Chapter 8

Eight

Josh

I sit there panting for a long minute before he says, "You good?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

He turns to me. "Don't be sorry. Here." He passes me his shirt, and as I stare down at myself, clad in the condom, I hear something. I look up to find him toeing a small garbage can toward me. "Toss it in there."

I do, and then hesitate before I use his shirt on myself.

"Go for it, freckles. Just a twenty-dollar undershirt."

I aim a wide-eyed look up at him. "Where you get your undershirts?"

He gives me that coy smile again—sort of like a playboy. Or a call girl. "Give it to me when you're done." I frown at his face, realizing—

"Did you...?"

He's got such a beautiful smile. "Did I what, freckles?"

I widen my eyes.

"Can't even say it," he teases. "How old are you? Eighteen? "

"Maybe," I whisper. I pass the shirt to him and he turns around, wiping himself with it.

Then he tosses it in the can.

"You were good, babe. Got me hot enough to come in under a minute. By myself, at that." He holds his hand out for me, and I notice the diamond bracelets on it as he helps me to my feet.

His thumb rubs at my palm, which is nice and sweaty from the drinking. I'm pulling it away when his eyes catch mine.

"You from around here?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"Got a place for the night?"

"I don't know," I manage.

He looks thoughtful. "Stay at my place. I'm not going home. You feel me? If I do, I won't mess with you." He pulls his phone out. He turns it around toward me, showing me an Instagram page. In the top photo, his profile-oriented face is shadowed, but I see the outline of his lips and his nose.

Holy shit! He’s got a million followers.

There's that smile again. The charmer. "I'm sorta...known," he says. "I don't need that sort of shit on my name. Also, not a dick." He lifts his dark brows, and I wonder if they're real. They look so thick and...perfect.

"Here ya go, babe." He puts keys in my hand. Then he pulls his phone up again. "Just sent you the address on Snap."

I lean closer to him, looking at his face. The perfect bones. Just like a model.

"You smell good," I whisper. Just like Ezra. My eyes feel so heavy.

"Let's get you to a cab, sweetie. I'm gonna let your friend the blond guy know the address if he's still here."

I nod.

His hand comes to my back as we go back down the dark hall. Back into the more exterior hall, back into the loud main room. I start toward the bar, but his hand presses against my back.

"Let me pick the tab up for you."

"Why?"

He smiles down at me, kind and mentor-like, but somehow also flirty as his fingers trace my cheek. "Because of these," he says, meaning my freckles. I have the thought: if I were older and not head-fucked, he'd be perfect. "Let an old guy help a kid out." He gets the door for me. "I promise you’ll be safe there for the night. Do the deadbolt, though. You don't know me."

My head swims as he shuts the door of my cab. I frown at him through the tinted window as the driver sets off for the address my new friend—what's his name?—gave them.

I unlock my phone, going straight to Snapchat. It has a location feature? How did I miss that?

I check messages. DomBryant. I go to his profile.

Holy fuck. Four million followers on Snapchat.

I think about his diamond bling and smile to myself. That...tricker. Trickster.

Pretty.

I imagine Ezra wearing diamonds.

Stop, drunk Miller.

I go to TikTok. Put in "Dom Bryant."

His gorgeous face comes up. Nice shades and good hair—like an ocean wave. His lips puckered. All cheekbones. Jesus. I stare at the three million followers he has there.

Dom Bryant .

I lean my head back against the seat, trying not to feel sick. I think of Ezra's arms around my waist.

My hands sweat as I pull up the contact for Ez and send a text.

‘Where did you go?’

Tears drip from my eyes. I wipe them and watch the road. That was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.It's been a long time since I did that. Fucking dumb drunk Miller.

He never replies.

All the lanes are congested and bumper to bumper. I feel like I might throw up. I text Daniel.

'I'll pin drop where I am. You can stay too'

The cab is swerving. I'm breathing out of my mouth. Everything looks big and dark and blurry. Side streets. This one is bright. Lots of signs and buildings. Then the cab jerks to a stop.

"Here we are, at the Mahogany."

The Mahogany? Is that where I’m supposed to be? I get out, careful, since I’m so numb, and I frown up at the pale stone building. Where am I? What was I thinking?

