I nod, stripping out of my sweats and donning some athletic shorts. “Got it. Listen, I’m on a tight schedule today. We’ll catch up later tonight alright?”
“Fine,” Elliot says before stomping back to his bedroom. I don’t want to upset him, but I also don’t think it’s fair to judge a person without hearing their side of the story.
“I’ll bring home takeout after my shoot,” I call after him. “Just text me what you want.”
He waves his hand in the air, and I know I’m going to have a lot more making up to do before he forgives me. Artists, man.
* * *
By the timeI make it to my photo shoot, on time I might add, I’m feeling a little light-headed from my workout and five-mile run. I couldn’t drink much water either or else my abs will look puffy rather than sleek. The art director asks me to strip to my underwear and then inspects me like a cut of meat while she and the photographer discuss what clothes they’d like me to wear. My muscles start cramping about halfway through the shoot because they keep asking me to flex for various poses, but I keep it to myself. At least it’s inside a studio with air conditioning and not outside in the blazing heat. The photographer’s assistant mists me and blots me according to where they want sweat droplets to appear and I fade in and out, thinking about what Elliot said in between fantasizing about food… mashed potatoes dripping in gravy, homemade macaroni and cheese with the edges all burnt and crusty, spaghetti and meatballs, cake… I could really go for one of Cassius’s cheesecakes right now.
“Relax your face, Adam,” the art director says. “You look like you’re constipated.”
“My bad,” I tell her.
“You don’t need to respond verbally,” the photographer says, “just follow the instructions. Otherwise, you’ll mess up the shot.”
I resist the temptation to say something back and instead, do exactly as they say. I still have a lot to learn. I can sometimes sense photographers or art directors getting impatient with me, so I try to be as accommodating as possible. For now, I go into a quiet, meditative place and just flow with whatever they tell me to do. I’m little more than a prop to them anyway, a living mannequin to sell clothing. I don’t love modeling, but I know it’s a sure way to get me more exposure if I want to break into acting, and it will hopefully help pay down my mounting debt.
“Great job, Adam. That’s a wrap,” the art director says and tosses me a towel to swab myself off. She and the photographer discuss the logistics of the photos while I redress in my street clothes. While I’m putting myself back together, I notice I have a new follower on Instagram—Holly Hamilton, Cassius’s friend and pop icon. It’s kind of a big deal so I take a quick selfie—still shirtless—and post about it. Soon after, I notice a DM from her too.
Heyyy, sexy, Diego and I are going for drinks in a little while. Wanna cum?
There’s a lot to unpack in that invitation, but my eye lands on the wordcum, in particular. Was that an accident or some version of shorthand I don’t know about? I’m about to respond when another message comes through from her, a time and place, followed by a winky face. Definitely flirtatious. But she said Diego would be there too, so what gives?
I recall what Cassius said about my social capital, how I need to be selective if I want to advance my career. All I know about Holly and Diego is what I’ve seen on social media—two beautiful, talented people in love—but they seem like the type who can open doors for me.
I shoot a quick text to Elliot telling him I can’t make it home for dinner (along with another apology), then respond back to Holly with a thumbs-up.
I wish I could do all my communicating in emojis.
Chapter5
Cassius
“Cassius?”
My mother’s voice, floating from down the hall but growing louder. I listen to the tenor to try and determine what kind of day it will be. Will she be sweet, or will she be cruel?
“Cassius, time to wake up. I’ve got something to show you.”
It sounds like she might have a present for me. She always gives me gifts after she does something horrid.
“Cassius, wake the fuck up!”
I startle out of my dream to hear Lucia bellowing my name in my master bedroom, invading my inner sanctum. I should have taken back her house key years ago. I lift my sleep mask to find her looking bedraggled and breathless, still in her pajamas and Uggs, but what shocks me more than anything is that she’s not wearing any makeup. Undefined eyebrows? She might as well be naked.
“Christ, who died?” I ask, clutching my duvet closer.
“I’ve been calling and texting you all morning. Look at this.” She thrusts her phone into my hand, and I sit up all the way. It’s a trashy TMZ video. I detest their pseudo-casual format, like they’re all so chummy. Bish, please. As usual, the anchors’ voices are tinny and annoyingly accented, positively corrosive to my ears.
“Lucia, can you just tell me—”
“Keep watching,” she snaps.
“And who is the white meat sandwiched in between Holly Hamilton and Diego Perez in their recently released sex tape being dubbed ‘Three’s Company?’ Our correspondents have scoured social media to find that the mystery man’s identity belongs to one up-and-coming Instagram influencer named Adam Bailey…”
The video cuts to a bewildered and panicked Adam trying unsuccessfully to dodge reporters and photographers as he strides toward what looks like a gardener’s toolshed. This must be where Elliot is living these days. Absolute trash.
