Page 10 of Santino (The Camboy Network #4)

CHAPTER

NINE

HAYDEN

“How did you get started with camming?”

Santino’s question isn’t unusual. I get asked it all the time. It’s the standard icebreaker in the industry and I have a canned response I’ve perfected over the years. It’s short and witty, just enough to satisfy their curiosity without revealing too much.

But there’s something about the way Santino asks that’s different. It doesn’t feel like an icebreaker or him being nosy. It feels like genuine interest and more than a little concern.

It’s because of Sebastian’s suggestion during the meeting today. About me and Santino doing a few videos together while he’s here. I have to admit the idea is genius. But then, Sebastian’s ideas typically are. But Santino’s too observant for his own good and he’s probably noticed I’m being weird.

It’s not that I don’t want to do videos with him.

He’s really cute with a strong brow and the tiniest bump on the bridge of his nose.

His lips are wide and pouty and his jaw is covered in scruff that looks just this side of unkept.

His dark hair is thick and full and I bet it’ll be silky soft when I run my fingers through it.

It’s not Santino. It’s me.

I haven’t felt very… sexy in the past little while. And I haven’t done a video recently, so it hasn’t been a problem. But… it’s kind of difficult being a camboy when I can’t get it up.

Yeah, that’s right. Not only are you crazy, you’re also defective.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Santino adds when I take too long to respond.

“No, sorry. I mean.” I shake my head, trying to dislodge the voice, and take a deep breath.

“I grew up in New Jersey.” I’m not sure why I started there.

It has nothing to do with why I started camming.

But my normal response to the question doesn’t feel quite right.

“My family was pretty poor. My dad was a truck driver, so he was never around. My mom had a drinking problem, so when she wasn’t working at the grocery store, she was usually passed out somewhere.

My sister ran off with her boyfriend when she was seventeen. I wanted to get out of there too.”

I pinch some grass between my fingers and yank. The tension and release of the blades ripping is strangely calming, like I can somehow channel the chaos of my emotions into that smallest act of destruction.

“Camming was your way out?” Santino asks when I don’t continue.

“I tried going to community college.” I shrug. “It wasn’t for me. But I was in class one day and I overheard someone else talking about camming. How they were paying their tuition from what they earned. So I figured I’d check it out, give it a shot.”

Santino casts me a sideways, amused half-cringe. “How old were you?”

I pause and give him a sheepish look. “Legally or…?”

Santino laughs, throwing his head back as the sound rings through the air. It’s bubbly and bright, sending tingles down my arms. The dappled sunlight coming through the tree’s foliage dances over his face and the distinct bump of his Adam’s apple.

He looks like he’s glowing. The air around him seems to sparkle.

He’s got a dark complexion, but it feels like there’s a brightness coming from inside him, lighting him up from the inside out.

I feel like I can breathe more easily when he’s next to me.

I feel less like I’m drowning when I’m next to him.

I would love to do a video with Santino. I’d love to see how he responds when I touch him, what kinds of noises he makes. Will he be aggressive and take the lead? Or would he rather be manhandled?

Santino lies down on the grass, folding one hand behind his head and planting the opposite foot on the ground. He sighs contentedly, gazing up through the tree’s canopy. Shifting, I turn toward him and lean back on one hand, tucking my legs under me so my knees aren’t in the way.

“Do you like your job?” he asks, glancing over at me. “Would you rather do something else?”

I don’t answer right away. Even a few months ago, it would’ve been a no-brainer.

But now, I’m not so sure. Theoretically, I love my job.

There isn’t anything else in the world I’d rather do for a living.

But how can I love my job when I’m so miserable all the time?

How can I say I love it when the thought of having sex with someone as hot as Santino gets absolutely no response between my legs?

“I like it,” I say, trying to lie without really lying.

“What do you like most about it?”

I rip another handful of grass. At the moment? I have no freaking clue. It used to be fun. I got to have sex with a bunch of hot guys and get paid for it. I got to work with my best friends. The company we started took off and I got to do so many cool things I never would’ve thought were possible.

But now… none of that’s appealing. But it’s not just camming—nothing feels appealing at the moment.

Not the documentary or going to see Rhys perform at The Bronzed Rail.

Not even cooking or reading or playing video games or working out.

These are all things I supposedly love to do… so why don’t I want to do any of them?

“It pays really well?” I can’t stop my voice from going up at the end like I’m asking a question. It’s not an answer I ever would’ve given before, but it’s the most common one in the industry.

“Is that why you do it? For the money?” There’s no judgment in Santino’s voice, more like confusion, like that wasn’t what he expected me to say.

“No, it’s not for the money. I…” I don’t know how to have this conversation. I don’t know how to reconcile what I used to feel with what I feel now. I don’t know how to give the answers I know are true, but feel like a lie.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.” Santino’s smile is carefree and relaxed. Understanding and earnest. His eyes drift shut. His free hand lies on his stomach, lifting and lowering with his every breath. “I shouldn’t be prying anyway.”

“You’re not prying. It’s just… I’m…”

A fucked-up loser who can’t even answer a simple question.

The voice is so loud, I swear to god it sounds like someone is standing right behind me, shouting in my ear.

