Model Boyfriend

by Stuart Reardon

  He’d also done a lot of sightseeing, capturing his experiences on film, and enjoyed sharing them with Anna when they Facetimed each evening.

  There were times that he wished she was with him, but she was busy at home with work and her own life; there were also times when Nick enjoyed doing something for himself and by himself. He’d been part of team life since he was a kid—it was refreshing to make a go of things on his own.

  He walked everywhere, believing it was the best way to get to know a new area. He’d done that when they first moved to London, and still enjoyed exploring new parts of the city.

  One thing that had surprised him about New Yorkers was how upfront they were. Both men and women hit on him when he was out, even joining him at a restaurant table while he enjoyed a meal alone.

  At first, he’d simply told the truth and would say that he was travelling by himself, but he was engaged. That didn’t seem to put off anyone; in fact some women had taken that as a come-on, and twice women had simply sat down at his table and started talking to him.

  No matter how politely he tried to tell them that he wasn’t interested, they just wouldn’t take no for an answer until he’d actually stood up and walked out.

  So many times, in fact, that he’d started telling people that he was rushing to catch a flight, and then he’d end up bolting his meal and getting indigestion. He didn’t know what it was, but New Yorkers were a lot harder to blow off than the British.

  Occasionally, he bought a boxed salad or deli meal and took it back to the hotel to eat in peace; but just recently he’d found a diner that had a counter you could sit at, and since he started getting to know the staff, they intervened if they found him stuck with another admirer.

  “You’re too nice,” the owner, Franco, had told him. “Just tell ‘em to take a hike.”

  Nick shook his head.

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Well, imagine that your girlfriend was the one being hit on. What would ya say then?”

  Nick glowered, his eyes narrowing.

  Franco laughed.

  “Give ‘em that look, buddy!”

  But that evening, since Nick had already eaten and had a light beer on his way back to the hotel, he didn’t even have the excuse to go out to get some food.

  Just as he’d decided to go back to the gym for another workout, his cellphone rang and Orion’s name flashed up.

  Normally, Nick would have let it go to voicemail, but tonight he was bored enough to answer.

  “Nick, buddy! How ya doin’?”

  “Not bad. How are you?”

  “Yeah, I’m good, great! Adrienne is sending me for another casting with a top clothing company next week. She’s really excited about it—she says it could be the big one.”

  Nick didn’t bother to reply. He’d had the same conversation with Orion a dozen times before. The guy was always convinced that the next call would be from Giorgio Armani in person, offering him a six-figure contract. Either he really believed that or he’d read in a self-help book that portraying a positive image would bring its own rewards. He certainly didn’t believe in downplaying his assets, which meant that he and Nick had almost nothing in common—other than their agent.

  But Nick had no friends in New York, so Orion was it.

  “You busy tonight?”

  Nick was cautious.

  “Got a few things I was going to take care of…”

  “Can them, brah. I’ve been invited to this party tonight and I was told to bring some friends. Word is, it’s going to be amazing. Everyone will be there—great place to get noticed. You in?”

  Nick had done the club scene in his twenties—it was mostly about drinking and hooking up, neither of which he was interested in doing. He also wasn’t interested in repeating the Kirsten fiasco.

  Orion sensed his hesitation.

  “Ah, come on, man! It’s kind of a big deal—a lot of scouts and agents will be there—see and be seen, right?”

  Nick weighed up the choices: another night in by himself, or hang out with Orion and his friends for a few hours.

  In the end, Nick found himself agreeing to meet Orion in Greenwich Village at a bar they’d gone to once before.

  Orion was sitting with three other guys in their mid to late twenties who were all trying to make it in the modelling biz. Nick recognized the quick appraisal they gave him, the look that he saw at every casting as the other models assessed the competition.

  He shook hands with them, then sat down on a barstool while Orion went to the bathroom and then to get the drinks. Nick had asked for a bottle of Heineken, but Orion reappeared with a tray of tequila shots.

