Page 82 of The Casting Couch

We walked into the living room.He nudged me toward the couch, a long gray thing that looked way too expensive to sit on while feeling this disgusting.But I didn’t argue.I didn’t have the energy to argue.I sank down into it, elbows on my knees, and stared at the floor.

“Strong drink?”Nico asked softly.

I nodded.

He didn’t ask what kind.He just turned and walked into the kitchen.I heard the freezer open.The gentle clink of ice.The sharp pop of a bottle cap.A shaker being pulled down from a cabinet.It was the kind of domestic rhythm that would’ve felt cozy under any other circumstance.Right now, it felt like someone playing a lullaby for a corpse.

My whole body buzzed like I’d been electrocuted but left alive to suffer the aftermath.I couldn’t think.Couldn’t feel.Couldn’t even properly cry anymore.Just this dead quiet inside me, like I’d used up every ounce of emotion during the day, and now there was nothing left but static.

I had nothing to show for the worst day of my life except a ruined soul and zero dollars.Not even zero—negative, because the paycheck that was supposed to help me survive had gone directly into the leather-gloved hands of a woman who could probably gut a deer without blinking.

I’d been humiliated, degraded, used as the centerpiece in a porno scene I couldn’t even wrap my head around—and for what?To pay off a debt I should’ve never had in the first place?

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt loved.Or even safe.

My parents hadn’t spoken to me since my arrest.Not even a card or a text.Just silence.I didn’t blame them.Not really.Why would anyone want to claim a felon for a son?Why would anyone want to know me?

A glass clicked against the coffee table in front of me.

“Here,” Nico said quietly.

I looked up.He was holding a short tumbler full of amber liquid and ice.I took it.My hand shook so hard I almost dropped it.

“Whiskey sour,” he said, sitting down next to me.“Heavy on the whiskey.”

“Thanks,” I murmured.

I stared at the glass for a second, then tipped it back and drained it in one go.The burn in my throat was the first thing I’d felt in hours.I shut my eyes.

Maybe if I sat still long enough, I’d disappear.Just dissolve into Nico’s expensive couch and never be found again.

I could feel him watching me.I didn’t know what he saw.Some broken animal?Some lost cause?

I didn’t get him.I didn’t.Why was he still here?

What did he see in me that hadn’t already been wrecked?

And worse, was it real?Or was it pity?Was he only here because he felt bad for the sad little ex-con twink who couldn’t stop crying and practically had “Abandon Me” tattooed on his forehead?

I wasn’t good enough for him.Not even close.He was funny and smart and God, he was beautiful, and somehow talented at everything from writing jokes to making drinks.He had a future.I had a criminal record and an extensive catalog of regrets.

Any second now, he’d realize what a mistake I was and ghost me like everybody else.

I opened my eyes, stared blankly at the brick wall across from me.My empty glass sweated in my hand.

Then the couch shifted.

I looked over, and Nico had moved closer.His face was nervous, like even he didn’t know what he was doing.His hands hovered awkwardly in the space between us for a second, and then he opened his arms.

“Come here,” he whispered.

I didn’t even hesitate.

I let the glass fall to the coffee table with a dull clink, then leaned into him like gravity had made the choice for me.His arms wrapped around me, firm and warm, and the second my head hit his chest, I cracked open like a dropped egg.

At first it was just a breath.A tremble.Then my throat made this horrible sound, and I realized I was crying.Really crying.The kind of sobbing you can’t fake.The kind that lives in your lungs and your gut and your bones, and has been waiting months—years—to be let out.

“I’m sorry,” I gasped.

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