1. Chapter One

Chapter One

Mark

I t's not every day I stare at a stranger's cock for two and a half hours, but as the saying goes, God works in mysterious ways. I, along with the rest of my fellow grad students, had settled in with my paints ready. Even the nude model's entrance hadn't fazed me. My B.A. is in studio art, so I'm used to painting naked people. Then , said model reclined on the platform in the center of the classroom…and spread his legs. I had the dubious distinction of being seated directly in line of sight of those incredibly thick cream-colored thighs.

Oh yes… and that cock, incredibly thick as well. Not that cocks are especially attractive, but he's very well-endowed. Probably what got him the job. So, more power to him. I guess.

But having to stare and paint the exact likeness of a cock for two and a half hours isn't the most awkward thing about this situation. No, the most awkward thing about this situation is that I know this man from somewhere, but I can't place where.

It's hard to believe I'd ever forget that body. His abs envy those of any Classical nude, and although I've mostly been staring at his junk, I got a good look at his face when he walked in, just before his junk got my attention. It's a nice face, with cheekbones that could probably cut glass and a chiseled jawline. His eyes are a vibrant, sky-blue reminding me of pictures of the Caribbean I'd painted in some of my undergrad classes.

How the hell could I possibly forget such a singularly attractive person?

"Hey, Mark, what do you think about this color?"

I tear my gaze away from the model's naked nether regions and look at Logan, my classmate, roommate, and all-around someone with whom I spend way too much time. He shows me his palette. "What do you think about this color?" he asks, pointing with his brush.

It's a peachy-flesh tone.

"That's about as peachy as a stop light, too red," I say.

Logan hums and furrows his brow. I turn back to my easel, while Logan adds more water to the pigment.

"Do you recognize this guy?" I ask.

"Ah … no, am I supposed to?"

I shrug. "He looks familiar to me," I say.

Logan looks up and squints at the model. "Which part, eh? He's not bad-looking."

"Not bad? Not bad? He's better looking than that," I reply, rolling my eyes.

"Huh."

I continue painting, detailing, shading. This guy is familiar and it's going to bother me until I figure out where I know him from. It can't have been the art program. Otherwise, Logan would have recognized him.

Whoever this guy is, he isn't one of the usual models either, which isn't too much of a surprise. Visual Arts hires new people all the time, but where have I seen him from if it isn't around campus? I don't go anywhere else.

"Hey, do you want to go do something this weekend?" Logan asks. "A haunted house maybe? Or we could do a road trip. That'd be fun."

"We have midterms in two weeks."

"And if a serial killer is hiding in a haunted house and slits your throat, you won't have to worry about midterms," he replies.

He's making fun of me; that's the excuse I use for not going out with him every weekend leading up to Halloween. "I'm sure that's happened before," I reply.

I glance at Logan, who's shooting me the most pathetic, intentionally manipulative puppy dog eyes he can manage. Those cat-green eyes might sway someone else, but I've known him too long to get sucked in.

"Oh, yeah," Logan says, "That happens all the time. That's how Hannibal Lecter got all his victims. He hung around haunted houses and jumped his victims. It's Chapter One in the Serial Killer's Handbook . Yessiree."

If a serial killer's handbook exists, Logan's probably bought it. Even with his considerable talent, I'm still astonished he went into studio art instead of forensic science or criminal justice. He lives and breathes macabre.

For Halloween, Logan goes all out. September 30 th , our apartment transforms into the Adams' Family Home , and it took a couple years for me to convince him to wait until the end of September. He used to start in early August, making things awkward when we first met. I walked into my new shared apartment and saw skulls and cobwebs… everywhere. Sure... normal things a totally stable human being would have around on the first day of school.

"It'd make me super happy," Logan begs. "if you went out with me this weekend."

"Why? Need a wingman to help you pick up guys?"

"No."

Uh huh. Riiight. Logan is one of those people who always has to be in a romantic relationship, and when not, he gets clingy. Look up clingy in a Dictionary …you'll see his picture.

