Chapter 3 Alexander
Friday
Who was that guy?!
No one speaks to me like that, not even—nope not going to think about him. I push the name aside to return my focus to those dreamy hazel eyes, limned with a green outer ring. Each word, spoken in that British accent, hypnotized me like a snake charmer.
The sting I’d felt when he slammed the door in my face has been replaced by somersaults in my stomach—and heat rising on the back of my neck.
Ever since I shot to fame ten years ago off the back of a viral video, I’ve been surrounded by people who pander to my every need.
But he didn’t seem to give a fuck who I was.
And apart from Paul, who tells me what to do, when to do it, and how—which I have to admit is pretty useful for a guy with ADHD—everyone else seems to go along with what I say.
But even then, Paul usually draws a line. He knows where to stop, although it’s likely due to fear of losing his job if he oversteps the mark. Yet, elevator guy didn’t care.
The minibar underneath the widescreen TV in the lounge catches my eye, calling out to me like a siren to a sailor in the night.
I force myself up off the beige couch. I close my eyes as I grab the door handle, hoping that somehow the cleaning staff ignored my team’s request to remove all alcohol from my room and replenished it with some spirits, wine, or heck—even a beer or three.
I mean, surely my need for a drink is understandable, right? With everything I have to hide, what else will push the intrusive thoughts away?
With one strong yank, the door opens, but my hopes are crushed when I open my eyes. A half dozen bottles of Fuji water, two cans of Diet Coke, and a couple of Sprite Zeros stare back at me.
Can’t I even get a little sugar to ride out the adrenaline from the concert? I shrug, admitting defeat. I kick the door shut before toeing off my Nike high-tops and collapsing back onto the couch.
The four empty chairs, arranged on either side of the sofa, set off a pang in my chest. They’re yet another reminder of how lonely I get after a show.
There’s a definite letdown to performing in front of crowds of people and then being locked away in a suite all alone.
It’s like going a hundred miles an hour down the freeway and then making an emergency stop.
It’s just unnatural. I wince as the faint chants of my fans echo down on the street below. Even they get to be all together.
Fine. I have to do something to distract myself.
I grab the remote and flick aimlessly through cable channels, hoping to find something that will keep me awake until the adrenaline wears off so I can finally pass out.
Not only that, but stave off the intrusive thoughts about the start of tonight’s show.
I was so humiliated.
Standing there.
Exposed.
To nineteen thousand people.
I mean it’s bad enough when it happens in front of one person, but the whole arena saw it and now it’s all over socials for the world to see. Maybe I should look on TikTok to see if what Connie was saying in the elevator was true. I drop the remote and reach into my jeans for my phone.
Over the next hour I go further and further down the rabbit hole.
First, I watch videos of myself exposed on stage, terror plastered across my face, before my dancers move in front of me to shield my motions as I pull the sides of my fly back up and pin it closed again.
Then I get caught up in the videos discussing whether I’ve had a penis enlargement operation or not.
The whole thing makes my body shake.
The objectification.
The double standard of being an American artist means I need to have a good voice and be physically attractive at the same time.
And that’s how I got into this mess tonight in the first place.
If Paul and Connie hadn’t pressured me to bulk up for the shoot with Men’s Health on Sunday, I would have fitted into my pants and none of this would have happened.
I wish I could magically remove the pressure of needing to have a perfect physique.
Eat what I want, drink what I want, when I want, without a care in the world.
Instead, I’m stuck on this shitty protein diet.
No carbs, no sugars, and definitely no alcohol.
It might as well be called the fuck my life diet.
And what’s worse, the gym isn’t even open, so I can’t go hardio on the cardio and try to lose some of this muscle.
Paul had picked a hotel that only opens their gym during the day, justifying his decision by saying it’s one of the best for security in London.
Although I hadn’t noticed any security cameras in the elevator earlier.
Maybe Jay Z and Beyoncé had asked for them to be removed when they stayed here?
“Looks like the only workout I’ll be getting tonight is with you,” I say to my right hand. I shuck off my white Calvin Klein boxer briefs and begin to rub my shaft.
The guy from the elevator pops into my mind as soon as I close my eyes.
I picture him looking down at me with a commanding presence, hazel eyes staring deep into mine, His authoritative voice has me wanting—yearning—for him to take me.
I give up trying to edge myself. I can’t contain the testosterone coursing through my veins, and instead I pound my hand vigorously up and down my shaft, chasing my orgasm, and climaxing almost as soon as I start.
My body spasms momentarily, left leg twitching, until I relax into a state of calm.
As I make my way into the shower to clean myself up, I wonder if the elevator guy is still awake.
The monsoon shower washes away the remnants of myself, along with any guilt I had about breaking my sobriety this afternoon.
The horror from what happened on stage also recedes, leaving me think about the guy next door and what I can do to get his attention.
I grab a towel after turning off the shower, wrapping it tightly round my waist, and grab another to dry my hair. The mirror light perfectly accentuates my eight-pack and V-line. Maybe all this hard work and restrictive diet isn’t that bad. The wry smile on my face stares back at me.
Applying moisturizer to my face, I breathe in the summer flower scent, and instantly begin wondering what the guy smells like, tastes like, feels like. Shit. I’ve only known this guy for five minutes and he’s already gotten into my head like an earworm.
He’s probably sound asleep and couldn’t give less of a fuck about me if he tried. In fact, he had pretty much said so in the elevator. Which only makes me want him more.
Maybe I should go knock on his door?
