Page 19

Chapter Seventeen

Bradley

I stared up at Nico.

He was still panting, his chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon instead of, well. You know.

His cum was on my shoulder. My shoulder. Like he’d claimed me in front of God, twenty sweaty men, and about three dozen artificial cherry blossoms. I should have felt humiliated. I should’ve been throwing up, blacking out, or at the very least praying for a sweet, sticky death.

Instead?

I was rock hard. Still trembling. And the only thought in my head was, Holy shit. Nico was into it. Into me.

“Cut!” Laura’s voice cracked through the haze like a fire alarm in a dream. “That’s a wrap! Wipe it down, boys.”

The spell shattered. Bodies shifted. Robes got tugged back on. Someone coughed.

And I was still kneeling there in the center of the circle, drenched in at least eight different tax brackets of bodily fluids, wondering how the fuck I got here.

Evan walked up to me like we were exiting a yoga class instead of a perverse cherry blossom orgy.

“Great job, man,” he said with a grin. “You really, like, gave yourself to the scene.”

Before I could reply or curl into a fetal ball, Nico stepped forward.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. Just looked at Evan.

And that was enough.

Evan’s smile faltered. His eyes darted from Nico’s clenched fists to his face, which was doing a pretty solid impression of a Roman executioner on his day off.

“Okay! I’m gonna go… hydrate!” Evan squeaked, backing away like the set was haunted. He vanished behind a light rig faster than a bad decision on Tinder.

I was still blinking the cum out of my eyelashes when I heard the unmistakable voice of Moira.

“Ohhh sweetie,” she cooed, storming in with a tower of warm wet towels like some overworked spa witch. “You look like you went twelve rounds with a fire hose. Here, let Mama help.”

Nico snatched one towel from her stack without even looking at her, dropped to his knees in front of me, and started wiping me down.

And here’s the thing: I should’ve been grateful. I should’ve been like, “Oh thank God, help me wipe off my shame.” But no. No, my brain chose this moment to switch from panic mode to teenage pervert on spring break, because Nico’s hands were slow. Gentle. Thorough.

And I was still hard.

Kill me.

“I can… I can do it,” I muttered, trying to grab the towel.

“No,” he said, dead serious, like I was trying to do something noble and self-sacrificial instead of just salvage what remained of my dignity.

I looked up at Moira. “Please tell me there’s a shower here. Or, like, a priest with holy water to cleanse me of my sins.”

She grinned. “Of course! We shoot porn! We got two showers, a hot tub, a waterproof sling, and a weird inflatable tub thing that only gets used during Halloween specials.”

“Great,” I mumbled, the room suddenly spinning with equal parts lust and nausea. “Love that for me.”

“I’ll show him,” Nico said, pulling me to my feet like I was a rag doll. The towel dropped. My robe fluttered. My dick was still leaking. It was all very glamorous.

Not.

Laura walked over, flanked by Liam and Nessa. The expressions on their faces were exactly what you’d expect from people looking at someone covered in… jizz.

“You did great,” Laura said, then winced. “And you’re, uh… very brave.”

“Very,” Liam echoed, face somewhere between admiration and horror.

Nessa made a gagging sound and fanned her face. “I’ve seen some things in this business, baby. But this? This might be the one that sends me to therapy.”

Laura tossed me my robe. I slipped into it, finally putting a barrier between me and the rest of the world’s fluids.

Nico didn’t wait. He grabbed my wrist and tugged me toward the hallway that led to the dressing rooms.

“You don’t have to drag me,” I muttered, trying to keep pace. “I’m not gonna run off into the streets like some deranged Porn Cinderella.”

He didn’t laugh.

We turned the corner. Passed the break room. Passed the costume closet. And right as we hit the showers, I felt a buzz in the pocket of my robe.

Phone.

I pulled it out, already bracing for some dumb text from Jack or an embarrassing emoji from Nessa.

But no.

It was a notification. One that punched me right in the fucking chest.

PAROLE CHECK-IN: 2:30 PM

Room 206—Downtown Reentry Services

The current time?

