Chapter Twenty

Loncey

I should have driven home. I should have just swallowed my pride or whatever it was that had me staying in this hotel overnight, because I've had little more than two hours of broken sleep, and most of it was in a corner of the gym. I did manage a half hour or so in a chair in the lobby, but I kept getting woken up by returning revelers, vacuum cleaners and security staff reminding me this is not a place to sleep. Not to mention how I wasn't exactly at ease in my body being a Black queer masc-presenting person trying to effectively sleep rough, especially not when my thoughts kept returning to what was happening with Harley.

Thankfully, the security staff were satisfied when I proved to them that I was a guest, and much to my relief they didn't ask me to leave the premises. However, it quickly became clear I wasn't going to get any sleep in the lit up, noisy lobby, which is why I went to the gym. But after managing a quick nap on the mats in one corner, I was woken by some strange human deciding to pound the treadmill at three-thirty in the morning. After that, I returned to the lobby and reluctantly, and very foggily, did a few hours of work, until breakfast was being served. There, I ate some fruit and yogurt and drank approximately a gallon of coffee in the hope it would keep me awake for the rest of the day, or at least until I find somewhere to get some decent sleep.

The reason I didn't go back to my hotel room was because Miko had kept me updated on Harley and it was not… good. Harley was still freaked out and Miko said another batch of abusive messages had come through on her MyFans account. Harley didn't know about them, but Miko was also starting to get freaked out about whoever was behind all the abuse, if indeed it was the same person. When I returned to the hotel with Maeve – and watched her disappear into an elevator with only a very quick and mumbled goodbye – Miko had texted, saying Harley had only just fallen asleep and if possible could I give them space so she could sleep. I'd messaged back instantly telling him that they had my room as long as they needed it and I'd go home for the night.

That's what I should have done, but I didn't. And I have no clue why. Did I want to stay close to Harley and Miko? Or was it something else? Or… someone else?

I shake that thought off as I head back to the gym with the bag Miko left outside the room with my clothes, my laptop and chargers. I have several hours to kill before my call time for the underwear photoshoot so I take my time doing a full hour of cardio, and just over another hour on weights and resistance. I then sweat out whatever's left in my pores in the sauna and steam room before taking one of the longest showers of my life.

Exhaustion still has its claws in me as I get dressed again, but the clean clothes bring some comfort and relief. As does moisturising, doing skincare and brushing my teeth. In the gym bathroom's mirror I check my locs that are now completely dry after I washed them yesterday. They'll need oiling later but who knows where I'll end up doing that?

I manage a smile when I video call Jessica as I leave the gym and find her awake and throwing Prince an old chewed-up tennis ball. She's lying on the couch and we both laugh as we watch him attack it like it's his greatest enemy.

I don't keep her long as she is about to do her physio, but it's long enough for me to feel reassured she's okay. That she's doing just fine without me there, which is… good. I think.

Once I'm back in my new temporary home, the lobby, I'm clueless how I can go about killing the remaining two hours before my photoshoot but I do my best by returning to the breakfast buffet for another round of fruit, plus some oatmeal. And I spend some time on social media, replying to comments and DMs until my thumbs ache. The whole time, I keep half an eye out for Maeve, although I know she's already at the shoot.

When it gets to eleven – an hour before my call time – I say "fuck it" out loud and gather my belongings. I'm at the conference room being used for the shoot two minutes later.

Once I'm checked in and told I can wait inside, I walk through two large double doors. They lead me into a ballroom-style space with a stage, large seating area that is mostly clear but for a few rows of chairs, I can imagine it's a room normally used for large-scale events like wedding receptions, conferences and presentations.

Today a makeshift photo studio has been set up in front of the stage – three large temporary white screens arranged in an open square with a number of lights pointed at them – and there is a hum of activity around the area. So much so I can't see who the photographer is – some apparently well-known British guy called Jim Harlow who normally shoots popstars apparently – or who is being photographed.

I take a seat in the last row of chairs and look around. I don't see Maeve, nor do I see anyone I recognize, and there were a few names on the model list I did know, other content creators, but fortunately none I've fucked. Not that I mind seeing people I've fucked again. Well, most of them.

"Okay, okay, enough fucking faffing." A voice rises above all the others and a short, white man wearing jeans and a leather jacket emerges from the crowd holding a camera. His accent is undeniably British. Like Michael Caine, on steroids. "Her hair looks fucking great. Her make-up fucking flawless. And that bod. Fan-fucking-tastic. But let's get a fucking move on, shall we? As beautiful as you are, Mae, my darling, I'm a very busy man and I've got a long fucking list of other beautiful people to shoot today."

