Runaway Model (19 page)

Michel's flat in Hell's Kitchen was a real flat, not a squat. Legal electric, legal water. Even legal wireless. But if it had been a hotel room, it would have been the smallest one-room ensuite Kyle had ever stayed in. A kettle for tea. A mini-fridge for ice and drinks. But no kitchen. A tiny bath with peeling vinyl tiles on the floor.

The queen-sized bed took up most of the room. Slender as they were, they had plenty of acreage to sleep without touching.

But Michel would always end up snuggling close to Kyle in his sleep.

Sometimes he whimpered.

Sometimes he jerked awake with a scream.

"It's all right, mate," Kyle would say. "You're safe here."

Michel's eyes would be blank, as if he didn't know where he was. Or even that he'd screamed at all.

The shoot took place in a studio in Tribeca. Kyle and Michel were arm-in-arm as they strolled in fifteen minutes early. Their reedlike bodies twined around each other like a pair of vines.

Leblanc hadn't arrived yet. Patric Simarde, the legendary fashion photographer, was screaming in Canadian French at a couple of twentysomething interns who were fiddling with the lights. He punctuated each word with a gesture dramatic enough to knock the ash from the end of his cigarette, which burned merrily away in defiance of the State of New York's longtime ban on smoking indoors.

Kyle felt Michel shrinking a little closer to him. It was the raised voices. The Québécois had learned to hide how much it bothered him, but Kyle could feel the long muscles in his back go tense.

Simarde stopped cold. In mid-sentence, from the rhythm of his French.

He stared at Michel and Kyle.

Like many another temperamental artiste, Simarde cultivated a look of faux insanity that Kyle associated with the painter Salvador Dalí. That gaze burned into the two of them for several long moments.

Still speaking in French, his voice suddenly kind, he asked Michel a question. Kyle felt the tension melt out of the boy's shoulders as he replied.

Simarde's heavily wrinkled visage cracked into a smile as he switched to lightly Gallic-flavored English. "But he is perfect for this campaign. The two of you, you will be like brothers, yes? A twin fantasy, yes?"

"My English twin,
oui
," Michel said. "But he doesn't have a modeling contract. Or even an agent."

"You will call your agency. You will tell Chance to bring the paperwork. Meanwhile we can get started shooting. This beautiful boy will not refuse my offer."

Michel stepped away to make the call on his mobile. Simarde stepped close to Kyle and circled around him to enjoy the view from every angle. Took another step closer. Touched his chin. Inspected the line of his jaw. The slight hollow of his cheek.

"
Non
, you won't refuse my offer, will you, my beautiful angel? You will fulfill my artistic vision."

An assistant appeared at Simarde's elbow. "Shouldn't we clear this with Leblanc first?"

"We have discovered beauty. Leblanc can come to me if he has any objections. But he won't."

***

K
yle touched his face in the mirror. He knew he photographed well. But sometimes he wished he could see what others saw.

"You have done well, Michel," the agent had said.

Skinny. Brown hair, brown eyes. In his heart of hearts, Kyle thought he looked quite ordinary. Thus the need to distract the gaze with expensive clothes and jewelry.

"Kyle has a special kind of beauty," the agent said. "An accessible beauty. The kind that makes you like him. And it comes through in photographs. That's unusual."

Less than three weeks in New York City. And Kyle was already a professional model signed with a top agency. Already an up-and-coming It Boy.

Matt Hitt, look out behind you.

Of course the agent also said: "I suppose it's too much to expect that he has his work visa."

Michel shrugged. This agency had its pick of hot boys from around the world for a reason. "You can fix that."

"It will take time. And money."

Kyle's contract gave the agency a higher-than-average percentage of the action. Kyle didn't really care.
Beggars can't be choosers, innit?

It was Kyle's summer of glamour. The big splashy magazines were already shooting their spreads for the holiday and resort seasons. After seeing the leak of Patric Simarde's newest advertorial, everybody who was anybody wanted Kyle for their more youthful designs.

He wasn't going to let his fears steal this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He made a point of drinking a pomegranate martini in every exotic destination he visited. Just one. Just to prove that he wasn't some timid mouse forever relegated to cautious sips on bottled beer.

