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Chapter Twenty-Five

Bradley

I woke up wrapped in warmth, the kind that didn’t come from sunlight or blankets, but from the weight of Nico’s arm slung across my chest and the way his thigh tangled between mine.

Against the back of my neck, he breathed softly; his chest rose and fell in rhythm with mine, as if we were synced in some secret language of sleep.

The smell of him—faintly citrusy deodorant, faded cologne, and the ghost of last night’s sex—clung to the sheets. My entire body ached, but in that earned it kind of way. My legs were sore, my back was a little tight, and I swear my mouth still tasted like his. Which was… fine. Perfect, actually.

I smiled into the pillow, not ready to move. Last night hadn’t been porn. It hadn’t been a performance. It had been slow, clumsy in spots, tender in others, but god, it was so real. I hadn’t felt like a character or a walking paycheck. I’d felt like a person. Like someone worthy of being held.

Then the buzzing started.

Somewhere far off, like through a tunnel or behind a wall. A low, insistent buzz that cut through the silence. I barely registered it. Just a phone, probably. Nico’s? Mine? A neighbor’s? Who cared? I buried my face deeper into the pillow. The buzzing stopped. I relaxed.

And then my brain caught up.

What if it’s my parents?

What if something happened?

What if it’s Brooke, my parole officer?

My eyes shot open.

SHIT.

Was I supposed to meet with her today? Was today Tuesday? Or was it Thursday? I’d lost track. Time didn’t exist when you were naked and still sore from being railed into oblivion.

I cursed under my breath, slowly peeling Nico’s arm off of me like I was disarming a bomb. He stirred a little, made a sleepy little grunt that tugged at something in my chest, but didn’t wake up. Good. Let him sleep. He deserved it.

I padded out of the bedroom on bare feet, shivering a little as I stepped into the cooler air of the living room. The windows glowed with early morning light, golden and quiet, like the city hadn’t fully decided to wake up yet.

Where the hell was my phone?

I scanned the couch. The coffee table. Under the couch? On the windowsill? I didn’t remember putting it down.

“Fuck,” I muttered.

Back to the bedroom. My pants were crumpled on the floor, half under the bed. I dropped to my knees, dug into the pockets, and there it was.

Screen lit up.

Missed call—Brooke K. (Parole Officer)

Voicemail (1)

Double shit.

I speed-walked back into the living room like a man racing the clock on a bomb, thumbed her number, and pressed the phone to my ear. My heart was hammering in my chest. I felt sweaty and cold and naked all over again.

She answered on the second ring. “Hey, Bradley.”

“I swear I didn’t forget if I had a meeting today,” I blurted out before she could say anything else. “I swear I’ve been good, and I haven’t even left the apartment without telling Nico, uh, my boyfriend, or partner, or whatever we’re calling each other, but…”

“Bradley.” She laughed softly. “Breathe.”

I did. Barely.

“You’re not in trouble.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very. You don’t have anything scheduled today.

But I called because Brian Massey, the guy doing your PSA project, just found out he’s got to fly out of the country tonight.

Some last-minute family emergency or something.

He wants to shoot your segment today. Won’t take more than an hour or two.

You’d be doing us both a favor by getting it knocked out early. ”

“Oh.”

I sank down onto the arm of the couch, still breathing hard, but at least I wasn’t seeing tunnel vision anymore.

“And,” she added, “since you’re coming in anyway, we can knock out your weekly check-in too. Kill two birds.”

“Okay. Yeah. Totally. That’s fine.”

“Is now too early, or…?”

“Now is… perfect,” I lied. I glanced down at myself—hair like a bird’s nest, face flushed, wearing nothing but a single sock. “Just give me, like, an hour to get dressed and across town.”

She laughed again. “Sounds great. Brian’s bringing his assistant and equipment. We’re shooting in the conference room.”

“Cool. I’ll be there.”

We said our goodbyes and hung up, and I sat for a second, phone resting against my cheek, just letting the relief wash over me.

Wasn’t in trouble. Didn’t miss a meeting. Just needed to put on pants, pretend to be a Public Service Announcement star for an hour, and maybe get an iced coffee on the way back.

