Page 43 of Finance Bros

That hug last night was intense as hell. The heavy breathing. The agonized sound he made. The scent and heat of him. That vast empty space inside me that felt slightly less empty with him up close and his breath on my neck.

So what do I do now? Do I say something? Do I try fantasizing about it again and see if it’s as potent as last time? Picture undoing his tie… his mouth on my neck.

My cock stirs, and that same sickness from before pools in my belly, stirring, twisting…

I don’t know. I don’t want to lie to myself, but this is major. This is a decision I can’t make on one impulse, based ononehug. “I don’t know how to do this,” I groan out loud to the dog and the room.

Stephanie gets up, makes a circle in front of me and snuggles hard against my chest. She weighs four pounds normally, but when she really tries, she can make herself weigh about twenty.

Bailey texts to see if I know how to make a stitch video or does she need to walk me through it.

I assure her I can figure it out.

She sends me some talking points to pivot the TikTok conversation from real estate to franchises.

Once I get the gist of what she wants me to say, I turn my camera to selfie mode, welcoming the distraction. The lighting could be better, but I flip through some filters and find one that gives the effect of natural light. Stephanie is perfectly positioned, and I look how I feel. Hard up and in bed. My shirt’s already off, so I find an angle that showcases all the finest aspects of the pathetic state I’m in, and I deliver my lines like I’m telling a woman I want to lick her till she comes screaming on my mouth. I send it to Bailey, and she responds with a head explosion emoji.

Bailey

You just did that right now?!

Me

No, I read your mind and made this one yesterday.

Bailey

You guys are fucking fire. We’re going to win huge.

Me

You’re flirting with me now?

Bailey

Still not my type, golden boy.

Great. So glad the nickname is sticking.

But I can’t argue with Bailey’s tactics or her approval. Neither can TikTok. By Sunday evening, Ryan and I have made six videos, and our views are up to thirty-three thousand per post.

Whatever we’re doing—it’s working.

But if I have to see Ryan’s sword tattoo one more time, there won’t be a distraction in the world big enough to stop me from thinking about what it’s pointing to.

9

RYAN

It turns out, I don’t hate attention as much as I thought I did. As Bud’s and my following grows, and I become more confident shirtless on the internet—because the comments I’ve read are a thousand percent positive—minus the inevitable guy who always wants to argue with me about whatever snippet of advice I dole out, I feel good about this plan. Leveraging social media successfully is a quick ticket to success, and I’ve always heard the trick is to “just be yourself,” but when yourself is a glaring, awkward, cynical dick most of the time, you kinda think it’s probably not the place for you.

However—I’m also the guy who works out six days a week, quit smoking pot and started using my brain. I rescued Bud and picked the best tattoo artist in Oregon to decorate my body. Granted, I knew I wasn’t hideous, but a certain rejection at a young age has made me err on the shyer side of social interaction. But the compliments I’m getting—on my ink, my muscles, my eyes, my hair—have me enjoying the process a hell of a lot more than I thought I would. Norah never leaves a comment, but she always likes my posts, and I like knowing she’s watching.

I texted her Sunday afternoon telling her she could dosomething similar if she wanted to join the fun, but she sent me a picture of herself with no makeup in a baggy hoodie with the messageno thanks.

Because this has become my new life now, I’ve stepped outside my own box and invited an actual person into my home. Calyx is currently sitting on my bathroom counter. I’m standing between his legs with my hands on either side of him while he explains how to make up my eyes so they’ll pop on camera without looking like I’m wearing cosmetics.

I hesitated when he hopped up and spread his lean, smooth legs, but he gave me a look that was some combination of come hither and get over yourself, and I walked right in. “You want to bring it just inside your lash line—see?”

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