Page 10 of My Brother’s Best Friend

JORDAN

What’s the best way to get a guy to treat you like a filthy slut, but in a consensual, respectful way?

I didn’t actually want the guys I met online to not care if I got off, but I wanted them to pretend they didn’t. I wanted them to act like they couldn’t keep their hands off me. I just also wanted their forceful, couldn’t-stop-it-if-they-tried fucking to happen to give me an orgasm, you know?

But how did I put all of that in a profile without sounding desperate?

I was still pondering that question on Friday morning while I worked the register at The Roastery. I’d decided last night to make a profile. I just couldn’t figure out how to word it.

But maybe I was overthinking this. Maybe I just needed to put what I wanted out there, manifest it into being. Tell the universe what I wanted, then open myself up to receive—figuratively and literally.

With a nod, I opened GayBae, the app I’d downloaded last night, and clicked the plus sign to make a new profile. I’d call myself Miller, my middle name, to at least attempt to keep my impending slutdom from affecting Levi’s business.

Someone—anyone—literally anyone—please just fuck me. Do I sound desperate? Maybe I am. But I’m an equal opportunity slut here. Bad conversationalists, cheap dates, halitosis sufferers, people who have strong opinions about anime, inquire within. Like, literally, deep, deep within me. Do you own twelve cats? Are you still not over your ex? Is your relationship with your mother slightly Bates-ian? Doesn’t matter. I won’t ask about your unexplained absences, your unsettlingly large collection of knives, or why you know the locations of all the major arteries in the human body. I don’t want to meet your friends, I don’t want to plan vacations to Paris, hell, I don’t even want your number. I just want to fuck you, or be fucked by you, or any combination thereof. If this sounds like a recipe for disaster, check out my pictures. If it still sounds like a recipe for disaster after that, I mean, you’re probably right, but I’m not going to let that stop me. If, however, you find yourself intrigued against all better judgement and common sense, well, leave a message at the beep.

I added some photos from my For Sexting Purposes Only album on my phone and hit publish before I could hem and haw anymore. None of the pictures had my face in them—I might be reckless, but I’m not a complete idiot—but they showed off my other assets. And if they didn’t get me at least one message by lunchtime, I might as well delete my profile, because nothing else would.

I frowned down at my phone. Maybe I should add one more picture? Just to be on the safe side? I had one where my hole wasn’t just showing, it was completely—

“Jordan Brooks, is that you?”

My head snapped up. A middle-aged guy in a forest green cardigan and khakis was standing in front of the register, smiling at me. Smiling very broadly.

“Mr. Leonard?” I blinked. My middle school vice principal? I hadn’t seen him in ages. “Um, yeah. It’s me. How—how are you?”

“Oh, doing well, doing well. Still keeping those rascals in line over at Adair Junior High. I used to say they were turning me prematurely gray, but that’s pretty much a done deal at this point.” He smoothed a hand over his hair, which was, indeed, far more salt than pepper. “Maybe it’ll start falling out next?”

“Well, I’m sure it’s…not boring, at least?” I offered. I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t really want to keep the conversation going either.

Things had been pretty rough with my family when I was in middle school, and Mr. Leonard knew a lot more about me than I wanted him to. He’d been one of those people who really wanted to help, which was nice, I supposed, except it meant he could never just let a topic lie. Up until I graduated high school and left the island, he’d had a way of bringing up uncomfortable details every time he saw me.

“It keeps me young, that’s for sure,” Mr. Leonard said. “Helps me keep up with what’s cool. Did you know I’m on TikTok?”

“You…are?”

“Yeah, let me show you! Do you have an account? You can follow me.” He started to dig his phone out of his pocket.

“Oh, it’s—actually, I don’t really do social media,” I said quickly. I had to shut this down, or I was going to spend the next half hour watching whatever videos he’d put online. “But I’m sure it’s really funny.”

“Well, I try.” He smiled ruefully. “But, heck, look at me, droning on and on about my life instead of asking you about yours.”

Oh, God. Here it came.

“I actually need to—” I tried, but it was too late.

Mr. Leonard stepped closer to the register and gave me a look I was sure he intended to be meaningful and kind. It just made him look kind of constipated, though, and maybe like he wanted to keep my eyeballs in a glass jar in his basement.

“How’re you doing, Jordan? How are you doing, really?”

“I’m fine.” I made my voice sunny and bright. “Doing great, actually.”

“Are you?” He leaned so far forward, he was practically on my side of the counter. “Because I heard from Carrie Demarzo that you’d moved back, and I remembered how insistent you were that you were getting out of Summersea. Going to make it in the big city, weren’t you? I told her she had to be mistaken, but then, here you are!”

“Just visiting,” I said, my smile tightening at the corners. “Just helping my brother out for the festival.”

“Ah, of course. And how is Levi, how are the girls?”

“He’s—they’re—everyone’s good, Mr. Leonard. Really.”