Andre E-Book

L.A. Witt

• Herausgeber: GallagherWitt Publishing LLC
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Matt

There’s nothing quite like a night with one of the Gentlemen of the Emerald City. No strings. No complications. I’ve been burned by love, and I’m not going there again.

Unlike my teammates who fell for their Gentlemen, I know how to keep emotions from coming into play.

At least… I used to.

Andre

I used to love this job. The money doesn’t matter—just the thrill. But that thrill is gone now.

That is, until I meet Matt. And that’s before he starts looking at me like that. And booking me more often. And making my heart do things it’s not supposed to do when I’m on the clock.

How do I convince a jaded man that love is worth another try?

Gentlemen of the Emerald City

Andre is Book 5 of Gentlemen of the Emerald City, a sexy series centered around the high class, high-dollar Gentlemen of Seattle’s most exclusive escort service. Each book is full of snark, sass, and sweetness, and like any Emerald City client, you’re guaranteed a happy ending.

Leseprobe

Andre

Gentlemen of the Emerald City

L.A. Witt

Contents

About Andre

1. Matt

2. Andre

3. Matt

4. Andre

5. Matt

6. Andre

7. Matt

8. Andre

9. Matt

10. Andre

11. Matt

12. Andre

13. Matt

14. Andre

15. Matt

16. Andre

17. Matt

18. Andre

19. Matt

20. Andre

21. Matt

22. Andre

23. Matt

24. Andre

25. Matt

26. Andre

27. Matt

28. Andre

29. Matt

30. Andre

31. Matt

The Gentlemen of the Emerald City Series

The series continues!

Sneak peek: Hunter

Also by L.A. Witt

Also by L.A. Witt

About the Author

Copyright Information

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Andre: Gentlemen of the Emerald City series, book 5

First edition

Copyright © 2021, 2023 L.A. Witt

Cover Art by L.A. Witt

Editor: Leta Blake

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher, and where permitted by law. Reviewers may quote brief passages in a review. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact L.A. Witt at [email protected]

ISBN: 978-1-64230-120-5

Paperback ISBN: 979-8-46580-198-0

Created with Vellum

About Andre

Matt

There’s nothing quite like a night with one of the Gentlemen of the Emerald City. No strings. No complications. I’ve been burned by love, and I’m not going there again.

Unlike my teammates who fell for their Gentlemen, I know how to keep emotions from coming into play.

At least… I used to.

Andre

I used to love this job. The money doesn’t matter—just the thrill. But that thrill is gone now.

That is, until I meet Matt. And that’s before he starts looking at me like that. And booking me more often. And making my heart do things it’s not supposed to do when I’m on the clock.

How do I convince a jaded man that love is worth another try?

Gentlemen of the Emerald City

Andre is Book 5 of Gentlemen of the Emerald City, a sexy series centered around the high class, high-dollar Gentlemen of Seattle’s most exclusive escort service. Each book is full of snark, sass, and sweetness, and like any Emerald City client, you’re guaranteed a happy ending.

Chapter 1

Matt

“Three to four months?” I stared at Coach Henderson and Doc, the team’s doctor. “Will I even be back in time for the playoffs?”

“Hopefully,” my coach said.

“I’m sorry.” Doc didn’t really sound sorry. More like he had this argument with every injured player and wasn’t all that interested in having it again. Leaning against the exam room wall with his arms loosely crossed, he shrugged. “It’ll take six to eight weeks for the fracture to heal, and then you’ll need to work up the muscle tone again before you’re reactivated. Depending on how your physical therapy goes, it could be as soon as three months, but we have to consider the possibility that it’ll be longer.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Coach Henderson spoke first. “You heard the doctor.” He gestured at the door as if to indicate the emergency room doctor who’d made my diagnosis. “I know it sucks, Smitty. I’m not happy about it either. But it’s not up for discussion. You’re on the injured list until you’re cleared to play again. Make peace with it.”

Sitting on the gurney, I stared plaintively at both of them. My coach at least he seemed sympathetic, even if he was standing firm. He’d played hockey himself for a long time, after all, and he’d put in some extended periods on injured reserve, so I didn’t have to ask if he understood how frustrating and disheartening this was.

And I knew it wasn’t negotiable. As much as I didn’t want to accept it, there was nothing they could do and nothing I could do until I healed.

