Page 21 of The Influencer

I turn to see the dancer in hot pink mesh shoving his damp hair off his face and staring up at me with irritation furrowing his smooth brow.

“You made your point,” I tell him.

“I was joking,” he says with an exaggerated eye roll. “You’re welcome to stay.”

He’s full of shit, and I’m not having it. Tonight was the last fucking straw. My life isn’t just pathetic; it’s embarrassing. Something inside me cracks open at the vivid realization. “If I want to be blown off, I can get that in my apartment. I don’t need it to happen under neon lights for anyone to watch.”

He flinches like I lunged at him. “Whoa. Way to make me feel like an asshole.”

“Funny. I could say the same thing.”

He cocks a hip and puts his hands on his waist. The pose is perfect—practiced, even. “What do you want, Asher?” he asks, sounding all put out. “A blow job?”

I huff. “You offering?”

“Only if I can post it online.”

“No thanks.”

“Then it’s a hundred bucks.”

I blink at him in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Sure,” he says. “Why not?” He doesn’t even look slightly ashamed. He’s standing as tall and proud as he was on the dance floor.

“Are you actually saying that if I give you money, you’ll give me head.”

“Best you’ve ever had.”

Calling his bluff, I ask, “You take Venmo?”

“I take everything,” he says with a smirk.

I stare at him for a long time, but he doesn’t shrink, cower, or back down. He’s just waiting.

I shift on my feet and stuff my hands into my jean pockets. “You’re saying if I pay you a hundred bucks, you’ll suck my dick.”

“Are you wearing a wire or something? You know what I said.”

I actually consider the offer. Him. I look him up and down in his ridiculous pink getup and his platform boots. The makeup and the bright jade-green eyes that flash in the glare of the streetlights. And then I consider what I’m actually considering. Paying someone—a man—to suck my cock when I have a girlfriend at home who thinks I’m at the shop doing inventory.

What kind of a fucking asshole…

I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks.”

“Your loss.”

“Is it?”

Taking his hands off his hips, he folds them over his chest, adopting a less brazen pose. “I said I was the best, didn’t I?”

“Is there some sort of online poll for that?”

“It’s on my Grindr profile.”

That pulls a short laugh from me, not because I think it’s funny, but because he’s managed to make me feel even more out of my depth. As tempting as his offer is—and it is—I’m not that guy. But apparently, I’m also not the guy who leaves a relationship that’s no longer working.

However—I could still try to make it work, and maybe this is my big wake-up call. The sign I’ve been waiting for. I walked straight up to the line and didn’t cross it. I should be proud of myself, I guess. But if a tree doesn’t fall in the forest, and no one is there to see it still standing, who the fuck cares?

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