  They downed two each in quick succession, then Brodie, who seemed to be the one with the connections, announced it was time to leave. Orion was almost leaping out of his seat, so antsy to leave. From the way his pupils had shrunk to pinpricks, Nick guessed that more than a bathroom break had taken place.

  He didn’t like being around drugs—it reminded him of how out of control he’d been when he was drinking during a really low point in his life. He promised himself that whatever went down at the party, he’d only drink water.

  Brodie led them down a side alley, stopped at a heavy steel door and knocked twice.

  An enormous doorman waved them in, then signaled his equally vast colleague to pat them down. He found Orion’s stash of … whatever it was, probably speed … but handed the packet back to him. But the phones were confiscated.

  Nick gripped his phone in his hand and narrowed his eyes at Orion who shrugged.

  “Lot of powerful people here, brah, like I said. You gotta go with the flow.”

  Reluctantly, Nick handed over his phone, then they were allowed to enter.

  The narrow staircase opened out into an enormous warehouse apartment, with runway lighting turned down low, and the music turned up.

  Everywhere Nick looked, people were dancing and drinking. The smell of weed was thick in the heated air, and Nick felt sweat breaking out across his body. Orion pushed a bottle of beer into his hand and yelled something in his ear that sounded like ‘rabid arty’ or possibly something about rabbits. Oh, wait, ‘rad party’. Was it 1990 again?

  Nick thought it was more naff than rad, or ‘lame’ as Orion might have said if he wasn’t so jacked on speed. He’d rather have a beer with his mates down the pub than stand around watching strangers getting stoned. Any athlete who took drugs risked his career: urine tests were random, four picked from the team sheet or training sheet—and mandatory.

  A representative from the drug testing company would watch you piss into a tube, two samples, and a positive result for a banned substance would result in a ban: six months for amphetamines, and up to two years for steroids.

  Even common cold remedies could contain banned substances.

  “Let’s get our party on!” yelled Orion, ripping off his shirt.

  He wasn’t the only one. Anyone who was young and hot was showing a lot of skin. Several of the girls were wearing bikinis, although Nick hadn’t seen a pool. The older party guests exuded wealth and power, and wore designer clothes and expensive jewellery.

  Nick grimaced and turned in the other direction, pushing his way through the crowds. Men and women were openly snorting coke, their eyes too bright, their laughter too loud, acting like they were having the best time on earth.

  It was pretty obvious that a number of the partiers were underage: definitely under 21, probably still in their teens. Nick winced as a girl who looked like she should still be at school, smoked something that wasn’t a cigarette or a spliff, her eyes glazing over and rolling back in her head. The surrounding people laughed as a guy caught her when her knees gave way and carried her from the room.

  And it wasn’t just girls. Young, thin, pretty boys who looked as though they were enjoying a growth spurt strutted around the room in muscle vests and skinny jeans, hanging off the arms of the rich and powerful, hoping that some of the shine would come their
way.

  It was as if the #MeToo campaign had never happened.

  Nick recognized the sleazy photographer from the week before, the short guy with the roving hands.

  “The bad boy brooding look really works on you, sugar.”

  Nick frowned down at a woman who’d been hiding her age behind Botox for at least three decades.

  “I’m gonna take a guess and say … you’re a model. Am I right?”

  Nick nodded, his stance wary.

  “Come sit with me a little bit. I have friends who could use a guy like you. All you need is the right connections and you’re golden.”

  She patted the sofa and crossed her legs, letting the thigh high split in her dress reveal her lack of underwear.

  “No, thanks,” Nick said, his lip curling as he backed away.

  “You’re quite a prude, aren’t you?”

  Nick’s eyes darkened with anger. As a rule, he wasn’t prone to losing his temper anymore, but he’d been on edge since he arrived.

