Jayne Rylon

Who am I? Cortez’s bottom or Rogan’s top?

Maybe I’m both.

Maybe I was made to be their middleman.

You see, Kaden’s an artist. One hell of a painter, who rationalizes his inappropriate gawking at sexy men as a study of the human form for his work.

Is he actually trying to comfort me? What kind of fucked up shit is that?

“Try not to get yourself killed, asshole.”

Why not? It couldn’t hurt worse than this.

Without Kaden, there’s not much to live for.

I became one of those real hardcore, moody, mentally unstable artists.

Kaden Finch is kissing me.

And it’s like nothing I’ve experienced before.

A wonderful concept. Genius, really. I wonder if they need venture capital to grow their operations. Another mental note for my time in the office.

I’m finally ready. I think. Mostly.

I pause every day to admire how we look together.

So right. And yet…

Hell, once he even stopped a robbery at a convenience store we happened to be buying condoms at in the early morning hours then acted like it was nothing.