I’m about to be free. Where no one, not even myself, can hurt me anymore.
“It’s the only way,”I repeat in my mind one last time before everything gets a little foggy. A little darker.
“I can be free…”
Chapter One
Bodhi King
Six Months Earlier
“That’s it, boy. Take it.”
The grunts in my ear become louder, deeper, as the man ruts into me with more force. Clinton Forbes, age fifty-three—also known asGovernorForbes—has me on all fours as he stands behind me, one foot propped up on the bed while he fucks me like he doesn’t have a wife and five kids at home waiting for him.
It’s a little past eleven on a Wednesday evening, and all I want is for him to come already so I can go home. We’ve been at this for over an hour—his stamina is impressive, and had I not been in such a sour mood, I may even enjoy it. But tonight, I’m just not feeling it.
These men are always rich, and they’re always important—that’s a given. Sometimes they’re hot and fucking them is fun. Other times, they’re not so attractive and it truly feels like a job.
Clinton is an in-betweener. He’s not completely ugly, but he’s not my favorite client either. He is a regular, though. Every Wednesday at the Hilton Hotel near campus, nine PM sharp. We meet up in the lounge, have a drink—him,alwaysa scotch on the rocks, and me, a vodka soda—then we head up to the room that seems to be designated specifically for him.
Sometimes he snorts a line of white powder up his nostril before ordering me to my knees. Sometimes he doesn’t.
Tonight, he didn’t.
A rough hand cracks down on my ass cheek, sending shuddering vibrations through my body, the sound echoing in the closed space. My cock hangs heavy between my legs, and despite my overwhelming need to get this over with and go home, the urge to spill my release all over the expensive, high thread count sheets is strong.
But I won’t.
I never do with Clinton. Some of the Johns want me to finish, some don’t care. They’re paying for their pleasure, after all, not mine.
Clinton’s fingernails dig into the flesh on my hips as his thrusts become shallow and uneven. ThankGod, he’s close. Pushing my ass back into his groin, I cry out as his dick massages my prostate, a tingle forming deep in my balls.
Bending down, he drapes my back with his front as one of his hands plants on the bed beside mine. His other drags down my torso until it wraps around my aching cock. He pumps me a few times before his hips stutter into mine, letting me know he’s emptying himself into the condom he’s wearing. The hand holding my junk squeezes almost painfully as he works himself through his release, grunting and breathing heavily into my ear.
When he pulls out of me, he places feather-light kisses along the expanse of my back, rubbing his thumb around the rim of my used hole. This is the part of the evening I loathe the most—the post-sex, awkward dance around one another. It doesn’t matter who I’m with for the night, it’s always the same. They never know how to act. They’re either too sweet or overly cold, and to be honest, I almost prefer the overly cold because the too sweet makes me want to scream and crawl my way out of my skin.
Clinton is always sweet after he fucks me. It never fails.
We quickly get dressed, neither of us saying a word. His gaze is loud where it’s zeroed in on my backside, though. After zipping up my black jacket, I peer over my shoulder at him.
“I had fun.” Crossing the room, I stop in front of him, gazing up at him from beneath my lashes.
“Me too,” he replies, placing a kiss on the top of my head. He smells of expensive cologne and sweat, and when he steps back, his dark green eyes soften as they take me in. “Goodnight, Jamie. I’ll see you next Wednesday.”
Jamie.It’s what all the Johns call me because that’s my number one rule—never, ever let them know my real name. Jamie Andrews is confident and sexy. He’s sought after and adored. He’s everything Bodhi King isn’t. When I’m wearing my role as Jamie, I’m a different person. For those few hours, I become the person I wanted to be when I was just a boy.
Shuffling over to the desk on the other side of the room, I grab my phone, pocketing it, before reaching for the stack of cash I knew would be there. The men who hire me pay me through the agency they book me from, but most men also leave behind cash tips. Clinton has always been a gracious tipper. Without counting, I shove it into my pocket behind my phone, knowing for certain there’s at least five hundred dollars there.
I make my way to the elevator, punching the button to the bottom floor. When I arrive at the hotel, I come in through the lobby, but when I’m leaving, I typically choose to use the side door. Something about the bellboy and the front desk people seeing me comeandgo in a matter of a few hours just doesn’t sit right with me. It’s like I can’t face them as if they know exactly what I was doing ten minutes prior.
I’m not ashamed of what I do for work—quite the opposite, actually—but it’s not something that is widely accepted or understood, so I prefer to keep my head down as much as I can. Fly under the radar.
The evening air is warm and stuffy. Not unusual for the end of July in North Carolina. It’s a clear night, some stars even visible, which isn’t always the case in the city. Unlocking my black Jetta, I climb in, starting the car and blasting the AC before turning on the music. My stomach grumbles, and I know I need to eat. Thinking back, I don’t think I’ve eaten anything today other than a protein bar this morning—and not even on purpose. I just got busy and lost track of time.
Deciding to grab something once I get home, I slide my seatbelt on before putting the car in reverse, backing out of the parking spot.There’s Fear In Letting Goby I Prevail bumps through the speakers, much louder than it needs to be, as everything about my day fades away, leaving nothing in my mind except the lyrics to this song.
It doesn’t take but fifteen minutes until I’m pulling into the driveway of the Robin’s-egg-blue house I share with two of my friends. We’ve all been friends since starting our freshmen year of college at Duke University. We’re now in our senior year, and I can’t fucking wait to be finished. School’s always been hard for me. Not because of the work, but because socializing and making friends has always been a challenge. For the sake of being honest, I will admit my college experiencehasbeen a significantly better experience than middle and high school, but still, the trauma is there, rooted under the surface, where no one can see but I sure as fuck can feel.
