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Chapter Two

Bradley

I stared at the cracked ceiling of the Chelsea International Hostel and wondered, not for the first time, how my life had gotten this fucking dire.

The mattress beneath me was thin enough to fold like a tortilla.

The scratchy sheet twisted around my legs like it hated me personally, and the smell of mildew mixed with someone’s off-brand Axe body spray lingered in the air like a middle finger.

My bunk was wedged against the wall, top level, because of course I got stuck with the top bunk.

Below me, some guy from God-knows-where snored like a dying lawnmower. Another dude walked past, swaying a little, his flip-flops smacking the floor like wet slaps. Probably drunk. Or high. Or both.

I pulled my blanket tighter, staring at the screen of my phone. Jack’s number was still saved from two years ago. So was Liam’s.

I hadn’t called either of them since…

Well. Since I got arrested.

I swallowed hard. The familiar pit of shame burned in my throat like cheap whiskey.

They’d had every right to cut me off. I wasn’t just some casual disappointment. I’d been actively reckless. Selfish. Dealing out of the apartment we shared like it was no big deal. Like I wasn’t putting them both in danger.

God, thinking about it now made my stomach turn.

They’d both looked at me like I was a stranger the day I got hauled out in cuffs. Jack wouldn’t even meet my eyes. Liam… I’d never seen him cry before.

I ran a shaky hand over my face and let out a slow breath, trying to gather what little scraps of dignity I had left.

I couldn’t keep living like this.

The hostel was cheap, yeah, but it still drained my pathetic savings account faster than I could refill it with sketchy day labor jobs and under-the-table cash gigs.

I shared the room with four other guys, none of whom I knew, and all of whom smelled like BO and desperation.

The Wi-Fi barely worked unless you sat near the stairwell, and even then, it felt like you were catching a signal on borrowed time.

I pulled out my phone and opened the browser.

Maybe I’d just… check in on them. Not call. Just look. See what they were doing now. Maybe they’d moved. Maybe they’d left New York entirely.

I typed in Liam’s full name first.

That led me down a rabbit hole of social media pages I didn’t have the guts to click on.

Then I searched for Jack.

Same deal. LinkedIn popped up.

But then I saw it.

Boys On Film Media & Management

Huh?

I clicked the link with trembling fingers.

At first I thought it was some kind of indie production company. The homepage had sleek graphics and a logo that looked expensive as hell.

But then I scrolled.

And my heart just… stopped.

Oh my God.

It was porn.

They owned a porn company.

Liam and Jack.

Mr. Valedictorian Jack. The guy who once spent three weeks creating a color-coded study schedule for the LSATs.

And Liam. Sweet, nervous, “blushes when someone says the word blowjob,” Liam.

They were running an adult entertainment company.

And not just running it. Thriving.

There were headshots of models, men, mostly, all bronzed and muscular and grinning with that practiced porn-star charm. There were links to interviews with Liam and Jack talking about “brand expansion” and “sex-positive representation in media.”

I dropped the phone on my chest and just… stared at the ceiling again.

Of all the plot twists my life could throw at me, this was definitely in the top three.

I thought about Marvin, my old cellmate. The one who spent months being way too into me and way too vocal about it. Marvin thought I had the dick of death. In fact, he said I had a porn star cock on multiple occasions.

The idea wormed its way into my head before I could stop it.

Maybe… Maybe I could find work with them.

Not on camera. Jesus. No way. I wasn’t about to have sex with strangers on film just to make rent.

... Or was I?

I pressed the heel of my palm to my forehead.

Focus, Bradley.

I mean… I had a degree. Law, for fuck’s sake.

Never took the bar, but still. I wasn’t bringing nothing to the table.

Maybe they needed help behind the scenes?

Contracts? HR? Hell, I’d sweep floors if it meant I didn’t have to share another bathroom with four strangers and a questionable brown stain near the drain.

I picked up the phone again. My thumb hovered over Jack’s contact.