I'm the polar opposite, but I'd be lying if I said the nude model wasn't making me feel, well, something . For a split second, I consider asking him out, but that's unprofessional. He'd likely refuse anyway. I'm not bad looking, but I'm also not some god-like creature with the confidence to pose nude before an entire class of art students.

And I know him from somewhere. But where? That's really bothering me.

When the class ends, I pack up my paints and leave my best effort drying on the easel, along with my classmates. The model leaves to get dressed. Logan has already packed up his supplies and waits impatiently, shifting his backpack from one shoulder to the other, for me.

"I swear I know him from somewhere," I say.

"The model?"

I nod.

"He's not hideous," Logan replies slyly.

Wow. Yeah, if " not hideous" can be defined as "looks like a god come to Earth".

"Maybe you should catch him on the way out," Logan adds.

"Yeah, riiight. He's so far out of my league, I'm sitting in the bleachers."

"Well, if that's how you feel, you're always welcome to be the eternal bachelor," Logan says, "sitting around on park benches. Talking about non-existent glory days. Like the one time you almost asked someone out."

I roll my eyes and throw my backpack onto one shoulder. "I've had dates before, you ass."

"Sure, you have," Logan replies cheerily. "There was that one guy—what, three years ago, four?"

I'm honestly not sure how long ago I dated "that one guy". His name was Chance, and his entire life revolved around his three cats and seeing how many puns he could make with his own name. He wasn't a bad guy; we just never really hit it off.

"You're paying too much attention to my dating life," I say, as we head down the hall and back to Logan's car.

My car is, unfortunately, at the shop after some woman rear-ended me at a stoplight. There's no word yet whether the car is totaled. I'm hoping for the best, but it doesn't look good. It's tough to expect a full repair after a "jaws of life" extraction. I realize, of course, I should be grateful no one was hurt aside from a bit of whiplash. I am. It's just nice to have a working car, though.

"I'm just trying to look after your well-being," Logan says. "It's in the ‘best friend with benefits' job description."

I'm not sure him being my "best friend with benefits" is something I should brag about; at the moment his primary "benefit" is an operable vehicle. Hell, even if it's just plain "best friend", he wins…by default.

"Well, as your friend, maybe you need to slow down with that train wreck you refer to as a love life. At the rate you're going, you're going to blow through every gay man in Bluehaven. The day's gonna come when you walk into a gay bar, and it'll be full of nothing but your exes."

Considering the amount of LGBT+ organizations Logan's involved in, I'm legitimately astonished this hasn't already happened, for which I'm glad; I want video of that momentous occasion.

"I guess if that happens, I'll just have to assume a new identity," Logan says. "I'll tell everyone that I'm my cousin. No! Better! I'll tell them I'm you!"

"Then who am I, smartass?"

I roll my eyes. With Logan's inability to keep a secret, that new identity wouldn't last more than ten minutes.

"Wow, identity theft?" I ask. "Great solution. No way that could go wrong. Do me a favor and pay off my student loans while you're me."

To be fair, Logan comes from money; billions, in fact. He could pay off my student loans with his chump change.

" Or I could make the three-hour drive to NYC," Logan says. "I do love that place."

"Three hours both ways to get laid? Or are you going to buy a plane ticket?"

Logan heaves a melodramatic sigh. "True love has no bounds," he says.

"Is that what you call it?"

He shoves his shoulder against mine.

"Hey, I'm not judging. I'm just trying to keep your cock from destroying the environment. And what if you're driving? Eighty dollars in gas to and from? Eighty dollars in fumes for the planet? Sorry that I don't think your boner is worth destroying Planet Earth. Our precious celestial home…"

"Shut the hell up, already. Well, when you put it that way—"

"How would you put it?"

"My pursuit of happiness is a Constitutional…"

"It's in the Declaration of Independence ," I say, "Not the Constitution. And I'm pretty sure that Thomas Jefferson wasn't talking about getting laid when he wrote that."

"So, you were there to personally ask him ? You know, he might've been," Logan replies.

"I swear to God, why do I hang with you?"

Logan laughs. "Because of my quick wit and incredibly good looks?" he asks.

"Because I look better by comparison," I shoot back.