Delano Hotel at South Beach, Miami.

In the square outside the Parque de Bombas in Ponce, Puerto Rico.

The eternal Chateau Marmont in Los Angeles.

The pink Royal Hawaiian nestled among the giant skyscrapers of Waikiki.

As he sipped his pinky-red martini, he remembered telling Bryce a tall tale about fucking against a window in Waikiki. Now he could do it for real. He had a small but growing circle of admirers who would be happy to have him anywhere he wanted.

Any time he wanted. If he wanted.

For some reason, he wasn't ready for that kind of adventure just yet. Maybe it was the lingering shock from the Des Moines attack. Maybe it was a kind of heartbreak, even though his relationship with Stoney hadn't been sexual.

Fuck. His relationship with Stoney hadn't even been real.

"Stoney is a fantasy. I'm real."

Bryce. His voice echoed in Kyle's head. He'd been right all the time about Stoney Rockland. If only Kyle had listened...

But maybe if he'd listened, he'd just be a rich man's toy.

Kyle was no toy.

Despite the agency's obscene percentage, he was earning more money than he'd ever seen in his life. He could make it on his own.

And he didn't have to steal.

This was money he could actually put in the bank. Fuck yeah, the tax authorities wanted their cut. But Kyle didn't care about that. You always had to tip out everybody, didn't you? And the fact that he was a US taxpayer now couldn't hurt his visa application.

***

M
ichel never wept. Perhaps he couldn't. But his eyes glittered. They were red around the rims.

"What's wrong?" Kyle draped his arms around his friend, knowing the comfort he took in being cuddled.

"I have been dumped,
mon ami
. Leblanc has found another nineteen-year-old."

Kyle didn't know what Michel had expected. "I'm sorry, mate. I don't know what to say." He'd met Leblanc now, and he could tell the man actually liked Michel. A lot. He wasn't just another user.

"Ah, this is Michel's beautiful friend. It is a pleasure to meet you at last."

But if a man couldn't be jealous, maybe he'd already moved on in his heart.

"There is nothing anyone can say. I liked him. I really did like him. But he wanted... more."

It wasn't fair to force sex on another man. But it wasn't fair to force celibacy on another man either. What could Kyle say?

"I'm sorry, mate. I'm sorry."

"I am broken. I am no good to anybody."

"No, Michel, don't say that. Never say that."

***

"M
um. It's me. I'm sorry I didn't ring before."

"Kyle. Son. It's been two years."

"I'm sorry, mum." How did you explain that the longer you went without calling, the more difficult it was to call?

"Are you doing all right, son? Do you need money to get back home?"

"I've got work as a model. I've been in a few adverts."

"You didn't have to run away, Kyle."

Yes, I did
. "How's it going on your end?"

"You sound so American now."

I doubt that.
"Yes, mum."

"When are you coming home for a visit?"

"I don't know, mum. I can't yet. I have to get me visa right or they won't let me fly back to New York. I'm earning here. More than I could ever make in Vixensfox in a whole lifetime. I can't give up this chance."

"I miss you so much, son."

"I miss you too, mum."

They didn't talk about Roman Nigel. How could they? What would they say?

How soon did Nigel disappear after I did, mum? Ten minutes later or did it take him fifteen?

Kyle was English. He could do sarcastic.

But he couldn't do cruel.

***

T
he jet needed some routine maintenance in November. Bryce flew commercial to a meeting in Houston.

That's how he found himself walking past the endless display of glossy magazines. Did anyone still buy magazines? He walked faster. Houston Intercontinental was huge. He needed to get to his gate.

A flicker at the corner of his eye.

He could have kept walking. How many times had he seen Kyle's face? How many times had he looked again to see the boy in question looked nothing like Kyle?

It was just his mind playing tricks.

But not this time.

Bryce stopped dead to study the cover of the arty men's fashion magazine. It wasn't
Esquire
or
GQ
. The big magazines often preferred to put A-list celebrities on the cover—a shocking number of them in their thirties or forties. Or even older.