Would he even answer?

Would he cuss me out? Hang up?

Maybe. Probably.

But I didn’t have a choice.

I closed my eyes, counted to three like I was about to jump off a bridge, and hit dial.

The line rang twice.

Then three times.

I was already mentally preparing for voicemail. Maybe that’d be better, honestly. Safer. I could leave some pathetic, rambling message and then throw my phone in the East River and never check for a callback.

But on the fourth ring…

Click.

“Bradley?” Jack’s voice came through, hesitant and soft, like he wasn’t sure if he was answering a scam call or hearing a ghost. “Is this… really you?”

I froze.

My throat closed up like it was physically rejecting words.

My mouth opened, but nothing came out. No air, no sound. Just static in my brain and panic in my chest.

Jesus Christ, Bradley. Say something.

The silence stretched long enough that I could hear Jack shift on the other end. A little rustle of fabric, maybe a chair squeaking.

“Okay… uh… I’m gonna hang up now.”

“No!” I blurted, my voice cracking like a teenager with bad allergies. “Wait. Jack… it’s me. Bradley. Can we… Can we get together and talk?”

* * *

I stood across the street from the building, staring up at the faded brick like it was the ultimate boss in some cursed video game. My stomach twisted in on itself.

This was it, the home of Boys On Film Media & Management.

Somehow I’d imagined it would look… sleazier. Dark windows, sketchy signage, at least a questionable neon light or two. But nope. From the outside, it just looked like any other old building in Chelsea. Unassuming. Boring, even. Like, a dentist’s office or some nonprofit nobody donates to.

Which somehow made this whole thing feel even more surreal.

I wiped my sweaty palms on my jeans for the fifth time and took a shaky breath. I could still turn around and walk right back to the hostel, curl up on my terrible mattress, and figure something else out.

But… I couldn’t.

Desperation has a way of dragging you forward even when your pride’s screaming at you to stay put. I took one step toward the door.

“HEY!”

A slap cracked across my face so fast I’d swear I saw stars. I stumbled back with a yelp, hand flying to my cheek.

Standing in front of me, wearing five-inch heels and a scowl sharp enough to cut glass, was Nessa Martinez.

Her bright red hair was pulled up in a high, messy bun, and her gold hoop earrings swung with violent enthusiasm as she pointed a finger right at my nose.

“What the fuck are you doing here?!” she shouted, loud enough to make a guy walking his dog across the street do a full double take. “You should be in jail! Dealing drugs in my apartment building?! Oh my fucking God, you little shit!”

Her hand came up again, ready for round two.

I flinched. “Wait! Wait! Please! I’m so sorry!” I threw both hands up like I was surrendering in a hostage situation. “An appointment… I have an appointment! With Jack and Liam! I swear!”

Nessa froze mid-swing. Her mouth dropped open, like she was trying to compute the level of stupidity it would take for me to lie about that.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered, rubbing her temple like I was giving her a migraine just by existing.

“I’m not! Please don’t hit me again,” I added, flinching out of pure self-preservation.

She narrowed her eyes, giving me a look that could peel paint off the walls. “Unbelievable,” she said finally, then turned on her heel. “Follow me. And try not to do anything stupid between here and the elevator.”

“Yes ma’am,” I mumbled, trailing behind her like an ashamed golden retriever.

Inside, the building was nicer than I expected. Exposed brick walls, industrial lighting, and a smell that was more expensive cologne and coffee than sweaty sex scenes.

The elevator doors dinged open, and we stepped inside.

Nessa hit the button like it owed her money.

I stood in awkward silence next to her, resisting the urge to apologize again just for breathing.

I stepped off the elevator behind Nessa, still rubbing my cheek like maybe I could erase the sting—and the humiliation—before I had to face Jack and Liam.

The reception area was smaller than I expected. Exposed brick walls, low industrial lighting, a potted plant that was definitely fake, and a big front desk that looked like it belonged in the lobby of some hipster start-up.

