Chapter 7- The Donor

Eriq

I sit naked, my balls freezing, as this man pays me to pose for him. How are we in the same profession, yet he can afford to pay someone while I can barely cover rent?

“Higher—lift your leg higher,” Pavlo instructs.

“This is as high as it goes, Pavlo,” I reply. He scowls, stands, and walks over, leaning in close.

“Hey, hey, no touching,” I remind him.

He smirks. “Having fantasies about me, Enrique?”

“It’s Eriq, asshole. You’re the one paying to stare at my ass,” I glare back.

“True, your body is a work of art. Now spread it wider.”

“This doesn’t feel right. I already feel a cold draft on my balls,” I complain.

“And what magnifique balls they are,” Pavlo says.

I want to punch him in the face, but I’m two months behind on rent, my paintings aren’t selling, and I refuse to ask my parents for money again. So I clench my fist and follow his instructions. He nods, returns to his seat, and continues painting. Another hour of torture passes before we’re done.

“Splendid!” he exclaims finally. Relief washes over me as I quickly dress. I join him as he stands before the painting, examining it.

“You’re good,” I say, looking it over myself.

“Of course. I am the best with the body,” he replies, grabbing my shoulder. I shift out of his grasp.

“I should get going.” He nods and hands me a check for $500. Two hours of posing for $500? Not bad, even if it’s for this creep.

“Any other painting jobs, Pavlo?” I ask.

He purses his lips. “Not right now, no…” I nod, disappointed, and turn to leave.

“I am looking for a pool boy with benefits, though.”

“Fuck you!” I yell without looking back.

“That was just an idea,” he adds. I slam the door on my way out. As if I’d sleep with him for cash. I’m not homophobic, but I’m not into men—and even if I were, prostitution isn’t my style. I leave his building and head to my bike, riding the short trip home.

I park, jog upstairs, and check my door for an eviction notice. Nothing. I haven’t paid rent in two months, yet no letter or call. Is the owner so rich that they don’t notice, or are they dead? Either way, I can grab some food and art supplies. I drop my keys and head straight to my studio. Posing for Pavlo sparked my urge to paint.

I take off my shirt and approach the easel to work on my latest piece. Five minutes in, a loud bang erupts outside, followed by car horns. I grab my shirt, rush out the door, and race downstairs. A car is lodged into the side of the building. I scan the front—my bike. Where’s my bike? Panic sets in as I search, but it’s nowhere. Fearing the worst, I hurry to the car. Sure enough, my bike is trapped underneath.

“Fuck!” I shout, kicking the car.

“Hey, watch it,” the driver snaps.

“You better fix my fucking bike, or so help me, I’ll beat the shit out of you!” I storm toward him.

“Oh no, I feel faint! Where’s the ambulance?” he cowers.

“Fucking coward,” I mutter, marching back to my bike. I pull it from the rubble. It’s not that bad—maybe it won’t cost too much to fix. I sigh, hopeful I won’t need thousands.

---

“Five thousand dollars?” I repeat the invoice price.

“What? You can’t be serious, Vin!” I yell, following him.

“Look, the bike’s almost totaled. It’ll take a lot of work,” Vincent explains.

“Vin, we’re family,” I plead.

“We’re friends, and because we’re friends, I’m giving you the lowest price—parts only, no labor.”

“I bought it for ten thousand.”

“Well, you’ll need another five to fix it, or say goodbye.” I sigh, running my hands through my hair. This bike is special—the first thing I bought with money from my first big painting sale. I’ve had it for five years. It’s a symbol of my independence, proof that my work matters. I can’t let it go.

“I’ll get the money.”

“I’m sorry, Eriq,” he says.

“Not your fault, Vin. I’m the idiot who didn’t get that jerk’s insurance info.” He pats my back and walks off. I groan, staring at the bike. Where the hell am I going to find five thousand dollars?

---

Thirty minutes later, I take a cab home. Jogging up the steps, I spot someone at my door.

“Hey.”

“What are you doing here, Glen?” I scowl, shoving the key into the lock.

“It’s been a year,” he answers.

“Oh, is a year the timeframe to forgive your best friend for fucking your woman? Guess what—it’s still fuck you.” I unlock the door and push it open.

“Man, I’m sorry. You can’t throw away 25 years of friendship over that woman,” he says.

“It’s not about her—it was never about her, Glen. It’s about you. Why would I trust a friend who’d do that behind my back?”

“You’re supposed to have my back. I would’ve done anything for you.”

“I would too,” he insists.

“Top of your list was taking my place in her bed.” I walk in and slam the door.

“Come on, Eriq, we have to get past this,” he calls. I frown. Like hell we do. I kick off my shoes, grab a beer from the kitchen, and plop onto the sofa. He’s still outside, talking.

“I hear your bike was totaled.” Of course, he knows—same way he got my new address. Those people can’t keep their mouths shut.

“I have an idea where you can get the cash,” he continues.

My hand freezes midair. Can he get me the money? Where? I wait, but he says nothing else. I jump up and rush to the door, hoping to catch him. He’s still there, wearing his signature goofy grin.

“Knew that’d do it.”

“Whatever, dickweed. You said you had a way to get me cash? What is it? It better not be illegal—I’ve got enough fucking problems,” I snap.

“It’s one hundred percent legal. It’s gotten me out of tight spots when I was strapped,” he assures me.

I look at him, confused. What the hell is he talking about? He reaches into his pocket and hands me a paper. I take it and read the first two words.

“Sperm donation?!”