  “If you think using these kids is prudish, then yeah. If you think telling them that they’re going to get rich and famous by sleeping with people old enough to be their grandparents is prudish, definitely.”

  She laughed in his face.

  “How long you been in the Big Apple, sugar?”

  “Too bloody long,” Nick muttered as he walked away.

  He dumped the rest of his beer and headed for the stairs. Orion had disappeared and Nick had no intention of looking for him or the other models he’d arrived with.

  He passed two girls making out, half naked, ringed by a group of much older men cheering them on, one of them filming the whole scene. How the hell had he been allowed to keep his phone?

  As he passed back along the corridor, the party had ramped up and couples or groups were making use of the bedrooms, fucking and being fucked. It wasn’t the sex that bothered him but the feeling that this was about people being used: young, desperate models, actors and actresses, prepared to do anything to work their way to the top, when instead, they were being sucked into the gutter.

  Nick felt dirty by association and wondered if the police would be interested in this so-called party: underage drinking, probably underage sex too, maybe people being paid for sex, he wasn’t sure. There were definitely drugs available.

  He jogged down the stairs and demanded his phone back from the stony-eyed doorman. Nick’s breathing was fast as his anger rose. He stood almost nose to nose with the 250 pound man, matching his cold stare until his phone was returned, then he was out in the street.

  He filled his lungs with the night air, breathing in the stink of car fumes, which was preferable to the stench of money, privilege and predators in the building behind him.

  And suddenly a memory came back to him, an assistant coach from one of the under-15s teams he’d played for: a creepy guy who was always around when the boys showered after practice. Nick hadn’t thought of him in years.

  He pulled out his phone to call the police and then paused. He’d been present at the party—any number of people could identify him. If he called the police that would be a short hop to them finding out that he had a criminal record. And then, no one would believe a word he said.

  Anna would do the right thing.

  Those were the words that echoed through his mind. In the end, he bought a cheap pay-as-you-go phone, considering the $37 well spent when he dialled 911 and told them what he’d seen, doing his best to disguise his voice.

  Then he binned the phone and headed back to his hotel, sick at heart.

  “You did the right thing,” Anna whispered as Nick lay in bed.

  Her day was just starting but Nick hadn’t slept yet.

  “Did I? I could have done more.”

  Anna sighed.

  “In an ideal world, yes, you could have called the police and waited for them to arrive, then point out the perpetrators. But it’s not an ideal world and you’d have been putting yourself at risk.”

  Nick closed his eyes. He’d needed to hear her words, needed to hear her voice, needed her to tell him that he wasn’t a complete shit and a coward.

  “What you saw goes on in every industry, everyone knows it. With all the publicity from Weinstein onwards, more has come into the light, but there’s just as much hiding in dark corners. You can’t be everyone’s hero, Nick.” She paused. “But you are mine.”

  Nick gave a quiet huff of laughter.

  “How do you always know the right things to say?”

  This time the pause was even longer and her voice was serious.

  “Because we’ve both been through the fire, and we both know that black and white are just colours on a page.”

  Nick held the phone tightly, concentrating on her voice.

  The next day, Nick scanned all the news sites to see if there was anything about the party, but he couldn’t find a single mention. And when his curiosity couldn’t take it anymore, he texted Orion, but the only response he got was a winking emoji.

  The party was never mentioned again.

  NICK’S MONTH HAD passed several weeks ago and summer was around the corner, but he wasn’t ready to admit defeat and go home. He missed Anna with a physical ache in the centre of his chest. He found himself rubbing the spot at random moments.

  He’d moved to a cheap room to save money, but the thought of failing at this left a bitter taste in his mouth. Just one shot, one chance, one good shoot and he’d feel less of a failure.

  Anna told him to take his time and that she’d support him whatever he decided. In some ways, he wished she wasn’t so upbeat about his so-called modelling career. It would have been nice to hear that she missed him and wanted him home. But she was resolutely positive that this would work out, so he had no choice but to keep trying—for a while, at least.

