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Chapter Fifteen

Bradley

W hen I walked into the Boys On Film studio that morning, the first thing I noticed was that the air smelled vaguely like something powdered.

Probably the ghost of a protein shake. The second thing I noticed was Petyr, halfway up a ladder, stringing a garland of fake cherry blossoms over a giant white vinyl backdrop with calligraphy that said, “Sakura Splendor.”

He didn’t even say hi. Just yelled, “Don’t step on the plastic!” before scuttling down like a spider.

Dimitri, on the other hand, actually looked me in the eye. He slung an arm around my shoulder, and tragically, I nearly wept into his linen shirt.

“You going to be okay?” he asked, in that soft Russian-accented voice that somehow made everything sound like a lullaby, even when it was about bukkake.

I nodded. Sort of. “Yeah. No. But yeah.”

His brow furrowed like a worried cat’s. “You don’t have to be a hero, you know.”

“I’m not. Heroes wear capes. I’ll be wearing a robe. And later, probably a gallon of jizz.”

He patted my shoulder, gave me a very Russian nod of brotherly sorrow, and walked off.

Before I could even locate my sense of self, Laura appeared in the lobby like a vision. Ponytail, big glasses, matte lipstick the color of dried blood. Smiling.

That never boded well.

“There’s been a slight change of plans,” she said.

Oh God, I thought. Please let them have canceled. Please let them have come to their senses and decided I’m too emotionally fragile to be used as a human Slip‘n Slide.

“They want to do a brief interview first,” she said. “Before the, um, ritual.”

“Interview?” I asked, like a man already halfway to Hell but still asking for the menu.

“Yeah, just a little intro,” she said. “They want to, and I quote, ‘highlight the face of the vessel before the sacred rain.’”

“I…” I blinked. “I feel like I should be offended. But I’m too tired to figure out why.”

Laura smirked, handed me a thermos of what I prayed was coffee, and led me down the hallway toward makeup.

Moira was already waiting, apron on, hair teased to the moon, eyeliner like samurai blades.

“There he is!” she crowed. “Our little pastrami platter.”

“I’m... sorry?”

“You look like a snack,” she said, patting the makeup chair. “Come, sit. Let me beat your face before the boys beat their meat.”

Charming.

I sank into the chair and tried to breathe. Moira was unusually chipper, humming as she dabbed at my under-eyes with concealer.

“You seem a little too into this,” I muttered.

She shrugged, swirling something on a palette. “What? It’s hot. A room full of naked guys jerking off? On you? I mean. I might need a cigarette just thinking about it.”

“I’d trade places with you if I could.”

“Oh, honey,” she said with a wink. “You’ll be fine. Just think of it as a spa treatment. A weird, messy, protein-rich spa treatment.”

I made the sound of a dying cow.

“I’m just saying,” she went on, now attacking my eyebrows with a tiny brush, “if I had twenty guys surrounding me, giving me their... devotion? That’s basically a sex goddess fantasy.

I mean, I get to make them feel good and they’re all thinking about me.

It’s like being worshipped. Ugh.” She sighed and visibly shivered. “I’m ovulating just thinking about it.”

“Jesus Christ,” I mumbled, laughing despite myself.

She smacked my knee affectionately. “You’ll live. And you look hot, babe. Seriously. Soft, innocent, like a milkmaid in peril. Perfect.”

Just then, the door creaked open and the first few guys shuffled in. They looked... normal. Like gym bros, who’d lost a bet. Some had duffel bags, others were already in robes and giggling like it was summer camp.

I gave them a weak smile and stood up, still very much dissociating. Moira was suddenly surrounded by dicks and delighted. I slipped out before I could hear her nickname for any of them.

The set was like walking into a dream designed by a gay art director on mushrooms. White vinyl floor. A circle of stools. Cherry blossoms falling from a vent that I’m pretty sure was meant for ventilation, not poetic ambiance.

And in the middle of it all stood Liam, holding a clipboard, looking way too businesslike for a man about to supervise a 20-man jerkfest.

“Bradley,” he said. “There you are. You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I said.

“You look great. Moira really brought out your ‘submissive but hopeful’ vibe.”

“Thank you, I think.”

He gestured to a stool in front of the camera. “Let’s get the interview done before this place turns into the world’s stickiest drum circle.”

I sat, took a deep breath, and tried not to think about what was happening next.

Until, of course, the door opened again.

And Nico walked in.

Wearing nothing but a robe, some gleaming body oil, and a sheepish grin that hit me straight in the solar plexus.

He looked amazing. Nico’s hair was still slightly damp, like he’d just showered. His skin was tan, golden, stupidly smooth. His chest was broad, his arms thick with definition, and his thighs—Christ.

Our eyes met. He raised a brow, that smirk of his twitching into place.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” I echoed. My voice cracked. Like I was thirteen again. Like I was seeing my crush at gym class, shirtless, sweaty, unattainable.

Except this time, he wasn’t unattainable.

He was here.

He was one of them.

And suddenly, of all the guys in that lineup, of all the random dicks, I realized his was the only one I didn’t dread.

No, worse.

His was the one I wanted.

Shit.

