Page 40 of Mad for Madison

“Does she know?” Madison asked conversationally.

I shook my head. We were in his studio, where Madison spent all his free hours these days. It was warm and cozy and full of new works. “I’m inspired,” he’d told me last week. The painting of me had opened something in him that he hadn’t thought was there anymore, apparently, and he shed the influences of old masters in order to find his own way.

The painting of me was prominent on the bare brick wall above the futon, visible from the entrance and every other angle of the studio. It was expressively painted but held on to a note of realism that was threaded through all his works. It was bold, precise, and more than a little flattering.

“She’d like to meet you,” I said. The dusk glow faded away outside, giving in to the night. The winter was still deep and cold, but days were starting to stretch a little longer, and I looked forward to March in a few short weeks. “Actually, she’s hoping to cook us all something.”

“Grandmas are awesome,” Madison said, his arm around my shoulders. The couch we sat on was old and worn, springs poking my ass uncomfortably, but Madison’s arm around me made everything else so unimportant. Nothing could ruin this. “You don’t have to tell her.”

“Huh?”

“Your gran,” he said. “You don’t have to tell her who I am. It’s not like she’ll stumble on it.”

I cringed. “That’d be awkward.”

Madison laughed, the low rumble spreading, vibrating into me.

“It’ll come up eventually,” I said. “She’ll want to know what you do.”

“Well, that’s just it,” Madison said. “It’s been almost two months since I shot my last scene. Jett calls, but he stopped asking. I think he expects me to tell him when I’m ready to go back to business as usual. I’ll have to tell him.”

“Tell him what?” I asked.

“Bradley,” Madison said quietly, as if shaking me awake. “I don’t want to make porn anymore.”

I looked up at him.

“Did you really think I would continue?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I didn’t really think about it.”

Madison’s arm tightened around me, grounding me in the moment. His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, something vulnerable. “I don’t want to be doing something that makes you hesitate, even in the smallest way,” Madison said. I opened my mouth to protest, but he shook his head. “Don’t deny it. I see the way your face changes sometimes, like you’re trying to convince yourself it doesn’t matter.”

That hit harder than I wanted to admit. It wasn’t that I thought less of him for his career—it was just…complicated. And maybe I hadn’t been as good at hiding that as I thought.

“It’s not about me,” I said quietly. “It’s about what makes you happy. If painting does that, or whatever else, then great. But don’t make decisions because you think it’s what I want.”

Madison leaned his head back against the worn couch, staring at the ceiling. The warm light from a single lamp castshadows on his face, softening the sharp edges that made him look more guarded than he was with me.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he admitted. “Long before we met. I just didn’t know how to stop. Or if I even could. It pays ridiculously well, and I had so little to lose that I…well, that I just went on with it.”

“And now?” I asked, my voice steady.

“Now I want more,” he said, looking at me. His expression was open, unguarded, the way it was when he painted. “I want a life that feels like it’s mine, not something I’m borrowing for a paycheck or pretending to enjoy because it’s expected of me.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. I didn’t know what to say at first, so I just nodded.

Madison smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t fully reach his eyes but tried. “I know it’s not going to be easy. People will still see me as the guy from the videos. Even if I’m not doing it anymore.”

“I don’t,” I said, my voice firmer than I intended. “You know that, right?”

His gaze softened. “Yeah. I know.”

I reached out and took his hand, threading my fingers through his. “You’re more than that. Way more. And if painting’s what you want to focus on, then do it. But you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Not me, not Gran, not anyone.”

Madison exhaled, his shoulders relaxing a little. “It’s not about proving anything. It’s about…finally figuring out what I want. And I think I’m starting to get it.”

His thumb brushed over the back of my hand, and I let myself lean into the moment.

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