And sitting behind that desk…

Dimitri.

Jesus, of all people.

I hadn’t seen him since the day I got arrested. Back then, he’d been the security guard for our old apartment building. I still remembered the look on his face as the cops cuffed me and dragged me through the lobby like the world’s dumbest criminal.

Now here he was, looking even bigger than I remembered. Same broad shoulders, same buzzed haircut, same unimpressed glare like he was one deep sigh away from throwing me out.

His thick eyebrows launched halfway up his forehead the second he spotted me.

Next to him sat an older man I didn’t recognize.

Gray hair combed back neat and tidy, a pressed sweater over slacks, legs crossed at the ankle like he had all the time in the world.

He was perched casually on the edge of the desk, tapping one ringed finger against his knee like this was just another Tuesday.

The man glanced at me, then muttered something in what I think was Russian. Dimitri gave a short laugh, like whatever was said had been both accurate and brutal.

Nessa groaned and pointed at me like I was something she’d found stuck to the bottom of her shoe.

“Petyr, Dimitri, don’t start,” she warned them both. “Apparently, Jack and Liam have lost their goddamn minds and scheduled a meeting with him.”

I gave Dimitri an awkward half-wave. “Hey… long time no see.”

Dimitri tilted his head at me, gave a slow, dry smile, and in careful, accented English said, “This… will be interesting.”

The man named Petyr let out a long, dramatic sigh and reached for a clipboard resting next to him like it was a loaded weapon.

“As the Studio Compliance Officer,” he said, straightening his back like he was giving a press conference, “I should have been informed about this appointment.”

Then, with an exaggerated flourish you only see in bad courtroom dramas, he yanked a pen from behind his ear and started scribbling furiously on the clipboard.

I blinked at him.

Studio Compliance Officer?

Okay… apparently, he was somebody important.

Dimitri just sat there, arms crossed, watching the entire exchange like it was the most entertainment he’d get all week.

Nessa rolled her eyes so hard I was amazed she didn’t sprain something. “Oh, please, Petyr. Nobody tells you anything because all you do is write fake violations on that clipboard like you’re building a case for HR, which—spoiler—you’re not.”

Petyr paused mid-scribble to give her a look that somehow managed to be both wounded and superior.

“Come on, jailbird,” Nessa barked, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me toward the hallway. “Let’s go before Petyr writes you up for existing.”

I stumbled after her, trying not to trip over my own feet.

We walked past a row of offices, each with open doors and half-glimpsed people inside. Some were typing on laptops, some shouting into phones, and one guy with pastel pink hair appeared to be organizing sex toys.

Then, midway down the hall, I stopped dead in my tracks.

Through a wide glass doorway on the left, a scene was being filmed on a brightly lit set.

A woman dressed head-to-toe in tight black leather sat on the edge of a low platform bed with a shirtless man draped across her knees.

She held a riding crop in one gloved hand, smacking him across the ass with gleeful precision.

“Beg for it, you worthless little worm!” she barked, her voice sharp enough to cut drywall. “Tell me how much you love being my pathetic plaything!”

The guy moaned dramatically, wiggling like he was auditioning for a soap opera and a torture porn flick at the same time.

I stood there, wide-eyed, frozen in the middle of the hallway like my brain had short-circuited.

Nessa doubled back, grabbed my sleeve, and yanked me forward hard enough to nearly pop my shoulder out of its socket.

“Eyes front, genius,” she hissed. “You wanna gawk? Get a subscription.”

I stumbled along after her, cheeks burning.

We turned the corner, and she pushed open a door that led into what looked like a shared office space. Two desks. A whiteboard covered in scribbles and calendars. A sad little ficus plant dying in the corner.

This was it.

Jack and Liam’s office.

Nessa pointed at a cracked vinyl chair against the wall. “Sit your ass down and don’t move. I’m talking to them first.”