  On the way back from his workout, Nick saw that he’d had a message from Adrienne’s assistant to call her. As the gym was quite close to the agency, he decided to drop by instead.

  “Hey, Nick,” said Adrienne’s PA when she saw him. “How ya’ doin’?”

  “Yeah, alright thanks, Shonda. How are you?”

  She closed her eyes dreamily.

  “Oh wow, I just love your accent! Let me see if Adrienne can see you.”

  After a short conversation, she told him to go on in.

  “Nick, have a seat. I might have something for you.”

  “Wow, really? That would make a nice change.”

  Adrienne threw him a look.

  “I told you at the start, you’ve gotta be tough in this game.”

  Nick felt duly chastised.

  “So, how do you feel about romance?”

  Nick blinked.

  “Um, Anna says I can be romantic.”

  Adrienne cackled loudly.

  “I’m sure, honey! I meant, how do you feel about doing a photo shoot for a romance book cover? Small shoot, established photographer who’s looking for someone just like you. Hmm, let me see … yes, his name is Golden Czermak, nice guy, well known in his field. Prefers fitness models and I think he does some modelling himself. He’s in NYC for a couple of days and wants to fit in a shoot tomorrow at his hotel room. Legit guy. Interested?”

  “Has he seen any pictures of me?”

  Nick was cautious. He’d lost so many gigs because they didn’t like his size or his tattoos—he really wasn’t interested in wasting more time.

  “Yep, and he likes your look,” Adrienne said immediately. “He’s got plenty of ink himself, so that won’t be an issue.”

  Nick nodded.

  “Sure, I’ll give it a go.”

  “Excellent! Here are the details.”

  Nick was slightly dubious since the shoot was at this guy’s hotel, but he figured if he didn’t like it, he could just walk out. Although checking over the photographer’s Facebook page, he seemed on the level.

  So the next morning, Nick turned up at the hotel room in Midtown and knocked on the door.

  It wa
s yanked open by a small, energetic woman with cropped black hair and a wide-eyed, windswept expression.

  Several more women were giggling and laughing behind her, and when Nick heard the sound of a champagne cork popping, he thought he’d walked into a hen party—a bachelorette party, as they called them over here. Either way, he was in the wrong room and he started to apologize. But the woman grabbed his arm and dragged him into her lair.

  “Hi! You must be Nick! Of course you’re Nick! Here for Golden’s shoot, right? Come on in. I’m Elaine. I’m the tattoo artist.”

  Nick raised his eyebrows and Elaine laughed shrilly.

  “Oh, not like that! They want a specific tattoo for the shoot so I have to paint it on. It’ll wash off in the shower so don’t worry.”

  “I already have a fair bit of ink,” he warned her.

  “Oh my God! I love hearing you talk! Your voice is amazing. Are you Irish?”

  “No, English.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, okay. Hey, this is Meagan,” and she introduced Nick to a thickset woman with short purple hair and colourful tattoos decorating her arms. “She’s the author. It’s her books that you’ll be on the cover of.”

  “Hi, Nick. It’s nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.”

  Then Nick was introduced to the photographer. Golden, was a quiet, handsome man, with some serious muscles and almost as many tattoos as Nick. He shook hands and motioned to a petite woman with mousy-brown hair to come over.

  “This is Shelly—she’s your co-model for this shoot.”

  Nick was taken aback. He hadn’t anticipated doing a shoot with another woman. Although he had been warned it was for a romance cover, but still, Adrienne should have told him…

  “Um, Golden, my agent didn’t say anything about it being a couple’s shoot.”

  “Is it a problem?”

  “I’ve never done it before and, well, I’m engaged.”

  Golden gave him a relaxed smile.

  “Okay, we can work around that. The shoot will be hot, a little sexy, but these covers have to pass the Amazon judge and jury, so there’ll be nothing too erotic. You be okay with that?”