The QFindr spread in Out magazine turned out to be beautiful.
There was a blurb explaining how the app worked, then six pages dedicated to a visual representation of the same. One page was filled with mock profiles for each of the models in the campaign—Raymond, Tonya, Chris, Mere, Charles, Jace, Steph, and me, along with a couple of models I didn’t know—followed by several photographs of us together in various pairings. My favorites were definitely the group shot of us sprawling all over a too-small bed in evening wear as if we were gearing up for an orgy while Raymond still managed to look like he wanted to set us all on fire, an image of Jace and Charles both making eyes at Chris as he studied the app on his phone, and of course the famous shot of Mere and Tonya.
Tonya had Mere backed against a wall, one arm braced over her head and the other gripping her waist, as they stared at each other like they were ready to bone as soon as the cameras were put away. Which was apparently what had happened.
The sight of so many familiar faces looking stunning and confident on the glossy pages made my heart swell to triple the size. It was only after Mere and Charles left me with the magazine did I look closely at the pages featuring myself.
There was a photograph with me and Raymond that I particularly despised. They’d put him in shredded jeans and a leather jacket, and me in a short black slip dress that barely hit my upper thighs. I didn’t mind the outfit, though everyone but Mere and Jace had been surprised to learn I was perfectly happy in a dress, but the photographer had told me to get on my knees next to Raymond with my hair wild and my lips puffy and parted as I gazed up at him.
It wasn’t much different than the types of pictures I’d taken in the past when modeling for Ford, because even as a kid photogs had loved me breathless and wild looking, but Raymond’s obvious discomfort and irritation had made me aware that we were the only ones being put in an overtly sexual pose. And I’d started wondering why. I’d agonized over it for the entire shoot and had rushed out as soon as they’d finished with me.
The group picture was fine—my head was thrown back in a laugh and my face was barely visible—but the faux QFindr profile pic they’d chosen was cringeworthy. They’d used one of the test shots of me from when I’d first entered the studio, and my expression was all wrong.
I’d just gotten a call from Dylan, the one demanding I show up at TTC’s corporate office for the first time in years, and my stomach had knotted up. His demanding tone and condescending remarks had been like knives dragging over my skin, let alone how nervous the idea of going to those offices made me. Willingly stepping foot into a place where everyone knew me to be a joke was awful, and I’d begun avoiding it as soon as my reputation had become tabloid fodder due to that goddamn sex tape. All the anxiety and fear was so clear in my face that I had half a mind to dial up the magazine and demand to know why they’d chosen it. In fact, I knew the editor. I could probably do just that.
I flipped through the contacts on my phone while scribbling my face out on the photo with a Sharpie. The tip skewed across half the page when a FaceTime notification rang out. My brother appeared on the screen.
My first instinct was to ignore the call, but history had proven that to be a bad move. Once, I’d ignored his calls for two weeks straight and he’d sent a member of his security team to check up on me. He’d called it a welfare check, but one glance at my active social media accounts would have done that for him. The truth was, he’d been trying to intimidate me. As soon as he’d taken over TTC and our parents had moved away, he’d become a controlling asshole.
I accepted the request and plastered on a smile. “Hi, Dylan.”
Dylan didn’t look like me, but neither did our youngest brother, Mackenzie. They both had dark hair and squarer jaws—nowhere near as androgynous. As a child, Dylan had tried to convince me I was adopted, and our parents had parroted the lie when I’d misbehaved. Mackenzie was less of a bully than them, but he’d spent most of his youth in boarding schools. We barely knew each other.
“You look like shit,” Dylan said in an accusing voice. “What’s wrong with you?”
Frowning, I sat up straight and glanced at my reflection on the wall mirror. My damp hair was pulled back in a messy knot, my eyes were bloodshot and circled with shadows, and my nose was red. My mouth was also curved down in a grimace, but that had been my resting face since childhood.
“Sorry,” I said. “I just took a bath.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
“Don’t interrogate me about the state of my face.” I fingered my dark circles. “Do you think I’m just naturally flawless? No. There are usually products covering these bags.”
Dylan looked confused. “You wear makeup?”
“I’m a model,” I said, packing the three words with every ounce of condescension I’d inherited from our parents. “How else do you think these stunning photographs materialize?”
