Page 34 of The Influencer

I sit up and look around like someone just hit me over the head. “What’s the name of your therapist?” I ask instead of answering his question.

“Christ, Ash, I thought you’d never ask.”

Adam’s therapist doesn’t have an opening for another month, but I go ahead and take the appointment when her assistant calls me back that afternoon. I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s healthy to see my twin’s shrink, but it’s better than not seeing one at all. I try to focus on my work—a commission for a full back tattoo I have scheduled to start next week, but my mind keeps creeping back to him.

Nipples, and sucking, and cum. So much cum.

His breath in my hair, his skin beneath my fingertips, the whimpers, and his soft, light voice when he said he liked it.

Before I even know what I’m doing, I have his Instagram pulled up. The first photograph, the very first fucking one, is of him, shirtless, with puffy nipples and another man who’s also shirtless and well-built. Jade’s mouth is red, and his chin and cheeks are pink—like the two of them just finished fucking, and lo and behold, the caption points me straight to his bio link if I “WANT MORE.”

Bitterness rips through my veins, and I toss the phone to the ground, hurling myself back in my chair and letting out a low roar of frustration. So, is that his type? Did that guy have to pay to play? And why the fuck do I give a shit? Jade is cold as hell. Vain like no one I’ve ever met, and he’s definitely a bitch, but goddamn, I want that bitch. I have a lot of wet dreams, just in general, but the last week he’s been in every single one of them.

I grab my phone and message him.

Asher

I feel like self-destructing. How are you?

The message gets seen within seconds, but there’s no response. Not in a minute. Not in ten minutes. Not in an hour.

So, I guess that’s that. I guess Jesus really is looking out for me and Olivia. I should tell Father Paul to tell Him thanks for nothing.

Instead of going home, I head for the gym, hoping to sweat out all my shame and weaknesses. I push myself hard on the treadmill, then hit the free weights, sharing a few looks with the guy working out nearby. He’s a big guy, almost as tall as I am, but way bulkier.

“Nice ink,” he says to me.

“Nice quads,” I tell him, with zero fucks left to give.

The tip of a downward spiral is so small it’s easy to miss. When the dude points to his wedding band and winks, I know I’m fucked. Because there is no way I would have turned him down if he’d wanted anything from me. I rack my weights, give him a grin and a nod, and head for the locker room. I jerk off in the shower, biting my arm to muffle the sound I make when I come on the tile wall. I have no place left to go but home, but I think about just driving away. Leaving California behind.

But I’m too big of a pussy for that, too. I end up in the gym parking garage, behind the wheel of my car, bent over the steering wheel, right on the border between crying and hyperventilating, and that’s when my phone buzzes.

Jade

All dressed up with no place to go.

I reach for the conversation and grab hold of it with both hands as I type:

Asher

Date stand you up?

Jade

Shockingly, yes.

Oddly, I feel a moment of outrage on his behalf. Like who the fuck would dare stand up Jade Sloane?

Asher

Tell me his name. I’ll kick his ass.

To my surprise, he sends me a screenshot of a Grindr profile, and I appreciate Jade’s petty need for revenge. @_huntercumz is blonde and pretty with a collegiate haircut and a killer tan.

Jade

Want his location? He’s only eight minutes from me. Has been for the last hour. I’m assuming he’s found someone else to suck him off.

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