Model Boyfriend

by Stuart Reardon

  He changed into shorts and a muscle shirt, his feet happy to be in flip-flops. Grabbing his wallet, room key and sunglasses, Nick headed out into the sunshine, taking a moment to enjoy the warmth on his skin and the scent of salt in the humid air.

  He felt hungry, not just for food, but for whatever adventures Miami would bring.

  Nick strolled along Ocean Drive, enjoying the vibe that was so much more laidback than in New York. He paused to check out a Cuban restaurant, lured by the wonderful spicy smells drifting from the doorway. His stomach rumbled, and he had to step away before he weakened and went in to sample the Frijoles negros or Papa Rellena.

  Before he’d tried modelling, he’d watched his diet, always eating healthily, but he’d never been hungry all the darn time. It was almost better not to get booked for a shoot so you could eat as much as you wanted. Not that he ever did, in case he got a job.

  At times like this, modelling sucked.

  On the plus side, no two-hundred-and-twenty pound Forward was going to try and rip his head off. Definitely a plus.

  AFTER HIS MEETING with the client, Nick was left scratching his head, metaphorically speaking. There would be one catwalk event the day after Anna arrived, but for the rest of the time, Nick’s job was to go to the parties he was told to attend and stand around chatting to people while wearing the client’s swimwear. It wasn’t quite what he’d expected, but he was happy to go with the flow.

  At least he’d be able to eat something. It was amazing how much food had begun to obsess him. He was beginning to understand why appetite suppressants could be found in many models’ medicine cabinets.

  The other models booked by the client were friendly enough, a mixed bunch: mostly straight, a couple gay; Black, White, Hispanic, and everything in between. Long haired, short haired, shaved heads; with tats, with piercings, no body art. But the one thing they all had in common was their height of six foot plus and lean, ripped bodies. They were there to sell the fantasy.

  He was surprised to find that several of them were shy. The New York models that he met had been mostly like Orion—quick to shout out their own merits. But here, the body confidant models, could also be quiet and very shy when you talked to them.

  He spent the evening hanging out with them, just to be friendly, then headed back to his hotel room alone.

  FOR THE NEXT two days, he went to the parties in the client’s swimwear, and talked to people. He was photographed numerous times, and all the pictures made it into the British tabloids with descriptions of him partying hard and being seen with lots of different women—which was his job.

  The only plus was that Anna was already in New York with her mother.

  He called her as soon as the latest round of stories broke.

  “I’ve already seen the pictures,” she sighed. “They just make it all look so sleazy. I hate that they can make you look like such a manwhore. It’s so unfair! Nick’s Nookie, Number Nine. How do they have the balls to write this stuff?”

  Nick didn’t even have the energy to be angry.

  “Bullshit sells newspapers. They’ve cropped all the photos and cut out the people who were standing next to me. They edit it so it looks like … well, you know.”

  Anna was silent. Nick didn’t need to spell it out to her.

  “I can’t wait to see you,” he said quietly.

  “Me, too,” she said, and Nick hated that her voice sounded so sad.

  He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t keep secrets from her anymore, but he couldn’t tell her that he was hit on constantly at these parties. She didn’t need to know that. Anna just needed to know that she was the only woman he was interested in.

  THE LUNCHTIME PARTIES were more fun because they were more laidback, more like pool parties than work. The evening events were a little crazier, but he was only paid to be there until ten, so after that, the rest of the evening was his.

  The next morning, Nick had a brief meeting with the client and other models about the catwalk show the next day.

  He kept glancing at his watch, waiting for the moment Anna’s flight from New York landed. Brendan’s wouldn’t be far behind, having left Heathrow the night before.

  As soon as the meeting broke up, Nick strode along the street back to his hotel, waiting in the lobby for his Anna.

  When he saw her stepping out of a taxi, he jogged across the small entrance, sweeping her into his arms and kissing her breathless.

  “Hi!” she said, her smile lighting up Miami.

  She was pressed against his chest, her curves and softness the antidote to everything that was wrong with the world.