“An Instagram model,” he said. “If you had any common sense, you’d go back to doing it professionally.”
“No, thank you. I like my sense to be very unique. Common doesn’t fit my brand.”
A sound that was lost between a laugh and a scoff escaped Dylan’s mouth, and I briefly saw a mote of affection in his eyes. Then he shook his head as if clearing it away, and he was Dylan Townsend once again. CEO of Townsend Telecom and monstrous human responsible for upping the rate of cell phone data packages and wi-fi across the nation. Making that decision had caused the company a drop in revenue for the last fiscal year as subscribers fled to other companies, and now heat was on from the board for him to fix the mess he’d created.
“Why was Valdrin at your house this morning?”
“Because he’d spent the night.”
Dylan’s brows furrowed. “If you’re still trying to bang him . . .”
“I’ve never tried to sleep with Valdrin,” I snapped. “He picked me up from Long Island the other night because I was sick. And he came over again yesterday.”
“‘Sick,’” Dylan repeated. “You mean trying to weasel your way out of spending time with Decker, and using it as an excuse to con Val into spending time with you.”
“Sure. Guess you’ve got me all figured out.”
I went back to blacking out my face on the picture, and switched to the other one of me and Raymond. The sharpie was great for adding dark circles. With the phone propped up, Dylan could probably see the aggressive sweeping motions of my hand, but likely couldn’t tell what I was doing. It probably looked like I was drawing all over the white counters.
“What’s wrong with you?”
I huffed out a laugh. “Don’t pretend to care about me. You only called to make sure I hadn’t ruined things with Brett Decker, and I didn’t. I wasn’t feeling well so I left. Besides, he was too busy entertaining to spend his time trying to romance me.”
“So get him alone,” Dylan said incredulously. “Why are you arranging public meetings, for God’s sake?”
“Dylan,” I said, looking at him sadly. “Do you really think you know more about this game than I do? If I started off with setting up fake dates and immediately jumped on his dick, he’d get what he wants and be done with me. You can’t think he actually wants a relationship?” Judging from the frown etching into my brother’s handsome face, it seemed like he’d thought just that. This time, my laugh was louder. “Oh my God. You think he really wants something other than sex?”
“Well, I don’t know. At first I figured he only wanted a beautiful boy toy to show off at parties, but you got along well at the dinner. Besides that, you’re smart and funny, so why the hell shouldn’t he want you for more than sex? Especially after you spent all that time babbling about queer youth and the struggle.”
“Ha. I looked into his story about his missing gay nephew and it actually checks out.” It was the only reason I’d gone to Liberty X the night before. “A friend of mine knows his family and confirmed that his nephew ran away after coming out. Dear old Brett wasn’t there to have his back, and the kid’s parents referenced a ‘treatment center,’ so he fled.”
Dylan had the decency to blanch. “Christ. Well, whatever. That has nothing to do with you. Maybe he was using the story about the kid as a way to chat you up, but he could still like you. You’re a catch.”
I laughed again, the Sharpie clattering to the counter. “You sweet, sweet man.”
“What?” he demanded. “Why is that so hilarious?”
“Because,” I said, fighting to get the words out through the hysteria taking over me. “Brett Decker may be lonely and seeking companionship, but his fantasies run the line of rough humiliation sex. Probably to play out degrading shit he’s seen in porn since he hasn’t been with many men in real life. Maybe he’s not a total monster, but I’m pretty sure his interest in me is motivated only by the stuff he saw me doing in that damn sex tape. Honestly, Dylan. You’re so naïve.”
My laughter faded as a dawning look of anger overtook my brother, and a little nugget of hope expanded inside me. I curled my hands into fists, biting my lower lip, and waited for him to say, Forget it. Don’t do it, Ashton. Or even a grudging, I misread the situation. I could see the words wanting to spill out as he opened and closed his mouth, inhaled and exhaled, and generally seemed aggravated by the entire conversation. But then he made a sharp motion with his hand, as if sweeping all potential responses off the table.
“Just play along until he signs off on the deal. I want TTC wi-fi on his airline, and if this is how it has to go down, so be it.”
So be it.
Three syllables crushed my hope to dust. A knot filled my throat, but I swallowed around it. “Okay.”
His stare was so intense that I looked away, focusing instead on the photograph I’d just desecrated.
