Chapter Two
Nate Donovan should have been thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic by now. Instead, he was staring at a vending machine in the lobby of the Hôtel des Voyageurs, wondering if paprika chips counted as dinner.
The place had all the charm of an IKEA showroom. Neutral-toned everything, furniture that looked like it had been chosen for durability over comfort, and wall art that suggested someone somewhere had Googledinoffensive print: hotel. It sat a stone’s throw from Geneva’s train station, vibrating every few minutes as if the building was clearing its throat.
Nate had told himself he was staying a few extra days to clear his head. The truth? He was hiding. From his agent. From his inbox. From the fact that he had no idea what the hell he was doing with his life.
After five years in the industry, Nate—better known to several million strangers as Ryan Steel—had hit a wall. And not the kind they put him against inWife’s Wild Secret 3. No, this was the kind no one mentioned when they handed you a contract and a bottle of lube and said,“You’ll be great, trust me.”
He was twenty-six, allegedly in his prime, and so profoundly, cosmically done with sex he could feel it in his bones. Which was awkward, considering it was literally his job.
Porn hadn’t been a career decision so much as a pratfall. One minute, he was a freshly fired gym instructor with rent due and a voicemail from his mum asking if he was“doing okay, love?”The next, he was answering an ad that promised easy cash, noexperience required. Turns out, when you’re six-foot-two with abs you could bounce a quarter off of, no experience means we’ll teach you how to angle your hips for the camera.
Just a handful of scenes, he’d told himself. That handful had snowballed into a savings account with a bunch of zeros, a shrine of adult industry awards he mostly ignored—because what kind of weirdo polishes a trophy shaped like a dick?—and a fanbase terrifyingly skilled at identifying him from the belly button down.
In theory, it was the perfect gig. The kind that made men at parties sputter mid-drink and ask him to repeat himself, slower, while their girlfriends Googled him under the table. What he’d failed to account for was the immutable law of work: if it needs a meeting, fun is doomed.
Suddenly, sex came with call times. Continuity notes. Long stretches of standing around barefoot in a robe, arms crossed over his chest like a security guard, while strangers argued over lighting boxes. “Relax your jaw, Nate.” “Try not to squint.” “Also, sign this and submit your STI clean bill of health.” All delivered with DMV level enthusiasm.
He hadn’t just ruined sex. He’d HR-ified it.
The money had been a lifeline. Seriously. It paid off his mum’s mortgage, which sent her into a 72-hour emotional spiral that bounced between“Oh my God, thank you”and“Nate, be honest, is this drug money?”That conversation ended awkwardly with,“Well, at least you’re not a politician.”The cash also fixed her boiler, redid the roof, and covered her knee surgery, which she’d accepted with a nod and a firm“We’ll just tell the neighbors you’re in IT.”
For a while, he’d convinced himself that made what he did noble-ish. Or, at the very least, defensible.
Lately, though? Even the paychecks landed with a dull thud. The shoots blurred together: same recycled lines (“Oh God,you’re so big!”), same rehearsed moans, same hollow“nailed it!”fist bumps afterward, like they’d wrapped a team-building exercise instead of a threesome in a rented beach house. He wasn’t performing anymore. He was clocking in. A human dildo with stage directions.
And then, three days ago, in a drafty château an hour outside the city, mid-shoot onThe Countess’s Confession 9, his body mutinied. Not shy. Completely AWOL. A flag on a windless day. The fluffer had pulled out their whole bag of tricks. Nate stared at the ceiling, fists clenched, willing something—please, anything—to happen.
“You good, man?” the director hissed, sweating through his polo.
“Yeah,” Nate lied, because what else could he say? “My dick just ghosted me?”
Five minutes later, the director’s face had gone from pink to beet red. A clipboard had been hurled, a chair flipped, and a boom mic murdered.
Nate grabbed his clothes and bolted.
He sat on a stone wall outside, legs bouncing, waiting for an Uber. When it arrived, he called his agent and said the words out loud: “I’m done.” The laughter on the other end had been sharp enough to make him flinch.
“Nate,” the agent said once he recovered, “you’ll know you’re out when no one calls back.” The line went dead before he could argue. Or cry. Or maybe ask for a reference.
So, he’d holed up in Geneva. A city of people too busy saving the world—or selling watches to folks with blood on their hands—to care about his on-screen exploits. The plan? Stroll the lake. Over-caffeinate. Figure out who the hell he was when the cameras stopped rolling and the lube dried up.
Spoiler: he hadn’t figured out a damn thing.
Now he lingered under the flickering glow of the vending machine, his only company an elderly couple on a couch across the lobby, heads bent over a pocket camera, giggling like teenagers. Nate jabbed C6 with more force than necessary. The machine paused for dramatic effect, then clattered and shoved a bag of paprika chips into the tray.
He tore it open and glimpsed himself in the glass. Pale skin, marked by old spray tans. Dark stubble he hadn’t bothered to tame. Hair crushed flat under an LA Dodgers cap that had seen better days. Gray T-shirt. Faded blue shorts. No gloss. No polish.
He looked ordinary. Like a guy you’d sit next to on a bus and immediately forget. A forklift operator, maybe, or a drywall installer. Weirdly, he liked it.
Behind him, the elevator chimed. A couple careened into the lobby, clinging to each other. Her lipstick had migrated halfway to her cheek. His shirt gaped open, buttons hanging on by sheer optimism. Same-day acquisition, no question. Nate clocked them instantly. Met at the Sustainable Cotton Symposium (he’d passed the signage upstairs), now operating under the mutual understanding that time was short and dignity optional. One of them had a flight soon. Or a spouse. Possibly both.
He stepped aside automatically, giving them space. His nose wrinkled. Not in disapproval, exactly. In exhaustion. Jesus, they looked tiring. All that groping and teeth-clashing, as if they were afraid they’d evaporate if they paused. It made him want to lie down.
His eyes slid back to the white-haired tourists, their heads still tipped together as they inspected whatever blurry selfie they’d taken earlier. The woman swatted the man’s arm, laughing again. The man leaned in closer, their knees brushing. Just a glance of contact. Entirely accidental.
Nate’s stomach twinged. He rubbed at the spot with his knuckles, like easing a stitch. The sensation didn’t go away.It slid upward instead, settling behind his breastbone, then creeping into his throat until swallowing felt oddly deliberate.
