Chapter 2 - Heading Home & Blown Out
The walk to the elevator felt longer than the walk in. The silence of the office suite, once merely professional, now felt heavy with everything that hadn’t been said. Callum couldn’t get the scent of sweat mixed with Julian’s cologne out of his nose. It was sharp but so intoxicating.
Callum pressed the down button, his hot thumb lingering on the cold metal. He could still feel the phantom heat on his palm where he’d touched Julian’s shoulder, a simple, brief, damp contact that had felt like touching a live spark.
“Get a grip, Cal,” he muttered to his reflection in the mirrored elevator doors.
He looked exactly like what he was: a thirty-four-year-old trainer in a compression top, black shorts and scuffed Nikes.
In the reflection, he looked like some blurry interloper against the gold-leaf accents and fine art of Vance Global.
Somewhat out of place? Whatever it takes.
He looked at the person staring back at him in the mirror.
This guy needed cash, and the first session had gone well, considering Julian’s attire constraints.
He’d said, see you Thursday, so Callum hoped this would be a twice-weekly series of training sessions, and he could clear some of his debts.
The transition from the hushed, scent-controlled air of the 50th floor to the reality of the New York street was jarring.
The cold hit him first, followed by the smell of exhaust fumes and roasting nuts from a late-night street cart outside the building.
He pulled his hoodie from his bag and shrugged it on over his head.
He took a deep breath, a reality check, and headed for the subway, his mind spinning. He needed to know more about this guy. All he’d been told was that it was some corporate gig.
Looking out of the grime-streaked train window as he headed back towards Brooklyn, he muttered under his breath, “Who are you, Julian Newman?”
By the time Callum reached his apartment, a fourth-floor cubby hole in Bushwick, where the radiator hissed and the hallway smelled of his neighbour’s cooking, the adrenaline from the session was finally fading, replaced by an itch of confusion.
He threw his bag on the floor and sat on the edge of his bed. The contrast was laughable. Julian was probably fifty floors up in his glass palace, probably sipping a scotch that cost more than his monthly rent.
He closed his eyes. He could still picture him standing there in those black socks, his shirt clinging to the muscles of his back, his hair a mess, his brow aglow with a mixture of sweat and that fresh cologne. There was a raw vulnerability in that dishevelment that made Callum’s stomach flip.
He thought about the way Julian’s voice had dropped when he said, “Help me out of it.” Removing the tie, was it a test, a game, or maybe an invitation?
“He’s a client,” Callum said to the empty room, his voice cracking slightly. “A very rich, probably closeted, extremely complicated client.”
He grabbed his silver MacBook, opened Google, typed in ‘who is Julian Newman New York’ and hit return.
The search was instantaneous and it was quickly obvious that the results were the right Julian Newman. The main accompanying picture next to the text was a black-and-white head-and-shoulders shot of Julian wearing a dark suit, looking directly into the camera.
“Oh hello,” Callum said, wolf-whistling to himself. The picture was simply stunning. He checked the credit, taken by Rankin, who he knew to be a famous British photographer.
He skimmed the wiki summary listed beside the image.
‘Julian Newman is one of the most powerful and influential men in New York, with a history of business excellence and an unparalleled period of growth that has driven Vance Global to its current position as a world leader. ‘This Titan of Industry’ has a personal fortune currently estimated in excess of $300bn, excluding assets and private equity holdings.’
Callum looked up from the screen at his crap apartment, his dismal surroundings, the stack of bills sitting on the side. “Holy fuck!”
Jesus Christ, this guy is the big cheese, and I was flirting with him, and he had no shoes on. He laughed quietly to himself. No one was going to believe this story.
He read on, skimming the long blurb. ‘Considered one of the most eligible bachelors in Manhattan… private… rumours about his sexuality…’ err I think his sexuality isn’t in question Callum laughed to himself.
‘Deflects whenever asked… rarely gives interviews… bit of a recluse… lives in an apartment in South Manhattan… blah, blah, blah…’ Callum kept skimming.
‘A man who has graced the covers of Forbes and GQ, famous for his good looks and physique’ – hmmm, certainly true.
There were more pictures and lots more text, including a list of the subsidiaries of Vance Global, but apart from zooming in on a few of the pictures, Callum didn’t read further.
He noticed all the pictures were only of Julian, never a companion of either sex.
Either he controlled his appearances or was very single, he wondered?
He closed his Mac and laid back, staring at the water stain on his ceiling that vaguely resembled the shape of South America.
He was supposed to go back on Thursday. Should he cancel, is this just too weird?
Nope, he needed the money, and he was keen to find out more about this guy. He was interesting.
He took out his phone and set a reminder for Thursday night at 10:00 p.m.
Shortly after, as he drifted off to sleep, his last thought wasn’t about the rent that was soon due or the other bills in his bag. It was about the way Julian’s pulse had been visible in the hollow of his throat right before Callum loosened his tie.
***
Wednesday 8th January 25
He woke the next morning knowing he’d dreamt about Julian.
How did he know? The bedsheets were stuck to his dick and groin. He’d clearly ejaculated in his sleep, something he hadn’t done since his early teens. He didn’t remember wanking during the night. Maybe it was involuntary?
He wondered what was happening to him, was it this guy? He felt confused.
***
Thursday 9th January 25
Thursday night was even stranger than Tuesday.
Callum arrived at the Vance Global offices with a bit more swagger, bolstered by the lingering heat of their last encounter, only to be met by a wall of corporate indifference.
The elevator doors opened to reveal a lit office, and a woman in a sharp grey suit sitting at the manned reception desk that had been vacant two nights ago. She didn’t look up from her monitor for a full ten seconds.
“Ah, Mr. West. Mr. Newman sends his sincere apologies,” she said, her voice as clipped as a recorded message. “An emergency board matter in London meant he had to fly out this morning.”
Callum felt a sharp spike of irritation. “Right. Well, a heads-up would have been nice before I hauled myself across the bridge.”
“He would like to reschedule for tomorrow. Say 10:45 p.m.”
Callum stiffened. “Tomorrow is Friday. I have other commitments.”
“Mr. Newman was very specific,” she said, finally looking up. Her eyes were cold and professional. “He’s willing to double your fee for the inconvenience of the short notice and the very late session.”
The double rate hit Callum right where it hurt, like a gut-punch.
But Friday nights were his big earner. At 11:30 p.m. he had to be at The Vault, a gay basement club in Chelsea, wearing nothing but a leather harness, hotpants and Doc Martens, dancing under neon lights on a podium.
It was a logistical nightmare. If he trained Julian until 11:30 p.m., he’d never make it home, shower, then across town, through the club’s back door, and into his gear in time. Unless…
“Fine,” Callum sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Tell him I’ll be here. But I’ll be coming straight from his session to my next job. Are there any general staff showers in this building I could use please? I can’t exactly show up to my next gig smelling like a gym floor.”
The assistant tapped a few keys. “There is an executive fitness suite on the forty-eighth floor. It’s mostly used by the senior VPs. I can authorise your keycard for the showers there. There are complimentary towels and toiletries. Will that be sufficient?”
“Perfect,” Callum said, a smirk playing on his lips. If they didn’t remove the option from his card, he might shower there each time. He thought those showers were probably nicer than the dribbling cramped one he had at home.
He wondered what the senior VPs would think if they saw him scrubbing off after a workout before heading out to shake his ass wrapped in tight leather for tips in a dark room full of strobe lights. Not exactly the ‘corporate’ image, hey!
What would Julian think if he knew he was being coached by some club dancer Callum found himself wondering as he left the office.