My best friend would say I’m pretty fucking cool, but take that with a grain of salt. I’m still discovering what I like and what I’m looking for in a partner. Would love to meet someone to spend time with and get to know, develop a connection, and find something real.
Miles sent me the blurb last night, but I was hesitant to read it, afraid of what he might have said. I stare at the words. Shakespeare, he is not, but it’s better than I could have come up with. My best idea was to write ‘just ask’ in the About Me section. He saved me from that, at least. I copy the text and log in to the KinkRink app, which I reluctantly downloaded this morning.
I paste the information and click the save button, officially publishing my profile.
Great . Now I have to fill everything else out. I quickly add my relationship status, my sexuality, and what I’m looking for: single, straight, long-term relationship. I glance apprehensively at the Kinks section. My lips press tightly together while I stare at the little screen as if I can magically make the words appear. Should I add something? Surely there’s something on the tame end of the spectrum that I can include .
I take a look, in search of the most popular terms. I’m surprised to find some pretty tame options. Anal sex is basically mainstream in porn now, according to Miles, as are some rougher acts. I scan the terms and stop on one that makes my heart pick up speed.
Domination .
Miles has talked about how he prefers to be more submissive when he films with men, a relatively new experience for him. Those discussions piqued my interest and sent me down a rabbit hole of kinks and fetishes, discovering that I find a few things related to domination to be… rather exciting. But Miles has never mentioned that he enjoys submitting outside of his shoots. Maybe it’s just porn where that happens.
I’ll fill out the kinks section later. I scroll through my phone and try to find a few photos that I can crop my head out of before posting. Everything is a picture of me with Miles or with my sisters. I can’t put my sisters on this app, even blurred or cropped. And adding Miles to my profile, with a relatively well-known face and–let’s face it–body, isn’t going to help me remain anonymous.
I send a text to my best friend, asking for help.
God damn it.
His thundering footsteps echo across the house and he bursts through my office door, breathing heavily. There’s a huge grin on his face and his eyes are practically sparkling with delight.
“Yes!” He yells, a little too loud for the small room. I wince. “Sorry, yes,” he whispers.
“Can it wait until tonight?”
“No, we need natural light. Get out here.”
Running a hand down my face, I stand and follow him to the living room. The blinds are open, allowing the afternoon sun to spill onto the couch and glint off the glass in the center of the coffee table. Miles points to the side of the couch in the sun.
“Sit.”
“Bossy,” I mutter, but do as I’m told. “Do you really want me in jeans and a T-shirt?” I ask. “Shouldn’t I be, like, dressed nicer or something?”
“Do you own something nicer?” He cocks his head, pausing halfway through raising his phone.
“I have a suit.” It’s a suit I haven’t worn in years, but I’m sure it’s fine.
Miles rolls his eyes.
“The suit you wore to Raegan’s wedding like eight years ago? Absolutely fucking not. I’m sending you shopping later. If you’re gonna date, you’re not going out looking fucking homeless.”
“I don’t look homeless!” That was a little too loud.
“You do. Just sit down, shut up, and look pensive or something.”
“Pensive?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yeah, like you’re thinking about something deep. Imagine what the love of your life looks like or something. What’s the meaning of life? Where do we go when we die?”
“Why? I’m not even going to show my face.”
“For when you do share a face pic before meeting someone. You can crop the ones you post. Just do it.”
“Sure.”
I try.
I fail.
I can hear Miles’ frustrated grunts, though he’s trying to be silent as he moves around me, getting just the right angle.
“Dude, fix your face. You look angry,” he says with an annoyed huff.
“Fix my face?” I repeat, utterly confused. “What does that-?”
“Like this.” Miles drops his expression, softens his eyes, raises his eyebrows just the tiniest bit, and looks to his right, toward the window.
I start to wonder why he’s so good at this and then I realize it’s his fucking job. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“Ok.”
I try.
I think I do better.
Clearly, I don’t.
