Chapter 2 - Leo

Later that night

“He wants to take nude photos of you!?” 

I exhale a stream of smoke from my cigarette and watch it go up until it dissipates. I just filled in my roommate, Danny, about what happened. From our apartment’s balcony on the third floor, we have front row seats to the rowdy and drunk strangers on the college kids-filled street below. 

“Yeah, I think so,” I answer. “I dunno. I kinda wanna do it.” I eye him for a reaction and can’t help but laugh at his bewildered expression. 

“So you’re telling me you want to go to some weirdo’s house, get naked, and let him take pictures of you with your dick and balls out to jerk off to later?” He questions, halfway ready to leap out of his chair.   

I lean forward to tap ashes onto the tray. I suppress the urge to say yeah, he’s hot as fuck, I’d so be into it. “Well, when you put it that way…,” I respond instead. 

He puts both of his hands up. “Hey, listen. Do what you want. I’ve just seen too many crime shows and it’s always the stalker who doesn’t take no for an answer.” 

Well, he told me he’d leave me alone If I said no…

Is it fucked up to admit that I liked that he came to see me today? Any rational person would be scared. But his persistence is…hot. 

Yesterday, he came into the coffee shop wearing a suit, and I got so close to breaking the cool and collected facade I’ve mastered. A man in a suit just does something to me. 

My phone vibrates and I lift it to see a text. 

“You up?” 

Ethan. My fuck buddy. Lately, he’s been asking to hang out even when I keep reminding him that what we have is strictly hooking up. There’s nothing worse than a fuck buddy catching feelings. I make a mental note to cut it off the next time we see each other. Not in the mood tonight, I lock my phone and stuff it into my hoodie, grazing a card inside the pocket.

“Oh, here’s his info if you want to look him up.” I hand Danny the business card and he squints at it, examining it closely. 

“Jordan King,” he mutters while typing on his phone. “Let’s see exactly who you are, Mr. Jordan King. If that’s even your real name.”

I smile as I watch him type away. I’ve only known Danny for three years but it feels like I’ve known him for a lifetime. We’re like night and day, so how we get along so well is surprising. I’m a year older and a grade above him, but he’s years wiser. I often ask him for advice because his rational way of thinking helps me see things from a different angle than my emotional way of thinking. And in those moments I’m like, fuck yes Danny you’re a genius but most of the time I end up doing the opposite of what he says and forget all rationality. 

I know I let my emotions guide me too much, I’ve established that much with my therapist. But I can’t help it. When I’m faced with a big decision, my brain shuts down and I can’t think, so I do the first thing that I feel like I should do. Admittedly sometimes (most of the time) those decisions are stupid. I’ve been trying to change that bad habit though so, “I’ll think about it” has become my most used phrase. Do I actually think about it? Usually no, but I’m trying. 

But whenever I fuck up and then have to face the consequences of said fuck ups, he never says “I told you so.” He tells me “Come talk it out with me” and listens. I could talk for an hour straight and he wouldn’t say anything, he’d just listen and nod his head. Then tell me the most profound wisdom after.

“Oh shit.” His thumb stops scrolling. 

I perk up. “What’d you find? Is he a foot photographer?”

His eyes stay glued to the screen. I furrow my brows, extremely curious now. I don’t know why I didn’t just look him up myself earlier. Truth is, I didn’t plan on letting him take pictures of me. I only said I would because I saw how much he didn’t want to take Eli’s photos. He kept glancing back and forth between whatever Eli was showing him on his phone and me, his face signaling, “Please help me.” 

This wouldn't be the first time someone has tried recruiting me for photos. When I was 16, I was walking home from the skate park and this blonde woman in her mid-40s stopped me saying I had “the look she’s been looking for”, whatever that means. I thought she was trying to kidnap me so I just kept walking but then she mentioned how I’d be paid for every shoot and that made me turn around. I was borrowing my friend's skateboard because I broke mine and couldn’t afford a new one. Some life advice: never attempt pro skater stunts on a shitty skateboard. And don’t try to fix it with duct tape and then try the same stunts. You will eat shit. Source: My dumbass. 

The modeling shoot was that same Saturday, in some random studio downtown. Long story short, I went, got my pictures taken in some trendy clothes they gave me, was utterly bored, and wanted it to be over ten minutes in. She tried to convince me to do it again and said I had so much potential but I told her I didn’t like it. I guess the look on my face was enough for her not to bug me any further. I got paid $200 though and bought myself a new board so at the time it was worth it, but I haven’t thought about it since. 

Danny starts clicking and scrolling again. “Danny-,” I start, but he cuts me off. 

“I’ve seen this guy's work before. He’s like, extremely famous, Leo.” I frown. I’ve never heard his name before, but that doesn’t say much because I couldn’t name you one photographer. Keeping up with actors or celebrities is something I avoid doing, so I doubt I’d know a photographer's name. Danny stands, eyes still glued to his phone, and comes over to sit on the arm of my chair. He shows me his phone, which is opened to an Instagram page, @ shotsbyJK, and clicks on a photo. 

“Do you remember we’d see this guy on billboards and buy the same clothes he had on because we wanted to look cool like him?” Danny swipes through the post. The first photo is of some guy pointing to a billboard with a picture of him on it, the second and third pictures are photos from the actual shoot. He’s shirtless, wearing a blue denim jacket, a bucket hat, loose vintage jeans, and high-top sneakers. It takes me less than a second to recognize him. “Oh shit, I remember him.” 

The post has 1.5 million likes and a caption that reads: Very proud of this guy right here. The beautiful guy with dark brown curly hair in the photo, tagged as Roman, was our fashion inspiration throughout our early college years. He’s been on over 50 magazine covers and in the top 15 of the World’s Top Fashion Trendsetters list for the past few years. I only know that because I’d always see his face on magazine covers by the newsstands in front of the subway. Danny would buy directly what he had on from whatever brand it was, and I’d thrift duplicates because the clothes were fucking expensive. I’m talking $6,500 for a shirt. A shirt. One shirt. If I buy a shirt for that much, it better feed me, drive me to school, and tuck me in bed at night. 

Danny swipes back and continues to scroll through his page full of different models in fashionable clothes, some portraits and headshots, and some artistic ones like a shoot in the desert. But no pictures of himself.

“Leo,” Danny is still looking at the screen in amazement. “You have to say yes.” He turns to me, his eyes glimmering in excitement as if he’s the one who was asked. I give him a quizzical look. “What happened to not going to some pervy weirdo’s house?” 

He puts his phone down to face me fully. “Okay, but that was before we found out he’s photographed every cover of Vogue for the last four years. Leo, think about it; you could be the next Roman.” 

Yeah, right, that guy’s extremely beautiful. I barely even take pictures of myself.

Danny expectantly waits for me to answer. I recline back into my chair and look up at the dark sky. “I mean now that we know he’s not going to murder me, maybe I’ll consider it.”

“You still have to be careful though he could be putting on a front. Rich and famous people always get away with murders.” He crosses his arms and gives me a serious look.  

“Seriously though, only do it if you want to,” he continues. “And tell me if he makes you uncomfortable so I can come kick his ass.”  I laugh and he picks up the cigarette I put out earlier. “That’s fucking crazy, though. What are the odds.” He puts it in his mouth, and I lean over to use my lighter to ignite the end.