3. Drew

I've got to hand it to Jericho. She tries, which is more than I can say for myself. I wake up with her on top of me. I don't know if she got me hard, or if I was already hard, but she's sure as shit fucking me now. Hands splayed on my chest, manicured nails digging in, rocking on my dick like I'm a bucking bronco.

And wouldn't you know it—I'm close.

Instead of doing what my brain is telling me to do which is shove her off and ask what the fuck? I bite my lip and throw my head back. Am I even wearing a condom?

Doubt it.

For some unknowable reason, Jericho really likes me. Maybe even loves me. She's way too good for me, but she's extremely persuasive. In our nearly three-year relationship, she's pulled out all the stops to keep me in New York when I've known for a while I should seek a future elsewhere. Still, I wouldn't put it past her to try and get me to impregnate her. To give me a solid reason to stay—a reason to exist period.

"I'm gonna come," I groan.

"Unh, me too…come in me, baby. Fill me up."

"No." I struggle, hands on her hips to hold her back, slow her down. I need her off me. "Jeri—Fuck…stop."

She doesn't.

My balls fill—threatening to unload. My cock twitches inside her as she continues to pound down on my hips.

At the last possible second, I remember I'm stronger than she is. It takes my mind a second to catch up because my body really wants to do exactly what she's asking—come inside her.

But I wrestle her onto her back and finish what she started with me in control. I pump into her a few more times while she looks me in the eyes, and when I can't hold myself off anymore, I pull out and jerk my spend onto her tits while she gasps and tilts her hips up for more because she didn't come.

Serves her right.

I sit back, breathless and annoyed, glaring down at her. She pouts but rubs her hands through my cum on her chest. "Are you pissed?"

"Yeah," I say.

Her eye contact doesn't waver. "It's just been a while."

"You still on birth control?"

She gives a half shrug, gaze holding a challenge.

"Not cool, Jer."

She rolls her eyes and turns to her side, one long leg sweeping over my head. I have to duck so she doesn't clock me with it.

"Chris came in earlier. Said he needed to talk to you about something." She picks her nicotine vape up off the nightstand and takes a long drag. The vapor forms a huge white cloud in the sunlight as she exhales. What fucking time is it anyway?

I have to work tonight. If the sun's this bright, I should be asleep, not being taken advantage of.

But we've kind of had this thing between me and her since we started hooking up. If you want me, don't ask. Just take. Cool? She believes in consent on principle, but she hates questions like "Can I kiss you?" "Is this okay?"

I gave her the same green light—just take—so I'm not really allowed to be annoyed by this—it's our thing, that the consent in our relationship is more or less implied. However, I might need to renegotiate the terms. I didn't like waking up like that at all. Not today.

On the other hand, the fact that I can get it up at all is encouraging. It's hard to be too mad at her. While her motives are questionable, she deserves to get laid. Fuck, now I feel bad she didn't finish. I scrub my face with my hands, trying to rub the residual sleepiness away. What the fuck ever. Add it to the list of all the ways I've fucked up.

I get out of bed, find a clean pair of underwear, and take a few minutes in the bathroom to clean up, piss, and brush my teeth.

Jericho's still naked on the bed, vaping, when I leave my room to see what Christian wants.

My roommate is on his bed, which doubles as the couch when we have company. I shouldn't say his bed, really. The sleeping arrangements in our two-bedroom apartment are flexible depending on who needs one of the bedrooms since there are four of us living here. Me, Christian, Silas, and Eric. Eric is the only one who isn't a doorman on the Upper East Side. He's a bartender at a restaurant up there where the rest of us sometimes meet up for drinks. That's how we met him. He's the college boy, working on his master's at Columbia.

I check the time. It's four in the afternoon, which means I slept enough, though not as much as I would have wanted to.

Working nights was cool at first. I thought I'd have plenty of time to go to go-sees during the day. But I quickly learned that doing full-time nights requires way more sleep than a day job. I've been late for appointments more times than I can count due to oversleeping, and my reputation in the modeling world is shit. My original good agency dropped me two years ago. I managed to sign with a new one, but it's huge and I've gotten lost in the shuffle of newer, fresher faces.

All this to say my circadian rhythms are jacked. I'm tired all the time. I have trouble stringing thoughts together, and since it's winter, I barely ever see daylight, which doesn't help my depression at all. "What's up?" I ask Chris as I head for the Keurig.

"Oh, hey. Bad news."

"Perfect," I mumble. I don't even bother to brace myself. My life lately is the equivalent of being in front of a firing squad. Why resist? It's going to end badly no matter what.

"Eric's moving out."

I pause, pod in hand, and turn to look at him while he stares over his shoulder at me from the couch. Christian is a quiet guy, a poet. He's tall and blonde with a cleft chin and deep-set blue eyes. He's bisexual, which I only mention because it's one of the first things he tells people about himself. He's shy and socially awkward, with no clue how beautiful he is. He's got one of those faces that shouldn't work but does. As a model always sizing up the competition, I notice things like that.

But what he just told me is not only bad, it's disastrous.

"When?"

"Like this week, but he paid up through February."

"Fuck."

No, but seriously—FUCK.

Here's the thing—I have this one sister—she's not my only sister, but she's the oldest of my sisters—Peggy—and she's a bitch. A snide, bitter little bitch who married her high school boyfriend, the one who knocked her up at eighteen, and she hasn't been in a good mood since. She's an emergency room nurse who works in the city, but commutes from Connecticut where she lives with her husband and three kids. And for some reason, she hates the fuck out of me.

