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The door feels like a joke. A thin, white joke with a silver handle.

Paul is right there on the other side of it, probably still squatting against the wall, probably still tasting my cum on his lips, eyes blown open with whatever that was.

Whatever I did.

Whatever we did.

I press both hands to my face.

“Fuck.” The word does nothing. I try it again. “Fuck.”

I stand naked in the middle of my bedroom with my hands still shaking, my cock softening and tacky with Paul’s saliva.

Paul is Bentley. Bentley is Paul.

Paul Benton—Jesus, I’m a goddamn Sherlock.

That should be the first crisis, but my body keeps moving other things up in line. His mouth. His hair in my hand. The way he gave in so fast, it felt less like surrender and more like something he’d been waiting to do.

The moan when I pushed in deeper.

I turn, grab my underwear off the floor, then drop it like it burned me.

What was I thinking?

You know what you were thinking, dipshit. Don’t keep lying to yourself. Not with Paul’s cum drying in your leg hairs.

Fuck!

I wanted him. I wanted both of them. Paul and Bentley. Maybe not at the same time, and definitely not in the same body. But…

There’s no use lying to yourself when you have those two happily doing it for you. There has to be at least one honest man in your life.

The cam didn’t protect me. It was never really about money. It was never the performance. This want has always been in me. Now, everything gets to swirl together in a mess of names and labels and body parts.

My stomach turns.

I sit on the edge of the bed too hard. Across the room, the laptop sits open on the desk, the camera still on, the room probably still alive.

Shit.

I lunge for it, nearly skidding on the tile, and slam the screen down.

All those nights and messages. The little private window. His words tucked under mine like a scrolling step-ladder climbing toward... what? A clumsy facefuck in Mexico?

I thought we were building something else. Not sure what, but it should have been less ugly.

Bentley. I’m thinking about Bentley. Paul is the liar. Paul can piss off.

My skin crawls. Then heats.

I look to the door like it might open.

It stays shut.

Good. Coward.

I pace once from the desk to the bed, then back again. There isn’t enough space or air in this room for my body.