Chapter 6

What did I just do? What did I let him do? What does this even make me?

I don't know. I don't know anything anymore.

♡♡♡

An hour later my phone buzzed.

Sebastian: Behind the gym. Now.

I typed back: Why?

Sebastian: Just come. I stared at it. I should have ignored it. Should have thrown my phone at the wall. But I went anyway because I'm an idiot and because my dick was still sore from his hand and because I wanted to see if he'd look at me differently.

He didn't.

He was leaning against the wall near the dumpsters, arms crossed, jaw tight. He wasn't even looking at me. Just staring at the ground.

I stood there for a second just looking at him. The way his jaw was set. The way his hands were shoved in his pockets. He looked almost as fucked up as I felt. Almost. But then again he wasn't the one who just got used like a cheap experiment.

"You showed up," he said.

"Yeah, no thanks to your creepy-ass text. What do you want?"

"That shouldn't have happened earlier."

"No shit. You already said that."

"I'm saying it again."

"Well, stop saying it. It happened. We can't unfuck it."

He finally looked at me. His eyes were tired. Confused. "I was just trying to make you feel better. That's all."

I felt my face get hot. "You made me come in your hand, Sebastian. That's not trying to make me feel better. That's you being a liar if you say it didn't mean anything."

"It didn't—"

"Then why'd you do it? Huh? Explain that."

He flinched. "We're stepbrothers, Jae. This is fucked up. I don't do this shit."

"Do what? Jerk guys off in closets?"

"Don't—"

"No, seriously. Because you seemed pretty into it for someone who doesn't do this. You were hard too. I felt it."

His jaw tightened. "That's not the point."

"Then what is the point, Sebastian? Tell me."

He ran a hand through his hair. "My best friend fucked your girlfriend, alright? You're my stepbrother. My father owns the club where you discovered this. Everything about this is fucking wrong."

"Then why'd you kiss me?"

He didn't answer.

"Sebastian. Why."

"I don't know," he said. And for the first time, he sounded like he meant it. "I don't fucking know, alright? You looked so sad and hurt and I just wanted—" He stopped and shook his head. "Doesn't matter what I wanted."

"It matters to me. So spit it out."

"Forget it."

"No, tell me."

"Forget it, Jae."

"I'm not going to—"

He stepped closer. Got in my face. "I said forget it."

I didn't back down. "Make me."

We stood there. Breathing the same air. And I wanted him to kiss me again. I hated that I wanted that. I hated that even after he said it meant nothing, even after he acted like I was just some fucking science project, I still wanted him to grab me and push me against the wall and do it all over again.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

Then he pushed off the wall and walked past me, his shoulder brushing mine.

"Go to your shift tonight," he said. "Get your money. And forget this ever happened."

I watched him walk away. "You're a coward, you know that?"

He didn't look back.

And I just stood there by the dumpsters like an idiot, watching his back get smaller and smaller. He didn't even slow down. Didn't turn around. Nothing. Just left me there. Just like everyone else.

♡♡♡

That night I showed up at Bar Solace.

Archer was waiting for me in the office. He handed me a plastic bag with a mask and a pair of black boxer briefs inside. Nothing else.

"Wear these," he said. "Nothing else."

I held up the bag. "Seriously? Just these?"

"Did I stutter?"

"Great. Really looking forward to freezing my balls off on stage."

Archer raised an eyebrow. "You've got jokes. Good. You'll need them."

"Was that a threat or—"

"It was advice. Now get changed."

I walked downstairs thinking about Sebastian. About his hands. About the way he said my name. About the way he looked at me like I was something he wanted. And then the way he threw me away right after. Just like Sophie. Just like everyone. Why do I keep letting people do this to me? Why do I keep hoping maybe this time will be different?

The dressing room downstairs was cramped. Smelled like some guy's old gym bag and floor cleaner. Four other guys in there, all of them built like they ate protein powder for every meal. Muscles on top of muscles. Tattoos everywhere.

One of them looked at me. "You lost, kid?"

"Unfortunately no."

Another one snorted. "Skinny little thing, aren't you?"

"Yeah, well, I'm cheap labor. You got a problem with that?"

They looked at each other. Went back to what they were doing. Didn't say another word.

I changed in the corner. The boxer briefs were too tight. Everything on display. I couldn't look at myself in the mirror. Because if I looked, I'd see the guy who let his stepbrother use him. The guy who came in his hand and then came back for more. The guy who's about to strip for a room full of old men because he has no money and no options and no one who actually gives a shit about him.

The red room was downstairs. Low ceilings. Red lights that made everyone look sick or sexy, I couldn't tell which. A stage in the center with a pole that shone under the lights. A handful of older men in booths around the edges, drinking whiskey, watching.

One of them whistled. "Fresh meat?"

I ignored him. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might crack a rib.

The music started. Slow and bass-heavy, vibrating through the floor and up my legs. I walked onto the stage and the lights hit my bare chest and I felt every single bruise like a spotlight.

The lights were still burning on my skin when I walked off the stage. My hands were shaking, not from nerves this time but from something else like adrenaline or the way those old men looked at me like I was a piece of meat, so I grabbed the cash off the edge of the stage — maybe fifty dollars this time — and stuffed it in the waistband of the boxer briefs because I didn't have anywhere else to put it. The red room felt smaller on the way out or maybe I was just done pretending I was okay with any of this.

I pulled on my jeans and hoodie in the dressing room and the other guys were already gone so it was just me and the smell of sweat and that floor cleaner that doesn't clean anything. I didn't look at myself in the mirror again because I already knew what I'd see, a nineteen-year-old kid with bruises on his ribs and a split lip that kept opening up and a face that looked like it hadn't slept in a year.

I walked upstairs, and Archer was leaning against the bar, nursing a whiskey. He saw me and nodded toward his office. "Come here."