Chapter 8
Wyatt
Two fans in front of me, their faces flushed with excitement, are openly debating whether my abs are real or airbrushed. “They have to be airbrushed,” one says, a woman with bright purple lipstick. “No one’s stomach actually looks like that.”
“I don’t know,” her friend replies, her eyes wide and glassy. “I bet they’re real. I bet they’re hard as a rock.”
For the record, they’re real. They are the result of a diet that is ninety percent grilled chicken and a workout regimen that would make a drill sergeant weep.
Not that it matters. To them, I’m not a person who gets sore muscles or craves carbs.
I’m a commodity, a topic of debate, a fantasy object laid out for their consumption.
My body is not my own; it’s a marketing tool.
The Javits Center is a sprawling cavern of concrete and controlled chaos, currently overrun by the Historical Hearts Convention.
The air smells of popcorn, a hundred different perfumes clashing in a sweet, sickly cloud, and the faint, plasticky scent of the vinyl tablecloth stretched across my signing table.
A sea of faces stretches out before me, a long, snaking line of people all looking at me with the same hungry expression.
They don’t see Wyatt Ford. They see the Highlander, the cowboy, the Duke, the Navy SEAL.
They see their book boyfriend, and they want a piece of him.
“You’re even hotter in person!” a woman gushes, sliding another book in front of me. It’s one of my first covers. I look impossibly young.
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, my voice on autopilot. The Texas drawl is a little thicker, a shield I use without thinking. It’s amazing how a little bit of down-home charm can deflect so much.
“Can you sign it ‘To my future wife, from your book boyfriend’?” she asks, batting her eyelashes. Her request is accompanied by a hopeful, almost desperate lean across the table.
I hesitate for a fraction of a second. I remember a letter I received once, from a woman who left her husband because he didn’t live up to the fantasy of a character I portrayed.
The guilt from that letter still haunts me.
But it’s part of the job, so I smile and scrawl the requested inscription, my signature a practiced, illegible flourish.
She squeals and takes a selfie as I do it.
I glance over at the next table, where my friend and fellow model, Derek, is going through the same ordeal.
He’s dressed as a pirate today, complete with a fake parrot on his shoulder and a plastic cutlass.
He’s dealing with a fan who is trying to physically climb onto the table to get a better angle for her picture.
He catches my eye, and in that shared look, a whole conversation passes between us.
Did you see that? Did you hear what that woman said?
Do you need rescuing? He gives a subtle roll of his eyes after the fan is finally led away by security, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Leo suddenly appears at my elbow, his own smile as wide and fake as mine.
“Time for the main event, champ!” he says, his voice a booming, fake-jovial sound that grates on my last nerve.
He claps me on the shoulder, a gesture that’s meant to look encouraging but is really just a shove in the right direction.
“Let’s go make some magic. And by magic, I mean money. ”
The panel. I plaster the smile back on my face, offer a wave to the disappointed crowd still in line, and follow Leo through a curtain into the noisy, chaotic backstage area.
The stage is small, brightly lit, and set with four tall stools.
A massive banner behind it reads “Hunks of History” in flowing script.
The moderator, a bubbly blogger named ‘RomanceRoxie’ with a microphone headset and a glittery t-shirt that says ‘I Like My Men Fictional,’ is already there, hyping up the crowd.
The other models are on stage, looking as uncomfortable as I feel.
There’s the other pirate Derek was laughing about, a knight in faux chainmail, and a cowboy who's probably never ridden a horse in his life. I’m handed the scratchy kilt from my last photoshoot, and I have to pull it on over my jeans.
“And here he is,” Roxie screeches into her mic, “the Highlander himself, the man you’ve all been waiting for, Wyatt Ford!”
The crowd erupts. I force another smile and wave graciously as I take my seat.
The panel is a blur of cheesy, leading questions. “Wyatt, as a Highlander, what’s the most romantic thing a laird can do for his lady?”
