Page 25 of The Trust
Just like these stupid spreadsheets.
The breath I blow out puffs my cheeks at the reminder of my gym’s financial state and I decide that answering Lemon sounds easier to deal with.
“Fine.”
Lemon freezes. Eyes wide and barely blinking.
“Holy shit, you bottomed.”
I choke on my own saliva. “What?How?”
“Ohhhh my gawds,” he screeches and throws his arms up, dancing around in a circle in the little space behind the reception desk next to me. “Fuck yes, Daddy Jay!Finally.”
You’re telling me.
“Okay, okay.” There’s a chuckle that escapes me and he starts clapping.
“I fuckingtold you. Holy shit. Didn’t I tell you?”
“Um, no?”
He scoffs and settles in beside me, his energy still radiating off him in jittering waves.
“I did. I said we were alike. This—” he gestures at me with a finger, “says I was right.”
“No, this—” I point at my own chest, “—says I’m vers. Not a bottom.”
“Potato, poh-tah-to.”
“There’s a difference.”
“Is there, though?” He pins me with a look. “Both mean you take dick up the ass and enjoy it.”
“Lemon.”
He snickers. “I’m jealous.”
I scrub my hands down my heated face and turn back to the computer. “Do I want to know what of?”
“Probably not.”
Barely catching his shrug, I pretend to stare at the numbers on the screen.
Because while Mac and I are doing fantastic, everything else just …isn’t.
The numbers still don’t add up. The repairs and cheap memberships have meant that even putting back everything that comes from the gym, I’m still paying out of pocket for half the utilities.
And while that’s not ideal, not sustainable long term, I’ve also been skipping out on body guarding, too, to deal with being here.
I’m being pulled in every direction.
Stretching way too thin.
It’s not enough.
I blow out my breath and turn to Lemon.
Who is uncharacteristically quiet.
