Chapter 9 Alexander #2
Why they insisted on putting us in the middle of the club and not at one of the VIP tables lining the walls is beyond me.
My attention turns to Paul, but he’s deep in conversation with Rita’s friend, who’s somehow managed to worm her way into our group and is straddled up beside me.
Thankfully, Lucy sits on the other side of me, keeping a watchful eye out, while Rob stands at the edge of the booth next to Connie.
“You think if I asked the DJ, they’d play Fat Lip?” Lucy shouts in my ear over the music.
“Not a chance,” I say, chuckling and rolling my eyes at her.
The track blasting from the speakers is a far cry from the music both Lucy and I bonded over when I interviewed her to become my personal assistant: Sum 41, Green Day, Foo Fighters, and Avril Lavigne.
A gaggle of bleach-blond women, all in gold pants and matching white vests tied up in knots to reveal their midriffs, approach the table with three new bottles of Belvedere, complete with sparklers.
Anyone in the club who wasn’t already looking in our direction definitely is now.
The DJ cuts the music, jumping on the mic.
“Everybody give it up for my boy, Alexander Morgan, in the house tonight!”
I feel my cheeks flush as the crowd erupts. I stand up, lifting my glass in acknowledgment as the DJ turns the music back on. He segues into a remix of My Anchor that the UK label dropped today. All of this is a bid to get me to number one on the singles chart.
I feel everyone’s eyes on me, like they’re expecting me to jump on the mic and do an impromptu performance, but thankfully that wasn’t part of the PA agreement.
“Want a glass?” Rita asks, waving the Belvedere bottle at me, her eyes widening.
A flicker of hope rises in my chest. Not because of her, but at the thought of alcohol.
Of course I want one. But everyone else won’t let me, and it’s not worth the risk of getting caught drinking so publicly.
“I’m good, thanks,” I say, brushing away the flicker of hope and crashing back down to reality. I wave my glass of apple juice at her.
“You know,” Rita says as she finishes pouring herself a drink, “I’ve got someone looking after my children tonight.
We could take the party somewhere else after this.
” Her words are a statement rather than a question, and her hand slides onto my ass, pinching it.
The left strap of her dress finally loses its fight to stay up and falls, exposing her nipple.
She waits for me to look at her, which is something I’m determined not to do, but end up doing anyway, and I pull away just enough for her to stumble into the table. I don’t want to be caught in a photo with her in such a state of undress.
She looks surprised as Rob helps her back up. She pulls her strap back up, shakes her head, and straightens her hair.
My pocket vibrates, and I quickly move to the other side of Lucy, out of harm’s reach. My phone slides out easier this time, thankfully, and I unlock it to reveal a message from Christopher. My heart trips over itself as I read it.
Christopher
Sry battry dead. Bck t sistrs hse. Gym tmr?
I rub my eyes, reading the message three times and trying to decipher his spelling.
The disappointment weighs heavily on my shoulders when I realize he’s not coming and won’t be at the hotel when I get back.
I immediately start typing out a response, then stop myself.
I’ve got rehearsals tomorrow for the live album recording at Abbey Road, then the Men’s Health photoshoot and another show at the O2. I’m not going to have time to get into the gym, as much as I want to before the photoshoot.
“Let’s go,” I say to Lucy, sliding my phone back into my pocket and then rubbing my hand over my watch so Rob sees.
Rob lifts a small flashlight to get the attention of the venue manager by the stairs, cuing the security to clear a path for me to exit the building.
“Where are you going?” Rita drunkenly asks, downing the last of her drink. She scrunches up her face at the aftertaste, grabs her bag, and slings her arm over my shoulder.
“I’ve got an early start tomorrow,” I say, keeping my attention focused forward as Rob removes her arm from around me. I nod at Paul to take care of Rita as we head toward the door.
The darkness of the club is immediately replaced by the flood of all-too-familiar camera flashes of the paparazzi. A commotion breaks out behind me. As I turn around to see what’s happening, I see Rita lunging toward me, pushing herself free from Paul, and trying to make her way into my car.
Rita, Rita, here! The shouting of the paparazzi gets her focus long enough that she turns briefly to pose for the pictures, giving Rob enough time to shove me in the car.
I stumble inside, landing lengthwise on the seat, and slump my head into my hands. I can already see the headlines all over the internet and in the papers tomorrow.
Rita Watson spotted leaving London hotspot with Alexander Morgan.
“Let me order you a car,” I hear Paul’s voice say from outside, as Connie, Lucy, and Rob get in, shutting the door behind them and leaving Paul with her.
Great. Just what I need.
Another scandal.
Sunday
“Do you know how many people would kill me for this job?” Erica laughs.
Her hair is scraped back and her dark top is covered with splashes of the baby oil she’s been applying to my body for the last fifteen minutes. I stand topless in some dark fitted Lululemon shorts, which she’s covered with paper towels to prevent them from staining.
The photography team is adjusting the lighting around a bunch of different gym equipment, setting up the third and final look for the Men’s Health shoot.
“And yet, neither one of us gets anything from it,” I say, winking at her.
Erica’s been with her partner Suzanne for fifteen years now, and is the only other LGBTQIA+ member of my travel party.
“Do you reckon you’ll get to do this for a gay magazine one day?” Erica steps back to look at my body, spots a dry bit, and grabs the baby oil bottle to apply more to my arm.
“Maybe,” I say, shrugging. I look over at Connie, who is talking with another woman.
I’m lying to myself. I know the answer is a no.
Connie had shut it down when I’d asked a couple of years back. She didn’t want to fan the flames or set me up to be outed by a journalist.