I could do that.

And maybe, if I returned fast enough, I’d still catch Nico asleep. With that same soft snore and smile on his lips. And I’d climb back into bed and hold him from behind and pretend like the real world didn’t exist for just a little longer.

* * *

I’d barely made it through the revolving door before Brooke popped out of her office, clipboard in hand and her usual “I’ve-seen-some-shit” energy dialed to eleven.

“There you are,” she said, giving me a once-over. “You look… awake.”

“Define awake,” I muttered.

She smirked. “Brian and Ruth are in the conference room setting up. I’ll let you do your thing and then we’ll meet for our check-in after. It’s painless. Unless you make it weird.”

“Me? Never.” I gave her my most innocent face. She narrowed her eyes like she knew I was full of shit. Then she disappeared back into her office.

I headed toward the conference room and stepped into what looked like the Dollar Store version of a film set. Green screen duct-taped to a collapsible stand. A single ring light on a tripod. A folding chair in front of the camera like I was about to deliver a TED Talk on personal failure.

Brian Massey turned toward me, beaming like I was the second coming of Lee Strasberg. He was round, pink, and sweating through his armpits already, even though it was barely 9:30 AM. He wore glasses that looked like they belonged to an old welder.

“You must be Bradley!” he said, shoving a clammy hand at me.

“I’m afraid so,” I replied, shaking it.

“This is Ruth,” he said, gesturing to the woman fiddling with cue cards in the corner.

And wow. Ruth looked like she’d wandered off the set of a 1960s sitcom and accidentally stumbled into a parole office. Feathered yellow hair under a massive paisley headscarf. Giant hoop earrings. Lime green caftan with embroidered frogs. And her lashes? I’ve seen tarantulas with less volume.

“You got a face like a soap star and a rap sheet like a former governor,” she said in a voice like gravel poured into a martini glass. “Let’s get you seated, sweetheart.”

I blinked. “Yes, ma’am.”

She shoved a small script into my hand. It was printed in Comic Sans on pink paper.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We got cue cards too, in case you get flustered. But you strike me as someone who thrives under pressure.”

Brian clapped his hands. “Now, just be yourself, act natural, and let it come from the heart. Have you ever been in front of a camera before?”

My mouth opened on instinct.

Yeah, actually. I was recently the emotional centerpiece in a multi-cam gay bukkake scene that ended with a cum shot to the soul. It was deeply moving.

“…Not really,” I said instead. “But I’m a quick learner.”

“Great!” Brian beamed, as if I’d just announced I was giving up meth for Lent. “Now let’s go over the script.”

I glanced down. My eyes widened.

Oh no.

Hi! I’m Bradley Mitchell. I made some bad choices. But bad choices don’t have to ruin your life. Crime may seem cool… but there’s nothing cool about stealing someone’s iPad or missing your sister’s wedding because you’re in juvie.

Oh, for the love of…

You might think, “Hey, selling drugs is easy money!” But lemme tell you something, kiddo. You know what else is easy? Crying yourself to sleep in a six-by-eight cell.

I covered my mouth and coughed. Definitely not laughing. Not even a little.

Brian adjusted the ring light. “We’re rolling in three… two…”

I did the best I could.

Take one.

I blinked too fast, said “hi” like I was on ketamine, and flubbed “sister’s wedding” into “sinister wedding.”

Take two.

I got halfway through “easy money” before I started picturing Nico in his comedy club bit doing this voice and lost it entirely.

Take three.

I powered through it like a goddamn pro, only to break on the last line:

“So if you’re thinking about breaking the law, try breaking into a good book instead!”

I snorted. Audibly. Ruth made a tutting sound and Brian sighed so hard I thought he might pass out.

“I swear I’m taking this seriously,” I said, wiping my eyes. “I really am. This script is peak Saturday morning cartoon energy.”

“We wrote it to be accessible,” Brian said, clearly offended.

Ruth smacked him lightly with the cue cards. “It’s fine. The kid’s got a twinkle. Let him sparkle a little.”