“This means a lot to me, Ashton. And he isn’t a bad guy. I wouldn’t ask you to date someone who was a total lowlife.”
I nodded.
“If this works, I won’t be voted off the board.” I didn’t respond, and he kept talking. “That’s the only reason I would ever—”
“I get it, Dylan.”
A hint of desperation edged into his voice. “Ashton, look at me.”
“No.”
I ended the call before he could say anything else, and stared at the screen once it had darkened. I really did look like shit. What would my followers say if they could see me now? Wrung out and sad and empty. Not an elegant stitch of designer clothing in sight. Just me, and my blank expression, and a ratty oversized T-shirt that I’d stolen from Val years ago.
For half a second, I considered taking a selfie. Putting it out there for the entire world to see. For Brett Decker to see. The real Ashton, as Val liked to say.
The need took hold of me, and I opened Instagram with trembling hands. With the camera reversed, I poised my thumb over the button but froze before tapping it. I jerked the phone away, nauseated.
What the hell was wrong with me?
The question echoed, ricocheting like a condemnation instead of a question, until I redirected my attention to the magazine still open on the counter. After flipping the pages, I snapped a quick picture of the group shot and uploaded it. I tagged everyone in the photo, along with Caleb and Oli, and typed out a quick caption.
So much joy during the #QFindr shoot. I’ve never been so happy. Hope to see some of these magnificent faces out on the town tonight! Xoxo
It was a total lie of course. I would never see half of them out on the town because with the exception of Stephanie, Mere, Jace, and Charles, they thought I was some bohemian socialite weirdo. Which was fair. But I liked the idea of having them as friends. Playing pretend wasn’t always a bad thing . . . until everyone realized how fake my whimsical cheer was.
Sighing, I opened my calendar and tried to figure out which event I was supposed to attend tonight. There was always something, and at the moment, I needed to be distracted from Dylan and Val. And myself.
I went in expecting to see a club opening, gala, or party, but there were notifications for lunch with Randy Cafferty—the executive director of Gateway, an LGBT youth center in SoHo. I was late. An hour late. And partially drunk while looking like trash.
Wonderful. This was exactly why no one took me seriously.
With a disgusted sigh, I hurried to my room to make myself presentable.
I armed myself with two scarves and a floppy hat, circular sunglasses that covered half my face, a vintage patchwork tunic that went to the torn-out knees of my jeans, and a pair of cowboy boots. There were so many patterns and fabrics draping all over my body that I was practically camouflaged. Or that’s what I told myself to get out the door and sprint to catch a cab downtown.
It was two hours past the time we’d set for our lunch date by the time I arrived at Gateway, and Randy was in a meeting. I cursed myself for spending the morning getting drunk and moping.
“Do you want any tea or coffee, Mr. Townsend?”
“No, Michelle, I’m good.” I plopped down in a chair to wait, and smiled at her. “Thank you.”
“Are you sure?” She hovered just beside her desk, hesitant to leave me alone. “I’m so sorry about this. Mr. Cafferty would never leave you waiting, but we couldn’t move the meeting.”
“Hey, it’s fine,” I said, smiling wider and hopefully more reassuringly. “I’m the one who flaked out and arrived late! There is no danger of me storming off in a huff. I’ll just sit here and plan my future foodie vacation.” Michelle opened her mouth but quickly snapped it shut. When it became clear she wasn’t going to ask whatever she wanted to ask, I folded my legs under me and released a big sigh. “I have to know, if you could go anywhere in the world for food-related causes, where would it be?”
“Italy,” she said automatically. “Bologna in particular.”
“Mmm. Pasta Bolognese.” I rubbed my stomach and made a dreamy face. “But you know what? I really want a traditional meal. All the antipasto and different courses and everything. Yum.”
“Could you actually eat all that?” she asked. “You’re so tiny.”
“Girl, I can eat. Believe me. I just work out a lot to counteract all the goodies and booze. It helps that in the past I had this personal trainer who gave me a regimen that stuck, you know?” My personal trainer had been Val, but she didn’t need to know that. “I doubt I’d be able to keep it up on my make-believe world tour of food, though.”
“Are you planning to do a show?”
I laughed. “Nooo! No one wants me on TV. Trust me.”
