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“Is this the pretty boy you have been sending the sexties to?”
I drop my hands and squint at Jazz’s eyes. “What? Sexties?”
“From your phone to his. The sex texts. Is that what you call them? The sexties?”
I roll my eyes. “They’re called sexts. And are you meaning to tell me you’ve hacked into my phone?”
“Never mind it. It is for your own protection. I installed guard software, just like the kind the boy-dummy had on his phone. The one whose chocolate syrup videos I could not delete. You are safe now from hackers.”
“Hackers other than you?”
Her eyes go stern as needles. “I am not a hacker. You seem to have strong feelings for this pretty boy.”
I fight a flush chasing its way up my cheeks. “Of course I do. I don’t just take anyone to Mexico for the weekend.”
“One day, I will visit America. Then I will be a ‘not-anyone’ you can take to Mexico, too.”
I chuckle, then fall back into my couch with a heavy sigh. “I don’t even know if I can go into the office today. How can I face my employees when they’ve all seen my ass?”
“Unless your ass has a permanent black box covering Grand Canyon, they have not seen your ass.”
I snort and stare at her. “Grand Canyon? You think my butt crack looks like the Grand Canyon?”
“And you are the Benjamin Gage, my friend. Your employees expect the unexpected from you. They will take care of you.”
I tilt my head. “Aww. You used the ‘friend’ word again. Is it too soon to invite you over for tea and chitchat about our dogs?”
“Chitchat. You Americans and your strange words.” After a second, her eyes soften and she looks away momentarily. When she returns her gaze to mine, her voice is also gentler. “As for your pretty boy, he makes you happy, and it has been a long time you haven’t been happy. I see it in your eyes, Benji Boy.”
“You see nothing in my eyes,” I fire back defiantly.
“I also see fear. Yes, maybe fear most of all.” She tsk-tsk-tsks at me. “That means you care for this pretty boy. He is special, this ‘T’ in your phone.”
My face reddens even worse. I know I can trust Jazz with any secret I can fathom. Still, I’m not quite ready for anyone in the world to know about him.
I feel instantly protective, just like when I first saw the image in the article. My first reaction wasn’t thinking about who’s going to see my splendid spread of cheeks; it was whether anyone would recognize Trevor and if he was in any danger. That much, I would not be able to stomach.
And then I realize, with a start, that Jazz is my only friend. Other than Trevor himself, there is no one on this whole planet I could possibly confide the complete truth to.
“His name’s Trevor,” I hear myself volunteer.
“Trevor Woodard. I know. He is quite a cutie,” she murmurs thoughtfully, “even if he is only twenty-one since yesterday.”
I gape at her. “Is there anything you don’t know, Miss Hacks-Into-Anything-And-Knows-Everything-Already??”
Jazz looks me very seriously in the eye through the screen. “I do not know what this thing called love is. It puzzles me, the crazy fucked-up shit you boys do for it.”
“Someday, you’ll find someone for yourself,” I promise her.
She rolls her eyes at first, then a flicker of hope passes over her face—or at least her eyes, the only part of her face that isn’t completely shrouded in shadow. “I will monitor the activities of the blogs and restrict what I can. Please do your part, my friend, in not putting your Schwanz into any more pretty boys on beaches.”
After a wink, Jazz vanishes from the screen, the connection terminated. I close my tablet and slip it back into its bag, then sink deeper into the couch, lost in a whirlwind of worries and thoughts that have only been half alleviated by Jazz and her wizardry.
The worst part is that Trevor is among the chaos in the office and is being forced to help minimize and cover up something that no one will know he’s directly involved in. I can’t imagine what he’s feeling right now, and I hate that I am—even indirectly—responsible for any suffering he’s enduring.
He is the innocent party in this, and I have a duty to protect him. I don’t want anyone to hurt Trevor—least of all me.
Really, who the hell cares who I diddle on a beach in Mexico, anyway? Apparently everyone does. The big almighty celebrity-whisperer Benjamin Gage is caught with his pants off and his ding-dong up a young guy’s tooter. If you’re curious how many squats he does a week, just check out this photo showcasing the uncensored side of his ass.
I can’t just hide here at home like a turtle in his safe, hard shell. I need to be in the office working alongside my employees, leading them by example.
