The danger of it thrums through me like electricity.
“I’m sorry. Believe it or not, I understand what it feels like to be lied to by a parent when you trust them with everything.”
“Your dad?” I ask.
He gives a half-hearted, one-shoulder shrug. “Enough about me. How do you feel about your mom, now?”
“She lied to me. She went to her graveknowingshe was going to keep lying to me. All those paper hearts she left me—all that advice about waiting for true love, believing in myself, keeping my heart open, taking chances—it was all hypocritical bullshit. I could’ve had a different life. Simple. White picket fences. Sunday dinners. Having a baby without having to plan a pregnancyaround a world tour. Making homemade cupcakes for my kid’s school’s bake sale. Maybe those things would’ve been enough. Maybe if my mom wasn’t dead, and my dad wasn’t kept from me, I wouldn’t have needed all this”—I wave my hands in the air, gesturing to God knows what—“to fill the void. Every damn day I wake up and wait for strangers on the internet to tell me how I should feel about myself and I just…”
I growl out in frustration now, speaking more to myself than Taio. “I am so sick of myself. And I have no one to blame but me. I chose this career. Sold my soul for it, it would seem. And now I hate it? I hate performing, I hate being a star. I just want to be on the ground, bare feet in the grass. I want to experience life and love like everybody else. Maybe that’s why I can’t write a damn song to save my life. Ironically while the world thinks I have everything, I actually have nothing worth singing about. That’s why I collapsed on stage. I couldn’t perform for one more second. Finishing that performance felt physically impossible. But starting next week, I have to do the impossible, thirty-four more times.”
Taio sets the washcloth down. His hand finds mine on the counter, warm and steady.
“So you think sex will make you feel more human?” he asks carefully. “Like the rest of us?”
“Am I out of my mind?”
Taio shakes his head. “I don’t think so, at all. I think you’re lonely and looking to connect with someone.” He cradles my cheek, his hand so big it could palm my entire face like a basketball. It’s mostly smooth and warm, but callused in places I wouldn’t expect. The kind of hand that could build something or break something. “I also think it’s okay if you’re mad at your mom. It doesn’t mean you don’t love her.”
I give him a small nod. “Thanks for saying that.”
The air grows quiet between us, the tension thick as pudding. The bathroom suddenly feels like a snow globe someone forgot to shake—two tiny figures frozen in a forever-looping moment. I realize if I don’t make the first move, then we won’t move.
I reach for the hem of my shirt. My hands are trembling, but I’m committed now. I’m doing this. I’m taking control of something for the first time in years?—
Taio’s hands cover mine, stopping me. “Charlie.”
“What?”
He’s looking at me with those dark eyes, and there’s something in his expression I can’t name. Not rejection. Not pity. Something gentler than both.
“Let’s not rush,” he says. “Let’s not do this.”
It lands like a slap. Heat floods my face—embarrassment, shame, the specific humiliation of being turned down by someone you’re literally trying to pay for sex.
“I thought—you said… Is it the money? Because I’ll pay whatever.”
“I know what I said.” His hands are still on mine, warm and steady, his thumb tracing an absent figure-eight pattern across my knuckles like he’s trying to soothe a spooked animal. “But that was before I knew what you were actually asking for. I think I can give you what you need. Come with me.”
He helps me down from the counter, and I follow him out of the bathroom on shaky legs, not sure what’s happening but too wrung out to resist.
He leads me through the penthouse to the wraparound patio I’ve barely used since I got here. The outdoor space is massive—bigger than most city apartments—with a fully stocked bar, string lights draped overhead, and a view of Manhattan that demands a seven-figure income. The air hits my flushed skin like a splash of ice water, Manhattan’s midnight frost slippingunder my thin shirt and raising goose bumps along my arms. It’s miserable cold, only survivable because of all the patio heaters.
Taio walks straight to the bar like he owns the place, ducking behind it and surveying the bottles with a critical eye.
“You bartend too?” I ask, settling onto one of the outdoor barstools.
“Jack of all trades.” He grabs a shaker, some bottles, starts pouring with practiced ease. “When you’re trying to make rent in New York, you learn a lot of skills. I bounced for clubs, waitered, bartended, anything to scrape together a little money before?—”
“You became an escort?”
He nods. “Yeah. This pays better than all of those combined.”
I watch him work—bottles flipping, ice clinking, liquid arcing in precise streams. He’s showing off a little, and I find myself smiling despite everything.
“What’s that?” I ask as he slides a bright pink drink across the bar.
“Something fun. You look like you could use fun.”
