Dash and Carrie, off to London,
Wren and Elodie, off to Harvard.
Me, to Sarah Lawrence.
And Pax?
Well…
Pax has made other plans.
PAX
* * *
“Wake the fuck up, douche bag!”
I crack an eye open, wincing at the morning light flooding through the blinds. Next to me, Chase stirs, scrunching her nose, wriggling into my side like a creature burrowing for warmth. I swear to God, if Lord Dashiell Lovett the Fourth wakes her up all the way, I’m going to castrate his pompous ass and remove the possibility that there will ever be a Lord Dashiell Lovett the Fifth. “Fuck off, man!” I growl. “It’s Saturday!”
“Trust me. You’re gonna want to see this. Now.”
“The only thing I wanna see are the backs of my eyelids.”
Chase lightly pinches my nipple. “Go and see what he wants,” she groans. “He’s ruining a perfectly good dream.”
He’s also ruined the perfectly good morning wood I was planning on saving until I felt like waking Chase up. My erection dies a sad death as I fling back the covers and launch myself from the bed, ready to raise some hell. On the other side of the bedroom door, Dash is perfectly turned out, bright blond hair styled and swept back, wearing a button-down shirt and some pressed pants—the kind of clothes he hasn’t worn in a very long time. “What? What is it? The fuck’s the matter with you? Why do you look like that?”
He shakes his head, brushing aside every single question. “Come down to the kitchen. And put some pants on. I can see the entire outline of your dick through those boxers, for fuck’s sake.
I’m not fucking happy about this—not even close to happy—but the prick is already running down the stairs. I pull on a pair of sweatpants and clean t-shirt, imagining all of the different ways I could punish Dash for ruining my morning. A second before I’m about to leave the room, I have a thought.
Quickly, I check to make sure Chase isn’t watching me—she’s fallen back to sleep, her hair a crimson halo around her head against the white pillow—and then I tiptoe into my makeshift dark room. Having grabbed what I went in there for, I sneak stealthily out of the room and then thunder down the stairs, where I find both Dash and Wren sitting on the outdoor sectionals on the patio.
It's a little cold this morning, a chilly wind teasing through the trees. Give it a couple of weeks and fall will be in full effect in New Hampshire. A pity all of us will be gone by then. Wren sits on the arm of one of the patio chairs, his bare feet on the cushions, his hair an unruly mass of waves. His takes a sip from the coffee cup in his hands, passing it to me as I throw myself down in the chair next to his.
The coffee is black, bitter, and strong as all hell.
Perfect.
“Well? Explain,” I say, addressing Dash.
He holds up a magazine—one I recognize. My Kingston’s Photography Journal. Looks like the latest edition of my subscription has arrived. And I’m on the front fucking cover of it. “What the hell is this?”
I snatch it out of his hands, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing: me. Busted up. Bruised. Black eye. Split lip. Naked. I’d like to say that you can’t see much of my junk, but you fucking can. I hadn’t blinked when Cross had asked me if I’d pose nude. There aren’t many places that’ll plaster a guy’s cock and balls right across their front fucking page. I wouldn’t have thought the Kingston Journal would have either, but it looks that I was wrong.
“I see why the girls can’t leave you the hell alone now. Even after they’ve gotten to know you.” Dash bounces his eyebrows. “I knew you were packing, but that…” He pulls an impressed face, slapping a hand down on my bare shoulder. “I am secure enough in my sexuality to admit that that is one fine cock, Davis. Congratu-fucking-lations.”
Savage Love.
Raw and Powerful, Callan Cross’s epic Art Wins Again.
This time, America’s most controversial Photographer scoops himself the Hasselblad.
“The Hasselblad?” I whisper.
Dash props himself against my doorjamb. “You’re gonna have to forgive my complete ignorance when it comes to photography, but what the hell is a Hasselblad when it’s at home?”
“It’s the most prestigious award a photographer can ever attain. A lifetime achievement award,” Wren says, yawning. I’m surprised he knows this. “But it’s never been awarded off the back of one fucking photo before.” Squinting, at my naked form on the cover—all ink, bruises, and attitude—he continues. “And he won it off the back of Pax’s flaccid dick.”
I hear him speak. I keep my mouth shut about the dick comment, though. I’m reading. “Callan Cross began his career with a photo of violence. His then-high school sweetheart, Coralie, posed in private after being severely beaten by her father. The photograph depicted Coralie with a number of horrific injuries. Cross submitted the image to competitions, not expecting anything to come from it, but the image immediately swept the nation, featuring on the cover of a number of publications, as well as heavily dominating the Art and Culture sections of nearly every prominent newspaper at the time. Since then, Cross has made a name for himself as a photographer with an axe to grind. Many of his exhibitions have featured stirring political statement pieces that have caused controversy and polarized the art community…”
It goes on and on. I drop the magazine, reeling a little. “Who’s got a cigarette?”
Wren gives me one. I smoke it, finishing his coffee, staring at the sight of myself, naked on the front of the Kingston’s Photography Journal.
“This is the same guy you’re going to work for, right?” Dash says.
“Yeah.”
“The one you’re moving to Virginia for?”
I nod.
“People are definitely going to recognize you when you show up to shoot with him now,” Wren says.
They were going to recognize me, anyway. What with so many advertising campaigns under my belt, and my face being plastered all over the papers in New York for thrashing Jonah, I have a very recognizable face at the moment. Now, I’ll have a very recognizable dick, too.
“Goddamnit.” I groan, rubbing my fingers into my eyes.
“What?” Wren bites back a smirk. “I thought you’d be kinda stoked about the front cover of a photography journal. And I know you don’t care about the whole world seeing your shit. You strut around with your dick swinging free all the time.”
Typical timing. Seriously. I breathe, trying to convince myself that this isn’t a complete nightmare, but it’s no good. It is a complete nightmare. I let my hands drop, taking another look at the journal, hoping it won’t be as bad the second time, but there’s no denying it. My dick and balls are right there for everyone to see. They even layered the image, so I’m standing in front of the journal’s title and the strapline and none of my junk would be obscured by text.
“Chase’s dad is gonna see this today,” I sigh.
“And?” Dash doesn’t understand: I’ve never been the kind of guy who’d give a shit about a girl’s parents. His confusion is justified. But today, I need to make a good impression. I really need for Robert Witton not to hate me today. Warily reaching into my pocket, I take out the small black velvet box that I snuck into the dark room to retrieve, setting it down on the glass top table in front of me next to the copy of Kingston’s.