“Ok, ok. Let’s try…” Miles looks around but doesn’t seem to come up with anything. “Maybe we should wait until you can dress a little nicer.”
“That makes me feel great.”
“Shut up. Women are gonna flock to you with or without clothes.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively and lowers his phone to begin searching or typing. It’s hard to tell while his thumbs move quickly. “Let me send you the name of this girl I worked with last year. She works part-time on adult sets, but her main career is styling B- and C-list celebs. Trust me, she’ll deck you out. ”
“Oh god, are you sure?” I hate being the center of attention. Trying on clothes with some woman I don’t know might break me.
“I’ll come with,” Miles assures me, glancing up to send a supportive smile my way. He taps his thumb once more with finality and I hear my phone chime in my office. “That’s her contact info. I texted her to let her know you’d be reaching out. See if she’s free Friday. I’m working tomorrow.”
My lips form a tight line, but I nod.
“You’ll thank me. I swear.” He taps his phone a few more times and my phone chimes again. “I just sent you the pictures I took. I know they’re not great, but please just post one for now.”
“Why not just wait?” I ask.
“No one is going to interact with a profile that doesn’t have a single picture,” he shoots back.
I raise my hands in surrender and stand from the couch.
“Am I dismissed?”
“I want you sending three messages a day. I will be checking your work.”
“Homework. Great. Now am I dismissed?”
“Fine.” Miles rolls his eyes. “But call her. Moira is rad. You’ll like her.”
“Is this a setup?” I raise an eyebrow.
“You’re not her type.” Miles waves his hand, dismissing me. When I continue to stare at him, he adds “You have a dick.”
“Got it.”
“Go. Shoo. Back to your cave.” Miles tries to wave me out of the living room of my own house, but I grin and smile before turning away. “Post one picture and actually try to connect with someone!” he shouts after me.
I disappear into my office and close the door, leaning my back against it. I take a deep breath. And another. And another.
I’m going to kill him.
Hasn’t he known me long enough to know what I can and can’t do? Like… socially? I’ve tried going on dates, I’ve tried flirting. I suck at it all. Miles knows it just as well as I do and yet he’s pushing me into this. I owe him, though, having practically begged him to move in with me five years ago .
I needed him here. I couldn’t live alone anymore. I was too fucking depressed. I needed someone to pull me out of my room and make me feel human. Make me touch grass now and then.
Pushing myself off of the door, I walk back to my desk. I don’t have set hours. I have projects I complete, client discussions, information to share, code to revisit when people fuck up. I can work whenever the hell I want as long as the work gets done, but I still try to keep normal business hours.
I look at my phone like it’s going to bite me. It’s just sitting there on my desk, mocking me with the texts from Miles. The contact information and the photos. Needing to get this over with, I pick up the phone and open the messages with a dejected sigh.
None of the photos are great. Maybe I can crop this one of me with one ankle on my knee. My right hand is on the opposite knee and the sunlight emphasizes the black and gray geometric ink running down my arm. Women like tattoos, right? If Miles’ body is any indication, I think so.
I edit the photo, cutting off my head, and quickly post it to KinkRink as my profile photo. No need for a caption. I’m not that witty.
I return to the messages from Miles and open the contact information for Moira Hall. The accompanying text says ‘stylist to the stars’ as if that’s going to convince me this is a good idea. I take a deep breath and call the number.
It rings.
And rings.
And rings.
Finally, halfway through the fourth ring, someone answers.
“Hello?” The female voice is chipper and light.
“Er, hi, my name is Brody Torrence. A friend of mine gave me your number. He says I need a stylist.” I mutter every single word, half in embarrassment and half in shame.
“Oh, yes! Lance said you’d be calling. Nice to hear from you so quickly. He said it might take you a while.”
“Yeah, well if I didn’t call now, he’d keep asking.”
She giggles.
“Yeah, he’s intense sometimes, isn’t he?”