I glared down at the brace on my right arm. The brace that would eventually be replaced with a cast. A goddamned cast. In my mind, I kept replaying the incident, mentally telling myself to tuck my arm and take the impact with my shoulder. I knew better! I’d been skating since I was three, for God’s sake. I knew damn well that when I was falling on the ice, the thing to do was tuck and fucking roll. Don’t land on one of those little sticks that pass for arm bones because that was how those stupid sticks did things like break.

But I hadn’t been skating. No, my dumb ass had been walking out of the arena to get on the bus and head back to our hotel after tonight’s game. I’d picked just the wrong moment to look at a text on my phone, and my dress shoe had found some ice on the pavement. When I was skating, I was focused and alert. Walking with my phone in my hand? Not so much.

So when the world had gone out from under me, I’d flailed. I’d tried to both catch myself and not drop my phone. As a result, the sticks in my right arm had found themselves between pavement and a falling hockey player, and one had broken like the worthless little twig that it was.

Fuck.

Coach Henderson put a hand on my shoulder. “I know you’re not happy about this, son. But take some time. Rest up. It’ll go faster than you think.”

I looked up at him. “Will it, though?”

He pursed his lips. Then he shrugged. “Fine, I won’t lie. It’s gonna suck. But you’ll get through it.” He patted my shoulder before he withdrew his hand. “In a couple of weeks, you can do some light skating with the team in a no-contact jersey.”

Doc shot him an are you fucking kidding me look. “Uh…”

“Let him skate.” Coach Henderson chuckled. “He’ll lose his mind if he doesn’t.”

Doc groaned and rolled his eyes as he pushed himself off the wall. “Matt, as a medical professional, I would strongly advise against that.”

I just nodded. Normally I’d make some smartass comment, but I was in a hell of a lot of pain right now, and I was seriously devastated over my season having a huge hole blown in the middle of it. I was supposed to play my eight hundredth game this season. Apparently that was going to have to wait.

I shifted a little, cradling my arm gingerly. “I don’t think I’ll be skating any time soon. At least not until I can lace up my skates.”

Doc looked mollified by that. He nodded, then left the room, muttering something about hunting down coffee and discharge papers.

Henderson watched me. “You’ll get through it. I promise.”

“Yeah.” I laughed bitterly. “We’ll see.”

So, that was that.

Forty-eight hours after I hit the pavement, I walked in through my front door.

Wellllll… shit.

I left my bag by the door, shuffled into my living room, and dropped onto the couch. I glared at my arm, something I’d been doing a lot of since the snap heard ‘round the world. I didn’t even have a cast yet. My forearm was still swollen, and Doc had put in a call to… I don’t know. Someone. Someone who would be calling me with an appointment so they could wrap my idiot arm in plaster so it could stay encased while the bone took its sweet time unfucking itself.

For now, I had this uncomfortable brace and a sling that was an epic pain in the ass to put on and take off without someone helping me. Was it really necessary for it to wrap around my waist? Seriously? Because that seemed like overkill.

Then again, when I took it off and tried to move my arm, it made the throbbing worse, so… Okay, maybe the sling was necessary. Fuck, this sucked!

They’d given me pain pills, but I didn’t like taking them. I’d given in at the hotel last night in the name of getting some sleep, but otherwise, I was determined to knuckle through it.

That wasn’t because I was trying to be some badass. Quite frankly, painkillers terrified me. Injuries were a thing in hockey, and I knew a few too many players who wished they’d never met that fickle mistress named Vicodin. One had become addicted, and two years into retirement, he was still struggling to break that addiction. It was especially difficult since he’d needed a few surgeries thanks to the injury that had driven him into early retirement, and he’d told me not long ago that every single day was a constant tug-of-war between “I need this pill so I’m not in pain” and “I need this pill.”

Another player had started taking Dilaudid after an off season knee surgery, and he’d kept a few around in case he was in pain before a game. He’d worried himself sick that he’d get called up for a no-notice drug test the same day he threw back a pill, so he only took them when it was either “take a pill” or “don’t play”. What he hadn’t considered was that pain was a sign that something was wrong, and that maybe killing that pain and playing through the injury would be a bad idea. The only silver lining was that by the time anyone thought to drug test him, he was already in the emergency room, hopped up on all kinds of painkillers to take the edge off how badly he’d utterly destroyed his knee. His career didn’t end that night because of a failed drug test—it ended because he’d played too hard on a knee that had been screaming for help. Now he could barely walk, and he was taking painkillers on the regular just to make it through the day.

