Chapter 5 Alexander
Friday
The steam engulfs me, and I let myself be taken completely. Christopher pins me up against the glass wall of the steam room, holding my hands above my head. He removes his hand from my left wrist, and slides it down over my abs toward my cock, grasping it firmly.
I am consumed by his touch, his mouth on my neck, when a pounding on the glass snaps me out of my daydream and back to the reality of my hotel shower.
Ugh!
“Didn’t you hear me? We need to wrap this up.” Rob circles his finger in a clockwise motion while turning off the portable speaker playing Blink 182’s All the Small Things. This is the second time Rob has ruined my moment with Christopher, albeit this one was in my imagination.
I was already pulling down my shorts to join Christopher in the steam room when Rob had shouted “Bruce!” I know to stop what I’m doing whenever I hear that particular pseudonym. And lo and behold, a second later, two older Eastern European guys had walked into the changing room.
In the aftermath, I’d left without even acknowledging Christopher.
It’s happened so often over the years that I’ve been programmed to follow Rob out of the situation and back to safety as quickly as possible.
If I had a dollar for every time a moment has been stolen from me in the last ten years, I’d be a very rich man.
“Coming,” I say. I turn the shower off, opening the glass door to grab a towel once Rob leaves. Resting one hand on the marble sink, I wipe steam from the mirror with the other. My reflection matches what I feel inside—dejection.
What’s a guy gotta do to get his rocks off in this place?
By the time I’ve popped my Adderall, changed, and sat through Erica working her magic, the transformation is complete.
I’m no longer Clark Kent, but Superman, I grab my iced coffee and down the last of it before joining the rest of the team and some of the members of my UK label in the meeting room of my suite.
“What’s the agenda, guys?” I ask while walking in. I nod and smile at the familiar faces who look up. Hopefully it will be a short meeting. In other words, pass me the day’s itinerary, tell me what I need to do, and then let me get back to daydreaming about Christopher.
I sit down in the only empty seat and ignore what Connie is discussing, instead picking up the call sheet for today.
My initialed logo is stamped at the top and a list of media outlets, their reach, interviewer, and interview times fills the rest of the page.
At the very bottom, I see that I’m booked to do a TV interview on location and then a late dinner with a film producer at Sexy Fish in Mayfair.
In the middle of the table, an assortment of the daily UK newspapers competes for space with platters of fruit and breakfast pastries.
Images of me from last night are plastered across their front covers.
My heart sinks as I lay down the call sheet and grab an apple from one of the trays.
They all have various takes of the same headline:
Alexander’s BIG Reveal.
Alexander’s BIG Entrance.
Alexander Arrives in London With a BIG Bang.
I want to be taken seriously as an artist, and have worked hard to transition my music from the pure pop sound that launched my career into a more credible sound to broaden my audience. But headlines like this just objectify my body instead of focusing on the music.
I take a bite of the apple and reach for one of the papers. The story opens with Teen sensation turned heartthrob wows on opening night of his UK tour.
I skim through the article. It’s void of any references to the evolution of my music or the production values of the show, and is instead focused on my outfits, my looks, and the screaming fans.
My chest tightens, my right foot tapping faster with each word I read, until I finally fling the newspaper back onto the table, startling two of the UK promo team members across from me.
Sorry, I mouth. I smile back at them both when they smile at me and wave away my apology.
“You got that, Alex?” Connie asks. Her eyebrows arch.
“Huh?” I ask, pausing with the apple in front of my mouth.
“The key points to cover,” she says. “One, how great it is to be back in your favorite city in the world. Two, My Anchor is a shoo-in for number one next week and is your favorite from the album. Three, that you’re recording a live album at Abbey Road this week.”
“Right,” I answer, completing my bite and slouching into the leather chair. I swing back and forth, looking at the 11 p.m. clear time on the call sheet.
That’s another twelve hours away, and all I want to do is crawl back into my bed, or Christopher’s, and close the door to the world. But I have to remember that this is all I ever dreamed of as a child, to leave behind my small town in Northern California.
