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My voice sounds rough.
On-screen, Clint changes position in the chair. The camera frames him from chest to thighs, the edge of the desk visible beside him, the toy tray within reach. He is naked, hard, and precisely lit. Beautiful in this strange, commercialized way.
Anger flashes through me before desire can swallow it. At him. At myself. At Renny for leaving behind such complicated men.
Clint glances at the private window.
Just once.
It may mean nothing.
The public chat keeps moving.
take it
look at us
good boy
show us
I hate them. The hypocrisy of that almost makes me laugh.
Almost.
Clint tips his head back and laughs at something in the chat. The sound comes through softer now, threaded through the low hum of the house and my own breathing.
I’m only watching. Not touching. Not tipping for action. Those are the lines I’ll never cross.
On-screen, Clint reaches for the toy tray.
Baxter jumps down from the couch. A second later, Barret gets up from the rug and follows, their nails clicking across the floor in quiet, mutual objection.
The private chat sits open and silent beside the show. Bentley84 waits there, harmless and impossible. Paul Benton sits behind him with his hand curled against his own thigh, his pulse moving too fast, his good intentions failing one breath at a time.
Clint looks into the camera.
And I stay.
Chapter ten
Olives
Clint
Kev is sweating when I get to Vietnam Kitchen. Not normal July-in-Louisville shine, but full-on pit drip and swamp ass. He’s dressed in baller shorts and a UofL football tank, both dark in places I don’t want to zoom in on.
He’s my lawyer. He’s also a joke.
“Clint,” he says, standing up fast when he sees me. “Hey. Cool. Great. You made it.”
“I said I would be here.”
“Right. Yeah. Obviously.”
He sticks out a hand for me to shake.
His palm is slick. Mine probably is too, but I’m supposed to be the anxious client here.
