Page 7 of Sebastian

His laughter is another high-pitched giggle and again, shivers run down my spine and goosebumps bloom across my skin. I take a deep breath to settle myself but the sensations don’t go away.

“I thought so. I’m, um, a big fan of your work.”

“Thank you,” I say from behind my polite but distant mask. I’ve found that short and sweet answers result in short and sweet conversations.

“I actually do some performing too.”

Great. Sebastian’s not the first random guy to “come out” to me as a performer. They’re often looking for validation, some kind of acknowledgment that we’re in the same club or something. Except there are dozens of “clubs” in the industry and I’m not in any of them. Not anymore.

“In fact, you kinda inspired me to, you know, pursue this career.”

I pause with his arm raised above his head. Okay, that’s a new one and I don’t have a canned response at the ready. In fact, I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about inspiring someone to become a porn star. Is that a good thing? What kind of kid dreams of becoming a porn star in the first place?

“Sorry, is that weird?” Sebastian looks like he’s bracing for an attack and he’s trying to tug his arm out of my grasp.

I gently set his arm down on the table again and step back. “No, it’s, uh, flattering, I guess. Thank you.” Should I be thanking him? Or should he be thanking me?

Sebastian sits up and suddenly he lights up like he’s had a revelation. He rolls his shoulders and bends from side to side. “Wow, I feel amazing.”

I smile at the reaction and lean into the warm feeling it always gives me. “It’s the assisted stretching. We can get deeper into the muscles this way. And you won’t be as sore tomorrow either.”

He jumps off the table and smiles at me, and I almost have to brace myself, it’s so bright. He’s been shy and nervous the entire time we’ve spent together and this is the first time it feels like he’s dropping his guard. I have to admit, his smile is breathtaking. It’s impossible not to notice.

“So, um, actually, I was wondering…” He’s stammering like he’s nervous, but he’s still got that smile on his lips. It’s so disarming that I don’t hear what he says next. When I manage to tune back in, he’s saying something about having a page and working together.

I blink. Wait, what? Did he—is he?

“No pressure,” he says, taking a step backward like he’s trying to be non-threatening. “I just thought I’d throw it out there, because like, it would totally be a dream come true to work with you. But I totally understand if you don’t want to get back into the game.”

He holds out a business card that he’s produced from out of thin air. “Anyway, that’s my page. If you wanted to check it out. I mean, you don’t have to. Just, you know, if you want.”

I take the card. It says Sebastian Silver, and then there’s a web address below it.

“Okay, well, uh, thanks for…” he gestures vaguely around the gym, “everything.” And then he disappears around the corner and into the locker room.

I stare at that corner for several long seconds, then down at the card. The answer should be simple. It should be no. So why does my heart lurch at the idea? Why do I slip the business card in my pocket instead of throwing it in the trash?

CHAPTER FOUR

CHRISTIAN

I’m sorting through my dirty laundry when I find the card again. Sebastian Silver. I really should toss the card. I’m not getting back into the game, so there’s no point in keeping it.

And yet…

I haven’t been able to get Sebastian’s smiles out of my head. First, that combo of sweet and sultry, then the one that was as bright as the sun. He’s got that endearing yet suggestive quality that I’m sure attracts a lot of fans.

Just how many fans?

I shake my head. It doesn’t matter how many followers Sebastian has. It’s not going to change the fact that I’m not going back. I can’t. I shouldn’t.

I stare at the card for another second before putting it back on the dresser. I’ll toss it later—I will.

I turn back to my dirty clothes and stuff them into a laundry bag to take to the laundromat. It’s at the end of the next block, just far enough that I don’t like running back and forth to my apartment between loads, so I make sure I have my earbuds with me before I head out the door.

Except, when I settle into a chair in front of the washing machine, it isn’t the latest fitness podcast I pull up. I open up a search browser instead and type in “Sebastian Silver”. The first result is an Instagram account. He’s smiling in all his photos and I study each one like they’re masterpieces hanging in a museum. They don’t look contrived. He looks like he’s having a good time, like he’s having fun. It feels like he’s inviting you into his world for a quick break, a short reprieve from reality.

I can see his appeal, the magnetism that has—holy shit—seventy thousand people following him. That’s a lot of people. I don’t know much about social media, but I know that seventy thousand is a freaking ton.

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