Didn’t he say his luggage got left behind in LA?
Maybe I could offer him some of my gym gear to wear?
No, he said he had some in his bag.
Maybe I could bring him something else. But then what if it doesn’t fit? He was a good couple of inches taller than me, and no matter what anyone says, those couple of extra inches matter.
My mind races, remembering other details.
He lives in LA too. When this tour is over, I could actually meet up with him. Then a thought grinds me to a complete stop. I don’t even know if he’s gay. Come to think of it, his unkempt look, brown hoodie, and sweatpants didn’t scream gay to me.
The towel around my waist starts to rise, and I feel the blood pumping through my body again.
Nope.
Don’t let yourself get carried away; you need to sleep.
I push my boner down.
Even if there is a remote chance that he is, one, in fact gay, and two, likes you, you need to play it cool. And don’t do the usual, fall fast and hard, only for it to all come crashing down.
I retreat back to the bedroom, throw the towels onto the armchair next to my bed, and reach for my phone.
I reluctantly set my alarm for 8:15 a.m., leaving me only five hours to sleep.
Six if I’m lucky. But at least this allows me to get in an hour workout before glam arrives and I’m stuck repeating myself for six hours on the press junket.
How in the ham sandwich is it already 8:15? I stretch out my arm, blindly trying to shut off the piercing sound of the devil disguised as an alarm clock.
I swear I only closed my eyelids five seconds ago.
The sunlight peeks in through a crack in the blackout curtains, which I clearly didn’t draw properly.
The pounding in my head feels like I’ve been hit by a forklift truck. I try to lift it from the pillow and immediately regret it. What kind of fresh hell is this?
I grab the water bottle next to my phone and swallow it down three gulps, hoping it will wash away whatever this is, then message Rob.
I’m heading to the gym in ten.
Bring painkillers.
ROB
Sure thing, boss.
Grabbing the coffees now too.
For all the crap I give Rob and have put him through over the years, he’s been a solid guy.
He’s learned my morning ritual by heart, knowing that I’m intolerable until I’ve had an iced Americano.
And apart from Paul, he’s pretty much been there since day one and has witnessed all the mad shit that’s unfolded.
In fact, he was the first one to find out I was gay when he walked in on me and Samuel.
Surprisingly, he was totally cool about it all.
It made me check my judgment about the types of people I expect to be homophobic.
After freshening up in the bathroom, I make my way into the walk-in closet to pick out gym wear.
I throw on fresh briefs and one of my twenty black Nike running tops.
I almost grab a pair of gray shorts before opting instead for tight pink ones with a five-inch inseam.
They’d caused quite a stir when I was papped in them a few weeks back.
If they don’t capture elevator guy’s attention and help me work out whether he’s into guys or not, nothing will. A grin rises to my lips at the thought.
“Boss!” Rob shouts, the sound of the hotel room door closing behind him.
“Just a minute.”
I slide on socks and sneakers and quickly grab a new box of earbuds before making my way out to the living room, where Rob patiently waits in one of the chairs, a packet of ibuprofen in one hand and my coffee order in the other.
“You’re a life saver.”
Rob smirks as I take the iced coffee and pop two pills, glugging them down.
“Ready, boss?” He pushes himself out of the chair and toward the door.
“Ready, as I’ll ever be,” I reply, following him out.
As we make our way down the hallway, my heart sinks at the sight of the Do Not Disturb light shining on the gold plaque beside elevator guy’s door.
So much for potentially bumping into him in the gym.
Aside from the cleaning trolley halfway down the hallway, it’s eerily quiet in the hotel this morning.
When the elevator door opens, a Chinese family holding their luggage steps to one side to let Rob and me in.
Their little girl looks up at Rob and quickly reaches for her mom’s hand, as if scared of him.
Rob instantly notices this and slides a hand into his pocket, withdrawing a candy and offering it to her.
I smile. Rob has a softer side that very few get to see.
The elevator stops to let them out on the ground floor, and the little girl waves goodbye.
I glance over to see a huge smile on Rob’s face while we continue down to the basement.
When we get there, I’m relieved to find there’s no one else in the space aside from the three young women checking guests in at the desk, giving me free rein to use whatever equipment I wish.
Rob leaves me to it, standing watch inside the pool room and keeping an eye on me through the glass window that looks into the gym.
I step onto the treadmill with a cup full of water and pop in my earbuds as I fire up the speed to nine miles per hour, cranking up Sex on Fire by Kings of Leon. Thankfully, the headache has subsided with the coffee and ibuprofen, but a wave of nausea has emerged in its place.
I probably shouldn’t work out while feeling like this, but I don’t want a repeat performance of last night’s inadvertent strip tease, and if that means doing a load of cardio and feeling slightly nauseous while doing it, then so be it.
No pain, no gain after all.
With each successive mile, the nausea gets stronger.
Sweat drips from my body all over the treadmill.
A cramp forms in my leg when I hit the four-mile mark, and it feels like every stride is pushing whatever’s in my stomach up through my esophagus.
The burning sensation reaches my throat as the five-mile mark approaches.
I crank the speed up, hoping that if I can just make it another minute the sensation will subside, but my body has other plans.
I desperately reach for my cup of water, trying to hold it steady and drink while my legs run away from me, but I can already tell it’s too late. I reach for the emergency stop button, but just as my hand comes down on it, the wave of nausea turns into a tsunami. Dread washes over me.
This.
Is.
Not.
Happening.
Right.
Now…