Page 7

Chapter Six

Nico

I had exactly three things on my Saturday afternoon to-do list: pay bills, hate-watch bad stand-up, and spiral into existential despair about my career choices. Two out of three were already underway.

The comic on TV was bombing. Not literally.

He was in some sold-out theater, basking under lights, wearing one of those pseudo-casual flannel shirts rich white guys love when they want to seem relatable.

His name was Chip McKenna, and apparently, the entire internet thought he was the second coming of George Carlin.

I didn’t see it.

He paced the stage like a Roomba with commitment issues, waving his arms around like that counted as delivery.

“So I’m at Starbucks, right?” Chip said, grinning like he’d just cured cancer. “And the barista writes my name as ‘Chad.’ CHAD. Can you believe that? I’m like, do I look like a Chad? I mean, I drive a Prius, bro. I’m not out here doing keg stands and date raping!”

The audience roared. Actual screams. One woman in the front row slapped her thigh like she was witnessing peak Richard Pryor.

I paused mid-click on my Con Ed payment portal and just… stared at the screen like it had offended me.

“That’s the joke?” I muttered to myself. “You got a name mix-up at Starbucks and somehow that turned into frat boy assault humor? Groundbreaking stuff, Chip. Really pushing the envelope.”

I pulled up his Wikipedia page on my phone just to punish myself further. Net worth: 3.2 million dollars. Three Netflix specials. Upcoming tour. Sold-out shows in every major city.

Meanwhile, here I was… shaking my ass in porn, trying to land gigs at dive bars sandwiched between a guy doing puppet comedy and a girl with a ukulele singing songs about her yeast infections.

The bitter taste in my throat settled like a shot of bad tequila.

I finished paying the last of my bills, electric, internet, credit card minimums, and closed my laptop with a little more force than necessary. The screen dimmed and my crappy reflection stared back at me for a second before fading out.

Right on cue, my phone rang.

I didn’t need to look. I already knew.

MOM.

A groan crawled out of me like it had been waiting backstage for its cue.

I should’ve let it go to voicemail. I should’ve. Normal people with boundaries would’ve.

But I never did. Not with her.

I swiped to answer and put the phone on speaker, mostly so I could roll my eyes freely.

“Hello?”

Her voice came through thick as gravy, all Georgia molasses and passive aggression. “Well, if it ain’t my long-lost son. I was startin’ to think you got too fancy up there in New York to answer your own mama.”

There it was. The opening number of the same tired show.

“Hi, Ma,” I said flatly.

She launched right in, giving me the Tifton, Georgia gossip rundown like she’d been rehearsing.

“Your cousin Ronnie’s back in jail again.

Stole a riding mower from Walmart, if you can believe that.

And your Aunt Jeanette’s got herself another boyfriend, some trucker with three ex-wives and a drinking problem.

And guess who got diagnosed with gout? Pastor Davis!

Swear to God, he’s hobblin’ around church like Tiny Tim, bless his heart. ”

I didn’t respond. I just sat there, chewing the inside of my cheek, staring at the wall.

This was her pattern. Lead with the hillbilly family circus to soften me up. Then... the main event.

Sure enough, there was a pause. The kind where I could practically hear her gearing up for it.

“So listen, baby… I hate to ask, I really do, but... I’m a little short this month on the property taxes. If I don’t get it paid soon, the county’s gonna start sniffin’ around, and Lord knows I can’t lose this house. It’s all I got left since your daddy passed.”

There it was. The plea. The guilt marinade.

I felt my whole body go numb in the way it always did during these calls. Like someone flipped a switch inside me and suddenly I was floating above my head, detached and observing, like I wasn’t even there.

It wasn’t that I hated her. Not exactly. Hate takes too much energy. It’s more like… resignation with a dash of disgust.

We hadn’t seen each other since Dad’s funeral four years ago.

Before that, I hadn’t laid eyes on either of them since the day they kicked me out.

First for being gay. Then, for daring to say I didn’t believe in God.

Double sin bonus round. I’d packed a garbage bag of clothes and hitchhiked out of Tifton before I was even legally old enough to vote.

And yet, every six months like clockwork…

Another call. Another crisis. And another dip into the Bank of Nico.

I opened my banking app while she kept talking, some rambling story about how the dryer broke and the neighbor’s dog had worms. I wasn’t listening. My fingers moved automatically as I completed the money transfer.

“How much?” I cut in.

She hesitated for a beat, like she knew pushing too far might make me hang up. “Couple hundred should do it.”

