Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130673 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 653(@200wpm)___ 523(@250wpm)___ 436(@300wpm)
“No,” I said evenly. “Now answer my question.”
Then I noticed something. They were holding a dog each in their hands—one of those insufferable breeds that was tiny and loud and cost about the same as a luxury car. A Pomeranian, I think. The canine version of Farrah Fawcett, if you will. The minute my gaze landed on the two canines, I knew. I just knew. Suddenly, the reason my parents had sought me out in recent months finally made sense.
“No,” I said, resolute. “No way. I’m not doing it.”
To their credit, my parents didn’t even attempt to deny what this was about. “Oh, come on, son! We have nowhere to put them,” my father chastised.
“They’re not fucking accessories, Dad. You’re not supposed to put them anywhere. You’re supposed to take care of them.” My voice rose, and I hated that I was showing emotion. I never did with them. There was no point. “What made you think you’d be fit to become a dog owner? You did a shit job with your only son.”
“Here we go again.” My mother slapped her own thigh, shouldering past me and stomping into my apartment. My father followed suit. They put the tiny dogs down, letting them roam my living room unsupervised. One immediately ran to the kitchen island, raised its tiny leg, and took a piss on the leg of my Italian stool. My teeth slammed together, blood boiling. I closed the door, forcing myself to take a deep breath.
“You always seem to be complaining about the job we did with you, but you turned out fine, didn’t you?” My mother fixed herself and my father some coffee, making my place her own without asking. “Nice job, beautiful apartment in Manhattan, lots of friends. You want for nothing, Rhyland,” she huffed with a shake of her head.
I folded my arms over my chest, leaning against the counter. “What’s my job?” I asked tonelessly.
My parents exchanged blank looks. My teeth dug into my inner cheek. Even though I knew damn well they’d never made an effort to get to know me, this was next-level shocking.
“Don’t start,” my mother warned, aiming a teaspoon at me.
“No, I’m serious. What’s my job?”
“You studied business,” my father provided cautiously, as if this in any way showed they’d been involved in my life in the past decade—or before it. “You work in…finance?” He stared at me helplessly.
“Yes, finance.” My mother nodded, oozing bitter elegance. “And now you have this app thing going on.”
“I’m a whore,” I lied. Well, half lied, really. Maybe quarter lied. I was retired now.
My mother choked on her coffee midsip. My father shot me a horrified glare. The damn dogs jumped up on my leather couch, and by the smell of it, one of them was in the midst of taking a shit.
“Rhyland,” my mother warned, clutching her pearls in a death grip.
“It’s true.” I shrugged. It was the first time I’d verbalized my previous profession for what it was. I dated for money. I romanced for money. I fucked for money. I sold my body, my heart, my soul, for a quick buck. This was the truth. And every day I didn’t do that was a healing process. So fuck the money. Or, in this case, the lack thereof. “It’s the honest-to-God truth, Mother. I worked with Row for a few years, back when my escort business was just taking off, but this is my main gig. Being a male prostitute. Business is booming. Thanks to you, I guess.” I gestured to my sculpted six-pack, to my height, to my face. “This apartment was paid for by one of my clients.”
Again, not a lie.
There was silence for a moment before my mother collected herself and sat up straighter on the stool. “So what?” She pouted haughtily. My mother was a classically beautiful woman, but she didn’t have that glow that came from within. She looked like a lifeless symmetrical drawing. “Men aren’t sensitive about such things. So what if you have sex for money? You’re probably having fun doing it. You’re right—you should thank us. Not many men have the opportunity to do this. We gave you the good genes to have a successful gigolo career.”
“Genes were the only things you gave me,” I seethed. “And even that only because you didn’t have a choice. Nothing else, Mother. Nothing at all.”
Her words aggravated me, and I wasn’t even sure why. None of this was news to me. But somehow, even after all these years, it still cut deep to see them completely disregarding my life, my choices, my feelings.
“Listen, son, we’re not here to judge you.” My father raised his palms. “We only want to make sure you’re doing well for yourself. You are doing well for yourself, right?”
I had a feeling they were about to break some more bad news, which I didn’t think was possible, since they were already here with a task. My mouth curled in annoyance. My nostrils twitched. Yeah. That damn dog had definitely taken a dump on my designer couch.