2:38.

“Holy shit,” I whispered, eyes wide. “I forgot about my meeting with my parole officer.”

Nico stopped cold.

“What?”

“I was supposed to be downtown ten minutes ago,” I croaked, already doing the mental math on how far we were from the subway. “Oh, my God. Oh my God! If I miss another one of these…”

“Shower,” he snapped. “Two minutes. I’ll get your clothes.”

“Nico, I’m covered in spunk and shame…”

“You want to explain that to a parole officer or rinse it off now?”

Fair point.

I ran.

* * *

I don’t even remember changing clothes. One second I was standing in a puddle of shame and leftover lube, the next I was in jeans, a t-shirt, and sprinting with Nico down 8th Avenue like we were late for a plane. Or, in my case, about to violate parole and go back to jail.

“Shitshitshit,” I panted. “What if she’s already marked me down as a no-show? What if she reports me? I can’t go back, Nico. I can’t.”

“Breathe,” he said, not even winded. “You were at work. You’re not late by that much.”

“She’s Brooke Keeland. There is no ‘not that much’ in Brooke Keeland’s world! She probably has a stopwatch. I’m gonna walk in and she’ll just point at the cuffs.”

We reached the building, shoved through the glass doors, and hit the elevator button like we were trying to break it. I was sweating bullets, heart jack hammering, and not in the fun “camera’s rolling” way.

Inside the elevator, I slumped against the wall and groaned. “Oh, my God. My job. What the hell do I say I do? I was literally just the centerpiece of a bukkake scene. That’s not exactly résumé material!”

Nico gave me a soft look. “You tell the truth.”

I gave him a look. “I’d rather tell her I’m a professional jewel thief.”

“She’s seen worse. Probably.”

“You say that like you didn’t just watch me get… splattered.”

Nico reached for my hand and squeezed it. “You were at work. I’ll back you up. Laura will too, and so will Jack and Liam.”

The elevator dinged before I could spiral further.

Sixth floor. Reentry Services. AKA, the hallway of my nightmares.

We stepped into the lobby, and the receptionist looked up from her desk with the exact facial expression if someone tracked mud on her white carpet.

“Name?”

“Bradley Mitchell,” I said, breathless. “I have a two-thirty with Officer Keeland and…”

“It’s two fifty-one,” she replied, without looking at the clock. “Sit. She’ll call you when she’s ready.”

Nico sat beside me. I stared down at my hands. Tried not to think about the fact that, like, twenty dudes had stared at me today while jerking off. Tried not to think about the warm towel situation. Or the way I could still kind of smell cheap lube on my skin.

The door opened.

“Mr. Mitchell,” said Brooke Keeland, cool and unbothered. “Come in.”

I stood up. Nico stood, too. “I was with him. He was working. I can vouch…”

Brooke turned to look at him. It wasn’t angry. Just… sharp.

Like a scalpel made of eye contact.

Nico sat.

I shuffled into her office and lowered myself into the chair across from her desk, trying not to look like someone who’d recently been used as a human canvas.

She eyed me. “You’re damp.”

“I showered.”

One eyebrow rose. “Before a parole meeting?”

“I, uh, was dirty.”

She nodded slowly, like she knew exactly what kind of dirty I meant.

Then: “Employment?”

“Yes,” I blurted. “I have a job.”

“Where?”

I considered faking a seizure.

When that didn’t happen naturally, I said, “It’s a media company. Custom videos. Very niche clientele.”

“Company name.”

I hesitated.

“Bradley,” she said flatly.

“Boys On Film.”

She started typing on her desktop computer, then her mouth dropped open and shut again.

I felt it. The judgment. The awareness.

“You’re a sex worker?”

“No! I mean, yes? But I’m an actor.”

Brooke tapped a few more keys. “A job is a job.”

Then she pulled open her desk drawer and took out the urine test cup.

“Drug use?”

I flushed. “No. I mean… I took a pill today. It was for work, um, a performance enhancing little blue pill.”

Brooke did not smile.

“Take the cup. Men’s room is down the hall. Officer Schmidt will accompany you.”