“I would watch a show with you on it,” she protested. “You’re great. And so sweet.”
The compliment was startling, and for a second I was too flustered to reply. I grabbed hold of my scarf and twisted it around. “Thanks, but most execs don’t want sweet people. They want . . . um . . . other stuff.”
Stuff I wasn’t getting into with an employee of the LGBT youth center I donated to on a regular basis. The idea of a reality show had actually come up before. I’d received an offer from MTV about six years ago—after the sex tape. They’d wanted to it to be sensational and trashy with plenty of hookups. I’d debated doing it out of spite for my parents, and they’d flipped the hell out. Threatened to have me followed for the rest of my life to prevent me from doing anything further to humiliate the family name.
“A friend once gave me this idea to do a blog and keep track of my food-related travel adventures. I think he thought he was just tossing it out there, but it would be cool to keep track of not only the food aspect but also the cultural reaction people have to this big crossdressing gay guy all over the world. So like forty percent food, sixty percent culture. One hundred percent Ashton being a clown, but maybe people would be amused?”
“Wow. That’s amazing. Are you sure you wouldn’t consider pitching that to a network? I could see MTV or even Viceland—”
“Nope. No TV!” I waved my hands in front of me to ward off the idea. “Even if anyone was interested, I’m totally not into the idea of producers trying to make me do some Anthony Bourdain meets . . . meets . . .”
“The Simple Life?”
The deep voice came from the side of the room. I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sight of Nunzio Rodriguez looking like Jordan Catalano from My So-Called Life with his sexy full-body door lean. He was gorgeous and casual with his rumpled curly hair, plaid shirt, dark jeans, and a pair of running shoes. I started to say hi, stopped myself, and internally panicked because . . . did he even know who I was? I’d gone to his wedding, but only because we had mutual friends. Maybe he didn’t remember me. Or maybe he only knew me because of tabloids. Or maybe he was just making conversation because he was charming and normal. Unlike me, who freaked out in the presence of a functional adult.
Nunzio stared at me expectantly and, when I said nothing, turned his attention to Michelle. He winked. “I don’t normally stun people into silence, but I’m not surprised. I am pretty hot.”
She gave him a bug-eyed look. “Are you waiting for Gregory?”
He nodded. “Yep. Payroll stuff, but I can wait if he’s at lunch.”
“He’s in a meeting, but I’ll let him know.” Michelle looked between us again. “By the way, this is Mr. Townsend.”
“Yeah, I know who he is.” Nunzio strolled over and stood by my side. He nudged my shoulder. “Although I don’t think he remembers me.”
“No, I do,” I said quickly. “I was at your wedding.”
“Yeah, I know. I wrote the invitation.”
“Right!” I twisted my scarf so tight I nearly choked myself. “Duh. I’m an idiot.”
He gave me a weird look and sprawled in the chair beside me. “What are you doing here?”
Michelle was on the verge of having a full-blown panic attack. She had likely been given instructions by Randy not to let me leave or let anyone scare me off—which was probably why they had me sitting in the executive lobby instead of out in the actual center. It irritated me to no end that they thought I wouldn’t feel comfortable around the kids I was trying to support, but I tried not to take it personally. Execs at other charities were equally careful with their high roller donors. Also, a lot of people assumed I wasn’t capable of being appropriate around children. I wasn’t sure what they thought I would do. Start bandying around the link to my secretly recorded and illegally distributed sex tape?
“I have a meeting with Randy.”
Nunzio tilted his head. “Randy? As in Randy Cafferty?”
“That’s the guy.”
“The director?”
I nodded. “We were supposed to have lunch, but I forgot because I’m a flake. He wants to show me some of the progress that’s been made with the creative-arts program. I sponsored it last year.”
Nunzio’s expression turned astonished, and it seemed to click to him that I was a major donor for the center. My heart sank. This was usually the moment when people either backed off talking to me or began treating me like I was an untouchable VIP, but Nunzio eventually shrugged.
“I didn’t know you supported Gateway. That’s decent of you.”
“Thanks.”
The phone rang, and Michelle edged away to answer, but the tension had left her body. She seemed less worried about leaving Nunzio and me alone.
“I teach at Gateway Academy,” Nunzio said, crossing his hands behind his neck. “Been here for a couple of years now.”
