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Chapter Eighteen

Nico

I moved without thinking.

One second I was standing behind Bradley, trying to process the absolute hellstorm of a day we’d just had, and the next I was between him and the tall, scary butch woman who looked like she could bench-press a pickup truck and then throw it at you for fun.

Shaved head, neck tattoos, and a leather jacket that said you should be afraid of what’s underneath.

She stared me down like I’d just stepped on her favorite snake.

“Who the hell are you?” I snapped, putting myself directly between her and Bradley.

Her eyes narrowed. “Who the hell am I?” she shot back, stepping into my space like she paid rent there. “I’m the person your little friend owes thousands of dollars to. And I’ve been patient—hell, I’ve been saintly—but that patience? Just ran out.”

I could practically feel Bradley flinch behind me. And I knew. I knew it was true before I even looked at him.

He didn’t deny it. Bradley wasn’t doing anything except staring at the pavement like it had the answers to all of life’s problems.

“Bradley?” I asked, my voice low.

He winced. “Yeah. I borrowed from her. A while ago. I was desperate.”

“Still are,” the woman muttered, arms crossed.

“But I’ve got a paycheck coming,” Bradley added quickly, his voice shaky but hopeful. “From the shoot today. A big one.”

I turned to him, brows raised. “You didn’t get it already?”

He looked confused. “No? I thought they’d mail it or direct deposit or something. It’s not like I’ve done this before.”

Of course, he didn’t know.

“They pay day-of,” I said, turning toward the human buzzsaw with a crew cut. “Standard policy. His check’s at the studio. We had to bounce fast so he wouldn’t miss his PO appointment.”

She blinked once. Didn’t care. Didn’t even pretend to care.

“Well then, let’s go get my damn money. Now.”

And just like that, she turned and started walking toward the curb like this was her Uber-fueled origin story. I followed her with my eyes, and that’s when I saw it. Just a flicker of silver beneath her jacket, where the leather pulled open as she moved.

A knife. Tucked against her ribs.

My mouth went dry.

Not the kind of blade you whip out to open a package. The kind you bring when you’re expecting the night to end in blood or cash.

I glanced at Bradley, who was still frozen behind me, looking like a baby deer about to cry. He hadn’t seen it.

I wanted to warn him. I wanted to pull him into the hostel, slam the door, and pretend none of this was happening. But Riley caught my eye right then, gave me a look that said Go ahead. Try something , and I decided I liked having my intestines inside my body.

Bradley stepped up beside me, quiet and trembling.

“She’s not gonna hurt me,” he muttered, like he was trying to convince himself.

I didn’t answer. Because I wasn’t sure.

“She’s just... intense,” he said.

“She’s terrifying,” I corrected.

He gave a small laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “The faster I pay her, the faster she’s out of my life.”

God. That crushed me. He sounded so exhausted. So used to people being dangerous and awful and lurking with knives. Like this was just a normal day for him.

I flagged down a cab.

Riley climbed into the front like she owned the car, and maybe the cab company. Bradley and I slid into the back. He didn’t look at me. He just stared out the window like he could outrun this whole mess by pretending it wasn’t real.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a minute. “I didn’t want you to get pulled into this.”

“You didn’t,” I said. “She did.”

Which was true. But it wasn’t the whole truth. Because the second she showed up, the second I saw him freeze up like that, I’d chosen to step in.

Something had shifted during the shoot today. Not just the end of it, when I, well, crossed a line I hadn’t even known I was standing on. But everything. Watching him go through that? Watching him fight through the worst day of his life and still try to do the right thing?

I’d seen people break from a lot less.

But Bradley Mitchell kept standing. Kept trying.

And now he was sitting beside me, looking scared and humiliated and so damn brave, and all I could think was:

I’ll protect you. No matter what.

Even from leather-clad knife-wielding women from hell.

The cab jerked to a stop in front of the Boys On Film studio. Riley was out before the driver even finished braking.

“Let’s go,” she called over her shoulder. “Chop-chop.”

Bradley didn’t move.

“She scares me,” he mumbled.

“She scares me,” I replied. “But she doesn’t get to bully us.”