She handed it to me like it was a commemorative mug.

I nodded like a man who had accepted his fate. Walked to the door. Nico gave me a small thumbs-up as I passed.

“Killin’ it,” he whispered.

I raised the cup in reply.

Then Officer Schmidt appeared—built like a dump truck with a badge—and led me down the hall in silence.

We entered the men’s room.

He stood near the sink. I stood at the urinal. Unzipped. Tried to forget there was a man watching me like this was the finale of America’s Next Top Urinator.

Nothing happened.

I closed my eyes. Breathed deep. Thought about water.

Rivers. Rain. Lube. God help me, the squelching noises from earlier.

Finally—finally—my bladder cooperated.

And mid-stream, I laughed.

Not cute laughter. Not like “teehee” laughter. Unhinged laughter. Full-body, snort-wheezing laughter.

Schmidt didn’t move.

When I finally got control over myself, I muttered, “Sorry. It’s just… I had a day.”

Still silence.

I finished. Capped the cup. Washed my hands like they were covered in my poor decisions.

And when I looked at myself in the mirror, all I could think was:

Well, it’s official. I’m a porn actor who pees in cups for the state. And I have never felt sexier.

* * *

We walked out into the thick summer air, the kind that clings to your skin and makes your clothes feel like wet paper.

The sidewalk buzzed with people, cars honking, some dude yelling about salvation two blocks away.

I could barely hear any of it over the sound of my heart still slamming around my chest like it was trying to break parole, too.

“How’d it go?” Nico asked, gently, like he already knew it hadn’t gone great.

I held up the manila folder Brooke had given me, smacking it once for dramatic effect. “Well, I peed in a cup while a cop watched, admitted to taking a boner pill, and was told that if I’m ever late again, I can start picking out an orange jumpsuit.”

“Jesus,” Nico muttered.

“She said it really politely,” I added. “Like ‘We’d hate to lose you back to the system, Bradley,’ which is parole officer code for, ‘I’ve already filled out the form and I’m just waiting for an excuse.’”

We passed a Halal cart, and the smell of grilled meat made my stomach growl. I’d forgotten to eat today. Couldn’t eat, to be honest.

“And then,” I added, “because the hits just keep on coming, I need to get employment paperwork signed by Jack or Liam. For the official record. And, wait for it, I have to film a PSA next week.”

Nico looked over. “Like, a public service announcement?”

“Oh yeah. For teens. About crime. Like I’m gonna stare into the camera and say, ‘Hi, I’m Bradley Mitchell, and I used to sell drugs but now I get facialed for rent money. Don’t do crime, kids.’”

Nico stifled a laugh. “Stop. You’re gonna give yourself a stroke.”

I let out a humorless snort. “It’s just funny, right? How I used to hate cameras? And now I’m apparently their bitch. One minute I’m the cautionary tale in a government video, the next I’m in some cherry blossom hentai nightmare being jizzed on by twenty dudes named things like Chad and Blade.”

He nudged me with his shoulder. “You’re doing the best you can.”

I didn’t answer. I just stared down at the pavement, watching the cracks slip past under my boots like they were waiting to trip me.

Then we turned the corner, and the hostel came into view.

Tan brick. Peeling green trim. A buzzing window unit rattling in one of the upper floors. And standing at the bottom of the steps, arms crossed, was her.

“Shit,” I said, stopping short.

Nico glanced up. “What?”

My stomach dropped.

There she was. Riley Vega. Black leather jacket, dark jeans, scuffed boots. Sunglasses pushed up in her hair like a headband, tattooed arms folded tight, and that expression like she’d been waiting just long enough to be extra pissed about it.

“Who’s that?” Nico asked.

I swallowed. “That’s… Riley.”

He frowned. “Okay. And?”

“I owe her a lot of money.”

Nico’s eyebrows shot up.

Riley stepped off the bottom stair and started toward us, slow and steady, like a cat about to pounce.

“Bradley,” she said, voice cool and low. “You’d better have some fucking cash for me, because I’m losing my patience.”