I flinch, grateful that Santino has his eyes closed and doesn’t see.

But then the ache in my chest hits hard and fast, eating through me like it’s trying to hollow me out.

I turn away, hoping Santino doesn’t notice, and struggle to breathe through the vise around my chest.

“Hayden? You okay?”

Fuck. No. Not now. I have nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. I nod frantically, but it feels like my entire body is shaking with the movement. “Yeah,” I gasp. “Sorry, I’m just?—”

A. Fucked. Up. Loser.

Every dumb thing I’ve ever done comes flooding into my mind.

Every time I’ve said something stupid or made a joke nobody laughed at.

Every time I didn’t understand what the guys were talking about and needed someone to explain it to me.

The weight of all the memories comes crashing down on me like they’re trying to grind me into pieces.

“Hey.” A gentle hand settles on my shoulder, warm and solid.

I just barely swallow down the sob that threatens to escape, but I can’t stop the bone-deep shudder that ripples through me.

The hand slides across my back until Santino’s arm is wrapped around my shoulders. I resist the urge to lean into him, to take the comfort he’s offering. It’s not fair to him. This is my problem to deal with. He’s my guest. I should be helping him, not the other way around.

“Sorry,” I say again, hating how weak my voice is. “Sorry, I just, um… I’m okay. I’m fine.”

I die a little more with each word I utter. I’m not okay. I’m not fine. Something’s wrong with me and I don’t know how to fix it.

“Are you sure? Do you want me to call someone?”

“No!” The single word rips from my throat.

I can’t let my friends know. Not Rhys. Not Sebastian.

They’ll worry about me. They’ll feel bad and think it’s their fault.

They already have enough going on. I don’t want to drag them away from their lives because I can’t manage my own shit.

“No, sorry, you don’t need to do that. They’re busy. This is nothing.”

You’re nothing.

I wince at the verbal attack and I’m pretty sure Santino sees it. “It’s just something that happens sometimes.” I let out a strangled laugh that makes me sound manic. “It’ll pass. Don’t worry. I’m good.”

Santino’s brows draw together like he doesn’t believe me, but at least he doesn’t try to argue with me. “Do you want to go home?”

Home. Yes. Home. Where I can close my bedroom door. Where no one can see me. Where I can curl up in a ball until the ache goes away, until the darkness recedes, until the voice goes silent.

“Yeah, I think I’m just tired. That’s all.” I sound like I’m trying to convince myself.

Santino jumps up and offers me a hand. I hesitate before taking it. I shouldn’t need his help getting up. But his hand felt so nice when it was on my shoulder. I don’t want him to think I’m weak. But the ache in my chest hurts so much.

I slide my hand into his and when his fingers close around mine, it feels like a lifeline. A buoy. All I need to do is hang on and he’ll draw me in to safety.

He pulls me to my feet with a little too much force and I stumble into him.

My chest presses against his, our clasped hands sandwiched between us.

He steadies me with his other hand on my waist. Our faces are inches apart and he smells like cinnamon, warm and spicy.

His lashes are dark, long and thick, framing deep brown eyes with golden specks that catch and reflect the sunlight. They’re beautiful.

It takes every last ounce of strength I possess to step away from Santino. He’s just being nice. He doesn’t need me mauling him. I’m a grown man. I should be able to stand and walk home by myself.

The loss of his body heat is immediate and profound. I miss him. I barely know him, but I miss him already. How is that even possible?

I stuff my hands in my pockets to keep myself from reaching for him, then clear my throat before I speak. Even then, my voice is thick and groggy. “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re good.”

Filled with embarrassment, I turn down the path that will take us back to my building.

Walking feels weird. Like my feet aren’t really my own.

And yet somehow, they manage to take step after step that lead me closer to home.

Navigating around the other pedestrians helps distract me from the tightness in my chest. It’s not quite so all-consuming when I have to move aside to let joggers pass, or when a dog on a leash comes over for a quick sniff, or when I need to speed walk around a group of loitering teenagers.

I can feel Santino beside me the entire way. Not quite touching, but close enough for us to brush up against each other every so often. He doesn’t try to talk to me, doesn’t tell me to slow down. He keeps up with the fast pace I’ve set, a steady presence by my side.

By the time we make it back, I feel silly.

Ashamed. I can’t believe I freaked out in the middle of the fucking park.

I can’t believe I needed Santino to comfort me, to keep me from spiraling completely out of control.

What the fuck is wrong with me? What is this thing?

Why is it happening to me? What have I done to deserve this?

The darkness that had retreated during the walk starts creeping back in. It’s heavy and thick, sticky like sludge, clinging to everything it comes into contact with. It fills up the big, empty cavern the ache has left in my chest, drowning me, suffocating me.

I can’t do this. I can’t be here. I can’t take it anymore.

I mumble some excuse about being tired and don’t bother to wait for Santino’s response. I beeline toward my room and shut the door firmly behind me. No one can see me here. No one will know.

I crawl into bed, hugging a pillow to my chest as if it’ll relieve the pressure growing inside me, threatening to burst. It doesn’t help. I squeeze my eyes shut as they sting with unshed tears. I hate this. I hate this so much. I just want it to end.