I sent three hundred just to shut her up faster.

“It’s on the way,” I said.

“Oh, bless you, baby. You’re a wonderful son. You really are…”

I hung up.

No goodbye. No “I love you.” And no fake small talk to wrap it in a bow.

Just... done.

For a few seconds, I sat there, staring at my silent phone like it might ring again just to mess with me. It didn’t.

I rubbed my face with both hands, exhaled slowly, and said out loud to nobody, “Jesus Christ... I need to get famous already.”

Because God knows, if I’m gonna keep funding the Tifton Poverty Olympics, I’d at least like to do it with Netflix money.

The phone buzzed again.

My stomach dropped like I’d just crested the top of a roller coaster I never wanted to ride.

For half a second, I froze, fully convinced it was her again. Maybe she forgot to say thank you. Or maybe she’d thought of some fresh crisis. Perhaps the roof was leaking, there was a raccoon in the attic, or spontaneous combustion, who the hell knew.

I glanced at the screen.

Laura.

Relief hit me so hard I almost laughed.

I answered on the first ring. “Hey, boss lady. Please tell me you’re calling to offer me an easy paycheck or a personality transplant.”

Laura’s voice came through casual and warm, like she hadn’t just rescued me from a spiral. “Neither. But I am offering alcohol. You busy?”

“God, no,” I said. “Not even a little. What’s the plan?”

“Thinking of hitting that bar near my place. You know, Metropolitan, the gay bar.”

I smiled despite myself. “Sounds perfect. After the call I just had, I’d drink mouthwash if it came with a lime wedge.”

“Classy as always,” she teased. “Oh, and just so you know… my sister’s tagging along.”

That caught me off guard. I’d known Laura for years—worked with her, laughed with her, but I’d never met her sister. I wasn’t even sure I knew she had a sister.

Still. Drinks and distraction were exactly what I needed.

“Cool with me,” I said. “You want me to meet you there?”

“Yep. Eight o’clock.”

“Done.”

We hung up, and for the first time all day, I felt something close to normal.

Funny how a little human connection could do that.

Or maybe it was just the promise of whiskey.

Either way… I grabbed my jacket, shoved my phone in my pocket, and got ready to drown the day.

* * *

The second I stepped inside Metropolitan, the smell hit me like a glitter-covered brick: sweat, vodka, and whatever brand of air freshener they sprayed in the bathrooms to cover up the smell of extremely poor life choices.

It was early for a Saturday night crowd, just a slow trickle of guys pre-gaming for something better. The lighting was low, and the music was some remix of an early 2000s pop song. A layer of persistent stickiness clung to the floor.

I scanned the room, but Laura wasn’t here yet. At least, not that I could see.

What I saw… was a nun.

Sitting at a corner table near the back, like the punchline of a joke nobody told me. Full habit. Rosary beads. Hands neatly folded on the table like she was waiting for Jesus to bring her a Miller Lite.

I blinked, shook my head, then blinked again.

Nope. Still there.

And somehow, not a single person in the bar seemed phased.

I pulled out my phone, thumbing out a text to Laura:

“Are you here? Also… minor thing… There’s an actual nun at Metro.”

Before I could hit send, Laura came out of the restroom, laughing at something on her phone as she walked straight toward the nun… and sat down across from her.

I lowered my phone, staring like I’d just seen Bigfoot ordering a Cosmo.

What the actual hell?

Laura spotted me and waved me over like nothing was weird at all.

I crossed the room in a daze and slid into the booth next to her.

“Nico, meet my sister, Sister Mary Grace,” she said cheerfully, like she was introducing me to her barista, not a member of an actual religious order.

Sister Mary Grace gave me the patented nun smile. Sweet but judgmental, like she could see every poor decision I’d ever made and was mentally bookmarking them for later.

“Pleasure to meet you,” she said. “Laura’s told me so much about you.”

Oh. Great.

Before I could respond with something stupid, she bent down and picked up a cardboard box from the floor, sliding it across the table to Laura like this was some kind of covert op.

Laura opened the box, peeked inside, and lit up like she’d won a raffle.

“Oh, my God. This is perfect.” She pulled out… a censer. Like, one of those swinging incense holders priests use in church. All shiny brass and vaguely ominous.

I just… stared.

“Mary Grace,” Laura said with a grin, holding the censer up like it was a prized dildo, “I owe you big time. I’ve got this new client who’s obsessed with the whole naughty nun thing. This’ll really sell the scene.”