I had a broken bone. Broken bones fucking hurt. I knew I should just bite the bullet and take some pain pills until the worst was over, but… no.

And pain pills or no pain pills, what the hell was I supposed to do with myself for three to four months? This wasn’t like the off season where I could go on vacation. I mean, I could. There was nothing that said I was confined to the house like a kid who was off sick from school. Between now and when I started physical therapy, there was no reason I had to stay in town.

On the other hand, even when this ridiculous arm decided to stop hurting (it would, right?), I was going to be limited in what I could do. I wasn’t going to be golfing, I’d be down an arm for carrying things or using my DSLR, and I was pretty sure Doc would petition to have me suspended from the League if I even joked about tackling that renovation in my kitchen.

Out of sheer boredom and habit, I opened up the Emerald City app. It was something I often did when I was on the road and wanted something to look forward to when I got home. Of course, now I was home, so I was just torturing myself because it wasn’t like—

Actually…

Huh.

Maybe I could hire a Gentleman. Or two. Or however many. My arm was busted, but the rest of me still worked. At least I assumed it would after the pain died down a little. And hiring someone for orgasms sounded more appealing than working out my left arm while the right was out of commission. I’d be doing plenty of that over the next few months for sure, but Handerson Cooper didn’t get to have all the fun.

Okay, so maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. As long as I was being forced to take it easy… no harm in having some company, right? I could fool around with someone without overtaxing my stupid bones. I wouldn’t book anyone quite yet—I really was in too much pain right now—but a boy could look.

With some renewed interest, I started browsing. A few of my favorites had been deactivated, which wasn’t a surprise. The app seemed to have a pretty high turnover. Given that two of my teammates were now shacking up with former Gentlemen, I had to wonder how many of the men on the app were gone now because they’d fallen in love with clients.

Well, whatever. It was disappointing to realize some of the hottest guys were gone, but I wished them the best and hoped they were happy, whether they’d simply moved on or were settling down with a former client. That kind of arrangement wasn’t in my future; after all, I was on the app to avoid any misunderstandings regarding my intentions to stay entirely single. My sister thought I was a coward for avoiding any semblance of love after being hurt twice, but I really didn’t care what anyone thought of me. Those two heartbreaks had cut me to the core, especially the first, and I couldn’t even get away from one of the men responsible. When I had to see an unrepentant reminder of that heartbreak every fucking day, I wasn’t signing up to see if things worked out differently with someone else.

Oh, but I didn’t have to see him every day for a while, did I?

My mood brightened a little. Being off the ice sucked donkey dick, but I could live with a three-to-four-month break from Scott’s delightful presence.

Smiling to myself, I kept scrolling.

This was kind of nice, actually. I usually had to pick one guy, book him, and then pick another the next time I was in town. This time, I could favorite as many as I wanted, and for all anyone cared, I could book a different man every night for the next however many weeks.

Just… yeah, maybe after my arm didn’t hurt so much and the sling wasn’t so cumbersome.

I’d get there. And when I did, this was going to be the most fun a hockey player ever had while on injured reserve.

There were a lot of beautiful men on the Emerald City app, and now that the pain in my arm was manageable, I was happily working my way through them. Some were firecrackers in bed, but not so great at conversation. Others were fun to lounge around and talk to, but could have maybe benefitted from some YouTube tutorials about the rest. Though one guy was clearly just nervous. New to the game, I suspected. I booked him again one night and, yep, he’d been more confident. Still nothing to write home about, but a good time was had by all. Four out of five, would book again.

“All right.” I sat back on the couch and pulled up the app. “Who will be keeping me company this evening?”

He was fun. I wouldn’t mind another go with him.

Wasn’t this the dude who used his teeth? Ugh. No.

Oh, I meant to add this one to my favorites.

Plenty of guys were catching my attention tonight, but nobody was piquing my interest enough to actually go through the steps to book them. Maybe I just wasn’t in the mood. Christ, was I actually getting bored of having sex with hot dudes? Probably, yeah, considering it was about all I could do these days besides sit around, read, watch TV, or work out.

And there was only so much working out a man could do, especially when he was limited twelve ways from Sunday. Doc had warned me against skating until the bone had at least started to mend, and he didn’t even like the idea of me stepping onto a treadmill. I’d insisted I was perfectly safe running on a damn treadmill, at which point he’d dryly reminded me that I was in a cast because I’d fallen on my ass while walking.