  He kissed her again and felt her melt into his arms.

  “Hello! I’m here, too, if anyone cares!”

  Brendan huffed with annoyance as Nick grinned at him, then leaned across the pile of luggage to shake hands.

  “Sorry about that, Bren,” he said with a grin. “I missed you, too.”

  “Huh, doesn’t look like it. I didn’t even get a kiss!”

  Nick winked at him and helped carry the suitcases and bags to the check-in desk.

  “Oh, Lord! I’m so ready for a quiet dinner and an early night,” Anna yawned as they shuffled into the tiny elevator.

  Nick gave her a chagrinned look.

  “I’m sorry, luv. I’m supposed to have dinner with the other models tonight. But you can come, is that okay? I only just found out.”

  It was Brendan who nodded emphatically.

  “Dinner with models? God, yes! What time?”

  Nick glanced at him in amusement.

  “Seven, mate. That enough time for you?”

  “Ugh, I only have two hours to make myself beautiful? Well, I’ll manage. Now, who should I channel? Brits, obviously: Eddie Redmayne or bad boy Alex Pettyfer?”

  Anna smiled.

  “I always think Eddie is quintessentially British, so..”

  “Yes, you’re right,” said Brendan seriously. “Play to my strengths.”

  And he disappeared along the corridor with his two enormous suitcases.

  Anna was laughing, but when Nick hung a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door and locked it, the smile was wiped from her face.

  “That gives us one hour and 55 minutes,” Nick said, his voice a low growl.

  “What about the other five minutes?” Anna asked, wide-eyed.

  “That’s all you need to get ready. You’re already beautiful,” he said, tucking her dark hair behind her ears, before leaning down to kiss her.

  THE WARM GLOW of amazing sex with her beautiful fiancé lasted through the first course of dinner that evening with Nick’s modelling colleagues.

  And then the doubts began to creep back.

  “So, you’re not married?”

  “Uh, no, but I’m engaged. To him,” and she pointed across the table to Nick.

  The model shrugged.

  “Women don’t care if they’re married—they just want to say they’ve been with a model.”

  Anna’s eyes widened and her mouth twisted with dislike as she eyed the twenty-something guy.

  “Some women,” she enunciated slowly and clearly.

  He studied her, reading her response. She decided to change the subject quickly.

  “How long have you been model— ?” she started to ask.

  He turned away from her mid-sentence, completely ignoring her for the rest of the evening, and talking instead to the woman on his other side.

  As soon as he’d worked out that she wasn’t in the modelling business and wouldn’t sleep with him, she was of no use to him.

  The conversations were all about diets or exercise plans, even discussing the models they knew who used steroids, speed, or diet pills to get the shape they wanted.

  After an hour of this, Anna found the intense conversations boring, and Nick seemed to be equally turned off. A couple of times, he’d tried to start a conversation about football or baseball or something … anything else.

  Even so, the other
models were fascinated by him. Maybe because he was British or because they were beginning to realize that he’d achieved things that they could only dream about.

  Brendan, on the other hand, was having the time of his life. He was channeling his inner Eddie Redmayne by wearing a white shirt, tweed bow tie and matching cardigan with skinny jeans. The gay models were lapping it up and Anna knew that he would have his choice of men to take back to his room.

  But after a while, he noticed that no one was talking to her and squeezed his chair in between hers and the model who’d ignored her most of the evening.

  “How’s it going, Annie?” he asked, slinging his arm around her shoulders, his voice slightly slurred with tiredness and alcohol.

  “Great,” she said in a sarcastic voice that made Brendan snort. “I’m having like the best time ev-er.”

  “Aw, your poor little, puddin’,” he said, pinching her cheek. “Not your scene, darling?”

