He digs into his pocket for something, finding a wallet and fishing out a few bills. My stomach churns. Is he really gonna pay me for sex? I open my mouth to tell him I’m not a fucking whore. But then I see the two fifties on the dashboard. Think about that cash I had to replace with my own money because the guys dipped into my supply. This would cover it and then some. My stomach drops and I’m grateful this asshole is looking anywhere but at me as I take it.
My ma’sawake when I get home. I try to avoid her and go straight up to my room, but she catches me and asks me to come backdownstairs.
I’m desperate to clean this lube out of my ass and this man’s sweat off my skin. I don’t want her to know what I did. What I’ve done over and over with so many men I’ve lost count. I don’t want her to stop looking at me like I’m still that innocent kid who would have never imagined himself doing the things I do now. This guy wasn’t the first to offer me money. But he’s the first one to catch me desperate enough to accept.
“Where have you been out this late?” She has her hands on her hips at the counter. I’m not in the mood for one of her lectures. It’s a little late for it now.
I open the fridge and look for the juice to distract myself and cool my face down.
“Evan, look at me while I’m talking to you.”
“What?” I snap. I try to look away, but she grabs my face and turns it towards her.
“Talk to me. Why are you so angry?”
I can’t look her in the eye. I don’t want her to look at me. I don’t want her to touch me. Tears sting the back of my eyes.
“Evan,” she says, her voice soft as she pulls me in for a hug. I think she’s gonna smell him on me. Smell the sex—lube and sweat and some married man’s cum. I push her away and she bumps into the counter. We stare at each other for a second and I’m not sure who’s more surprised.
“I’m sorry, Ma,” I say finally. “Just, please, don’t touch me.”
“Okay.” She holds her hands up, fixes her hair. “Okay, I’m sorry.”
I slam the fridge door and run upstairs.
7
NATHAN
Itoss and turn in bed, trying to get comfortable. The guys who room on my hall are all getting an early night for classes and practice or whatever in the morning, so it’s pretty quiet around here. Too quiet.
The frat’s mostly made up of guys from the tennis team and academic overachievers. The football team either dodges fraternities altogether or join a more party-oriented one. This fraternity is all about country clubs and “community service”—bullshit for “padding our resumés and advancing our careers.” So we don’t have many wild parties. I’m usually in bed by ten. Falling asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow. But tonight, I can’t switch my thoughts off enough to relax.
My phone buzzes and I pull it out to see who the message is from. No one messages me at this time of night.
You up?
My heart pounds as my thumb works at the screen.
Yeah. What’s up?
Where are you?
I’m …
I start to type outat the frat house, but stop. The fraternity seems to be the thing Evan’s most mad about. The thing he finds most ridiculous about my new life.
I’m at home. Everything OK?
I fucked up.
Blood rushes in my ears. Panic at the possibility of Evan being in trouble. Then pleasure I know is selfish, because he chose to reach out to me of all people.
What happened?
There’s no reply for what feels like an eternity. Then:
Doesn’t matter