Touché, Doc. Touché.

So that pretty much left stationary bikes and any other kinds of exercise I could do without putting my stupid arm at risk, and then whatever I could do without needing my dominant arm. No video games. No photography. No golf.

Hence… fucking my way through the Emerald City app. At this rate, though, I was going to have to venture into Tinder because I was running out of—

Oh, hello.

How had I overlooked him? I was pretty sure I’d seen him before, but not recently, so he may have just reactivated his profile.

I tapped it, and oh, yes, he had my attention.

Andre had hazel-leaning-green eyes and short, black hair, and he described himself as “Black and Egyptian.” Tall and lean, like someone who religiously kept himself fit but didn’t starve himself into a six-pack, and oh, sweet Jesus, that was a set of full lips I would definitely pay to kiss.

His profile was a little sparse. No endless paragraphs of cheesy attempts to convey his bedroom preferences without actually saying “Hey, Seattle P.D.? I’m 100% a prostitute over here.” Seriously, I was surprised this app hadn’t just gone with Seattle historical tradition, labeled themselves “seamstresses,” and offered to help men who needed their “socks darned” (no, I hadn’t occupied some of my boredom by taking the Seattle Underground Tour four times, why do you ask?).

Anyway. Andre didn’t bother with all of that, keeping it brief and alluding to the fact that he was willing to kiss on the mouth, he was vers, and he absolutely did not do anything on camera. Shame about that last part—I had like four Gentlemen who I’d hit up while I was on the road for some cyber action. But if that wasn’t his thing, that was cool. I did, after all, still have the other guys, and it wasn’t like I was traveling any time soon because heal, you stupid bones.

He concluded his description with: Please inquire if you’re interested in me, even if you aren’t sure if it’s something I do; I am generally available for most short-term services offered by EC (sorry, I am unavailable for extended bookings at this time).

That seemed to be a thing lately. Fewer and fewer guys were offering extended bookings. That didn’t really affect me—it was just something I’d noticed while perusing profiles. I wondered if they’d had some legal trouble associated with it, or if the guys who hired them for those bookings were just dicks or something.

Well, whatever. I didn’t need anything extended.

I was, however, interested in a night with Andre.

So I clicked, Book This Gentleman.

Chapter 2

Andre

“I know, I know. But it hasn’t finished curing yet. There isn’t much I can do about that.”

On the other end of the line, Jeri, the gallery owner, sighed. “Honey, I’ve got buyers beating down the door for that piece.”

I indulged in an eyeroll, then glared at the painting in question. “It just needs a little more time. I’m sure the buyers will understand waiting two more weeks or so to make sure the paint stays put.”

She made another unhappy noise. “Okay. I’m going to tell them three weeks just to be safe.”

“Perfect.” I smiled, keeping it to myself that I was pretty sure the paint only needed one more week to finish curing. Three would be more than enough time.

We touched base on a few other things—an upcoming show at the gallery with me and several other local Black artists, the logistics of a juried competition I was judging next month, and what I planned to paint for donations to some charity auctions later in the year. Then she had to take off so she could meet with a potential buyer for one of my larger pieces, and I needed to get back to work.

As I pocketed my phone, I gave the curing piece a dirty look. I’d used a different brand of paint for this one, since another artist had insisted that this company’s Alizarin Crimson and Naphthol Red were richer and had a better consistency than what I usually used. She was right, but the tradeoff had been that the reds in this painting were taking for-fucking-ever to cure. I’d have to experiment and see if they responded well to more generous use of cobalt drier without deteriorating.

Not much I could do for this piece except wait, though, so it stayed on the drying rack while I went to the three easels I had set up near the huge windows. Each had a canvas on it—two that would be part of a themed collection the gallery had scheduled to display this summer, and a third that was an experimental abstract. Beside them, two more canvases lay flat on a table where I was applying their base colors.

I sat at the third canvas—one of the two from the collection—and looked it over. Like the others it would be displayed with, this was a male dancer, nude and in motion. When Jeri had called, I’d been in the middle of adding some shadows to the muscles of the man’s back, and I picked up my brush to continue.

I’d just started deepening the contour of his hip when my phone rudely beeped again. “For fuck’s sake. Now what?” It wasn’t a call, so I took a moment to clean the brush, then left it in a holder to dry.

With my brush duly cared for, I took out my phone, wondering who was texting me this time.

You have received a booking! Please confirm your acceptance.