I look at my phone, feeling a shot of fear. I'm too drunk to get back to the bar. I don't know where I am.

I find another message on Snap. 'It’s called the Mahogany. You go inside and there's a butler. He's nice. There's an elevator. You're floor five, room 501. Door passcode is 119973. If you need help, ask Richard for help. If you have trouble- call me.' He's listed his phone number.

I do what Dom tells me, feeling like a goldfish in the ocean. Then I'm in the room. It's huge and white, with gleaming marble floors and high, high ceilings. I inhale something floral, and I'm about to get sick.

I was stupid to come here. I wash my face in the kitchen sink and try to not feel so sick. I feel dizzy. I walk around the living room, noting a baby grand. It makes me want to cry.

I don't belong here.

I don't belong anywhere.

I find a bedroom. Big bed. I get in it, and the sheets feel cold.

Everything is spinning. I hold my phone to my chest.

"Ezra."

I'm pathetic. And I know it.

Something warm and heavy on my shoulder shakes me awake. "Hey, babe. You okay?"

I roll over onto my back, wanting to die from the pain in my head. I crack my eyes open and see him with his head tilted a little, smiling with his pretty lips pressed shut, looking sexy, young, and daddy-ish all at the same time.

He ruffles a hand back through his hair, long and wavy on top. "What can I do?" he asks simply.

"What time is it?"

He looks at his phone. "Ten after twelve."

"Oh shit. I need to go home." I sit up, wincing.

"I caught your friend as he left with someone. Let him know you were good."

That makes me smile, despite the fucking anvil inside my skull. "Did he believe you?" I rasp.

He shrugs, looking coy again. Or smug.

"What? Did he know you?"

He smiles. "Might've. Where's home, freckles?"

"Auburn."

He steps away from the bed and returns with a glass of water. "Drink that, babe."

I do, looking down at my phone so I don’t have to look at his face. I pull him up on Instagram, checking the page out. Fuck, he's really worked-out. Like a fitness model. But in short shorts, boots, cropped sweat-shirts…plus, weird model clothes that must have been for real photo shoots. There's this picture of him in ballet tights. Sweet baby Jesus .

"You want me to drive you?” he asks. “I won't hurt you. I know how it is."

I look up. "Are you a dancer?"

"Used to do some ballet. Tumbling."

I scroll through the page. He's got this way of posing. It's so...practiced. I guess he’s a real model. I scroll down more. There’s a few photos of him in Speedos—but they’re not Speedos; they look like really nice underwear. "Are you a stripper?"

"An e-stripper." He grins, smug AF. “Among other things. Listen, hun, I've got a rental. I'll drive you home, no big deal."

"You don't have to do that."

"All good. I was once a baby gay. New to the ways of clubs and too many martinis." Another affable grin, and I think I know why people follow him. "You want a shower first? The shower here is sick."

I shower in this massive, lots-of-headed shower, locking the door even though I don't think I need to. When I turn the water off, he knocks and tells me he's leaving some clothes outside the door. Gray sweats and a soft, white, V-necked T-shirt with a tag that says JAMES PERSE. I scoop it up, and two white Nike socks fall out.

Shit, that was really kind of him. I look at my own clothes, which smell like a bar, and tell myself I'll take this stuff off before he leaves me at my house. I have the thought as I'm dressing that it's a little weird he's being so nice, but it's hard to imagine alarm bells peeling when I emerge from the shower and find him wearing a Coach backpack purse thing, looking freshly showered in black sweats and a matching shirt to mine, and holding out a cup of...blueberries?

"For the drive," he says.

He wraps a finger under one of the straps of his pack. "Got some Propel in here, and Advil." He does a sort of winky face and the gun thing with his hand. "Berries first."

It makes me laugh, which hurts my head. Blueberries—everybody's fave hangover food. Right . "I'm supposed to dump these in my mouth while wearing this white as fuck shirt of yours?"

"Yours now," he says, leading me toward the front door.

I squint around the lush apartment, shocked at how high-end it is.How did I miss all this last night?

"Don't remember much?" He laughs.

"No."

"You got a wicked headache?"

"Yeah."

He gets the door for me, and hits the elevator's down button. I make myself eat some of the blueberries. They're frozen, which is weird.

"Got them for smoothies," he says.