My parents aren't old—early sixties, but my dad had a quadruple bypass last year. Peggy decided it was her problem, and she's bitter beyond belief about it. To be clear, my dad's doing fine. He's graduated from cardiac rehab, and he's taking care of himself, but according to Peggy—that's only because she's making sure of it.

My three other younger sisters all live in the same town as my parents, where I grew up. Hell, my youngest sister still lives with them, but Peggy drags her ass from Connecticut to New Hampshire on all her days off to make sure my dad's drinking his fucking V-8 or whatever.

Like it's all on her.

And I'm the scapegoat for her self-imposed burden.

She's succeeded in making me feel guilty, by the way. So guilty, in fact, that a few months ago, I took out a loan to finance a bathroom remodel to make it more "Dad-accessible" even though he's fucking fine. However, while Peggy is momentarily appeased, I am in severe debt, living paycheck to paycheck just like my parents always did. I'm also no closer to breaking through in modeling than I was when I first showed up in New York with my shiny young face and inkless skin. Back then I was considered too "boy-next-door."

Long story short, I can't fucking win, and I cannot afford to lose a roommate. My job pays well enough—I can feed myself and have the occasional night out, but I absolutely can't spare another dime without risking defaulting on the loan.

"You know anybody wanting to rent a room?" I ask, trying to keep my voice level.

Christian snorts. "What room? You think anybody's gonna wanna rotate beds like we do? Hey—at least this way no one has to share a bed."

"I don't mind sharing," I mumble. "If that's what it takes."

"It's just an extra five hundred a month," Chris says.

I turn my back on him, my stomach sick as I pop the pod into the coffeemaker.

Forgetting the mug entirely, I make a huge mess until I scramble to find a container to catch the remainder of the boiling hot liquid now dripping onto the floor. Jericho comes to my rescue, wearing red panties and one of my t-shirts. She grabs a dirty dish towel and cleans up the mess I made while I rub my face and try to think.

She's a great girlfriend. The best, really. I wonder, not for the first time, why she's wasting her time with me when she could have anyone she wants. Growing overwhelmed and too exhausted to explain, I excuse myself from the kitchen to get ready for work.

Jericho brings me a fresh mug of coffee before kissing me goodbye. I let her hug me long and hard. I nod against her head as she tells me it's going to be okay. I let the platitude go where platitudes go in my head, to the back of the line. I try to remind myself I have options.

Once she's gone, I refocus my mind on the here and now, moving through my routine one step at a time, only thinking as far in advance as the next step. Otherwise, the overwhelm comes, and I've already been overwhelmed twice this evening.

The only saving grace to this nightmare of a day is that The Heir doesn't make an appearance. Granted, I have to watch a dozen other rich people come and go throughout the night, but none of them lords their privilege over me like he does.

Since it's snowing, the night is fairly quiet, which makes it drag, and unfortunately also gives me a chance to examine the state of my finances and think about what I'll need to sacrifice to cover another five hundred a month—plus utilities, which we also split four ways. The five hundred is just for the rent.

I guess I could see if Jericho wants to move in.

I immediately dismiss the thought. I refuse to lead her on any more than I already have, and I would hate myself for dragging her down with me.

There's only one real option. The one thing that's been looming for a while now. I need to leave New York.

The thought hits like a brick to the chest, but it's the only one that makes sense. It's the smart thing to do. I've failed. I'm a failure. But the facts are these: I never went to college. I have no marketable skills. Best I'm qualified for is probably being a waiter working for tips and maybe a food delivery guy at night.

I'm a fucking loser with a loan strangling me and a sister just waiting to say I told you so.

The only thing to do now is plan my escape. Where to? When? Can I even afford a move? I wonder if there's room in my parents' basement.

When Killian shows up to relieve me in the morning, his chubby cheeks are bright red, and his eyes are wide. He looks like he's ready to burst. "Did you see?"

"See what?" I ask.

"The video. Did you see it? It's viral."

Killian is thirty-five, but he looks ten years younger with his baby face. He's married with a wife in Queens and a second kid on the way, so I can't see how he has time to stay up to date on whatever TikToks are trending.

I couldn't give a shit about some fucking viral video. I'd much rather hand off and head home, have a drink, and pass out.

But Killian's already setting down his bagel and coffee to show me the video on his phone.

I sigh, clicking play on the TMZ clip he pulled up.

It's jerky, unfocused bodycam footage. Police lights in the background give the context for a slurring, disheveled, dead-eyed dude asking, don't you know who I am?

Holy shit. I'd know that voice anywhere. Dreams do come true. It's The Heir himself.

I stare at the screen with growing amusement.

"Out of the vehicle sir."

"Fuck, you, sir. Do you know who my father is? He'll have all your jobs, you fat pigs."

My eyes widen. Oh shit. Is this the act of God I've been hoping for?

I watch in fascination as Olivier Arnaud kicks and slaps the two cops' hands away, resisting being pulled from behind the wheel of his vehicle. He hurls insults the entire time, frizzy curls flopping over wild eyes. His pants are open. Shirt untucked. I laugh for what feels like the first time this year.

And then—the fucking idiot makes a run for it. Next thing you know, he's face down on the pavement, spewing obscenities and being read his rights.

Killian snatches back his phone. "You gotta see his mug shot, too."