Oh, God. Emerald City.

I blew out a breath, shoulders sagging as my enthusiasm for my art flitted away. Every time I got a booking these days, I had the same “ugh, do I really want to go through with this” feeling?

And I hated that. Fucking hated it. Because I used to love working for Emerald City. That was the only reason I even did it—my art paid my bills and then some, so I hardly needed the money. I just dug the thrill of being hired for sex or to go to parties with people, especially because while my name was quite well-known, my face wasn’t. So I’d frequently mingle with people who had no idea who I was. A lot of times, the sex (if it happened at all) was “meh,” but the job was always inspiring, that was for sure.

The last several months, though…

“Why am I still doing this to myself?” I muttered to my painting. The naked man stayed frozen in his pirouette and didn’t answer.

Glaring down at my phone, I sighed.

I’d deactivated my profile on Emerald City for a few months, and even after I’d grudgingly put it back online two weeks ago, I hadn’t accepted many bookings. Every time I turned one away, I felt even shittier. It wasn’t like I felt unsafe. This was high-dollar with background-checked clients. Anita had no qualms about getting law enforcement involved if someone tried to pull something shady or dangerous; her attitude toward clients was fuck around and find out, and she was not kidding.

I really did like the job. I’d always enjoyed it. What wasn’t to love about going to parties and fooling around with guys who were willing to shell out cash for my company? It was a blast!

Ever since that stupid cruise last summer, though…

Ugh.

Quite honestly, I was surprised Anita hadn’t deleted my profile and told me to kick rocks. I kind of didn’t care if she did, because after Tony and that disaster of a cruise—fuck this job. Fuck Emerald City. Fuck Anita. Just… fuck all of it. Definitely fuck extended bookings.

“I don’t care if you go inactive,” Anita had told me the other night. “I don’t care if you price yourself so high, no one books you. That’s all your business. But when you start turning away bookings, we have a problem. Get it together, or take it someplace else.”

She probably wasn’t kidding. Her fuck around and find out attitude didn’t just apply to the men who booked us. I’d heard from some of the other Gentlemen that she absolutely would fire anyone who pissed off clients.

Most of the guys I’d escorted had been decent, if not good human beings.

But Tony. God. That motherfucker. What the hell.

Thing was, I was always happy to help clients think about something besides their exes. If someone wanted to be fucked until they forgot their ex’s name, I was definitely their guy.

And I’d thought it would be fun to be the fake boyfriend for a destination wedding and a luxury cruise while Tony prayed his ex changed his mind about—ugh, God. Who cared? It was a nightmare. Night. Mare. By the time we’d made it back to shore, I’d been so ready to ditch Emerald City, I’d been tempted to toss my whole phone into the Pacific just to make it all go away. There might have been some alcohol involved in that.

So yeah, my heart just wasn’t in this gig anymore. I’d heard from some of the other guys that an awful client could sour the entire job, and I believed it now. Tony hadn’t even been that bad, considering all the ways clients could be terrible. If I’d only been with him for like one party or something, it would’ve been fine. I’d have rolled my eyes all the way to the bank, where I’d gleefully deposit his payment into the “hire more of the really expensive nude models” fund.

But two weeks of that noise? I’d snapped. It was a good thing another Gentleman had been aboard the ship, too, so I’d had someone to vent with, but even that hadn’t been enough. Eventually, I’d just lost it… and accidentally spilled everything in front of my client’s ex. So awkward, especially when Anita had found out. At least Marco, the other Gentleman, had gone to bat for me, but I was on thin ice for sure. So why wait for her to fire me? I didn’t need the job. Why not just bail and move on from—

My phone chirped again, reminding me of the booking notification I hadn’t yet acknowledged.

So, was I going to accept it or not? I mean, the client was probably a perfectly nice guy who was lonely, horny, or both. There wasn’t another Tony lurking behind every booking, and the real Tony sure as hell wasn’t going to hire me again. I was just jaded.

Really, really fucking jaded.

With a sigh, I opened the new client’s profile to look for a reason to reject the booking.

Yeah, it’s definitely time to bail on the whole escort thing. This is getting—

Oh my goodness.

As soon as his photo appeared on the screen, I almost dropped my phone.

Where has this man been hiding my entire career?

