Page 3 of The Titan and the Trainer

Chapter 2 - Heading Home & Blown Out

Tue. 7th - Thu. 9th Jan. 25

Tuesday 7th January 25

The walk to the elevator felt longer than the walk in. The silence of the office suite, once merely professional, now felt heavy with everything that hadn’t been said. Callum couldn’t get the scent of sweat mixed with Julian’s cologne out of his nose. It was sharp but so intoxicating.

Callum pressed the down button, his hot thumb lingering on the cold metal. He could still feel the phantom heat on his palm where he’d touched Julian’s shoulder, a simple, brief, damp contact that had felt like touching a live spark.

“Get a grip, Cal,” he muttered to his reflection in the mirrored elevator doors.

He looked exactly like what he was: a thirty-four-year-old trainer in a compression top, black shorts and scuffed Nikes. In the reflection, he looked like some blurry interloper against the gold-leaf accents and fine art of Vance Global. Somewhat out of place? Whatever it takes. He looked at the person staring back at him in the mirror. This guy needed cash, and the first session had gone well, considering Julian’s attire constraints. He’d said, see you Thursday, so Callum hoped this would be a twice-weekly series of training sessions, and he could clear some of his debts.

The transition from the hushed, scent-controlled air of the 50th floor to the reality of the New York street was jarring. The cold hit him first, followed by the smell of exhaust fumes and roasting nuts from a late-night street cart outside the building. He pulled his hoodie from his bag and shrugged it on over his head.

He took a deep breath, a reality check, and headed for the subway, his mind spinning. He needed to know more about this guy. All he’d been told was that it was some corporate gig.

Looking out of the grime-streaked train window as he headed back towards Brooklyn, he muttered under his breath, “Who are you, Julian Newman?”

By the time Callum reached his apartment, a fourth-floor cubby hole in Bushwick, where the radiator hissed and the hallway smelled of his neighbour’s cooking, the adrenaline from the session was finally fading, replaced by an itch of confusion.

He threw his bag on the floor and sat on the edge of his bed. The contrast was laughable. Julian was probably fifty floors up in his glass palace, probably sipping a scotch that cost more than his monthly rent.

He closed his eyes. He could still picture him standing there in those black socks, his shirt clinging to the muscles of his back, his hair a mess, his brow aglow with a mixture of sweat and that fresh cologne. There was a raw vulnerability in that dishevelment that made Callum’s stomach flip.

He thought about the way Julian’s voice had dropped when he said, “Help me out of it.” Removing the tie, was it a test, a game, or maybe an invitation?

“He’s a client,” Callum said to the empty room, his voice cracking slightly. “A very rich, probably closeted, extremely complicated client.”

He grabbed his silver MacBook, opened Google, typed in ‘who is Julian Newman New York’ and hit return.

The search was instantaneous and it was quickly obvious that the results were the right Julian Newman. The main accompanying picture next to the text was a black-and-white head-and-shoulders shot of Julian wearing a dark suit, looking directly into the camera.

“Oh hello,” Callum said, wolf-whistling to himself. The picture was simply stunning. He checked the credit, taken by Rankin, who he knew to be a famous British photographer.

He skimmed the wiki summary listed beside the image. ‘Julian Newman is one of the most powerful and influential men in New York, with a history of business excellence and an unparalleled period of growth that has driven Vance Global to its current position as a world leader. ‘This Titan of Industry’ has a personal fortune currently estimated in excess of $300bn, excluding assets and private equity holdings.’

Callum looked up from the screen at his crap apartment, his dismal surroundings, the stack of bills sitting on the side. “Holy fuck!”

Jesus Christ, this guy is the big cheese, and I was flirting with him, and he had no shoes on. He laughed quietly to himself. No one was going to believe this story.

He read on, skimming the long blurb. ‘Considered one of the most eligible bachelors in Manhattan… private… rumours about his sexuality…’ err I think his sexuality isn’t in question Callum laughed to himself. ‘Deflects whenever asked… rarely gives interviews… bit of a recluse… lives in an apartment in South Manhattan… blah, blah, blah…’ Callum kept skimming. ‘A man who has graced the covers of Forbes and GQ, famous for his good looks and physique’ – hmmm, certainly true. There were more pictures and lots more text, including a list of the subsidiaries of Vance Global, but apart from zooming in on a few of the pictures, Callum didn’t read further. He noticed all the pictures were only of Julian, never a companion of either sex. Either he controlled his appearances or was very single, he wondered?

He closed his Mac and laid back, staring at the water stain on his ceiling that vaguely resembled the shape of South America. He was supposed to go back on Thursday. Should he cancel, is this just too weird? Nope, he needed the money, and he was keen to find out more about this guy. He was interesting.

He took out his phone and set a reminder for Thursday night at 10:00 p.m.

Shortly after, as he drifted off to sleep, his last thought wasn’t about the rent that was soon due or the other bills in his bag. It was about the way Julian’s pulse had been visible in the hollow of his throat right before Callum loosened his tie.

***

Wednesday 8th January 25

He woke the next morning knowing he’d dreamt about Julian.

How did he know? The bedsheets were stuck to his dick and groin. He’d clearly ejaculated in his sleep, something he hadn’t done since his early teens. He didn’t remember wanking during the night. Maybe it was involuntary?

He wondered what was happening to him, was it this guy? He felt confused.