That leaves Erica as one of the only people I can talk openly with about my sexuality. With Paul, Rob, and Lucy, it’s almost a don’t ask, don’t tell situation. And Connie avoids it all together, unless she needs to shut down a rumor.
Erica steps back one last time, giving me a once over, and nods in approval.
“With a look this hot, you’ll break the internet.”
Her smile widens as I whack her arm, and then I’m called over to where the photographer waits by the makeshift gym.
He leans forward on one of the weight machines, showing me how he wants me to pose. He holds his hands above him, exposing a hairy belly underneath a worn-out KISS T-shirt.
“Can I get you to start in this position? And we’ll go from there.”
“Sure,” I say, moving myself into position. Erica ruffles my hair to give it that unkempt, messy look. The music starts again, Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit, to help loosen me up as I hold the first pose.
“Great.”
“That’s it.”
“Chin up for me.”
“Look slightly to your left.”
“Amazing.”
“And tense your abs slightly for me.”
“Perfect.”
“Now if you can just tense those biceps of yours.”
“You’ve got it. Now hold it.”
The camera continues to snap away as the photographer shouts out commands like an army general, and I couldn’t feel more objectified if I’d tried. Does everyone who appears topless on the cover of Men’s Health feel the same way? Or is it just me?
The younger version of me clearly bought into what they are selling. I’d begged Erica to buy me copies of any magazine that had someone looking like I currently do gracing the cover. In the safety of my room, I’d masturbate vigorously two or three times in a row over them.
But as I’ve got older, my tastes have changed. I no longer find the Greek Adonis physique that’s so revered by the gay community attractive. Especially now that I know how much hard work it takes, not only to gain the muscle in the first place, but to maintain it.
After what seems like an eternity, Connie wraps the shoot. We’ve already fallen behind schedule due to the live album rehearsals running over. So she’s arranged for the Men’s Health interview to take place in the car on the way to the O2.
I still feel sticky, despite Erica’s attempt to wipe me down as we left the shoot. The white T-shirt I threw on is covered in oil marks.
I see the journalist waiting in the car as I get in with Connie and Erica.
“Alexander, this is Claire from Men’s Health.”
“Great to meet you,” I say, extending my hand to greet her.
She’s dressed in head to toe workout gear, blond hair scraped back into a ponytail.
A pang of envy rises in my chest at the fact that her job allows her to wear comfy sports attire, while I find myself changing into new looks multiple times a day.
“Well, look at you, you great big hunk of spunk!” she says in a brash Australian accent. Clearly the women here in London are not shy about being forward. I shudder again at the thought of Rita’s clumsy overtures last night, before batting the thought away.
The shift in Connie’s body language tells me she’s picked up on my discomfort, and she reaches for a box of donuts next to her.
“We got your favorite,” she says, opening the box to reveal a dozen Red Velvet donuts.
I stare at all that sugar, wrapped up into a heavenly package that I’ve been craving for weeks.
Who said you couldn’t fall in love at first sight?
And who said it had to be a person?
But before I allow myself to reach in and take one, I look at Claire.
“Don’t worry, Claire’s been briefed that this is strictly off the record,” Connie says. Claire nods as Connie pushes the box toward me. I take one before Connie passes the box to Erica, who grabs one, and then to Claire, who waves it off, patting her flat stomach.
“Simon showed me some of the raw shots he took before we left, and I think this could be our biggest selling issue since Beckham,” she says.
A smile rises on my face, not at the thought of the sales, but at the exact cover she’s referring to. Oh, I know that one too well.
“Really?” I ask. I take a bite of the donut and the cream bursts into my mouth. God, I really have been missing out these last couple of months.
“Yeah, you look incredible.”
I shake my head, dismissing the compliment. It’s amazing what restricting your diet, working out, makeup, and good lighting can do. I’ve always been told how attractive I am, but I still see a spotty teenager in the mirror.
“Let’s begin by walking our readers through what workout program you use to get in such incredible shape.” She reaches for her notepad and clicks the top of her pen.
“Donuts,” I say, letting out a laugh and then taking another bite.
I want to tell Claire and the readers that it’s hell.
That this physique comes at the cost of my sanity.
But I know this is all part of a carefully curated PR plan, led by Connie, to start positioning me as a leading man in Hollywood.
To move beyond the teenybopper image and grow and expand my audience, rather than letting them outgrow me.
“I’ve been working with a personal trainer called Nick Garcia for the past few years now, and he’s really helped me understand my body frame. He created a bespoke workout that targets each body part to get the results I want.”
Then the words just fall out of my mouth, as I fill Claire in on the grueling workouts Nick puts me through.
The alternating cardio to weight days. The four-one-three-one-four-one on-off schedule I adopt on a fortnightly basis.
How I’ve been able to keep up the workout schedule, even though Nick headed back to LA two weeks ago for the birth of his baby.
“And is there anyone who gets to take advantage of this physique?” Claire asks slyly. A smirk rises on her face. Connie jumps in before I can say anything, telling Claire that personal questions are off the table.
My mind immediately goes to Christopher and I remember that I never responded to his message.
“Can you just give me a second? I forgot something I need to respond to.” I grab my phone from my pocket, and quickly open his message, deliberating what to say.
It needs to be light, fun, maybe even sarcastic—like him.
I can feel everyone’s gaze on me. As the silence becomes deafening, I shoot off the first thing that comes to my head.
How’s your head? You around later…
After sliding my phone back into my pocket, I return my attention to Claire.
“Sorry, where were we?”