Chapter 9

Chris's POV

“Whatchu coming to me for, kid?”

Esteban leaned back in his chair, his massive stomach practically swallowing the desk as he eyed the thick wad of cash I dropped in front of him.

“That’s his payment,” I muttered, wincing the second I shifted my weight.

God.

Everything hurt.

Esteban glanced at the money, then back at me.

For a moment, he just stared.

“Kid,” he finally said, almost amused, “I don’t need your cash.”

I frowned.

“That’s your tip.”

I stare dumbfounded at Esteban

Excuse me?

My brain genuinely stopped functioning for a second.

Esteban puffed smoke from his cigar while rocking lazily in his chair.

“He already pays a yearly subscription worth more money than you’ve probably ever seen,” he continued casually. “The Don tips whoever he likes. That stack’s yours.”

Mine?

All of it?

I stared down at the money again like it might suddenly disappear if I blinked too hard.

No.

There was no way.

I had never held that much cash in my life before.

Never.

My chest tightened painfully at the thought of what it could do for me. Tuition. Rent. Food. Actual breathing room for once.

For the first time in months, maybe years, I felt something dangerously close to relief.

Esteban narrowed his eyes at my expression before his gaze slowly dropped lower.

Then he noticed the way I was awkwardly holding myself.

A grin immediately spread across his face.

“Damn,” he laughed. “That bad?”

I glared weakly at him.

“He must’ve wrecked you good.” He shook his head with genuine disbelief. “Didn’t even know the bastard was into men.”

He lit another cigar while muttering to himself.

“Then again, nobody really knows shit about anybody in this world.”

I was honestly too exhausted to respond.

“You should get yourself checked out though,” he added between puffs. “I can’t have my employee falling apart after one client.”

Employee.

Weird hearing myself called that.

I grabbed the cash carefully off the desk and headed toward the door, moving slower than usual because apparently walking had now become an extreme sport.

Sure, the night had been awful.

Painful.

Humiliating.

Confusing.

But the money…

God.

The money was life-changing.

And maybe that was the dangerous part.

Because now I understood how people got trapped in work like this.

You suffer once… then suddenly suffering starts looking profitable.

I stepped outside Silver Slippers into the cold night air and waited near the sidewalk for a cab.

10:30 PM.

I was exhausted.

All I wanted was to go home, collapse onto my bed, and maybe survive the night without crying every time I sat down.

Hopefully my father wasn’t home either.

Or if he was, hopefully he’d passed out drunk somewhere far away from me.

A taxi eventually pulled over.

I climbed in carefully while trying not to visibly die in the backseat.

“Where to?” the driver asked.

I gave him my address.

“Fifteen dollars.”

I almost argued on instinct before remembering the stack of money still sitting in my pocket.

Right.

I wasn’t broke for exactly five minutes.

“Fine,” I sighed tiredly.

The drive home felt endless.

Every bump in the road personally offended my entire lower body, and by the time we finally arrived twenty minutes later, I was ready to fight whoever invented sitting.

The apartment door was locked.

Thank God.

That meant my father either wasn’t home or had passed out already.

Either way, peace.

I dragged myself inside and limped toward my room before collapsing face-first onto the bed.

Instant regret shot through my body.

“AH— fuck!”

Right.

Still injured.

Still painfully aware of everything that happened tonight.

I groaned into the mattress while staring blankly into darkness.

Yeah.

This was going to be a very long night.

*************

“Hm… well, the good news is your rectum didn’t sustain any serious damage. It’s just a minor anal fissure.”

The doctor said it so casually while pulling off his gloves like this was a completely normal Tuesday for him.

Meanwhile, I was lying there questioning every life decision I’d made in the last twenty-four hours.

So.

Great.

I could officially say two men had now seen my ass.

Amazing achievement.

“Luckily, it should heal fine with proper care,” the doctor continued while scribbling down prescriptions. “You’ll need to follow the treatment consistently for at least two weeks.”

I nodded awkwardly while pulling my dignity together piece by piece.

He adjusted his glasses before continuing.

“Warm sitz baths daily. Medication twice a day. And absolutely no anal intercourse for at least a month.”

My entire face immediately heated up.

Okay, first of all—

I never specifically said it was sex.

But honestly, there probably weren’t many other explanations for why my ass looked like it had survived a natural disaster.

The doctor handed me the prescription sheet with the kind of professional calm that made the whole situation even more embarrassing.

“Use the cream exactly as directed.”

“Yeah,” I muttered weakly. “Definitely.”

A few pharmacy stops later, I called Esteban to explain the situation while limping slowly down the sidewalk.

To my surprise, he actually sounded understanding.

“Take the month off and heal properly, kid,” he said through the phone. “I need you alive and in good condition if you’re gonna make me money.”

Then he laughed.

That disgusting, cigar-filled maniac laugh of his.

“Need you ready to take more dick.”

A shiver crawled across my skin instantly.

“Yeah, okay, bye,” I said quickly before hanging up.

God.

Why was everyone in my life terrifying?

By the time I finally reached my apartment building, exhaustion had completely settled into my bones. All I wanted was sleep.

Real sleep.

The kind where you disappear for twelve hours and forget life exists.

I unlocked the apartment door and stepped inside—

Then froze.

The door had already been unlocked.

My stomach dropped instantly.

He was home.

Dad.

Fear settled cold and heavy inside my chest.

Please let him be asleep.

Please.

“Chris.”

My name echoed through the apartment in a low, emotionless voice.

Shit.

I slowly turned toward the living room.

He was sitting there in one of the chairs waiting for me.

Completely sober.

Honestly, that scared me more than when he was drunk.

His eyes stayed fixed on me with this strange unreadable expression while one hand rested against the armchair.

The other held something thick.

Cash.

My cash.

My stomach twisted violently the moment I recognized the stack of hundred-dollar bills in his hand.

No.

No no no.

He slowly waved the money in the air.

“How,” he asked quietly, “did you get this much money?”