Take four was the winner. I slowed down, channeled my inner made-for-TV sad boy, and stared straight into the camera like I was asking the nation to remember 9/11.

When Brian finally called out cut, I felt like I’d just won an Emmy.

“You were great,” Ruth declared. “Like a young Scott Baio. Before he lost his damn mind.”

“Thanks,” I said, hoping that was a compliment.

Brian shook my hand again. Still clammy.

“We’ll add graphics, maybe some b-roll of detention centers or... I don’t know, locked doors.”

“Sounds cheerful.”

They both waved me off, and I headed for Brooke’s office. Still fighting a grin, still tasting laughter in my mouth, and thinking for maybe the tenth time that morning how stupidly grateful I was not to be doing this whole mess alone anymore.

Brooke’s office looked the same. Part DMV, part guidance counselor’s lounge, part minimalist panic room. The walls were a sad beige, the desk was metal and probably from the Reagan era, and the only personal touch was a mug that said “Ask Me About My Trauma Response” holding a few chewed-up pens.

She didn’t even look up when I walked in.

“Close the door, Mitchell.”

I shut the door behind me and dropped into the chair across from her desk, which creaked like it resented my existence. Brooke scribbled something on a file—probably “Subject may have laughed too much in PSA. Potential sociopath.”

Then she looked up, resting her chin in her hand. “So. Filming go okay?”

I nodded. “Yeah. I channeled my inner troubled teen. Think I’m ready for a reboot of Scared Straight.”

She cracked the tiniest smirk. “You weren’t late. You didn’t show up high. And Brian hasn’t stormed in here crying. So… that’s a win.”

“I try to set the bar low,” I said. “That way, I surprise everyone.”

She flipped a page in my file. “Let’s talk about the last week. Any incidents? Fights? Weird behavior? Drug use?”

“I did emotionally spiral after a bukkake shoot,” I offered, “but I think that’s within the realm of normal.”

She blinked at me.

I blinked back.

“…I’m not gonna ask,” she said eventually, flipping another page. “What about drugs? Anything harder than ibuprofen?”

“Nope. I haven’t touched anything. Oh, sorry. I took another um, performance-enhancing drug for um, my job. But it’s perfectly legal. I’ve even been trying oat milk, if that counts as punishment.”

She checked a box.

“Police contact?”

“Nope.”

“Travel outside the city?”

“Only in my dreams.”

Brooke leaned back in her chair and let out a sigh that sounded like she’d aged two years since I walked in. Then she gave me the Look. The one that came right before a stern speech or a surprise drug test or a laminated brochure on anger management.

“Look, Bradley. You’ve been doing noticeably better. But don’t mistake forward motion for invincibility.”

“I don’t,” I said. “I’m not trying to screw this up.”

“I believe you,” she said. “But belief doesn’t count for shit if you break the rules.”

There it was. The Parole Talk?.

She held up a finger.

“No drugs. Not even weed. I don’t care if you’re at a party or if your boyfriend lights up a joint in front of you. You leave, or walk away, and whatever you do, don’t get high.”

I nodded, serious now. “Got it.”

“Second, no violence. That includes fighting, threats, intimidation, breaking someone’s window with a potted plant, et cetera.”

“That’s… oddly specific.”

“You’d be surprised at what I hear in my office.”

Another finger.

“No breaking the law, period. No fraud, no scamming, no grand larceny, no impersonating an Uber driver to steal tips. I’m serious, Mitchell. You get one screw-up, and I guarantee the system will come for your ass with a goddamn marching band.”

I swallowed. “I hear you.”

She nodded once, satisfied. “Keep your nose clean, stay employed, and don’t make me chase you down. You do that? You’ll finish parole like a free man.”

There was something in her eyes then, something tired, but honest. Like she’d seen too many guys who blew it right before the finish line.

I gave her a brief salute. “No violence, no drugs, no Uber fraud. I swear.”

Then she reached into a drawer and pulled out the tiny plastic cup.

And handed it to me.

I stared down at it.

“I thought we were bonding,” I said.

She smiled for real this time. “We are. Now go pee in the cup, Mitchell.”