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“I didn’t brush my teeth, so my mouth is a toxic dump,” I explain. My breath might scare him away before we get started.
“Chicken.” He loudly smooches my shoulder, and his laughter showers us in sparkles. “Roll over and let me see your back.”
I dutifully roll onto my stomach. “Prognosis: I’ll live.”
“You’d better. No dying on my watch. Imagine the scandal and headlines: Pro Hockey Player Dies in Sex Worker’s Bed.”
“If I die and that’s the headline, I’m returning to haunt and torture whoever wrote it. You are not your job.” No one will demean him if I have anything to say about it. The line between his job and personality has grown. As a hockey player, I’m viewed as violent and stupid. I’m neither. He’s an amazing person, and I’m lucky he’s allowing me into his life.
“It doesn’t make it less true. My job doesn’t go away if you ignore it, Mav,” he says, as I nod because he’s right. “Your parents ignored your sexuality but couldn’t change it. I love what I do.”
“I’ll never ask you to stop,” I say confidently, positive I can treat him the way he deserves. For him. For us.
“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” Sky says, inching away from me. I roll closer to him, and he brings his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them in a protective posture. “We’ve always been great together behind closed doors. I’m nervous for when we go out in public and someone says something rude. You have to be able to keep your cool.”
I pick up his foot closest to me and massage it. “I’ve fucked up. Won’t deny that. It’s easy to make promises when the situation is hypothetical. All I know is that I will do better.” My honesty is met with pooling tears.
He stares for a minute, then scrunches his mouth and gives me an approving nod. With a half-grin, he smacks my boxer-covered ass. “Is there anything I can do to help your back? You have another game later, right?”
“I’m good, but we have a couple of hours before I need to leave. This is a rest morning because we have back-to-back games. What could we possibly do to pass the time?” I say with mock innocence. My vote is teeth brushing and staying in bed with our mouths exploring each other.
“I can show you what I do. You can help me sort through new requests, and I’ll show you how I put together content. If you’re not okay with my job, I’d rather find out now than later.” His brown eyes pleading with me is a gut punch.
“You bet. But if I’m late to warm-ups, I’m blaming you.” It takes a herculean effort to tear myself away from him. “And I’m brushing my teeth for the sake of humanity,” I tease, and he tuts behind me with amusement.
“Meet me in my workroom,” he calls as he leaves.
My reflection in the mirror offers me no answers. Sky sharing this with me is huge, and our relationship could hinge on my reaction. Am I being overly dramatic? It doesn’t feel like it. I’m lightheaded, my heart’s racing, and my stomach’s turning.
“You are not an insecure kid anymore. You can handle the job that makes Sky happy.” I pause and add, “And financially well off.” I believe my words and practice holding a smile when thinking of Sky with someone else.
Which is what will happen if I can’t get my shit together.
Shit unite.
That’s a terrible saying. Scratch that.
Chapter 14
Skylar Engelhardt/ Lark Angel
I’ll draw blood if I chew my bottom lip any harder. This is Mav, and for all his faults, he’s not an asshole. He’ll never think of me as less, but the fear he might not want to deal with the reality of my job sits like acid eating away at my insides.
Mav saunters in with a perplexed expression that spikes my nerves. My workroom is designed for me, so he seems gigantic next to the dance bar and costume rack.
“Any questions, let’s get them out of the way.” There’s no point in delaying the inevitable. We’ll rip the Band-Aid off.
“It’s a rude question.” His hands clasp and unclasp in front of him, showing his discomfort.
The acid infiltrates a new chunk of my stomach. “No need to worry, I’m immune to rude,” I say breezily, and congratulate myself on seeming unbothered.
Mav sits next to me against the wall where I have my laptop open and sighs. He scrubs a hand over his face and meets my eyes. “You must make a lot doing this to afford this brownstone. I’m terrified I’ll get hurt and won’t make it past my rookie contract. This”—he arcs his arm in a wide circle—“is way beyond rookie contract money.”
He’s right, and I fight a smile of relief. He’s not stressing over me taking my clothes off; he’s worried about our income difference. Not a place he’s used to.
“Don’t laugh at me,” he says, sulking.
“Never.” I rest my hand on his thigh. Injury can end a hockey player’s career without warning, but I’ll be there for him if it happens. “You’re right. My income is steady, but unpredictable. For real, I’m not sure why guys flock to my content. There are other better-looking guys who perform sex acts on camera regularly, but my page took off, and the money’s almost like stealing.