But this cover model was an unknown not yet twenty. There was something arresting about his too-large eyes with the slightly puffy eyelids hinting at a wild night life.

Something eye-catching about the way the lips quirked up in a smile at the ends.

He was swallowing a secret.

A secret you were invited to share.

Kyle Marchane.

Evidently someone still did buy magazines. Because Bryce had gotten out his wallet almost before he knew it. Now he was seated on the aisle in row two, a pre-departure plastic cup of Woodford Reserve over ice clutched in his left hand. He didn't read the magazine. He just stared at the cover.

So Kyle was a model now. Why was Bryce so amazed? The boy had the looks for it.

And, thanks to Rockland, he had the connections. Bryce never doubted the rock star had used his influence to secure the job for Kyle.

Forget him. He's having the time of his life.

He doesn't need you.

He never did.

***

S
toney's final concert was scheduled for Madison Square Garden in December. The 16,000 tickets on offer were sold out in fifteen minutes during the fan presale.

What difference did it make to Kyle? None. Sweet fuck-all. Stoney Rockland was in Kyle's windscreen mirror.

The fashion photographers hated the ring on Kyle's finger.

"The mobster ring," said the one from south Jersey.

"Too flashy by half," said the one from London.

"You're the hot boy next door. Not the sexy drug dealer." Said by more than he could count.

So Kyle was forever twisting it on and off throughout the day. Off when the cameras were rolling. On when they weren't.

"What's the significance of the ring?" pickups would ask.

Or: "You're too young to be married."

"It's a secret," Kyle would say.

Or: "The star in the stone symbolizes dreams. Dreams that can never come true."

Or: "It was a gift from a friend who died."
A friendship that died.

He hoped no one would much notice that the Kyle Marchane who modeled expensive menswear was the same Kyle Marchane who once owned the StoneysSecret blog and YouTube channel. He bargained without Google's cache.

"There's a rumor you once dated Stoney Rockland," Chance said. Kyle's agent couldn't stop reading TMZ and Perez Hilton. A ordinary-looking thirtysomething working in an industry devoted to male beauty, Chance was positively addicted to celebrity gossip.

"I spread that rumor me self. Myself." Kyle was trying to make his accent sound more educated or at least more American. But it was hard to break old habits. "I were underage. Was underage. I needed to promote me self. Myself."

"I asked his people to put you on his guest list for the concert."

"You... what."

"A model's career always benefits from an association with a rock star."

"You should have asked me first."

"Ah. So it ended badly then."

"There was no relationship to end." Kyle twisted the ring on his finger without thinking about it. The stone flashed.

"He gave you that ring."

"Fuck me, mate. Where do you get these ideas?"

"Tumblr conspiracy sites." Chance shrugged. "It's part of my job to understand the fantasies the public has about the people I represent. You know that."

"I were a teen runaway, mate. I was a teen runaway. I had to make up some stories back in the day to get a living without selling me arse. My ass."

"You were very creative. We can use that."

"Mate, it were a lie. I'd do anything to take it back. Stoney hates me."

"I doubt that. Mate. In fact, Stoney contacted me about setting up a meet with you. Maybe he saw the Simarde campaign. You were luminous in that video. Maybe he'll use you in his next."

"There's no next. There's no more videos coming. He's going on hiatus after this concert."

"Well, he wants to see you about something." The agent looked Kyle up and down, as if in no real doubt about what Stoney wanted. "I made the appointment for you. See that you keep it."

M
ichel hadn't been home for a night or two. Kyle hadn't kept track. Was it possible? Was the boy out with Leblanc, finally giving it a go?

If he'd been asked to bet money on it, he would have said his friend would never have a lover.

But love wasn't always predictable, was it?

Kyle thought of Bryce.

Was it possible to find someone and lose them all in a weekend and never know they were meant to be the one? The way Bryce had come running, without question, without hesitation, when he thought Kyle was in trouble...

Kyle had made more than one mistake. He knew that now. But he didn't know what he could do about it.

The address Chance gave him was a drunk's bar. Cheap drinks. Scarred tables.