In ten days, this touring and promo cycle will be wrapped up. I’ll have a couple of months off before the movie we’re discussing tonight with the producer is due to begin shooting. Hopefully I’ll be able to get some much needed rest.
As the meeting wraps, I quickly hug and say hi to everyone before leaving the suite and walk twenty yards down the hallway to where the press junket will take place.
I’m hoping to catch a glimpse of Christopher, but the hall, closely guarded by one of the local security team Rob has brought in, is empty.
Once in the room, I slump into the interview chair, shoulders sagging. My white T-shirt rides up under my open black button-down short-sleeve shirt. The sound guy comes up, passes me the mic pack, and threads the microphone cable up underneath my shirt, attaching it next to the second button.
“Everything okay?” Erica asks as she comes in to do some last-minute touch-ups. Her brown hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail.
I take a deep inhale, pushing myself up and ready to tell her, when the sound guy asks me to test the mic. My shoulders drop again as I run through the usual one-two one-two testing script, getting a thumbs-up from him.
Only a handful of people know about my sexuality, and everyone, including my parents and brother, are under a strict non disclosure agreement to ensure it doesn’t get out.
This image of me, carefully crafted over the years, allows my fans—who are predominantly female and under twenty-one—to buy into the dream that they may one day become the future Mrs. Morgan.
Last night’s scandal wouldn’t even register on the Richter scale compared to the seismic impact me coming out would cause.
According to Paul and Connie, my career as a pop star would be over.
I tried to point out that many artists are gay or at least bisexual, including George Michael, Elton John, Freddy Mercury, David Bowie, and Sam Smith.
But Paul and Connie dismissed me by saying those artists were all British, came out later in their careers, and didn’t always recover from the scandal.
“Different rules apply to American artists,” Paul had said, “especially when trying to appeal to the Bible Belt of middle America.”
So, that was that, and I stay closeted, fearful that everything I’ve built will be taken away in a moment.
I play along with the narrative that the team put out, which includes linking me to a string of women anytime a sniff of my sexuality makes its way beyond harmless fan fiction and into the media.
“And can we expect any other big reveals, while you’re here in London?” The male journalist from The Sun raises his brows as he leans forward to ask.
I feel my cheeks getting red and I shift my right leg to cross it over my left.
“Carl!” Connie shouts from behind the camera.
Her glare is directed straight at him and would burn a hole through him if it were a laser. That is all it takes to force his brows down and for him to lean back into his chair.
“Sorry,” he says, raising both his hands to her before turning back to face me.
“Your fans here in London want to know, are there any exclusives you can share with them while you’re here in town?”
I’ve been playing this game for so long now, I almost kid myself into thinking I’m letting him in on a secret—giving him an exclusive scoop. I lean forward, looking directly into his green eyes.
“I’ll probably get into trouble from you-know-who,” I say, thumbing over my shoulder at Connie with one hand and covering the microphone with another.
“But between you, me, and the English fans, I’ll be heading to Abbey Road Studios next week to record a live album, including my latest single My Anchor, which my team told me this morning is number two here in the UK. ”
The sparkle in Carl’s eyes tells me he’s bought into my acting, and it’s reaffirmed when Connie gives him the nod that he can run with what I said on the record.
“Congratulations!” he says. “And I’m sure with the shows this week and everything else, you’re on course for your fifth number one single.”
“That would be the perfect present to end this tour and my time in the UK with, Carl,” I say, leaning across and squeezing his knee.
I leave it there a beat longer than I should, just to ensure this line makes its mark and he includes it in the final piece.
If he does that, it will mobilize the Morganites, as my fans affectionately refer to themselves, to drive streams and sales of the song all this next week.
But that wouldn’t be the best present from this trip. That would be Christopher.
With that, the interview concludes. Carl and I exchange a brief hug and thank you, and we snap the obligatory selfie before Connie escorts him out of the room and readies the next journalist.
“Can I grab five please?” I say, looking at Lucy. Her bright red hair stands out in the darkness where she sits next to Erica by the playback monitor.