I blinked. “Wait. Hold on. Your sister… the nun… just brought you church accessories… for your dominatrix gig?”

Mary Grace gave a little shrug, totally unbothered. “The Lord provides in mysterious ways. And nothing bad really happens. In fact, my sister provides a service for lonely men, and since she never has sex with them, why not?”

I almost choked.

Before I could unpack that, a waiter appeared at our table like a caffeinated hurricane.

He was tall and skinny with bleached hair, eyeliner, and an attitude that came free with every shift. His nametag read “Damon” but something told me he answered to “Bitch” if you said it with enough affection.

“Well, well, well,” Damon said, giving us all a once-over like we were contestants on a reality show he was judging. “Either I’m hallucinating, or we’ve got a nun at table seven. What’ll it be, folks? Water into wine? Body of Christ shot special?”

Laura snorted.

Mary Grace smiled beatifically. “Club soda with lime, please.”

“Iconic,” Damon deadpanned, jotting it down. “And for you two sinners?”

“Whiskey, neat,” I said without hesitation.

“Vodka tonic for me,” Laura added.

“Perfect,” Damon said, already pivoting on his heel. “Y’all enjoy your existential crises. Be right back.”

I watched him walk away, still halfway convinced I was in some kind of lucid dream I couldn’t wake up from.

As soon as Sister Mary Grace excused herself to the restroom, moving with all the quiet dignity of a woman who definitely did not belong here, Laura leaned in close, her eyes glinting with mischief.

“So… that scene with Bradley.”

My stomach did a weird little flip.

Laura grinned wider. “Dude. That was fucking hot. Like… no offense, but I’ve seen you fake your way through scenes with Bob before, and this? This wasn’t that.”

I felt the heat climb up my neck, spreading to my ears. I opened my mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Um, I was just doing my job. Professional. You know. Acting.”

She laughed. Loud and sharp. “You’re a terrible liar.”

I scratched the back of my neck, thinking about the way Bradley had felt under me on that couch. The way his hands had grabbed me like he meant it. The way he kissed like he had something to prove.

Laura’s smile softened a little, but her voice dropped into something more serious. “Listen, if Jack and Liam decide to hire him… you need to keep things professional.”

I blinked. “Wait. What? Why?”

Her gaze held steady. “Because I went to college with Bradley. And trust me… he’s got a history. Guy could sell water to a drowning man. He’ll charm the pants off you and then disappear with your wallet.”

I sat back, stunned. “You’re serious?”

“Oh, I’m dead serious. And… not to be dramatic… but he just got out of prison.”

My eyes went wide. “Prison? For what?”

Before she could answer, Sister Mary Grace returned, smoothing her habit like she hadn’t just been using the same bathroom where I’d once thrown up Fireball shots after Pride.

I looked at Laura, practically vibrating with questions.

She gave me a little smirk and said quietly, “Short version? Bradley used to deal drugs. Out of Liam and Jack’s apartment, actually. So don’t trust him and keep everything professional.”

My mouth opened. No words came out.

Bradley? Mr. Sweet-and-clueless-from-our-scene Bradley? That guy was a drug dealer?

Before I could even begin to wrap my head around that, Damon reappeared with our drinks.

“Here we go,” he announced, setting them down with flair. “One club soda for Sister Act, one vodka tonic for our local dominatrix, and one whiskey for Mr. Tall, Dark, and Overthinking Everything.”

I blinked. “…Thank you?”

He winked and sauntered off, leaving me sitting there with a glass of liquid courage and several extra reasons to drink it.

I sipped my whiskey, trying to wrap my head around what Laura had just dropped on me.

Bradley. Prison. Drugs.

I mean… sure. He had a bit of a bad boy vibe, but not that kind of bad boy. More like... forgot-to-pay-parking-tickets bad. Not felony record bad.

Before I could ask Laura a hundred more questions, Sister Mary Grace chimed in like she’d been following every word.

“I don’t know the entire story,” she said, folding her hands like she was about to deliver a sermon, “but maybe give this Bradley fella a chance. Forgiveness is a thing, you know.”

I almost choked on my drink. “You’re telling me… Sister Mary Grace… that I should be charitable toward the ex-con porn newbie?”

She smiled sweetly, eyes twinkling. “Stranger things have happened.”

Laura snorted into her vodka tonic. “Yeah, like you helping me shop for bondage props.”

Mary Grace shrugged, totally unbothered. “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

I stared down at my drink, swirling the ice.

Was Bradley really dangerous? Or just… damaged?