His face wasn’t visible aside from his sharply angled, unshaven jaw. Not unusual. What I could see of his body—damn. He was white with reddish hair (not that I could see much of it aside from the scruff on his jaw). Clearly an athlete from the physique. Like seriously, this man had arms and shoulders for days, but that ass. Wow. There was a photo of him in a pair of boxer briefs that may as well have been painted on, and could somebody turn up the A/C? Because it was getting hot in here. Seriously, the amount of thrust a dude could get with an ass and a set of thighs like that?

I gulped. Goddamn. I hadn’t just stumbled onto another Gentleman’s profile, had I? Or a man who wanted to pose for my next piece? Or my next collection of pieces? This really was a client who wanted to pay me for sex?

Narrowing my eyes, I peered suspiciously at the screen. Okay, he was hot enough to nearly give me a hard-on right here in my studio. So what the fuck was wrong with him that he had to hire ass instead of just, like, waiting for every man in Seattle to swipe right?

I switched to the screen where other Gentlemen could leave comments that only we could see. That told me two things right away.

One, from the sheer volume of comments, this man was not new to Emerald City.

Two, from the tone of said comments…

Hell, there wasn’t a damn thing wrong with him. He loved kissing (and was good at it), he loved giving oral (he was good at that too), and he enjoyed conversation without wanting to get too clingy or personal. Glowing reviews all around from guys he’d topped, taken, blown, jerked off, or—in one case—spent half an evening making out with in a hot tub. The one and only complaint was that when he topped, he “prepped forever like he was about to fuck me with a ten-inch dong—like dude, you ain’t that big.”

Sooo he was good at basically everything and he didn’t rush through prep? Plus he was hot as hell?

Well, then. Sign me up.

As I went through the motions to accept the booking, I grinned to myself.

Maybe I could enjoy this work again after all.

Chapter 3

Matt

Note to self—maybe don’t work out quite so hard on days when you’ve got someone coming over from Emerald City.

Lying back on the couch, I pressed the icepack against my forehead. That wasn’t why I’d grabbed the icepack in the first place—my left hip was being an attention whore tonight—but I was apparently a little dehydrated, and my throbbing head wouldn’t let me forget it. While I drank some water to fix that problem, I let the icepack soothe the pounding in my forehead.

Blech. And I was planning on getting laid tonight?

Maybe I should cancel.

I was allowed to have an off night, right? Especially when I was recovering from an injury? There was no shame in—

My phone chimed on the coffee table, and I swore.

Really? Seriously? Was today just bound and determined to be one truckload after another of steaming bullshit?

I brought up my right arm and used the cast to keep the icepack steady against my forehead. With my uninjured hand, I felt around until I found the phone. I swiped it, and despite doing it blindly, apparently didn’t “accidentally” decline the call. Sigh.

I put the phone to my ear. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Hey, hon,” Mom said. “I just wanted to check in. How’s your arm healing?”

“Slowly. I mean, it’s a broken bone. It’s going to take some time.” I left the icepack balancing on my forehead and rested the cast across my stomach again. “The doctors still say three to four months.”

“Three to four—my God, honey. That’s a long time.”

“Tell me about it. But I can’t play until they give me the green light.”

She was quiet for a moment, and I cringed inwardly, wondering what was coming. I hated these conversations so much. Finally, she sighed. “We’re just worried about you. Are you sure you don’t want me to come out and help you while you—”

“No!” I said quickly. “I’m fine. Honestly. It’s one arm in a cast. I can’t play hockey, but I can still do plenty.”

“Can you?” She didn’t sound convinced. “Your cars are both manual, aren’t they?”

“Yes, and I’m renting an automatic for the time being.” No, I was not happy about that. I loved my cars, goddammit. Being off the ice was painful enough without also carting myself around in an automatic.

Mom sighed heavily. “Are you sure? I mean it—I can come. Your father and I are just so worried.”

I gritted my teeth. “I’m managing fine on my own. I promise.”

Truth was, yeah, it was a royal pain to have my dominant hand out of commission, but I’d chew off my cast and lick the inside clean before I let my parents come stay with me to help. I loved them, and I appreciated the offer, but the phrase “we’re so worried” was doing a lot of work.

We’re so worried… that if you don’t get back on the ice ahead of schedule, people will think you’re not as tough as your teammates.

Or rather, that they’d have confirmation I wasn’t as tough as my teammates. Because for as much as my parents supported my career, for as much as they’d supported my dream since the first time I’d told my kindergarten class I wanted to play hockey when I grew up, they really didn’t like me being one of the faces of “queer hockey”. Especially since that made them the parents of a queer hockey player.