“You have no idea.” I roll my eyes. “Would you be free for…” What is it called? “A consultation on Friday?”
“Hmm, I think I have the morning free. Would that work? ”
“Yeah, that’s perfect. Where should we meet you? Do you have an office or-?”
“I’ll send you the address, but Lance knows where my shop is.”
“Shop?”
“Yes, I operate out of a storefront, but I have loads of designer options and I can custom order. I have tailors available as well. Lance says you’re kind of tall?” she asks.
“Six foot six.” My height is half the reason I don’t buy anything better than jeans, cargo shorts, and T-shirts.
“Definitely taller than most of my clients,” Moira chuckles. “Not to worry. I’ll have you looking suave and debonair in no time. See you at nine on Friday.”
“Thanks, Miss Hall.”
“Oh, call me Moira!”
I feel marginally better after speaking with her. She’s nice and warm and friendly and she knows Miles, even if she only calls him by his stage name. This is going to be fine. I’ll be fine. It helps to know she wouldn’t be interested in me. It feels less judgmental somehow, given the reason for this shopping spree.
Still holding my phone, I see a text from Moira with the address before another text comes through from someone else.
He would tell my sister. I groan, but it could be worse. Isla and I are closer than I am with our older sisters. Raegan and Henley would immediately tell my parents who would ask me a million questions, the answers to which, I definitely wouldn’t have.
I don’t need to worry about accidentally stumbling upon my sister on a site like KinkRink .
Where did that come from?
Great. More company. I only have myself to blame.
Miles makes dinner again, something he’s been doing since he moved in because “If you won’t let me pay rent, at least let me do something for you.” I’m not upset by it. He’s much better than I am and it’s healthier than eating out every day.
When I walk out to the kitchen, he’s not there. There’s a chopping board with sliced red onions and a bag of burger buns sitting out, but nothing else. While I stand there, wondering where my best friend has disappeared to, the back door opens and Miles walks in holding a plate of cooked burgers.
“I wanted to fire up the grill,” says Miles with a shrug.
“Four?” I ask, looking down at the plate of cheese-covered patties.
“Protein, man. You saying you won’t devour two of ‘em?” He raises his eyebrows, setting the plate on the kitchen island.
“No one said that.”
“That’s right. It’s leg day tomorrow. Get the lettuce and the tomatoes out.” Miles points with the spatula toward the fridge. “Top shelf,” he adds when I open the door.
I grab the plate of tomato slices and the bag of washed lettuce. After setting them on the island, I turn back to find the pickles, mustard, and ketchup. Miles pulls plates from the cabinet and sets one at each of our usual stools at the kitchen island.
We work around each other to build our burgers. I avoid the tomatoes but go for the jar of pickle slices while Miles avoids the pickles with a face of disgust.
“How, man?” He asks the same question every time he sees me pile them onto my sandwiches and burgers, but I grin and pop a single one into my mouth. He shudders dramatically and sits at his spot. “I guess someone needs to eat my pickle.” He pauses and closes his eyes, not turning to face me. “I mean the pickles that come with my sandwiches.”
“Mmhmm.” I nod and take a bite of my burger. “I don’t swing that way,” I say with a mouthful. Something crosses Miles’ face that I can’t recognize.
I’m barely finished with my first burger when he pops the last bite of his second into his mouth. He stands and sets his plate in the sink.
“I’ll clean up.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s our system. He cooks, I do the dishes.
“Thanks, I’ve gotta get back to work.” He practically runs back toward his studio.
I take my time with the second burger, sitting with my thoughts. I haven’t opened KinkRink since I posted the photo, afraid of what comments I might get. I don’t have the notifications on, so I have no idea if anyone even reacted at all. The consultation on Friday–Moira didn’t correct me when I called it that–looms like a storm cloud in my mind. I have never liked pulling focus in a room and now, not only will Miles be there, but I invited my sister.
Fucking idiot .