“I reckon it’s about loyalty, ma’am,” I say, leaning into the persona. “Protecting her, no matter the cost.” The answer is met with a chorus of swooning sighs.
Then comes the part I dread most: the “Pose-Off.” The moderator urges us to our feet, making us strike our signature cover poses while the audience cheers and votes with their applause.
My body moves on instinct. I strike the pose — one hand on my hip, the other resting on the hilt of my plastic sword, my gaze fixed on a distant point, my expression a carefully calibrated mix of longing and ferocity.
The roar of the crowd is deafening. My mind flashes back to the reason I originally started this — to pay off my parents’ medical debt after my dad’s accident.
It was a noble cause then. Now, it just feels like I sold my soul and forgot to check the fine print.
The audience Q I gave them a history lesson.
The moderator gives me a confused look, her bubbly demeanor faltering for a second, before quickly moving on to the next question.
But for a brief, shining moment, I felt like myself.
After the panel, I’m trying to navigate the crowded backstage area, desperate to escape, when a young woman with a heavy camera bag and a nervous energy that I recognize as genuine passion stops me.
She’s not looking at me with the hungry gaze of a fan.
She’s looking at me with the critical eye of a fellow artist. She’s holding a professional-grade DSLR, not a phone, and her focus is on the lighting rigs above the stage, not on my face.
“Excuse me, Mr. Ford?” she says, her voice quiet but clear. “I’m a photography student. I follow your photography on Instagram. I saw you were shooting at Apollo Studios last week. I was wondering what kind of lighting setup they use? Your behind-the-cover shot had incredible depth.”
I’m so surprised I’m momentarily speechless.
Someone is asking about my passion, not my abs.
A real, enthusiastic smile breaks through my practiced mask.
“It’s a three-point setup,” I say, my voice animated for the first time all day.
“Key light, fill light, and a backlight to create that separation from the background. But the real trick is the softbox they use. It’s a massive, six-foot octabox.
It creates a really diffused, flattering light. ”
We talk for ten minutes, a real conversation about f-stops, lenses, and the challenge of creating art in a commercial setting. She’s smart, she’s passionate, and she sees the world through a lens, just like I do. This is the kind of connection I crave, the kind that feels real and substantial.
“Don’t let anyone tell you that your style is wrong,” I tell her, my voice earnest. “Shoot what you love. The world has enough commercial photographers. It needs more artists.”
I pull out my wallet and give her my personal business card, the one that just says “Wyatt Ford, Photographer.” The card is simple, black with white text, printed on heavy, textured stock. “Send me a link to your portfolio sometime,” I say. “I’d love to see it.”
Her eyes widen, and she gives me a smile that’s worth more than all the fan squeals in the world. “Thank you,” she says. “I will.”
I finally make my escape and meet Derek at a dimly lit, overpriced hotel bar near the Javits Center. We find a quiet booth in the back, the anonymity of the dim lighting a welcome relief. The sharp, clean taste of a cold beer after a day of forced smiles is the best thing I’ve tasted all week.
“I swear,” Derek says, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair, “if one more person asks me to say ‘shiver me timbers,’ I’m going to commit actual piracy.”
I laugh, a real, genuine laugh. “At least you didn’t have to answer a question about what’s under your kilt.”
We decompress, our conversation a mix of gallows humor and genuine support.
We talk about our exit strategies. Derek loves modelling but is just a few grand away from having enough money for the physical therapy practice he wants to open with his brother in Queens.
“We’ve already found the space,” he says, his eyes shining with a hope that I know mirrors my own.
“Small storefront near the elevated train. Nothing fancy, but it’s ours.
My brother’s got the clinical expertise, I’ve got the business side covered from dealing with Leo all these years.
” He laughs, but it’s tinged with real emotion. “So close I can taste it.”
“Queens,” I say, raising my beer. “You’re going to be amazing at it.”
“And you’re going to have that gallery,” Derek says, clinking his bottle against mine. “Just a little longer.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I say, and we both drain our beers.