Page 44 of Filthy Sweet

I offer him my hand, then stand and walk us over to the couch, where I spread a blanket for our naked bodies. My heart pounds as the story I’ve only shared with his brother takes shape in my mind. As unnerving as it is to reveal my past, I’m suddenly eager to get it out, too.

We sit down, and I pull his feet onto my lap. “You remember I was seventeen when I skipped town?”

“Right,” Owen smiles softly, encouraging me. “I remember.”

I chuckle, remembering how naïve I was. “Thought I’d get to LA and become a rock star, just like that. It didn’t happen, and in no time, I’d blown through the little money I saved. Without an education, no home address, nothing, I did what I could to scrape by.” I take a deep breath, preparing myself for any reaction. “I stayed with strangers and started turning tricks. I picked up older men downtown, and I quickly figured out that I was good at it.”

“Oh.” Owen leans back on the couch. “You were a sex worker,” he says carefully.

“For about five years.”

Most people carry a lot of ignorance and judgment, and despite knowing how sweet Owen is, I still tense, waiting for his response.

He chews his lip, thinking deeply. “That’s why you’re so secretive? Because you don’t want anyone to know about your history?”

I rest my hand on his leg, relieved that he’s not spouting some hateful garbage, grateful like always that he’s him. “That’s part of it, sure. But there’s more to the story. You know me, I’m not the type to sit idly by and bide my time. Once I got it through my thick skull that I wouldn’t be a rock star, I recalibrated and decided I could still make my name in the industry. Instead of studying that shit at college, I figured out which bars the music execs spent their time at and started picking up men there.”

My heart beats steadily, my nerves awake. I worked through any shame about my past a long time ago. I had to, if I was going to do what I wanted to do. But I never talk about this, and sharing it with Owen is kind of like facing the hard truths all over again.

Owen’s thoughtful expression softens. “That’s how you learned the industry.”

“I listened,” I say, happy that he seems impressed. “And snooped. But most of it came from one guy, a real prick named Trey. He treated me like shit.” Concern clouds Owen’s expression, and I rush to reassure him. “He didn’t hit me or anything like that. But he was mean, petty, selfish. Just an asshole, all around. He also liked to brag about himself and all the shady deals he pulled. He thought I was a nobody, and because of that, he spilled all his secrets.”

“Wow,” Owen says, processing. He tilts his eyes around the apartment. “You really worked your ass off to get where you are, didn’t you?”

I chuckle. “I’d say. I hoped Trey’s dirty secrets would give me enough of an advantage to make my move when I relocated to Seattle for a fresh start, seven or eight years ago. But even after I spotted Mare’s genius, I couldn’t convince a label to give me shit. I was going to throw in the towel, but then Phoenix Sunset released their second album.”

“It was a hit, right?”

An old sense of defiance rushes through me, like I’m young and fighting to start my career again. “Sure it was a hit, but the production was fucked. The label was trying to mainstream them, and they stripped the band of all their magic. And since the guy managing the band just so happened to be Trey, I saw my opening. I flew to LA, confronted him, and threatened to reveal all his dirt if he didn’t release the band from their contract. I had a connection to the drummer through another old trick, one who actually treated me with respect, and he made an introduction. Once I convinced the band that Trey was leading them down the wrong road, I came back to Seattle, offered them up to Heavy Weather, and used the leverage to get Mare a deal, too.”

“Holy shit,” Owen says quietly. “Fox, that’s badass. I can’t believe you did all that.”

I shrug. “I knew what I wanted. I went for it.”

Owen laughs. “Sure, no big deal,” he teases me.

We look at each other for a minute. I realize that somehow, Owen isn’t really fazed by all of this. He’s clearly taking a minute to think it all through, but he’s smiling at me, too. I feel his sweet energy pouring out of him, like warm light, and it washes over my nerves, dousing me in something strange and nice.

His smile softens. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that.”

“I was luckier than most people in my situation. And I made it here, safe and sound.”

“Still. You shouldn’t have to fight so hard. I remember how it was for you back home. People made you fight for everything, even just for the chance to be yourself. It’s amazing that you never gave in, and you’ve accomplished so, so much. But still, Fox, you should have had someone else there to help you. You shouldn’t have been so alone.”

There’s a lump in my throat. I’ve heard that sentiment before, from Reggie. But the words just land differently from Owen.

“Thanks for saying that,” I tell him.

“Thanks for sharing with me,” he answers, then crawls forward. He pulls his body on top of mine and wraps his arms around my neck. He feels warm, soft against me as we embrace, skin to skin.

“Sure,” I answer, my voice rough. “Sure.”

We lay there for a minute, not saying anything. Big emotions roil through me, appreciation for Owen swirling with the sadness of dragging my history back, and the relief of unloading it. My long-held belief that I’m best alone feels weak and unstable, but needing someone else is terrifying. If my life collapses and all my bullheaded choices come back to haunt me, that could hurt Owen, too, and I won’t accept that.

He leans up, looking me in the eye. “It’s late. I should probably get going soon. Do you want to schedule another date?”

I sit up and pull Owen so that he’s in my lap, his ass warm on my half-hard dick. I want to invite him to spend the night, but that would just blur the lines more, and I fight to resist the temptation.

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