I guess he's Jim Harlow. And I also guess he's a giant jackass.

My lips curl as I watch the crowd of people busying themselves within the white screens, disbelieving that nobody is even remotely fazed by the way he just spoke to his model, who O see now is Maeve.

Maeve, who I now see sitting on a high stool in the middle of the open square, her hair done, her make-up done and her clothes off.

Wearing just a pair of briefs and a cotton bra, both in white, her body hunches over a little and she looks down at an indeterminate spot on the floor. She looks exhausted and defeated and lost and… like she needs me to run over to her, pick her up and carry her out of here. Which I'm pretty sure Maeve would tell me is very unfeminist of me.

Fuck.

My stupidity continues when I allow my eyes to roll over Maeve's body. It's a fucking mistake of epic proportions. Even in her hunched over position, the basic cotton set does little to minimize the curve of her hips, the pinch of her waist and the fullness of her breasts. Instantly, and a bit depressingly, I'm reduced to little more than hormones and horniness. My dick gets fuller. My head feels lighter. My breathing becomes shallow.

She's fucking stunning. She's fucking stunning and she's totally off-limits.

And that's okay. That's completely okay.

I just wish my body didn't notice her. I wish my temperature didn't change. I wish my breathing didn't alter. I wish my heartrate hadn't sped up. And I especially wish my dick wasn't steadily filling with hot, thick blood.

My back straightens. I am suddenly very, very awake.

"Alright, Mae. Look lively!" Jim barks and Maeve straightens up. She shakes out her hair and by the time the waves of golden blonde have settled she's got an almost convincing smile on her face. Almost.

I watch as Jim approaches her and I feel every muscle in my body tense when his arm reaches out to arrange some of her hair.

"Yep, just off the shoulder like that. And I need you to be looking up, Mae, not down at your fucking toenails."

Maeve gives a quick nod.

"And smiles. I need some fucking smiles. You're supposed to like the undercrackers you're wearing."

Her smile stretches and it looks almost painful.

"Okay, let's fucking do this." Jim moves back and waves a number of people out of his way. He turns and pins his camera on Maeve. To her credit she is the consummate professional as he starts snapping photos in quick succession. She gives him a myriad smiles, all with her chin lifted and her green eyes sparkling. When he demands she change her position, she adopts it swiftly and is back to smiling and sparkly eyes in no time. All the while she doesn't even flinch as he shouts out various comments that I believe he thinks are compliments, like "Fucking sexy, Mae, yes, work the camera like a Friday night stripper on her fucking pole… Keep smiling, fucking yes… Don't fucking let me down now."

But I flinch. I flinch every time he opens his asshole mouth.

"Right." Jim lowers his camera and that has an instant effect on Maeve, her smile slipping and her shoulders rounding again. "That's a wrap on this outfit. But I do want some topless shots and I think that will work best with the boxers. Isn't that what we agreed, Cheyenne?" he calls out to someone in the crowd around him.

"Topless?" Maeve's voice is quiet and quivering but I can just about hear it from where I'm sitting. "I didn't say I would do topless."

But Jim's not listening. A plump feminine-looking person is standing by his side and they're looking at something on a tablet.

Maeve stands, and for some reason, so do I.

"Err, Jim, excuse me." She takes a tentative step forward. "I didn't agree to go—"

"Yes!" Jim shouts, apparently oblivious to Maeve's attempt to talk to him. "Topless with boxers. Kind of sexy, kind of ‘just borrowed my boyfriend's kecks' sort of vibe."

He starts moving toward one of the lights and begins to fiddle with the stand.

Maeve moves again nearer to him, her arms crossed over her chest. "Jim, I'm not doing topless."

He hears her that time. I know it because he lifts his chin and gives her the quickest and most dismissive of looks, but keeps talking.

"I'm not going to actually photograph your fucking tits! Give me some credit. This is a professional commercial shoot, sweetheart. I know what I'm doing. I'm going to make it look artistic, alluring. I'm going to blow your fucking mind."

I snort at that. Most porn sets I've been on have been a lot more professional and respectful than this circus.

Maeve stands still but she seems to shrink on the spot, and she says something in a quieter voice, so quiet that I can't catch it. This prompts me to move closer.

"You're not scared, are you? I'm sure you've shown much more on your fucking Instagram account. Just trust me, for fuck's sake," Jim says.

"But… but…" Maeve stutters.

"She's not doing topless!" I shout out.

All the eyes in the room turn to look at me, and I feel them all, but I'm only interested in one particular green pair. Maeve's stare is one of alarm and relief and annoyance all mixed up in a wide-eyed look and a slightly parted mouth.

