Chapter 1: Introduction
The apartment smelled like sweat and regret, the air thick enough to taste. Mack’s laugh cut through the haze, deep and rough, the kind of sound that didn’t need alcohol to be loud—just the kind of energy that made people listen. Derek leaned back against the couch, arms crossed, his bouncer muscles straining the fabric of his faded black tee. His dark eyes stayed fixed on the TV, where a pair of tanned thighs wrapped around a man’s waist in a way that was less art and more athletic. The man’s fingers dug into the back of the woman’s neck—not gently.
Mack sloshed his energy drink cup, splashing neon purple liquid over his fingers.
The two men’s pinnacles of male fitness—firm pecs sculpted by years of reps, arms strong enough to curl a boulder—flexed in the dim TV glow; Mack’s biceps strained the sleeves of his stained tank, while Derek’s barrel chest rose and fell beneath a black tee that clung like wet paper. Derek’s breath hitched when the camera panned tight on the woman’s arched back, her spine bending in a way that made his own spine straighten with sudden awareness.
Mack wiped his palm on his shorts and jabbed the screen with his beer bottle. “Look at that shit.
Fuck she’s hot,” Mack says, the ad ending with the woman biting her lip like she just swallowed a secret. “Those bitches have it easy, dude. Be sexy, masterbate, make millions.”
Derek’s pulse kicked up, watching the way the woman’s hips rolled, the slow drag of her fingers down her stomach. Mack’s voice cut through the hum of the treadmill still spinning in the corner, the same one Derek had been on for two miles this morning.
His grin split wider, teeth flashing in the neon glow, eyes glinting like he’d just been handed the world’s most ridiculous challenge.
“Alright,” Mack said, slapping the remote onto the coffee table where half-empty cans of Monster and beer bottles already formed a precarious tower. “Don’t just sit there looking like some monk who’s afraid of his own shadow. You, my man, could be *Lexi* with a sprained ankle and a bad attitude—because that face? That *body*? The kind of dudes god made to cry in gym showers.
Mack’s grin was startling, a flash of teeth between all that ink and muscle, the phone still glowing between his fingers like it held the keys to heaven. "Dude—your always complaining about money," Mack shot back, voice half-laugh half-slur, the cheap whiskey thick on his tongue. "Think about it. I’ll be your manager. We buy you some tits, a BBL, you’ll be taking in millions before the first week even ends."
Derek’s dark eyes flicked from the screen to Mack’s wild gaze, the smirk he wore when he was either about to throw a punch or push a wild idea. His fingers tapped once against his knee, the sound surprisingly loud in the apartment’s hum of treadmill and silence. The mannequin in the corner—draped in a harness, taped up in places like some abandoned science experiment—suddenly looked less absurd and more like a preview.
Mack’s voice dropped from laughter to low salesman pitch, the cheap whiskey making his words slur just enough to sound like a man who believed every syllable.
“Dude, you’re always complaining about money,” Mack said, leaning forward until the flickering TV light painted his tattoos in fire. “Think about it. We get you some tits, a BBL—hell, we’ll turn you into Lexi. You’ll be taking in millions before the first week even ends.
Derek didn’t laugh. His fingers tightened around the couch armrest, knuckles whitening under the black cotton. He watched the screen where the woman arched her back again, a slow roll of her hips that didn’t look rehearsed—didn’t look like fake porn at all. It looked like something real, like something he could do if he wanted to.
Mack’s phone lit up his face, casting sharp shadows across his grin. He swiped through a gallery of OnlyFans accounts—thick thighs, pouty lips, boobs most guys could only dream of. Derek’s eyes tracked the images, his own stomach tightening. He’d spent years avoiding cameras, avoiding attention, but now the phone screen pulsed with possibility.
Mack’s laughter split the dim apartment like a crack of thunder, sharp and mocking, the kind of sound that made Derek’s jaw clench before his brain could even register the insult.
“Pussy,” Mack crowed, slapping his knee hard enough to make the coffee table rattle. “You sitting there with a face like that and you’re scared of a little camera? Dude, you could be out here making more in a weekend than you do in a month at the club. What’s the worst that happens? Some dudes jack off to you? Big fucking deal.”
The insult landed, but not the way Mack intended. Derek’s eyes darkened, the quiet kind of anger that didn’t need volume to be felt. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. The mannequin in the corner, half-transformed and half-forgotten, suddenly felt like a mirror—something waiting to be finished.
Derek’s voice cut through the neon haze, measured and razor-sharp: *"Fuck you, dude. You call me a pussy but in that scenario I’d have a pussy."*
His quiet jab landed harder than any shout could.
Mack’s grin faltered for half a second—just long enough for Derek to see the flicker of surprise in his eyes before it snapped back into something wider, something dangerous. The energy drink can in Mack’s hand crumpled under his grip, the neon liquid oozing between his fingers like spilled secrets.
"You *would*, wouldn’t you?" Mack’s voice dropped, smooth and slick now, the whiskey and bravado mixing into something persuasive. "Damn, Lexi. I didn’t even see it coming." He wiped his palm on his shorts, leaving a faint purple smear, and leaned forward like he was about to share the world’s greatest secret. "You’re not wrong.