He looked up at me, startled. Then gave a small, stunned smile. Like maybe he hadn’t realized anyone would ever include themselves in his us.

* * *

The second we stepped into the Boys On Film lobby, the chaos of the day only got worse.

Petyr, clipboard clutched in his hand like it was a crucifix, popped up from behind the reception desk like a gopher who smelled a scheduling conflict. “Excuse me? Hello?? You can’t just… Oh. Nico! Bradley!”

“Emergency payroll run,” I said, breezing past him like I was talent, director, and studio manager rolled into one. “Bradley didn’t get his check earlier, and we’ve got a very... motivated creditor on our heels.”

“Hi,” Riley said dryly, baring her teeth at Petyr like a hyena about to steal dinner from a lion.

Petyr blinked. “Is she talent?”

“She’s staying here,” I said, gesturing toward the lobby couch. “Reception area only. Company policy.”

Riley snorted and pointed a leather-clad finger at Bradley like she was issuing a curse. “Hell no. Until I’ve got my money in my hand, I’m staying glued to this asshole’s side like duct tape.”

“Visual,” I muttered. “Thanks.”

Bradley sighed the sigh of a man whose soul had simply exited stage left.

We kept walking.

The three of us made our way down the studio hallway like the world’s worst conga line. Me in front, full of fake confidence and silent panic; Bradley in the middle, moving like a broken Roomba; and Riley bringing up the rear, her boots stomping out a rhythm of doom.

We passed the editing bay, and I clocked it too late.

On a massive wall-mounted monitor was Bradley. Glowing. Shiny. Glazed. Kneeling on that white tarp from earlier. Mouth slightly open. And getting…

“Oh my god,” Riley barked, skidding to a halt. “What the fuck is this place?!”

I winced.

She pointed at the screen, eyes bugging. “Is that you?!”

Bradley didn’t even blink. “Yeah.”

“I always thought you were a perv,” she said, like she was disappointed he hadn’t robbed a liquor store instead. “You disgusting little freak.”

He didn’t flinch. “And yet here you are, following me through a porn studio for your payday. So, who’s the genuine freak?”

Oop.

I almost high-fived him. But I was too busy making sure Riley didn’t lunge.

“Don’t talk back to me,” she growled.

“Don’t insult my boyfriend,” I shot back.

Bradley’s head whipped toward me. Riley narrowed her eyes.

“Boyfriend?” she said, like the word offended her.

“I—” I opened my mouth, but just then—

“Nico! Oh my god!”

Moira.

She and Nessa appeared at the end of the hallway like glitter and attitude had spawned a buddy cop spin-off. Nessa, red curls bobbing, stopped short and clocked Riley. Her eyes lit up like a cat seeing a pigeon with a broken wing.

“Ohhhh.” She grinned. “She’s hot.”

Moira looked her up and down. “She looks like she could kill us with her pinky toe.”

“Exactly,” Nessa said, turning to me. “Jack and Liam have been wanting to expand into more lesbian content. Authentic vibes, y’know? Less fake moaning, more rage.”

She looked Riley up and down like she was appraising a racehorse.

“You ever think about doing movies?” she asked.

Riley blinked. For a split second—one second—her face softened. Like she was genuinely flattered.

Then she scowled again, as if her own feelings had betrayed her.

“I just want my fucking money.”

Nessa recoiled, lips pursed. “Jeez, okay. Someone’s hangry.”

I cleared my throat. “Where’s Jack? Bradley had to rush out earlier, and he didn’t get paid yet.”

“Oh, he’s in his office,” Nessa said, pointing toward the back hallway.

Then, because Nessa is occasionally a dumbass with vibes, she turned back to Riley, winked, and said, “Seriously, though, you’re hot stuff. I’ve never been with a woman, but for you? I’d consider some light bondage and a shared cheesecake.”

Riley actually looked… startled.

Like her brain couldn’t process being both respected, and flirted with by a woman who smelled like vanilla body spray and lube.

Bradley looked like he was somewhere between death and a nap.