They insisted they didn’t hate that, but I knew. It was one of those things no one said out loud, but hell of a lot of subtext could be contained in quiet glances over the Thanksgiving dinner table or long silences on the phone. Like the one currently humming between us.

No one had to say it—Mom and Dad wanted me back out on the ice as soon as possible so people wouldn’t think their son was a delicate flower who missed half a season over a minor boo-boo. We’d been through this when a concussion had benched me for several long weeks in college, since apparently a big, strong heterosexual player would have bounced back in half that time. On the other hand, there’d been the time I’d gone down and had to be carted off the ice, but I’d only ended up missing one game. Clearly that meant I was just being dramatic when I couldn’t get up, and I hadn’t really been hurt.

Sorry to disappoint. Maybe if I’d been straight, I could’ve skated through what Doc had thought might be a dislocated hip. It hadn’t turned out to be that serious, but it had hurt like a motherfucker in the moment, and Doc hadn’t wanted to take any chances. I probably could’ve walked. I probably could’ve finished the game and played the next one. But apparently that was just me being a princess and—

“Matthew?” Mom nudged. “You still there?”

“Yeah. Yeah.” I turned my head to let the icepack slide off, and I stared up at the ceiling. “Listen, I’m okay. I don’t need help, and I’ll be back on the ice as soon as I get the green light. Trust me—I’m not enjoying this.”

Though I can’t complain about the constant sex from a steady parade of hot men.

I bit back a laugh. No, scoring myself a position as Emerald City’s most loyal customer didn’t make up for having a broken arm and being off the ice, but I’d take whatever silver linings I could get.

Mom sighed heavily, killing my humor. “Just let us know if you need anything. We’re here to help, and we know you’ll be much happier when you’re playing again.”

“I will be,” I admitted. “It’s up to bones and doctors now, but I’ll be back in time for the run-up to the playoffs. Don’t worry.”

She was going to worry. Specifically about all the reasons people might look askance at her for managing to produce a professional athlete son, but maybe one who’d be better off figure skating or something. Yeah, that was a comment that had been made within my earshot. What could I say? The relationship between me, my parents, my career, and my sexuality was intricate in all kinds of fucked up ways, mostly because Mom and Dad were the poster children for embracing toxic masculinity. Story of my life.

After some more worrying and well wishes, we ended the call. I tossed my phone on the coffee table, then picked up the icepack and put it on my hip where it belonged.

Staring up at the ceiling again, I scowled as my mood started to match my body—wrung out, hurting, and seriously feeling like this was exactly what I wanted to do for the rest of the night. No sex. No company. Just lie here and feel like a slug, because fuck everything.

I loved my parents. Really I did. So much so that apparently I kept having to remind myself of that. What did it say when they refused to move to Seattle because “it’s so gray and depressing there,” and I did absolutely nothing to disabuse them of that notion? Because if they realized how nice the weather was here more often than not, they’d move in a heartbeat. At which point I’d ask to be traded to a team on the East Coast.

I was thirty-two years old, for crying out loud. My parents should not have occupied this much of my time or energy, but whenever I got off the phone with one of them, I went into this spiral. The why do I bother spiral.

Why do I bother trying to please them?

Why do I bother staying in contact with them?

Why do I bother even asking myself that, because I know damn well I’ll never cut them off or tell them off?

God, I was such a spineless coward when it came to them, and it didn’t just affect me when we talked on the phone. It bled into my life in all kinds of insidious ways that a therapist would probably make a mint helping me map out and deal with. For real, the man who’d broken my heart in college wasn’t the only reason I avoided relationships. The thought of bringing home a boyfriend nearly made me break out in hives. My parents insisted they’d welcome him and accept him, but I was sure beyond a shadow of a doubt that they’d “welcome” him with tight-lipped smiles and “accept” him with pleasantries ground out through clenched teeth. Oh, they’d smile. They’d let my partner come to family functions and even stay at the house. They’d let us share a guest room, same as they did when my sister and her various boyfriends came home.

But they wouldn’t like it, and everyone would know it, and no way was I putting any man through that. Between my family and my baggage over Scott and my ex, it would be a cold day in hell before I had a boyfriend, never mind one to bring home.

And wasn’t that an uplifting train of thought to get me in the mood to screw tonight?

“Damn it.” I scrubbed my hand over my face. I really needed to cancel this evening, because I definitely didn’t have the energy to get my money’s worth.