I nod. My eyes ache. He's looking really hot, and he smells good, too.

We ride the elevator to the garage, where he walks over to a boxy, black Mercedes SUV. "Rental," he says. "Smells like lemons. Strongly. Brace yourself."

Oh God, he’s right. I’ve never smelled anything so lemony in my life.

"See?" He gives me a sympathetic look before digging around in his bag. He hands me a cold Propel and three Advil.

"You bought this?"I ask.

"No, I fuckin' stole it." He wiggles his hand. "Five-fingered discount." He gives me that Hollywood grin. "Why use cash when you can pay with adrenaline?"

It reminds me of something Ezra would say. I can't even think of what to say back. Dude takes it in stride, steering us out of the garage before I realize that he didn't call the valet.

"Recline your seat, babe." He reaches into the back seat as he waits to pull out onto the busy street, and he hands me a heavy black sweater.

My stomach lurches with a deja vu sensation. A second later, his hand touches my hair lightly. "Here ya go." He's holding out sunglasses.

"Are they yours?"

"It's not sunny." When I hesitate, he tries to put them on my face and fails, which makes him laugh—that soft, husky sound.

I put them on, still feeling sick. "You're really nice," I murmur.

"Just a normal guy."Another déjà vu moment. Fuck .

"In diamonds," I tease weakly.

"In gotdamn diamonds." He gives me a winky look that seems like it belongs on Instagram. Then we're moving toward the interstate. As soon as we get on I-85 south toward Auburn, he starts Cigarettes After Sex.

Cold sweat pops out on my forehead. Is the universe trying to tell me Ezra is replaceable, or more that I can never get away from him? He's in my algorithm.

"Could you change it?” I rasp. “My ex played this all the time."

"Ah," he says, changing the song with a press of a steering wheel button. "The ex."

"The ex,” I admit.

"Who was it?" he asks, as if he'll know Ezra. "Someone from your hometown?"

I give a snort. "My stepbrother."

"Scandal.” His lips make a perfect “o.” “What happened?"

"He left."

"How does he leave?" Dom asks. "He's your stepbrother."

"Went back to his mom's house. Didn't say bye. He isn't even talking to his dad since then."

"Damn. That's harsh, Josh Miller. You know it wasn't your fault. Unless it was." He sticks his tongue out. It’s a bright, pink tongue—just as perfect as the rest of his high-gloss self. "But it was probably homophobia or something personal with him. You know, like internalized homophobia."

I nod.

"Don't believe it?"he asks.

"No." I sigh .

"Aww. I'm sorry. It gets better, though. The older you get. Promise it does. Just try to get the fuck out of Alabama."

"How old are you?" I ask him.

"Twenty-five. Old man."

He plays Ariana Grande the rest of the way to Auburn, checking with me after a song or two to see if it's okay.

I can't read his mood as he drives. He seems chill, though. He's got bracelets on his right wrist—gold and diamonds. He's got little blond hairs on his muscular arm. At one point, he catches me staring.

"Sorry," I mumble, wanting to die, or at least puke.

He smiles down on me. "Made to appreciate, baby."

"Is that your way of saying you're fake? Or God loved you the best?" I try to give him a smile.

"Everything you see online is fake, Josh Miller."

"How do you know my name?"

He opens a compartment in the dashboard. "Left your wallet on a nightstand."

"Fuck."

"It's all good."

He drops me off in the parking lot of my apartment complex, looking like an angel who fell to earth with his glowy gold-blond hair and stunner face and what I'm pretty sure might be mascara. Masculine and...so pretty.

He looks down at me as I sit my seat up. "Give me your number,” he says.

I do, and take his shades off, and his hazel eyes hold mine for a long second. "Texted you. Save the number. If you ever need me."

He looks slightly wicked as he says it, like maybe what I need will be his dick. But his face softens as I look down at myself and ask would he like his clothes back.

"No, babe. Go upstairs and get a nap. It’s only lounge gear."

I nod, feeling my eyes tear a little, which is unfortunate since I don’t have any shades on right now. "Thank you," I manage.

Nobody's made me feel this good in...a while.

"Always." He winks.“Take care of yourself for me, okay?”

Can’t make any promises. So I just say, “I’ll try.”