Page 11 of The Influencer

“I’m not admitting I watch gay porn if that’s what you’re getting at, or that I check men out on the street. I’m just saying?—”

“You’re horny.”

“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.” I’m beyond horny, and I actually do watch gay porn. Often.

“I get it. I’m always horny.”

“Even when you’re sick?” I ask.

“Maybe fifty percent less when I’m sick.”

“Do you care if I toss out all this paper?” I ask, gesturing at the unboxed boxes.

“Don’t throw it away. I’ll need it to pack. My condo’s done, so all I have to do is move back in.”

Grateful for the chance at a subject change, I ask, “What all did you have done to it?”

“Everything,” he says. “Floors. Kitchen. Ceiling, bathrooms.”

“Huh.” I wonder what his style is like. I can’t even imagine. Admittedly, given what little I know of him, I’m picturing something like Barbie’s dream house. “How long have you lived in LA?”

“Since I was sixteen. So… seven years.”

“Makes you what? Twenty-three?”

“Old,” he says, pouting.

I shake my head. “I’m about to be twenty-eight. You’re fine.”

“Tell that to my forehead.”

“You’ve got a lot of shit here,” I say. “How long has the renovation taken?”

“Two months. You think this is a lot of shit?” he asks, surveying the space with a worried frown. His forehead is as smooth as a baby’s ass.

His nipples, though…

Wish he’d cover those up. They’re giving me ideas I don’t think my girlfriend would appreciate.

“I mean, what’s in all these?” I reach into a box and wrap my hand around the first thing I find, lifting it up to look at. “Oh.”

He shoots up from the couch, snatching the box containing the remote-controlled vibrating butt plug out of my hand and putting it back in the box, tossing packing paper on top of it. “My fans sometimes send me things.”

I clear my throat. “All good. I won’t snoop, how ’bout that? Go kick back. Rest.”

4

jade

This. Is. Humiliating. I wrestle the trash bag from Asher’s big man hands and wipe a drip of snot from my nose with my upper arm at the same time. “Please. I’m fine. I’ll clean everything up. You have to have better things to do.”

“Why? Do I look that important?”

“Um…” I frown, and then I remind myself not to frown. A—because wrinkles, and B—it’s not cute. “Well, anything is better than cleaning up a stranger’s mess, right?”

“I can think of worse things,” he says.

“My mom is coming tomorrow. She can do whatever I can’t finish today.”

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