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Angry at Jason, who’s after all only doing his job.
At myself, for giving a damn.
“You were right,” I tell my brother, slamming the rest of my drink down and getting up from the uncomfortable chair. “It’s getting late. Time to go.”
I toss and turn and can’t sleep all night. My dick’s been hard ever since I saw him at the bar, and my brain’s stuck on him.
Like every night, I try my best to empty my mind, think of other things, the good things in my life—my job, my apartment, my brother, my independence.
But my thoughts keep circling back to him.
Jason.
Not that it’s any surprise. This is a fucking constant these days.
Can’t get him out of my mind. Can’t stop thinking of his eyes, his body, his mouth curling in a smirk. Can’t stop thinking about that mouth on my dick. How it would feel. Seeing him on his knees in front of me, pushing my fingers into his tangled hair. Seeing those dark eyes turned up, toward me.
I roll on my back. The ceiling spins lazily as the alcohol works its slow way through my system.
He seems so much older than me. Not in appearance, no. If anything, he looks younger than me, way too young to be doing what he’s doing for a living.
Christ, as if there’s an age when it becomes okay to prostitute yourself…
Anyway, that’s not what I meant. It’s his behavior, his toughness, that darkness in his gaze that speaks of experience. Knowledge.
Shivering, I turn on my side and pull the covers up over my head. I just… I feel like a kid near him, like I know nothing, like… Like he can see right through me, and laugh. Laugh at my lack of experience, my naivety when it comes to sex and men.
Goddammit, why can’t I get this out of my head?
One night with Jason. One fucking night—or even just one evening, one hour… Jesus.
Ever since I met him that fateful day I ran away from Aunt Martha, when I turned eighteen and found him talking with my brother, the thought has been lodged inside my brain like a splinter.
Not that I’ve been celibate. I’m not a monk, I meet guys. I’ve been told that I’m not bad looking, and I keep in shape, training with my brother and his buddies. I’ve been with a couple of men over the years. Some even seemed interested in more than just sex.
But I wasn’t.
Why am I set on a hooker? A guy who fucks other guys for money? Except, he’s handsome, and sexy, and has the experience I lack, so maybe this shit’s normal.
What would it hurt? a little voice whispers seductively in the back of my mind. How expensive could he be? I’ve got money now. I can afford him. I only have to go and ask him, no, tell him I want him to suck me off, or bend over for me.
Other guys do it. All the fucking time.
With Jason.
Again, I’m both painfully hard at the image, and pissed as hell. How’s this possible? How’s this normal, huh?
It can’t be. I have to let go of this obsession. Three years, man. That’s way too fucking long. Ocean thinks it’s what’s keeping me back from dating, and lately even from fucking.
He’s got a point. He may be right, about all of it. He never said I should go pay Jason, though, for a night. And not only because he doesn’t think I need to pay someone to sleep with me, but also because he’s friends with Jason. He looks after him. He seems as protective of him as he is of me—and maybe this is what’s pissing me off.
This is what pissed
me off three years ago, when I came back to town to beg my brother to take me in, ready to take off for good if he didn’t, only to find he’d taken Jason in instead. A substitute for me.
Or so it felt then. I’d been bitter for so long, hurt that he’d passed me on like a broken toy, although he’d promised, dammit. He’d promised we’d stick together through it all.
I remember seeing Jason for the first time. Bleached, white-blond hair, ripped jeans and a sparkly top that barely covered his chest. He was thinner than he is now, and his arms had been bare despite the cold, ropey muscle over strong bones, skin covered in dark ink.
