I missed out on frat parties and stupid male shit that’s a rite of passage for every other young guy. Instead, I hung out at glamorous parties with A-listers, wannabes and backstabbers. I snorted lines of cocaine and fucked hot bikini models.
That was then.
It didn’t take long to realize the scene was false. The drugs aged my good looks. The women were only after dick selfies and kudos for fucking the model that was trending. Parties were crammed with pretentious assholes who faked friendships to further their career. The whole scene was a sham. Fictitious news stories found their way into the press, and my reputation for being a bad boy gathered momentum.
These days I’m sensible—ish. The party invitations are declined, and groupies kept at arm's length. I respect my mind and body, which preserves my modeling career. With time, looks fade and the money will stop flowing. In this industry, you’re easily replaced by the next up-and-coming face. Alexa and I have been brainstorming business ventures. We’re always on the lookout for new opportunities.
When reporters question life as the international hot shot model, Noah Adams, I rhyme off the usual pre-scripted bullshit. They want the glossy image, not the boring truth. I tell them what they want to hear.
My reality is loneliness.
I'm constantly on set in many locations around the globe three-hundred-sixty-five days of the year. A rock n’ roll lifestyle doesn’t exist because I don't take part in the mad life anymore. I train in the gym six days a week, mixing cardio and weights, with one day off to chill. My meals are created by a food technician, and I swap out alcohol for water and early nights.
Today was my rest day until Alexa announced a last-minute booking and a schedule reshuffle. We’re flying to Rio for another photoshoot. Some hush hush ad campaign with an upcoming sports brand is paying top dollar for Noah Adams to wear their skimpy swim shorts on a white sandy beach. It sounds like my life’s a vacation, but shoots are notoriously long, and I’ll spend more nights alone in a hotel room. Typically, I start off with hair and makeup at an ungodly early hour and never leave the set until we have explored every angle. At least I’ll be able to top off my tan.
This is my life.
I’m a single model.
Focused on the future.
I guess there’s an element of luck thrown in alongside the hard work and long hours. I’m not complaining. What other job pays you to look good and wear designer outfits? This life has helped me to pay off my mother's mortgage and gift my little sister, Willow, a new car.
Social media is a buzzkill, but the female population wants to see my every move. From sweating in a workout selfie, to the no carb breakfast I ate earlier. It baffles the shit out of me, but they’re hungry for it, and visibility keeps me popular. I choose what I post and keep myself as private as possible.
My buddy, Travis, is a social media monster who’s worked hard to turn himself into a million-dollar self-branded influencer. He’s always dishing out tips and pointers.
Yesterday, he told me to repost something a follower tagged me in to drum up excitement. There were hundreds to choose from, so I picked at random with a scroll and pointer finger. Then, boom. The girl lost her shit with joy, and now they all think I’ll notice them too. It’s upped the ante, making the followers more voracious.
I’ve no idea who the girl is, and I’ll never be the father to her unconceived kid. Then the weirdest thing happens. A private message pings into my inbox. I get so many women offering themselves up that I’ve turned off my notifications, however this one lands while I’m browsing. A blunder meant for the girl whose post I reused.
In a hitch of fate or misplaced intrigue, I read it—and laugh. I opt not to tell her the reason for my wonky toe. A bad-tempered kid tantrum that resulted in a mistimed wallop to the corner of my bed and a shooting pain up my leg.
The mystery girl's profile picture doesn’t show much of her face, hidden beneath a dusting of white powder and imitation blood. For some reason, I swipe across her uploaded photos, pleasantly shocked by striking auburn hair. Her almond-shaped eyes are a vivid green, sharp and arresting. The girl called Rowan is stunning and querying my character and physical attributes.
I reply. Sure, why not? It’s only fair to give the girl a heads up that her message was received, even if it popped up to the wrong person. After a little snooping, I found out she likes seahorses and vampires and lives in Ireland. She also thinks I’m hot. A tingle shivers all over me, like she’s brought a warming fire to my cold loneliness.
I slip on white sports socks, inwardly smirking to myself because I just sent a photo of my foot. There was nothing incriminating, but the fact I sent it tickles me. I rarely do whimsical shit like that.
“Noah.” Alexa tosses me my leather jacket, slapping my arm as it hits. “The car is waiting. And stop smirking, asshole.”
I snatch my phone, type a quick closing message to Rowan Hudson and then pocket it. “What am I doing?” I mutter.
There isn’t time to carry on the pointless, silly banter with a stranger. She’s probably too intense, anyway. They always are. No doubt she’ll show the reporters our brief conversation, and it will be splashed over the tabloids by the time I land in Rio.
Four
I had a real-life conversation with Noah Adams. My heart rate hasn’t settled all evening. It’s a revelation. Unbelievable. Gob smacking. I flop on my bed in a haphazard, awkward fashion. We sank five ciders topped with blackcurrant juice when we should have stopped at one. Thoughts of that man have me flushed and dreamy.
It’s difficult peeling jeans off while lying flat on my back, but that’s what I try to do. Chelsea is convinced it wasn’t him or his foot. Apparently, I’m being taken for a fool by his friends or security detail. Call me naïve, or plain old hopeful, but I’m certain the tanned foot was his. There isn’t any solid proof of that fact other than my belief. Surely, if it was a sick joke, which let me add, it really would be sick, then why would the joker send me a foot and not something more substantial.
If I was a crazy follower, I’d post the snap on my story and tag him in it. I like having a secret between us. Weirdly enough, the boney foot is giving my pulse a reason to quicken. I don’t understand why a foot would do that, and I don’t wish to psychoanalyze the absurd arousal. I’m throwing my hands up in denial.
Theoretically, I could blab to the world, but I can’t, and I won’t. I’d never betray his foot that way. It's saved in my wank bank folder—I mean favorite folder—where I’ll continue to stare at a naked part of him longingly with a guilt free conscience.
If I’m honest with myself, it could be anyone’s foot.
With my jeans and adjoining panties kicked off the mattress, I throw out a searching hand to hunt for my pajama bottoms. The intense build up between my thighs won’t go away, even though I’m a few eye rolls away from sleep. My palm glides south, daring to find the throbbing torture. I need visual stimulation if this quickie will work, so I pull my phone from my jacket pocket. I’m naked and naughty from the waist down and dressed like a cold nun on the top.
I select a photo of Noah lounging on a chair by a breakfast bar, fully naked except for a well-positioned cushion and a wolfish grin, then I ready myself for action. This is the height of my stimulation these days. Just me and a photo of my long-time crush. It’s not tragic, I’m just fussy, and this way I get what I need without awkward dates.