Page 142 of The Influencer

“There was a little more to it,” he says.

“And you’re not going to tell me?”

“You said you couldn’t think straight.”

“If I could, would you tell me?”

“If you really wanted to know, sure.”

I huff. “Considering I’ve asked about it twice, I’d say that’s a good indication that I want to know.”

“I just realized how much he and I have grown apart these last couple of years. It’s weird, and it hurts to think about, but I guess it needed to happen.”

“Once he’s married and everything’s, you know—more settled—do you think it’ll get better?” I ask.

“I don’t know. We’re brothers, but maybe we’re not supposed to be best friends. We don’t have a whole lot in common when it comes down to it.”

“You and I have almost nothing in common, but we get along okay.”

“How do you define getting along?” Asher asks.

“The standard way,” I say.

“Not counting fucking?”

“Not unless you want to fuck your brother.”

Asher laughs. “You are so drunk.”

“I’m making perfect sense. What are you saying? You don’t like me except when we fuck?”

“I absolutely did not say that.”

“Then why are you giving me a hard time for saying something as innocent as I think we get along?” I ask, my voice taking on a shriller pitch.

“I’m not, I’m just…ugh… Forget it.” He takes his hand off my leg and puts it on the wheel, focusing on the road.

I have no idea what this man wants from me anymore. When there was a money exchange involved, things seemed simple enough, but now we’re so out of balance it’s almost funny. I’m drunk, he’s sober. I’m in love, he “cares about me,” I’m aching to be his, and he wants to give me away.

I prop my elbow on the window and rest my cheek on my hand, letting out a long, loud sigh.

“What?” he asks sharply.

“I think I should start with someone I’ve filmed with before. Just a blow job, maybe—to get back into the swing of things. Unless you think I should go straight for Lucas Lopez and make a huge splash, pun intended.”

“I’m not your pimp, Jade. Just do what you normally do.”

I roll my eyes, bitterness rising. “Grindr it is, then.”

“Whoa, hold on. A stranger?”

“Oh, you didn’t mean dating?” I ask, playing the dumb blond.

“You thought I meant dating?”

I know exactly what he meant, but I’m looking for a reaction now, and whether it elevates or devastates me, I’m too drunk to care. “Fucking other people, dating, what’s the difference?”

“I—I—” His grip tightens on the wheel, and he guns it onto the access road. Luckily, it’s late, and there’s not too much traffic, but he manages the road like a NASCAR racer.

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