Logan gasps like I've caused irreparable harm to his fragile psyche. "For shame ," he says.

"How would you know what shame is? You don't have any."

"I know that if I didn't cook for you, you'd starve," Logan replies.

"Like hell I would. I'd eat pizza and ramen noodles like everyone else around here," I say.

"So, in other words, if I didn't cook for you, you'd get scurvy and die of malnutrition. Good to know."

"And if it weren't for me, your underwear would be pink," I say, "And God knows what else."

Logan has somehow never mastered the art of separating his colors from his whites. It's like a curse, actually. No matter how hard he tries, a red sock or some dark blue boxers inevitably fall into an otherwise white load. I'd think he was doing it on purpose, except Logan has the attention span of a squirrel with ADHD. Trust me, a gag like that ain't in his wheelhouse.

"No, I'd pay someone to do my laundry," Logan counters.

I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth and shake my head. "You can't use money to solve all your problems, ‘Rockefeller'," I say.

"And why not?"

"Because you'll never learn crucial problem-solving skills," I answer.

"I can pay someone else with crucial problem-solving skills."

Why did I even ask?

Once we reach the parking lot, I give a cursory glance to see if I can spot the model, but I don't see him. I just have to know where I've seen this guy.

I get into Logan's flashy BMW. It's gloss black, reflecting the setting sun. If there's anything Logan loves more than Halloween, it's his car. He'd die if it got so much as a scratch, which is why he always parks in the furthest space from the building. Both the driver's and passenger's seats are neat and clean, but it looks like a library and a party store fought for dominion of the back seat. Textbooks wage war against foam pumpkins and Styrofoam tombstones, and buried beneath plastic bags and books, there might also be a few lost tubes of paint crying out for salvation.

"Are you sure you don't recognize that model from anywhere ?" I ask.

"No," Logan says, starting the car, "And you realize you're obsessing, right? Most people when they see someone they think they know from somewhere, let it go after five minutes."

"Maybe," I reply.

Logan, overly cautious, takes forever to back out. "You think he's hot, don't you?" he asks, driving out the parking lot.

"Anyone with eyes would think he's hot," I reply. "But that's not it. I really do just want to know where I recognize him from."

"That's easy to figure out," Logan says, something indecipherable and strange in his voice. "Just go online and do a Google search for " hot naked male model" , and you'll find him, no problemo!"

I roll my eyes and look out the window. The road we're on stretches between the visual arts building and the campus nature trails, awash with bright reds and golds, and, in a few short months, they'll be powdered with snow. Although I've never been interested in hiking or forests in general, it's nice to have this small slice of nature so close.

"I suppose I could just ask ," I say absentmindedly. "If he's modeling on campus, he'll probably be around somewhere."

"You'd better hope so," Logan replies. "The odds of you running into him again aren't great."

He's right. Bluehaven isn't exactly the biggest city in New York, but it's big enough that the odds against you running into people you've met before are great. Hell, even when you plan to meet someone, it's still easy to get lost with all the people around here; especially downtown. Bar hopping is a nightmare, and the one time I agreed to go with Logan and some of his friends, we ended up losing half of them, and that was before we got to the first bar.

"I'm going to figure out where I know him from," I say.

"Good luck."

And really, that's a fair response. If I'm gonna find this guy again, it'll strictly be a matter of luck, especially if I'm hoping to speak with him. Usually, if a hot man so much as looks at me, I dissolve into a puddle, and not even a sexy puddle if such a thing exists.

"I'm surprised you aren't more interested in him," I comment. "It's been quite a while since you were actually involved with anyone."

In a real relationship, anyway. Logan and I have had a "friends with benefits" thing going on for quite some time, although I suspect it benefits me more than it benefits him. He'd had loads of sex before he met me and will probably continue to have loads of sex. I'm still learning the ropes because I was a virgin until I met him. Even then, I'd known Logan for two years before we decided that was what our relationship was going to be.

"And, in case you weren't paying attention, he's not an unattractive man," I add.

"I'm aware," Logan says. "I'm just not interested."

There's something odd in his tone again, but I'm not entirely sure what it is.