"Loncey." I see her mouth move to form my name.

I start walking toward Jim whose own expression is not confusing at all. It's full of venom.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"One of your models." I square my shoulders as I stand in front of him.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he mutters under his breath, turning away to look at the floor. When his eyes are back on me they narrow and he's finally quiet for more than a second.

"She said she doesn't want to do topless," I remind him.

"Wait a fucking minute, I know who you are," he grins and it's exactly how I imagine the devil smiling. "You're the fucking boyfriend!"

I blink, and feel an unfortunately familiar lurch in my stomach. "What? No. I'm not… I'm nobody's boyfriend. I'm actually—"

But he cuts me off. "For the next thirty minutes, you are very much her fucking boyfriend. You and her," he points at Maeve, "make one very fucking attractive couple and the camera is going to fucking lap it up. You're Black. She's white. You've got the whole dreadlocked bad boy thing going on. She's the wholesome blonde and blue-eyed angel—"

Another surge of nausea in my stomach. "Wait, no, she's—"

"Opposites fucking attract, that's what we'll have going on here."

"No." I hold up my hands. "That's not going to happen. That's not why I came to talk to you."

My eyes flash over to Maeve who is frowning as she looks at me. I still see far too many different things in her eyes and I suddenly feel like maybe I'm causing her more problems than I'm solving.

"What we'll do is this," Jim turns and walks back to the stool that Maeve was sitting on, moving it to the side, all the while holding up his camera, "we'll have you wearing matching boxers, and you'll be behind her while she's got her back to the camera, all topless and shit."

"No," I say and move toward him again. "She said she's not going to do topless."

Jim sucks in a heavy breath like he's running out of patience. "They all say that in the beginning but my assistant here tells me she's a big fucking deal, that she's going places, got a lot of fucking ambition," he raises his voice and glares at Maeve, "so I know she'll see sense soon enough. It's not like we'll even see her fucking tits. I'll give her five minutes to get changed and get used to the idea."

"No, I don't think so," I say, feeling even more full of disbelief than I was five minutes ago, which I thought was impossible. How did a brand like SAFE book a jackass like this? "She said—"

"For fuck's sake!" Maeve interjects, loudly. "Would you both stop talking about me like I'm not in the fucking room?"

I turn to Maeve and see her standing a lot taller than before. Her jaw is tense and her eyes are ablaze. "Maeve, I—"

She interrupts me again. "I know what you were trying to do, Loncey, and I appreciate it. I really do, but he should have taken my word for it in the first place."

"I agree with that," I say, pinning my gaze back on Jim whose eyes slowly move from Maeve to me and he offers me the slimiest and most disingenuous of smiles.

"But you don't need to fight my battles for me," she adds. "And you," her head turns to Jim, "you should know better than not listening to one of your models and respecting their decisions."

"Fine. If you really don't want to do topless, that's fucking fine." Jim holds his hands up as if in defeat. "But you'll not get very far in this business with this fucking attitude. There's no room for fucking prudes in this industry."

The last sentence is almost mumbled under his breath, said as he starts walking toward his assistant again and that's just as well because if he'd stayed any closer and continued to spew such blatantly offensive and manipulative horseshit I would have—

"Okay, I'll do it," Maeve says, and it has me swinging my gaze back to her.

Gone are the strong shoulders and the uplifted chin, but something still burns in her eyes. I'm just not sure it's something good.

"Maeve, you don't have to." I step closer to her, lowering my voice. "He's a fucking dick and you should never feel pressured to do anything you don't want to with your body."

Maeve's smile is painfully brief. "He doesn't get to call me that," she says simply and then she walks away to a makeshift changing cubicle that stands alongside one of the walls. "Where are the boxers?" she calls out and one of the people lurking behind the lights jumps into action.

Less than a minute later, Maeve walks out with a towel wrapped around her body. As she marches toward the stool and main set, she points a very straight finger at Jim.

"I will take it off when I'm ready, but I do not want my nipples in a single fucking photograph, you hear me?"

If Jim is taken aback by Maeve's warning, it only shows for a split second. "Watch out little Irish lady, I like my women bossy," he says with a sickening wink.

"Fuck off you slimy gobshite," Maeve mutters under her breath. "Now, where do I need to stand?"

"Well, first I need this gormless idiot to take some of his clothes off," Jim says, and it takes me a moment to realize he's talking about me.

"Their clothes off." Maeve's voice is loud. "Their pronouns are they, them, their."

Jim has the nerve to roll his eyes right in front of me.

"Fine. Whatever. Take your fucking clothes off, will you. We're all on the clock here so let's get this fucking job done. You can change over there." He points to the same makeshift cubicle Maeve just used. "Cheyenne, can you get them some undies please."