Liam positioned himself behind the camera and adjusted the mic. “Okay, Bradley. These are the questions the clients sent over. Just answer them naturally. Be... enthusiastic.”

I gave him a dead-eyed blink. “I’ll do my best.”

He hit record, and suddenly the studio lights flared. It felt like a game show in hell.

“State your name and tell us how excited you are to be here today,” Liam said.

I cleared my throat. “Uh. I’m Bradley. Oops, sorry. I meant Blake, Blake Monroe. And I’m very excited to be here today.” Forgot about my stage name for a moment.

He stopped recording. “Nope. Absolutely not.”

“What?” I asked. “I said the thing.”

“You said the thing like you’re checking into a dentist appointment.”

“I feel like I’m checking into a dentist appointment,” I muttered.

He crossed his arms. “You need to act like this is the hottest fantasy of your entire life. Like you’ve waited for this since you were twelve.”

“That’s very specific and unsettling.”

Liam raised a brow.

I glanced around the room, took a deep breath, and then thought, Okay. What would Moira do?

Moira wouldn’t shrink or cringe. Moira would smirk, lean in, and throw out an ‘Oh daddy, yes’ with jazz hands. She’d probably have sparkly glitter in her cleavage and a glass of prosecco in her hand. She’d own it.

So I straightened my spine, lifted my chin, and channeled my inner Bronx-bred makeup goblin.

“Roll it again,” I said.

The red light blinked on.

I plastered on a sultry grin. “Hi, I’m Blake. And I am beyond thrilled to be here today. Like, honestly? This is such a blessing. When I woke up this morning, I said to myself, ‘You know what I need? Twenty men. Cocks out. Coming for me. On me. Preferably at the same time.’ And boom! Here we are.”

Liam blinked once. Then nodded, slowly. “Okay. That’s... yeah. Keep going. What excites you most about today’s shoot?” he read off.

I curled my fingers around the hem of my robe and said, “Oh, gosh, how do I even choose? Is it the intimacy? The eye contact?” I fluttered my lashes.

“Honestly? It’s about connection. Synchronized passion.

And the opportunity to really feel something.

Even if that something is just a thick layer of protein-based shame. ”

Liam was biting his fist to stop from laughing. “Why do you think this scene will appeal to viewers?” he sputtered.

“Because it’s art! Because it’s giving fertility ritual meets Old Testament meets Fire Island pool party vibes. It’s sacred and primal. It’s…” I gestured vaguely at the cherry blossoms above. “…Japanese, but extra gay.”

He managed to get through the rest of the questions—What are you hoping to get out of this experience? Have you ever done a group scene before? Are you ready to be the center of attention?—without either of us breaking character. Barely.

Laura walked over and handed me a small blue pill like it was a communion wafer.

I looked down at it suspiciously. “What’s this?”

She tilted her head. “What do you think it is?”

I blinked. “Oh. Oh no. Is this…?”

“Yup. Boner booster. Doctor prescribed. Erection guaranteed.”

“I’ve never needed one of these before.”

Laura raised both brows at me. “Sweetie, I know you. You get turned on by cuddling. This? This turns you on about as much as a documentary about the art of making bread.”

“I like bread,” I muttered.

“You tolerate bread,” she said. “You do not want twenty random dicks going off like confetti cannons on your face. But the clients paid for a symphony of wood. You’re the orchestra pit. Take the damn pill.”

I sighed and swallowed it dry.

“Good boy,” she said, and led me gently by the elbow toward the center of the set.

It was all very ceremonial. The stool waited in the spotlight like a throne of impending doom. Laura motioned for me to sit.

“Just relax,” she said. “The rest of the cast is trickling in now.”

I sat. Tried not to think about anything. Especially not about being “trickled” on.

That’s when I noticed the two screens mounted high on the far wall, discreetly angled out of the frame.

One was playing straight porn. Generic stuff, a woman in a ponytail pretending to moan like her credit score depended on it.

The other screen showed a hot, muscular guy getting railed from behind in an alley while smoking a cigarette.

I glanced over at Laura, who’d caught me looking.

“Some of the guys are straight,” she said with a shrug. “They need visual stimulation to keep things going. We aim to please.”

Then she was gone, off to wrangle someone’s robe or light a candle or conduct a séance. I don’t know.

And then, out of nowhere, Nico appeared.

He padded barefoot across the vinyl, robe loose, eyes searching the room until they landed on me. He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over and, without hesitation, sat on the floor next to my stool like he belonged there.

He leaned against my knee, comfortable, casual, like we did this every day.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and amused. “You looked like you were either gonna pass out or levitate.”

“I took a pill,” I whispered. “Apparently, it’s boner insurance.”

“Did it kick in yet?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “My whole body feels like it’s in the waiting room of a panic attack.”

He laughed. His head tilted up toward me, eyes sparkling. “You crushed that interview, by the way.”

“Oh, you mean my audition to be a spiritual cum vessel? Thanks.”

He smiled. Not just the funny kind, but the genuine kind. The kind that made my stomach clench.

“I liked what you said. About connection,” he breathed.

I froze.

Something unspoken passed between us then, barely a beat long, but loaded. Nico wasn’t teasing me, and He definitely wasn’t acting. Was he actually feeling something? For me?