I finish the burger, still swallowing when I stand and take my plate to rinse it off in the sink. I clear the burger toppings, saving the excess, and bring the cutting board and knife over to rinse off. I finish the rest of the cleanup quickly. Easiest cleanup in weeks. Miles gets to clean the grill.
Instead of returning to my room, I sit on the couch and open up Netflix, looking for something to take my mind off of my impending doom. Nothing. I go through the different apps on the TV, but nothing jumps out at me. I switch to the movies and shows I digitally own, hoping something familiar will be enough.
I land on Parks and Rec . As the episode starts, I bite the bullet, unable to wait any longer. I pull my phone from my pocket and open up KinkRink . Sixty-seven notifications await me and I notice my inbox has a little dot next to it too. My hands feel clammy as I tap the notification button.
People liked the photo, I see. It’s not even impressive, but fifty-three of the notifications are just people having liked it. They actually went and clicked the little heart below the photo to show some love. Another dozen notifications show that people followed my profile. Finally, the last two are comments.
A necklace? What does that even mean?
A smile spreads across my lips at the responses, even if one of the comments is unintelligible. I click the heart icon to ‘like’ both of them and click on the envelope icon for my inbox. Six messages await me.
One is a man asking if I’ll fuck his wife. Nope, deleting that bad boy.
Another is a woman whose profile says she’s located in England. She’s traveling to the US and wants to hook up. Also no. Even if she wanted more, I’m not doing long distance.
A second woman tells me she wants to ride me into the sunset. That makes me crack another smile, but there’s no way I could contend with that level of confidence.
Another man, but this one wants me to- Nope, can’t even finish reading that one.
Another woman who only says one word in greeting. Since I don’t have anything to go off of and her profile is emptier than mine, I ignore it. I don’t want to be rude, but if I’m going to force myself to interact with people, I’d like to be able to do my research.
The last message just has an emoji with no photo and no gender even listed. Yep, that’ll get a response. I see what Miles means about no one interacting with profiles that have no photos.
I shake my head while Leslie Knope starts up her well-meaning shenanigans and decide to start on my homework. Since I’m not sure where to begin, I explore the site. There are groups I can join, some focused on specific kinks, some on locations, and a variety of other things.
There’s one called Los Angeles LTR . The group description tells me it’s for people looking for long-term relationships. I decide to join and start scrolling through the discussion posts. Many of these people don’t actually seem like they’re looking for a relationship, but what do I know?
One post catches my eye. Her username is sweetashoney and, unlike some of the users in a group meant for people in LA, she’s actually located here in LA .
Ok, Miss Sweet As Honey. I glance at her profile. No face pictures, but I can’t judge. Her curves are more than enough to pique my interest. I feel like a caveman, ogling her body, but I suppose that’s why she posted the photos she did. Some are tasteful in black and white, but none show everything .
Her skin is darker than mine, but not by much, covered in a variety of black and gray tattoos with some flashes of color. I can see some soft, light brown curls hanging past her shoulders in a few photos as well. God, I’m dying to know what her face looks like. I’ll bet she’s a knockout.
Her profile confirms she’s looking for a long-term relationship and her list of kinks and fetishes is more than a full page. I can’t focus on all of the words, so I scroll quickly, catching random things like ‘butt stuff’ and ‘group sex’ and ‘public play’.
I get the sense she’s going to be too much for me to handle, but something makes me open up a new message to her anyway. Time to see if her suggestion of being myself is enough. I remember a question Miles asked me the other day during dinner and decide to use it to sound interesting.
Is that cheating? I hope not.
I throw my phone to the couch in a panic, something I’ve never done in my life.
That was a dumb Miles question. She’s not going to respond to that. My heart pounds in my chest. Or is it in my throat? I can’t focus on the show at all, even when Leslie falls into the pit during a ‘fact-finding mission’.
Should I turn on the notifications so I know when she responds? If she responds.
Oh god, oh god, oh god.
I still have two more messages to send today because Miles is a dick.