Page 1 of Bobby Green

Prologue—Digger’s Dilemma

REG KNEWthis room—had used it a number of times in the past. Had engaged in sex for entertainment on the bed, had bent over the dresser, had even come on the closet mirror once or twice, for effect.

He’d been comfortable here, with the smell of antiseptic, sweat, and old jizz. This was his work space, and he’d had no problems at all forgetting about the smell and engaging in the body of his partner, male or female, and participating in sex on camera for money.

No problems until now.

Now he cuddled his coffee like it was December instead of a hot and humid late July.

“Dex,” he moaned softly. “Dex, no. You can’t… I can’t.”

Dex had stunning blue eyes, innocent as a baby’s, so innocent it was hard to remember he had as many, if not more, porn films under his belt than Reg did. Dex didn’t do that anymore, though. Hadn’t since last October. Not since Chance—wait,ChaseSummers, Reg always forgot—tried to kill himself.

Suddenly Dex had quit modeling and started bossing, and quit pining for his useless druggie ex-boyfriend and started living with Kane, who had stopped modeling too, and then they’d gotten married and adopted Kane’s niece, and now Reg was the oldest living porn model and all his friends were daddies.

Reg wasn’t sure if that was the exact chain of events, but then he was often muddy on cause and effect. He was really much better off in the now.

But right now sucked.

Dex looked up from his computer screen and turned those innocent eyes on Reg.

They were filled with nothing but compassion.

“Reg—I mean Digger—”

“Reg,” he said, because the Digger thing had been a day late and a dollar short and it didn’t matter now.

“Okay. Reg. You said it wouldn’t be a problem.”

“He’s….” Reg swallowed and darted a furtive glance across the room. The kid standing there in jeans and nothing else was drinking water, just like Reg had told him, hydrating with no sugar, because fucking for money was a strenuous occupation. His sandy-brown hair hung layered around his long square-jawed face, and his eyes—brownish-green, whatever the word was for that—were wide and friendly. He had pillow lips and a ten-inch cock, which made the wide and friendly eyes almost like a trap. Yeah, you could fall for this kid’s wide-eyed farm-boy routine, but watch out. He could suck your balls through your cock like a straw and then destroy your asshole with a few good strokes.

He was tall—six foot five now, because he’d grown two inches—with a long torso just waiting to fill outcompletelyat the shoulders when the kid passed twenty-five. Or, oh God help him, twenty. Reg was almost ten years this boy’s senior, and he couldn’t even look the kid in the face. “He needs to find somebody else,” he said, taking a sip of his coffee and wishing it was laced with something stronger.

“For the shoot?” Dex clarified. “Or for real life?”

“I wasn’t supposed to be on the shoot, remember?” Reg asked bitterly. “I was supposed to be out of it. You said I could be out of it, and then you asked if I could fill in and I—”

Dex was looking at him like he was waiting for Reg to get something, but Reg wasn’t seeing it.

Of course, Reg didn’t see a lot of things. Reg was pretty goddamned stupid, but Dex was always nice enough to not say that.

He just waited, lush mouth slightly parted, eyes not quite as wide as the kid at the end of the room, but just as patient.

“What?” Reg asked, miserable. “What am I not getting?”

Dex shook his head. “Look, Reg? You undress down to your jeans, and then I’m going to leave the room for a sec. You two need to talk.”

Reg started to obey immediately, not sure why undressing was part of talking or why Dex would leave the room before a shoot. He often had one or two guys doing lights and other camera angles too—they weren’t there today, and Reg didn’t know why and frankly didn’t care.

He had one job to do. Get hard and get laid. He wasn’t smart, but that much he knew.

So he obeyed orders. He was good at that, even when he topped. It’s why he didn’t mind when the director made him start fucking or stop fucking or told him more tongue or less or when to come.

Orders meant direction.

Reg needed direction.

He looked up at the big kid in the corner and swallowed. Bobby had given him orders. Good ones, like “Let’s clean the house and go out” or “I’ll cook if you go buy these ingredients.”