Decker
It's time to armor up.
I'm about to meet a high-profile client in what could turn out to be my biggest job yet.
It's been six days since twenty-eight-year-old natural bodybuilder and social media influencer Rocky Summers had the dickslip to end all dickslips.
The six-second video of his G-string bursting off his sculpted body has been shared by everyone on every type of media, from the wackiest loons on X to the world's biggest media organizations.
Whether people have seen the raw footage online or the heavily pixelated version on TV and in newspapers, the bottom line is: everyone has seen it.
I'm ready for this moment.
And I'm angry.
When you grow up in a family where your dickhead dad is involved in multiple scandals, you have to develop thick skin. Add in the fact I'm 5'5" and gay, it was either that or drown.
I refuse to drown.
The jet-engine ambition that saw me attending college at thirteen and graduating at eighteen with a double major in philosophy and communications is the same fuel that makes me work my ass off for the clients I represent.
I may have been too young to save my mother, but I won't let a scandal end someone's life.
Not on my watch.
I stew in my anger, pressure building like steam in a sealed pipe in my veins. The real part of me is sensitive and shy. The work part of me is a fucking monster you do not want to cross. I'm intimidating, I'm ruthless, and that's why I'm the best at what I do.
It's why I left one of the most prestigious PR firms in the country and branched out on my own.
I was sick of being underappreciated and having my talents go to waste.
Who cares that I'm twenty-three. I'm brilliant at what I do, so why should my age be a barrier?
Seniority and rank are relics of a past corporate culture.
People should be judged on their results, not by a number.
This campaign is make or break for me. Rocky's career is in freefall, and the whole world is watching. If I can turn this around, I might finally be able to break free from the shackles of my family name and prove to everyone I can stand on my own two feet.
Rocky has been banned from competing this season, pending the outcomes of an FCC investigation as well as an internal review by the Men of Muscle organization. The headline rumor is that he staged the whole thing to increase his online following.
I storm into the meeting room expecting only to see Rocky Summers. Seven heads swivel my way. Silas, Tanner, Patrick, Beckett, Kynan, and Kynan's partner, Sawyer, who's holding Ky's son in his lap.
The Bad Boy Academy are all here.
Under different circumstances, like if I'd randomly bumped into them in public, I'd be working up the courage to approach them and gush about how big a fan I am.
But I'm in beast mode now, so that won't be happening.
"All of you, out!" I bark.
"Excuse me?" Patrick says.
"If your name isn't Rocky Summers, you have no reason to be here."
"You're wrong," Beckett snaps. "We're his family. We have every right to be here."
I take a beat, clenching my jaw. Just once, I'd love for someone in my life to stand up for me like that.
I catch the sentimentality…and crush it under the heel of my Saint Laurent Wyatt boots.
"And I'm the guy who's going to get him out of this mess," I say, stopping short of delivering an ultimatum—either they go or I do. I'll save that for later if needed.
Beckett doesn't back down.
I smirk and meet his gaze. I've been looked down on and sneered at my whole damn life. If this pretty boy thinks he can psych me out, he's got another thing coming.
"Guys, listen to him. Please."
Rocky's gentle plea may be only that—a plea—but for a second, it feels like a huge gust of wind. Imperceptibly, I ground myself into the floor as Beckett glances over at his friend.
"You sure?" he asks.
Rocky gives a curt nod. The bags under his eyes almost match his thick mop of black curls. The poor guy. Talk about the week from hell.
One by one, the guys get up, whisper something to Rocky, then head out, avoiding looking at me.
Except for Kynan.
Maybe it's because he's had some experience navigating a huge amount of media attention since coming out as a single dad and being with Sawyer, not only a man (gasp), but a man at least two decades older than him (gay gasp).
He not only meets my eyes, he smiles a friendly smile before whispering something to Sawyer who looks over at me with a curious grin.
Once everyone has left, I take a seat on the opposite side of the massive rectangular table dominating the whole room. Above the dark bags, two light-green eyes track my every movement.
Despite my extensive research on Rocky Summers, I still don't have a clear read on the guy. On his socials, he gives off goofy, golden retriever energy. A little ditzy, likely to put his foot in his mouth, but ultimately harmless.
But he's smart.
He and the BBA do a ton of promotions and are often seen at bars and clubs. Rocky does the required posing and smiling, but he doesn't look like he belongs there. I have a sneaking suspicion I know where he'd rather be and what he'd rather be doing.
All of which is to say, the persona and the man could very well be two distinct, and different, entities.
Then there are all the rumors about his sex life. Do I think he's a player?
That's irrelevant.
What matters is that his sponsors, MoM, and his legions of fans—many of whom are young kids who idolize him—believe he's a good guy who didn't expose himself to the world for the sake of a few follows, likes, and shares.
"Hi," he says across the table, mustering up a tired smile.
Thank fuck I'm sitting down because that voice is like a tidal wave. So deep and masculine.
"Good morning." I retrieve two sets of documents from my briefcase and slide one set across the smooth dark walnut surface of the table.
When he reaches to get it, the upper part of his arm flexes with muscles I don't even know the names of. He's wearing a tight-fitting black shirt that clings to his body, but given his size and insane physique, the shirt doesn't really get much say in how it fits him.
"What's this?" he asks.
"It's a blueprint for getting you out of this mess and back to competing as quickly as possible."
From what the head honchos at MoM I spoke with told me, that's his number one priority right now. Unlike me, Rocky comes from humble beginnings. From what I've been told and have seen myself in interviews, bodybuilding isn't just his passion—it's his life.
He lets out a low rumble, slips on a pair of reading glasses, and flips open the document. I study him as he reads, searching for signs that might indicate whether he's going to be an easy client or a difficult one.
When the CEO of MoM reached out, he assured me Rocky was on board. But I know better than to believe someone with a huge financial interest in someone else doing what they need them to do. Managers, agents, and CEOs say one thing, talent does another. Almost always.
But so far, Rocky seems to be calmly taking everything in, which means he actually is on board…or he's a really good actor.
"So, what do you think?" I ask after a few minutes, caught off guard by how much his reaction matters to me. Why do I care? I get paid handsomely either way.
He closes the document and folds his reading glasses, placing them gently on the table. "I think this whole thing is crazy and has been completely blown out of proportion. I can't believe it's derailed everything I've worked my whole life for…"
He blows out a heavy breath, sinking back into his chair. The thing creaks under all the weight. "I just want this whole mess to blow over so I can get on with my life. If you think me staging a fake relationship is the way to do that, then let's do it."
"That's just one of many steps we'll be taking," I tell him, since he didn't have the time to read the whole action plan.
"But it's important we neutralize the whole f-boy angle.
That keeps you a target. Showing you're in a relationship immediately frames you, and this entire incident, differently. "
He continues looking at me, like he might need a moment to let my very PR-centric view of the world sink in. Everything's an angle. Or about reframing. Or taking control of the narrative.
It's not normal. I know that. Then again, nothing about my twenty-five years on this earth has been. Being born into a family where Dad is an NFL legend and Mom was one of the best actresses of her generation means I got all the benefits that come with such privilege, but no normal.
"Okay, so where do we get this fake boyfriend from? Do they grow on trees?" he asks, the humor in his deep register blending beautifully, like honey on warm toast.
I meet his gaze head-on. "No. There's a factory in Idaho that churns them out."
His eyes narrow slightly, and one side of his mouth hitches. "You don't say."
"Actually…" I lift my chin. "I have someone in mind."