I grabbed his wrist. “Come on,” I said, dragging him toward Jack’s office before Nessa started pitching a lesbian porn series or Moira asked Riley if she could borrow her boots for a meeting at her sex club.

But as we walked, I stayed close. Closer than close. And not because of the knife. I mean, yeah, that was part of it, but because Bradley had been through enough today.

No. Too much.

We finally reached Jack and Liam’s shared office. The door was half open, and thank God, only Jack was inside—legs up on the desk, fingers tapping at his laptop like he was trying to out-type a demon.

His eyebrows shot up as we barged in.

“Oh my God,” he said, pointing at Riley like she was a repressed memory coming back to haunt him. “You used to come to our apartment, right? When Bradley lived with us. Y’know, before he was arrested. Were you selling drugs, too?”

Riley folded her arms. “I just want my damned money.”

Bradley visibly shrank into himself.

And because this building runs on bad timing, Nessa suddenly popped up beside Jack. “Doesn’t she look like she’d dominate in lesbian porn? Like the genuine stuff. Raw. Gritty.”

Jack blinked. “Nessa…”

“Look how handsome she is,” Nessa continued, gesturing at Riley like she was auctioning off a prized bull. “We could put her in a short video with one of the new baby femmes. Call it Leather and Lip Gloss. Or maybe Machete and Mascara.”

Jack, who, thank God, has some neurons firing at normal speed, narrowed his eyes. “Okay. Is something wrong here?”

Before anyone could answer, Nessa turned to Riley again, like a recruiter from Porn University. “We can shoot a demo next week. Just you, a camera, maybe a few toys and a vaguely hostile interview…”

“JUST GIVE ME THE FUCKING MONEY!” Riley shouted, voice booming like she was about to slam a gavel and sentence us all to death.

I instinctively jumped in front of Bradley again. Jack threw his hands in the air like a suspect in a very awkward sting operation.

“Jesus Christ!” he yelped. “Is this a robbery?!”

“No!” I barked, just as Riley whipped her jacket open and for a terrifying second, I thought she was going to pull the knife. Instead, she just pointed furiously at Bradley. “He owes me!”

“Jack,” I said firmly, stepping in before anyone got stabbed or offered another camera test. “Bradley had to leave before he could get his check earlier. And this woman—this terrifying, armed woman—is here to collect. Bradley owes her a lot of money.”

Nessa scoffed. “Classic Bradley. Shady twink with good bone structure and questionable morals. I warned Liam about hiring you!”

Then she turned to Riley again, eyes smoldering. “You ever just wake up and know someone could choke you the right way?”

“Out!” Jack barked at her. “Nessa, please. Go.”

She made a wounded noise, but did a dramatic little turn and stormed out—though not without one last, slow glance at Riley. It was equal parts judgment, lust, and aggressive market research.

Jack opened a drawer, pulled out a check, and squinted at it. “Yup. Twenty grand. One of our highest single-scene payouts. Japanese market’s wild.”

He held it out to Bradley—who reached for it—but Riley snatched it first.

She glanced down at the number, her face softening for a half second. “Well, well. Looks like we hit the jackpot.” Then she looked around. “Pen. Pen! Someone give me a goddamn pen!”

Jack fumbled on the desk. I handed her one before she could stab someone with her voice alone.

Riley slammed the check against a folder, scribbled something across the back, then turned to Bradley with a feral smile. “Sign it over to me.”

Bradley sighed, took the pen and signed the back of it.

“And just like that… the debt is fully paid.” Riley pocketed the check, then she spun on her heel, headed toward the door, and called over her shoulder without even looking back:

“Congrats on the porn thing, Bradley. Hope I never see your face again.”

The door slammed behind her like the period at the end of a sentence no one wanted to read.

I stood frozen for a moment, adrenaline still ricocheting through my ribs like a loose bullet.

Then I turned to Bradley, who hadn’t moved.

“You okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

But he didn’t look okay. Bradley looked like someone had scooped his insides out and filled the cavity with shame.

“Today I shot my first porno, almost missed my appointment with my parole officer, and every fucking penny I made from being humiliated on camera is gone.” A tear snaked down his cheek, and I grabbed his hand.

“You’re coming home with me.”