19. Logan
LOGAN
“Okay,” Emily tells me as I slide into the back of the SUV. “Today you’re on set until three in the afternoon, then a short radio call-in interview. Then you have your appointment with Mr. Cameron at the art studio at five.”
There it is.
Like he’s just another one of my meetings.
A business appointment with Chase Cameron, the photographer.
“You’re a very good manager, Emily,” I tell her.
“Hm?” she says, glancing up from her tablet.
It’s five o’clock in the morning, and I’m still feeling half-asleep like I always am on morning shoot days. Film sets often start their days extremely early, and the only small benefit is that I didn’t run into any paparazzi around the back alley of the Bellwood this morning.
I grab the glistening cup full of cold brew that Emily’s already gotten for me, sitting in the cupholder between us in the back.
“I just appreciate that you’re not making fun of me for the type of appointment I have at five. You know.”
She gives me an understanding nod. “I do think it’s going to be very beneficial.
It’ll cause a stir, but it’ll be tastefully done, so it’s worth it.
I think we’re going to spin it in the articles as an important reminder about how differently it’s perceived when men do this kind of photoshoot than when women do. ”
I hum, sipping coffee as the SUV starts to pull down the road. “I can’t think of all that many men who have done it.”
“A few have,” Emily says. “I did some research into it. It’s more common for openly gay men to do nude photoshoots, but there were also a few actors who did it in the 70s and it was seen as a career power move. It’s not exactly like a sex tape, you know?”
“Right.”
“It’s unique,” she continues. “Now, there will be a section of the population who thinks it's too raunchy, just because nudity will be on display. But those types of people probably already aren’t fans of Yard Line.”
“Very true.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I slide it out.
Chase
I can’t fall asleep. You’re already up, aren’t you?
Logan
Unfortunately. Early call time.
The restaurant closed late last night and I still haven’t been able to sleep. There’s a pair of cats who sound like they’re attacking each other outside my window.
If you want, you can go sleep in my hotel room. I’m not there, but it’s a comfy bed.
You just like the idea of me sleeping naked on your bed.
Is it that obvious?
If I did that, I’d have to jerk off when I woke up, because your bed is going to smell like you.
Are you trying to make me think about your cock while I’m on my way to work?
Is it working?
I bite back a smile as I turn to look out through the window at the sun slowly rising, flooding the New York streets with light.
My phone buzzes again and when I look at it, Chase has sent a photo.
It’s a picture of him naked in his own bed.
It’s not an overtly sexual picture, and he’s not gripping his cock or posing, but his cock is hard, laying against the bottom of his abdomen as he gazes at the camera.
The baby-blue sheets are crumpled all around him, and I gaze at all of Chase’s tattooed skin in the morning light coming in through his window.
He looks so fucking hot, because Chase always does. But I also notice his more subtle, masculine beauty, too.
The way his cheekbones look in the light.
The radiant green of his eyes, and the dark lashes that frame them.
Sorry if that’s too much cock for 5am.
It’s not.
I just thought you might be nervous about posing nude for *me,* so I wanted to make you more comfortable. Level the playing field.
You’re seriously trying to convince me that that’s why you sent me this?
It’s part of the reason :)
Right.
Not the biggest part.
The SUV pulls up outside the film set and as soon as I’m out of the vehicle, I’m bombarded with production assistants giving me the rundown of how the day is going to go.
As I get to the film set, though, my conversation with Emily runs on a loop in my mind.
The truth is that I hadn’t thought too deeply about what the greater career implications of the nude photoshoot are going to be.
At first, I just wanted to do it as a way of making sure the media was focused on something other than the bullshit harassment of Caitlyn Grener, and anything else that has come from that stupid gossip.
But Emily is right.
There will be some people who see the photoshoot as a step in the wrong direction.
And I’m not sure I’ve ever had that sort of scrutiny on me before.
I get a call from one of the production assistants after about an hour in my private trailer, and it’s time to head out onto the film set. I’m dressed head-to-toe in 1910s style gangster clothing, including a double-breasted tweed suit, a waistcoat, necktie, and a Gatsby cap.
The scene we’re filming is brutal.
It’s a scene from midway through the film where my character argues with another man in a bodega shop until we both draw our guns, pointing them but never firing.
We have to film it over and over again, screaming at each other.