  Anna blushed, very aware of the extra thirteen pounds that she hadn’t been able to lose since Nick had been away. She’d spent a lot of lonely evenings with just a box of candy for company, and at first thought that when her pants felt a little tight that her jeans must have shrunk in the wash. When she realized that Cadbury’s Roses and Thornton’s Selection were not her friends, and because Brendan told her to, she stopped, then began working out. Seven pounds had gone quite quickly, but that extra flab stayed resolutely around her stomach, leaving it soft and white like uncooked dough.

  It didn’t help that in the last half-hour several long, lean and stunning female models had drifted over to their table.

  She took another few sips of her cocktail, knowing that it wasn’t the best idea she’d ever had, but already feeling looser than usual.

  “Tell Auntie Brendan all about it,” he said encouragingly, jogging her elbow so that she ended up taking a bigger slurp than she’d intended.

  She wiped her hand over her mouth and shook her head.

  “It’s not like I’m a dog. I mean, no one has ever yelled at me in the street, ‘Put a leash on that and you could take it for a walk!’ But I’m average. I’m not like one of those girls,” and she pointed to the gaggle of gangly models, “girls who are totally gorgeous and always going on about the quarter of an inch of fat that just maybe is sitting on their perfect butt, or their stomachs that are flatter than an ironing board, with legs that go on for miles, and tiny, itsy bitsy waists, and cheekbones that they could probably file their nails on. But I’m not a double-bagger either. I’m average.”

  Brendan stared at her.

  “Am I really hearing this, Miss Pity Party? You of the super-stud fiancé and flourishing self-help author and broadcaster? Maybe you should read your own book.”

  “Yes, but that’s it!” Anna frowned, only vaguely aware that she was slurring her words. “Nick isn’t average. He’s 6’ and 180 pounds of pure muscle, washboard abs and a hard chest, biceps that really do bulge when he moves his arms, and his legs are long and muscled. And oh my God! His butt is totally perfect. I’m sure I could bounce a quarter off it, but he won’t let me try. He scowled and got all moody when I suggested it.”

  Brendan’s eyes widened as he tried not to laugh, but Anna was on a drunken roll.

  “He has the body of a Greek god, with the old fashioned manners of an English gentleman, who really does open doors for me and carries the groceries, takes out the trash without being asked. He’s also a real sweetheart and is kind to his mom and dad and sister, great with old people, kids and animals, and amazing in bed.”

  “Um, Annie, I think you might want to slow down the drinking,” Brendan muttered, trying and failing to pry the cocktail glass from her hands.

  “It’s hard dating a model,” she said, tears collecting in the corners of her eyes. “Everyone judges you and wonders, What does he see in her?”

  Brendan shot a panicked gaze at Nick who turned to look just in time.

  “I think she’s wired and teary, I mean tired and weary, so you should probably get a taxi,” Brendan stage-whispered so loudly that the whole table heard him.

  “Come on, luv,” Nick said with a smile, helping Anna to her feet. “Time for bed.”

  Anna collapsed into his arms, and the last thing she remembered was being lifted into the air, snuggling against his hard chest, the warmth of his body comforting her.

  ANNA SQUINTED AT the bright light seeping from behind the heavy curtains and wondered who was thumping on the wall, but when she rolled onto her back, she realized that the pounding was in her head.

  She sat up groaning, both from the appalling headache and from the humiliation of her behaviour the night before.

  She grabbed the glass of water on the bedside table with shaky hands, and drank it down gratefully, even happier to find that Nick had left her two ibuprofen to kick-start the healing process.

  She was so furious that she’d wasted their first night together by getting drunk. Oh, she’d had such plans!

  At that moment, the hotel door opened and Nick walked into the room. He was shirtless and sweat glistened on his tanned skin, making the tattoos seem to shimmer and coil around his body.

  A t-shirt dangled from one hand and he wore running shoes on his feet. He looked amazing. He looked perfect.

  And Anna felt frazzled and a lot less than perfect.

  Nick gave her a sympathetic smile and sat down next to her. He smelled of sweat and the sea, and she saw salt drying on his calves and thighs.

  “Why are you with me?” she blurted out.

  Nick cocked his head on one side as if he didn’t understand the question. Then he frowned, his honey-coloured eyes narrowing as he gazed at her.