I sat up straight. “That’s incredible! I wish I could have a more active role with the kids, but I just donate.”
“Really? I never saw your name on the lists they distribute at the end of the year. And I haven’t heard the volunteers talking about having to cold call the famous A-Town.”
I ignored his use of the ridiculous nickname. “Ugh. They make them do cold calls?” I wrinkled my nose. “That’s the worst. And literally makes no sense in this day and age when everything is done via email or social media. When I was a teenager, I volunteered at this nonprofit youth theater after I quit modeling, and they made me do all of these stupid cold calls even though I tried to tell them it just pissed people off. I was almost happy when they kicked me out. I mean, I got kicked out because the director was trying to fuck me, but whatever. At least I didn’t have to do cold calls anymore. Assholes.”
By the end of my rant, Nunzio was laughing. Loud rolling chuckles that filled the lobby and my chest, and chased away the unease that had been eating away at me ever since Val had left my apartment.
“I didn’t fuck the director, though. Just so you know.”
“Good to know,” Nunzio said, wiping his eyes. “Ah shit. I needed that laugh. Thanks, kid. You’re a charmer.”
“Not really, but thanks for saying so.” I folded my legs beneath me again. “Most people just think I’m a weirdo.”
“Most people are dicks.” Nunzio leaned back in his chair and rested his ankle on the opposite knee. “So why aren’t you on the list they send around with the names of donors?”
“Ohh . . .” I shrugged. “I ask it not be publicized.”
“Why? Besides the fat tax write-off, it would probably do wonders for your PR.”
My hackles rose just a bit, but I forced my body to stay loose and easy. Cool down and not get defensive at the first normal human being to start a conversation with me of his own accord. I couldn’t remember the last time that had happened with anyone out in the world.
“I don’t do it for the tax write-off. I do it because I really want to support queer kids. A lot of us don’t have . . . supportive families, and we get all fucked up, so I figured I should try to support places that offer a sense of community.” His steady gaze was making me nervous, but I didn’t let myself fidget. “There are a lot of centers in the city, but Gateway is my favorite. Also, it’s the oldest. There’s a lot of built-in support that kids get with few questions asked. Like, the clinic, and then there’s the GED program, and—” God, why was I babbling? “Fuck, I have no idea why I’m trying to sell you on your own place of employment. I’m an idiot.”
“You insult yourself a lot,” he observed.
“Only when I’m nervous.”
“Am I making you nervous?” At my nod, Nunzio frowned. “Why? You came to my wedding and ate my expensive catered food. I’m not some guy off the street.”
“No, I know. I don’t think you have shady motives for making conversation.” I brushed hair out of my face and then forced my hands back down. No fidgeting. “I mostly just want to impress you because some of my friends think you’re one of the best people they know, whereas I am the least-good person they know. You’re also very cool and collected, and I feel like a huge messy human with bad hair. I also had mimosas for breakfast.”
His mouth was twitching with amusement again. “Well, Ashton, I don’t think you’re a messy human. You seem like a good guy who’s devoted to LGBT issues and has a love of multiple patterns and fabrics in a single outfit.”
I burst out laughing and clapped my hand over my mouth after remembering Michelle was on the phone.
“I’m gonna go, since me dropping in is clearly going to end up with me waiting forever, but . . .” Nunzio’s eyes twinkled, and he got to his feet. “Enjoy your lunch with Cafferty. Feel free to drop a line about sports being just as important as creative arts. Some of my kids have been trying to convince the staff to set something up.”
“I will! Anything I can do to help.”
Nunzio walked backward to the door. “You’re a good guy, Ashton Townsend. You should consider volunteering here as well.”
“Oh no,” I said quickly. “No one ever wants me to do that. I’m not a good example for kids.”
He paused, looking a little startled. “If anyone tells you that, they’re full of shit. You have a lot to offer, and some of these kids would appreciate being able to spend time with someone like you.”
“Why is that?”
“Because you’re different. You have no idea how much comfort some of these kids find in knowing there are other people like them in the world.” Nunzio nodded at me. “You have value, kid. And you can make more of a difference than you know.”
He left the room before I could think of a response, and I was left waving at the door.
I wanted to feel good about what he’d said, but the only way I’d ever helped anyone was by cheering them up with sex, and now seducing someone to get TTC a deal.