By the end of the day, I’m exhausted, and the moment I’m back in my own clothes and in the back of the SUV, Emily has a phone ready for me to call into the radio show.
It starts to rain outside as the car pulls away from the film lot.
Droplets start to collect on the SUV windows and I look out at the city as we drive, and quiet thunder rolls through the air.
The guy asks me a couple of easy questions, the typical ones about how it is to play a football player on TV.
But then he steps over a line.
“Now, Logan, I know you’re a private guy. You don’t talk about things like matters of love in the public. But what actually happened with Caitlyn Grener? Can you give us any juicy details at all? Even just a scrap?”
I cut a glance over at Emily and she’s furrowing her brow.
The call is on speakerphone and she just heard all of that, too.
She mouths a silent “what the fuck?” at me, because she knows that we always brief interviewers to tell them that I’m not comfortable talking about my love life on the show.
This guy expressly agreed not to ask about Caitlyn.
But now I’m live on the air.
And the host fucking knows I’m trapped.
“Caitlyn is a wonderful person,” I start to say, choosing my words carefully. I feel like I’m stepping over landmines, and if I phrase anything wrong, I could be misquoted. “I’m very happy for where she’s going, and proud of her career. It’s been a meteoric rise.”
The radio host laughs. “Well, we’re certainly glad to hear you’re happy. Because you sure didn’t look happy in that picture!”
Another one of the radio people chuckles in the background, and suddenly I feel like I’m part of some farce.
“Ah, yes, no. That was a perfectly good night.”
“Certainly seemed like it for Caitlyn!” the guy says. “We had her on for an interview just a few days ago, and she says she’s never been happier in her life. She talked about shedding old baggage.”
I’m silent after the host says that.
I’m stunned into disbelief, actually. A distant roll of thunder sounds through the air.
There’s no chance he’s actually implying that there’s some made-up world where I got cheated on by Caitlyn Grener and now she’s calling me her old baggage.
I never even fucking dated the woman, and somehow the narrative has become this entrenched?
“I’m just happy that she’s happy. Do you have any other questions, maybe about Yard Line?”
As soon as we hang up the call, Emily shakes her head.
“Never fucking working with them again,” Emily tells me. “If we wanted to bring in legal, we could. That’s a breach of our contract agreement, for sure. I’m so sorry, Logan.”
I exhale, shifting on the cool leather seat. “They’re not usually so aggressive. I mean, hosts press me a little bit, sometimes, but that was over the line.”
We drive through the city to Chase’s art studio, which is tucked away on a cramped street right between a laundromat and a lamp shop. The door is so small and unmarked that we almost miss it when we pull over to the side of the road.
I check my phone before we head in.
And I see that already, I have an alert from my publicist asking what the hell happened on the radio show.
There’s a link to an article called Logan Stone Flails on the Radio, Demanding A Change of Subject about Caitlyn Grener.
I show it to Emily.
“I didn’t demand anything,” I protest. “God, I hate that they can spin anything to make the public believe whatever they want.”
Emily sighs. “I can take care of it. Try to put it out of your mind, okay?”
But I can’t put it out of my mind.
I walk out onto the street and the rain has turned into a slow drizzle. I make my way to the unmarked door and punch in the code Chase gave me on the tiny keypad, shoving it open.
Inside, the rain patters quietly along the windows.
There are multiple rooms, which I assume are all rented by various other artists.
All of them are artist studios, and some of the doors are left open, revealing what different people are working on.
There’s a room full of beautiful ceramic pots.
Another one with paintings of cityscapes.
There’s one with copper sculptures, and one with inexplicable paper mobiles all hanging from the ceiling.
At the end of the hall, there’s a dark, narrow staircase, and I hear someone coming down.
“Hey,” Chase says as he appears, and I feel something spark in my chest as I see him smile at me.
He looks incredible.
He put on a black long-sleeve and nice-looking slacks with a belt, and he’s wearing dark-rimmed glasses that I’ve never seen on him before. There’s a camera slung over one of his shoulders, and as he pushes his hair back, I’ve never seen him so clearly in his element before.
“Wow,” I say softly.
“The upstairs hallway has some projects in it right now,” he says, reaching out to grab my hand. “Here. My studio is at the end of the second floor. Careful, because there are some glass sculptures at the top of the landing. None of the other people are in right now.”