Oh, you know… just got back from back-to-back tropical vacations with men old enough to be my father, who paid me an absurd amount of money to be their stand-in boy-toy.
Of course, I don’t say that. Lord help me the day anyone in my family finds out what I do for a living. Being gayandan escort… I’d be shunnedandburned at the stake. “Not much,” I lie. “Getting ready for classes to begin again.”
“You excited? Senior year, right?”
“Excited for it to be over.” I laugh. “And yeah, senior year.”
Me and my brothers are all fairly close in age, with me being twenty-two, Noah, twenty-four, and Charles, twenty-five—they’re only eleven months apart. Noah attended Duke, like me, but graduated early—he’s insanely smart—and Charles never went to college, opting to work for our father straight away.
The three of us chit-chat for the next hour or so, and for a brief moment in time, being home feels okay. It feels almost how you’d think coming homeshouldfeel. But then the sound of two car doors closing sets my nervous system on high alert. My shoulders bunch up to my ears, back going pin straight as I hold in a breath.
When the door opens, his black, beady eyes find mine immediately, the sneer in his expression evident. His gaze shifts from me to Noah, before landing on my mom, a genuine smile tugging on his face when he sees her. Walking in behind my father is his mirror image, Charles. The smirk that slides into place when he sees me is sadistic.
“Well, look who’s here,” he drawls, stepping farther into the room. “Little, sweet Bodhi. How nice of you to grace us with your presence.”
Mom scoffs. “Be nice, Charles.”
“How have you been, son?” My father, all six-five brute stature, towers over me where I’m sitting on the couch.
“Uh.” Clearing my throat, I avert my gaze. “I’m good, Dad.”
“You look different,” he states.
“I’ve been running lately.” With the way my pulse is thumping, it’s a shock I can hear him at all.
A dry chuckle has my head snapping to the side, where Charles is leaned with one shoulder against the wall, his hands and legs crossed. “What? Running to the kitchen for snacks?”
“Charles Allen,” my mom shrieks while he and my dad share a laugh. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you today, but you won’t be in my house and speak to people that way!”
He groans, rolling his eyes disrespectfully. “It’s just ajoke, Mom.”
You’d think after years of hearing it from almost everyone around me, I’d be immune to it all. You’d think it would roll right off my back, and I’d be able to stand tall because I’m not that kid anymore. I’m not the overweight kid with the binge eating problem, who would lock himself in his room at night, stuffing his face with any food he could get his hands on until he was so full, he thought he’d explode.
I’m not that kid anymore… at least not on the outside.
Mom gets up, kissing my father on the cheek before heading to the kitchen to get started on dinner. Having dinner in this house is about the last thing I want to do, but it means a lot to my mom. I have to fight the urge to run in there after her, not wanting to spend a single moment alone with Evil and Evil Jr. but knowing it will look pathetic if I do. So, instead I shrink back into the chair, hoping to make myself as small as possible while picking at the skin around my thumb nail.
Dad and Charles get to talking about the business while Noah fiddles with his phone, probably texting his husband. I’m surprised he isn’t here with him right now. They never spend much time apart. As I zone out, trying to pretend I’m anywhere but here, my phone vibrates from where it’s at in my pocket, startling me. Pulling it out, I swipe across the screen, unlocking it.
Giselle: You have your usual Wednesday night appointment with Clinton this week, and then one new client on Sunday. His name is Jules, and you’ll be meeting him at the lounge in the Renaissance hotel in Raleigh at 7pm.
Me: Got it. Thanks.
By the time I shove my phone back in my pocket and glance up, Noah’s gone. Probably in the kitchen helping Mom. Which leaves me alone with Dad and Charles.Great. Perspiration immediately lines my hairline, slicking my palms. It’s amazing how I’ve been out of this house nearly four years, yet two minutes alone in their presence takes me right back to high school. The ridicule, the torment, the taunting.
My nails dragging repetitively down the skin on my left forearm grounds me. It helps keep my breathing under control—helps keepmeunder control—while I wait to see what kind of shit they hit me with today. Except instead of doing any of that, they simply carry on their conversation with each other as if I wasn’t even here. I don’t know what’s worse—being the center of their vile attention or being invisible.
Chapter Four
Bodhi King
Raleigh is about thirty minutes from my house, give or take, depending on the traffic. Seeing as it’s a Sunday, I don’t anticipate much, if any, but I still plan to leave my house forty-five minutes before seven to be on the safe side. First meetings are usually low-key. It’s rare that it goes any further than dinner and drinks. Giselle prefers them to feel like a real first date—meeting, getting to know each other, innocent flirting.
Most of these men are lonely and just looking for companionship. They want someone to talk to about their day or to decompress with. They want to feel like they’re actually wining and dining someone, rather than just buying them to fuck. Don’t get me wrong… some men reallyarejust into the hiring someone to fuck, butmostof my clients want the boyfriend experience, too.
They’re wealthy, with more money than they probably know what to do with, and enjoy spoiling me—taking me to nice dinners or lavish vacations, buying me expensive lingerie to wear for them. And who the hell am I to deny them this desire to spoil? It’s a win-win in my eyes. I don’t develop feelings for the Johns—I never have—but, at least for my regulars, Idocare about them as people. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship.
Fresh out of the shower, I step into my walk-in closet, plucking some items off the hangers. I decide to go casual but still nice—black skinny jeans, a black lace thong—because even though it’s unlikely anything will happen tonight, I still like to feel sexy when meeting someone new—a deep maroon sweater that has to be the softest thing I’ve ever felt in my life, and a pair of tan suede ankle boots. Back in the bathroom, I run some gel through the short hair on top of my head with my fingers before applying the smallest amount of pink blush to the balls of my cheeks and the tip of my nose.
