“I’m half Black, half Italian,” I cut him off, just sweeping it out of the way. “That’s what I am. The blue eyes come from my Italian dad. Alright?”
He seems taken aback. “Oh. I … That wasn’t what I was going to ask.”
Now it’s me who’s taken aback. “What?”
“I was going to ask if you’ve ever put yourself in front of the camera.”
I open my mouth, then find myself lost in his eyes—in the way he’s looking at me right now, with honesty, directness, curiosity, and maybe a speck of admiration somewhere in there.
And he’s still holding my hand.
“Nah,” I finally answer, coming to. “I’ve never, uh …” I clear my throat. “Nah, I’m the one with the eye, the vision. I’m not the model.”
“Hey.” Tye leans forward, eyeing me critically. “Don’t go dismissing yourself as fast as you went and dismissed me that first night. We both know how that turned out … and who was wrong in the end.” He smirks at me, then finally lets go of my hand to take hold of his burger once more, which he takes a big, hearty bite out of.
I watch him chew, struck by his words. I watch him even as he changes the subject and starts going off about some other thing, all of our heaviness and seriousness set aside for lighter topics, like how it hasn’t rained for weeks, or this one bad-ass set of shoes he saw in a storefront the other day that he’s got to get his hands on—or more accurately: his feet.
Tye is something else.
Each day spent with him is another surprise.
By the time I get back home, the sun is set, and I already have another session booked with Tye for tomorrow, which I squeezed and rearranged my schedule to accommodate. I can’t fucking wait for it. In fact, when I push through the doors of Piazza Place and find Lex coming down the stairs from (I presume) visiting Brett’s apartment, I’m not even bothered when he stops on the bottom step, bites his lip, and gives me a suggestive onceover. I just give him an energetic nod, say, “Hey, there! I hope that second visit from Earl fixed your issue,” and head down the few steps to the door of my basement apartment, leaving Lex standing there in a surprised daze, unsure how to take my sudden, uncharacteristic cheer.
It’s in my kitchen while fixing a protein drink to take with me to the gym, which I plan to hit up tonight, that my phone chimes musically from the island counter. I pop the lid on my drink, give it a shake, then sling my fat gym bag over a shoulder as I grab my phone off the counter and give it a quick look—and my eyes turn into glass.
Bitterly cold hands grip my stomach.
On the screen of my phone is a photographer’s name I thought I would never see again: Leobardo Starr, my once friend and colleague, now turned bitter rival.
11
It’s less the name, however, and far more the message accompanying it that shocks me: “Hello, stranger,” it reads. “It’s been a minute. I do imagine you have been trying to get yourself seen for years in your circles. I have been looking for you in the journals, but alas, all I find are the usual spotlight stealers. Do you even still work? I suspect you noticed Julius’s absence. He’s such a recluse. Much like you. Anyhow, my own taste has lately become—”
This goes on for a solid five long texts full of indulgent, pretentious, self-dick-sucking crap.
Until this sentence: “—compelled me to think of you, as there is a sudden opening in the Enchaîné gallery.”
I let out all the air from my lungs.
Enchaîné … The fetish gallery.
“I would have been remiss not to put your name in as someone who might be able to fill the shoes of the departed, who was Undra De La Cor, whom you might remember for his use of golden chains and shackles on his models. I suspect you will be contacted by the organizer soon. You are, despite our years and conflicts and despairing differences in taste and aesthetic, a very decent artiste.”
I stare at that last line, my eyes squeezing into slits of anger, fury swelling in my chest and melting away all the ice that had just formed there.
A very decent artiste.
That’s as close as anyone gets to a compliment from Leo.
And maybe I should be excited about the idea of being included in Enchaîné, but to have him be the one who got me the opportunity? Leobardo, to be the one acting like a gatekeeper to one of the biggest fetish galleries in the world?
Fuck that guy. I can’t even bear the thought. It makes me want to punch something. Or pick up a chair and pitch it through the window—if I had any windows down here.