Feeling like absolute ass, I picked up my phone again, this time to cancel the booking.

Wait, it was already quarter to seven? When did that happen?

And… shit. That meant Andre was on his way over. Unless he lived within a mile or so, he’d already left so he could be here at seven. Hell, he’d probably left over an hour ago to deal with traffic.

Groaning, I dropped my phone on my chest beside my cast and rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. Okay, so tonight wasn’t going to be fireworks and fucking. Escorts also worked as, well, escorts, and some of the other Gentlemen had told me they had clients who hired them for purely platonic company. That usually wasn’t my style, but it would be tonight.

With another groan—shut up, I was allowed to be dramatic sometimes—I rolled to my feet and shuffled toward my bedroom to change clothes. Maybe we weren’t going to fuck tonight, but I could at least look like someone who’d expected company.

And who knew? Maybe I’d feel differently when he arrived.

Somehow I doubted it.

Chapter 4

Andre

Tonight’s client lived on Mercer Island, which wasn’t much of a surprise. Gentlemen were not cheap—especially not fourth tier like me—and Mercer Island was stupid expensive. For shits and giggles, I’d once looked at real estate here, and it was like Medina—literally nothing below a million. Even little thousand-square-foot houses built in the 1970s were in the seven figures just because of where they were. I was making a very respectable living, but the only time I’d ever darken a doorway around here was when someone was paying me (and paying me well) for sex.

Though there was always that possibility of a piece of art suddenly going for millions at auction. Hey, a boy could dream.

On the other hand, if I ever made that kind of money, I’d probably go out to the Olympic Peninsula where I could have some kind of enormous palace on a hundred acres in the middle of nowhere. It would really add to the mystique, you know? Ahmed Yehia, the reclusive artist who paints and sculpts in his private compound between the Pacific Coast and the Olympic Rainforest.

I chuckled to myself. Yeah, a boy could definitely dream.

Per my GPS’s instructions, I hung a left, and this road took me past even more opulent homes owned by software tycoons, celebrities, professional athletes, and people who’d made some really smart investments in stocks in the late 1990s.

I bet Tony wishes he lived out here.

My own thought made me roll my eyes. Ugh. Fucking Tony. Could he just not cross my mind anymore? Seriously? Though it was kind of amusing to imagine him pining after the glorious houses out here that he’d never be able to afford. Unless his ass won the lottery, he and his inferiority complex would just have to keep living in a swanky condo like the rest of us peasants. And mine was bigger. So there.

God. That dude. Tony had been what I would call affluent, but he was also a pompous, entitled dickhead. In fact, I was pretty sure he’d been uncomfortable as hell in Hawaii and on the cruise, because while he could usually feel like the richest dude in the room, we’d been schmoozing with high society. Like… high society. One of the newlyweds’ parents had been footing the bill for literally everything because they were hella rich. The kind of hella rich who were probably on a first name basis with Gates and Bezos. They had also turned out to be super nice, while Tony thought he was God’s gift to everyone because… because I didn’t even know why. What a dick.

A dick who had taken up what seemed like permanent residence in my brain like some kind of unkillable parasite.

Or maybe gritting my teeth over what a butthole he was meant avoiding thinking about how nervous I was about this evening. Or how much I just didn’t want to be doing this at all anymore.

I exhaled, tapping my thumbs on the wheel. I really didn’t want to do this tonight. I missed the days when I didn’t get myself all spun up before meeting a client. I used to be so excited on the way to a booking that I could barely sit still. There was something hot as hell about sex for money. It was rebellious and forbidden, which was heady as fuck for me, and it was devoid of expectations (no one had any illusions that it was more than a one-time transaction) and pressure (make small talk, make him come, take his money, and leave). So much less drama than dating, and way more exciting. And what could I say? I never felt more inspired to paint a gorgeous naked man than after I’d been in the arms of one the night before.

The worst-case scenario (barring the kind that involved police, which I’d never encountered, knock on wood) had usually been a client who was boring or kind of a jerk, and in that case, I could roll my eyes, blow the dude, take his money, and not think too much about it. That was rare, though. They were mostly enthusiastic and eager to get what they’d paid for. Some were too self-conscious about their appearance to date or to feel good about their bodies, and I enjoyed nothing more than making a man feel beautiful for a night.

I fucking loved being a Gentleman.

But ever since Tony…

God. That guy.