I ignore his obnoxious emphasizing of my pronoun, and the kick to the gut it prompts, and take a step closer to Maeve so only she can hear me.

"I'm only going to tell you this one more time because you're an intelligent woman and I feel like repeating myself would suggest I think otherwise. But if you're uncomfortable at any point, we can stop this. Both of us. We can walk out and forget all about this fucking joke of a misogynistic human being. I've got your back, Maeve, I promise."

Maeve's face goes from expressionless to lighting up with something that I am stupid enough to mistake as a warmth or tenderness for me, but then it vanishes and every single feature on her face hardens. Her eyes hold their sharp stare as she pouts at me.

"I'm a big girl, Loncey," she says. "I know exactly what I'm doing. I don't need you to have my back. I just need to get this over and done with."

I do my best to not show how her blunt words pierce a part of me, although I don't know exactly what part. My heart? No, no way. My ego? Very possibly. My pride? Yeah, sounds about right.

"Fine, let's do this."

In the cubicle, I strip quickly and fold my clothes into a pile on the floor. I pull on the white cotton boxers and am surprised by how soft the material is against my skin. There's a mirror in the cubicle and I look at my reflection from as many angles as I can.

I know I have what is socially considered a good body. I have muscles in all the right places and I work hard on maintaining a physique that looks a certain way on camera. In my youth, working out gave me a much-needed focus. It helped me feel powerful in a body that didn't always make complete sense to me. I don't suffer from dysmorphia as such, like many of my non-binary friends and fellows do, but I haven't always felt at home in my body.

At first, I wondered if it was because my skin was light brown. To the outside world, and in my family, I am Black, but when I look closer in the mirror, I can see how my nose is longer and straighter than my mother's. I can see my eyes are a shade lighter than hers. I know that my high forehead and square jaw have come from my white father, a man who gave me nothing but my height, my lighter skin tone and a small mountain of trust and abandonment issues.

So do I love what I see in the mirror, or what I see in the many, many videos I've edited of my body doing all manner of physical, intimate things? Sometimes, yes, I do, but not always. And sometimes, I really don't like it at all.

But I don't have time to dwell on that now. I have a job to do. And I don't just mean posing for this rude son of a bitch but also ensuring Maeve isn't made to feel any more uncomfortable than she already has been.

I pick up my clothes and walk out of the cubicle. Dumping the pile on a nearby vacant chair, I walk up to Maeve, who is sitting on the stool, still with the towel wrapped around her body, and it's a not-small surprise to find her eyes on me. Or rather, on my body. They travel across my broad chest and down the flat of my stomach. They dart down my legs and then linger somewhere at the top of them before snapping up to hold eye contact with me.

I smile. I don't know why, but I do. And I know exactly what she reads into that smile. She's thinking I've caught her looking at me, and that I'm going to give her a very hard time about it.

I drop my smile just as her gaze goes elsewhere. Coming to stand next to her, I'm about to ask her if she's okay but Jim's voice starts booming from just behind us.

"Okay, let's get him, sorry, them sitting on the stool," Jim barks. "And Maeve, you'll stand behind. We'll use their muscles to hide your assets."

"Jesus fucking Christ and his step-da Joseph," Maeve tuts, but she gets off the stool and makes space for me.

I sit down and look straight ahead as I feel Maeve move behind me.

"Now, you're going to have to touch each other," Jim continues. "We need fucking boyfriend-girlfriend vibes, so if you can lean over his, fuck, sorry, their shoulders with your arms, you know. Kind of like a hug."

I tense.

"You okay with this?" Maeve asks, her voice close to my right ear.

It feels like what I should be asking her, but I can't pretend I don't appreciate her posing the question.

"It's fine, Maeve, as long as you're comfortable," I reply.

"I'm anything but," she says and then I feel her arms rest on my shoulders and her hair dance over my back. I take in a deep breath and it's a foolish mistake, because it fills my lungs with her, her scent. It's not as sweet as I would have expected, it's more fruity and airy, like caramel-apple or maybe spiced pumpkin, but I like it. I like it a lot. "But I will not let this dry-shite wanker have the last word."

Before I can reply, Jim's barking out more orders. "Okay, snuggle in a bit closer." Maeve does, and I feel more heat on my back and across my neck and shoulders as well as the towel's soft material "And you can get rid of that fucking towel, Mae."

"Maeve," I begin, turning my head slightly toward her face that is right next to mine, over my right shoulder.

"Shut the fuck up, Loncey," she says. "And let's get this over and done with."

And the towel drops.