  He could have asked her why she was asking, or gotten annoyed that her self-esteem kept questioning his commitment, but he didn’t.

  “Because I love you,” he said, his voice deep and serious. “Because each morning I wake up and remember that you’re wearing my ring and that I’m a lucky bastard, and each night I go to sleep knowing that I’ve met the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.” He paused. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

  Anna nodded, dumbstruck. Nick wasn’t the most effusive of people, but sometimes…

  “Yes, that’s … fine,” she said weakly.

  Nick dropped a soft kiss onto her lips, stood up and gave her a wink as he kicked off his running shoes, dropped his shorts and sauntered butt naked into the bathroom.

  Anna didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

  She and Brendan sat at the back of the exhibition hall where the Mr. XCess menswear designers were showing their collection.

  As the lights dimmed and Janelle Monae’s music blared out, Anna clutched Brendan’s hand.

  The first man strutting along the catwalk looked as if he’d just strolled in from the surf, his blond hair long and naturally highlighted.

  “Oh God, I want to count his abs,” sighed Brendan. “With my tongue!”

  “Behave!” Anna laughed.

  “I am behaving,” Brendan said huffily. “I haven’t thrown myself at the stage, have I?”

  “Not yet,” Anna muttered under her breath.

  Next up, two gorgeous men strode along the catwalk, their stunning bodies gleaming—one like polished ebony; the other lighter skinned, a gorgeous caramel colour.

  Then three slimmer male models danced onto the stage, and Brendan wasn’t the only one who was on his feet, dancing along.

  Then a man with blond dreadlocks sauntered onto the stage and Brendan grabbed Anna’s hand again.

  “Do you think he’s gay?”

  “I have no idea. Why don’t you ask him?”

  Brendan nodded so fast, Anna was worried he’d sprain his neck.

  Then her heart lurched and started to gallop as Nick strode onto the stage. Brendan squealed and had to stuff his fists in his mouth to stop shrieking. Anna could hardly draw a breath.

  Nick swung his arms lightly, his gaze somewhere in the middle
distance. He walked confidently to the end of the catwalk, struck a pose, turned on his heel, and headed back, high-fiving the model who followed him out.

  “Oh, Annie! He’s a real model!” Brendan whispered loudly.

  This time it was Anna who nodded crazily. She was so proud of him; so proud that his work and commitment had paid off.

  She couldn’t stop smiling.

  Not even when two women sitting on her other side commented on what a great body he had and how much they loved the ink decorating his body, and then sighed, murmuring how much they wished he was wearing Speedos instead of boardshorts.

  Twice more, Nick strode along the catwalk, dark and intense, and then on his very final run when he was joined by all the other models and the designer, he threw a huge smile at the audience, who were clapping and waving.

  Anna stood up and cheered with everyone else, happy he was happy, so proud of him.

  And later that evening, when a twenty-something model with legs up to her armpits flirted outrageously with Nick and wrapped her arms around his neck as she sat on his knee at an after-party, Anna just raised her eyebrows and swapped an amused look with Brendan as Nick carefully set the woman back on her feet.

  The post-catwalk party was the stuff legends are made of. Nick was paid to stand around shirtless, wearing only swimwear and flip flops, while champagne flowed and stunningly beautiful women sauntered around the pool in tiny bikinis or beach wraps, showcasing their peachy asses and round, perfect breasts.

  White fairy lights were strung across gazebos, and the sun sank in a cauldron of red and orange, the sky catching fire to backlight the whole scene spectacularly.

  Brendan was in heaven, attending his first ever luau, drinking cocktails decorated with a mountain of fresh pineapple, cherries, and paper umbrellas, then dancing to Hawaiian-themed tunes and doing his best impression of An Englishman in New York.

  The entertainment ranged from Hawaiian melodies being played on a ukulele to a rock band, to a henna artist, tarot card reader, tattoo artist and illusionist, all adding to the noise, colour and sense of heady abandonment.