There aren't a lot of them. In fact, we stick to five major rules.

1. Don't be an asshole.

2. BTC is Vegas. What happens in BTC, stays in BTC.

3. No judging anyone for their choices to come and go. Pun intended.

4. No dibs on clients.

5. If any of the above doesn't suit you, see Rule #1, asshole.

The BTC meetings normally go down without a hitch, but tonight’s different. “Fuck off, Bellend,” Samshem yells.

Samuel Shemeld. AKA, Samshem or just Shem.

His posh British accent, pretty little man bun and perfectly groomed beard gets girls wet the second he opens his mouth. He knows it and he uses it to his advantage. Even when he’s calling them filthy cock-hungry whores, they gag for more.

It doesn’t help that he could be a Calvin Klein Model.

I hate him.

Okay, maybe not hate—but pretty damn close.

Standing up from his seat, he makes his way over to Troy. “It’s not my fault your client called out my name. Clearly you don’t shag her as well as I do!”

“Boys!” I shout, before someone throws a punch. “Who gives a fuck whose name she’s calling?” I look at Troy. “Did she pay?”

Troy nods.

“Did you get off?”

“Yes.”

“Moving on…”

Chase waits until Samshem is back in his seat before he calls for the card swap.

'The Card Swap' - a way for the boys to jump in and out of the roster. Sometimes, the guys just need a break from sex—true story. Most of the time it’s because they’ve landed a girl worthy enough to give up on paid sex. Or, they’re at least hopeful that said girl will be enough.

This process is done in silence.

It avoids the questions of who and why.

“Anyone got any questions or comments before we close out?” Chase asks the group. There's three more than there was last week, but I haven't paid enough attention to know who's in or out.

Troy speaks up, “I have a question about the pop out?”

“What the fuck is the pop out?” I mumble, distracted by my phone and Allie's text messages.

“You know…when the girl’s on top and your cock pops out…”

“What about it?” I ask.

“Whose responsibility is it to put it back in?”

Apparently the question is worthy of a few chuckles.

“For serious, assholes. I always feel awkward as fuck when it happens. I just stare at it waiting for someone to make the move.”

I shrug and look around the room. “Is there an etiquette associated with cock-pop-out?”

Between the murmurs and chuckles, all I get are a bunch of blank stares.

“What do you do?” Chase asks me, pen to paper like he's taking notes in a class. Which he probably is; Virgin preparation class.

“I guess I just hold it up and impale her when she's ready. I don't know. Haven't really thought about it.” The answer's enough for us to move on and we close out the meeting.

My drama-free life carries on for the next few days—I go to classes, do my best to pay attention—especially hard in Biology considering Red. I’ve never spoken to her; she’s never spoken to me. I doubt she even knows I exist. I like it that way—admiring her from afar so that my thoughts and fantasies of her aren’t ruined when she opens her mouth. Unless she’s opening her mouth for my dick, I have no interest in anything other than her physically.

***

Mrs. Fletcher’s eyes are downcast as she opens the door and, without greeting, leads me to her kitchen. Over her shoulder, she tells me, “The kids are in daycare.” She means her cats. She has no kids. “We have the house to ourselves for the next couple of hours.”

I shove my hands in my pockets and rock on my heels, playing the sweet boy-next-door part I know she likes. “You look very nice today, Mrs. Fletcher.”

She runs a hand down her red hair. It’s the first time I’ve seen it loose. She’s wearing a little make-up and perfume and a cute little blue dress. It’s a big change from her usual sweats and soccer mom look. And I wasn’t lying. She does look cute. “Thank you, Mr. West. I had a trip to the salon yesterday in preparation.”

“Preparation?”

“You know? A trim.”

“Trim?”

“Down below.”

My eyes widen. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Well…” she says, clasping her hands together. “I’m sure this isn’t enjoyable for you, Tyler. The least I can do is not make it horrible.”

I step forward and cup her face, tilting her head up so she looks me in the eyes. I search her face, or at least pretend to. Her eyes drift shut as I lower my lips to hers. She smiles against my kiss and takes my hand. When she pulls away, she leads me up the stairs and to her bedroom.

Candles light up the entire room.

Scented candles—so strong the smell makes me want to puke.

“What do you think, Tyler? Is this okay?”

Smiling, and without inhaling, I kiss her again. “It's beautiful, Mrs. Fletcher, but you didn't have to do all this for me.”

She sighs as she sits at the foot of the bed. “You should start calling me Babsy, and I know that I told you I was ready—and I thought that I would be—but I'm so nervous and…”

“We do things at your pace, remember?”

She sobs as a tear streaks down her cheek.