Page 3 of Troy

“You’re a loser, Raff, and you always will be. Your photographs are like your dick—limp and lifeless.” He spits as he grabs his clothes and other crap lying around.

“Whatever, Drake, I don’t give a fucking shit anymore. But I know where I’m heading as soon as you’ve fucked off and that’s the STD clinic, because if I’ve caught anything from you, and whoever the fuck else has been up your ass I’ll be after you. And by the time I’ve finished with you, no fucker will ever want to touch you again.” I step up and into his space and see a shadow of fear run across his eyes before they harden again. How can I have been so wrong about him? Just how long has he been fucking around? Does it matter? Once is enough to know about.

“You done?” I glare at him as he struggles through the doorway and down the narrow hall with his belongings. Well, the stuff he can carry.

“Yeah, I’ll be back with a car for the rest of it.” He sneers.

“Nope, no deal right there. If you don’t take it with you now, then it’s getting dumped.” I watch as his face turns a nasty shade of puce.

“You really are a cunt, McMahon; you know that, right?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard it once or twice, still don’t give a fucking shit. Carry it now or leave it for the dumpster.” Right then I hear a car horn beep twice and a lazy smile spreads my lips, “I guess that’s your cab, oh well, I could say it’s been fun but it really fucking hasn’t.”

Opening the door, I give his shoulder a nudge to get him through the space, and when he turns to say something I simply swing the door shut in his face. Job done. My skin crawls with the thought of what he may have given me. I hear a familiar patty of feet coming down the hallway. Gazing at my dog, I smile, “and you, Boss-man, should have told me.” I rub my hands through his scruffy coat as he leans against me.

I made the call to a local STD clinic and arranged an appointment to get tested for every damn disease that asshole could have shared with me. Luckily for him, I was clean but am due another re-test today. Shaking away the thoughts of Drake, I get back to mulling over my phone call. After grabbing a coffee and a cigarette, I pull my laptop over and fire it up. Leaning back against the sofa, my feet up on the coffee table, I rest the machine on my knees. Then, when I’m up and running, I type ‘Troy Ballantyne’ into Google search and spend the next few hours reading up on the man behind the hot-as-fuck voice. The articles speak of his and Nico Angeles’ meteoric rise to the top of the fitness empire and how they are starting their own designer clothing range—Nico is tired of modelling and wants to step out of the limelight, having recently married his high school sweetheart; they make a beautiful couple.

There is very little on Troy’s private life, a couple of mentions of his relationship with the founder of De’ath of You Enterprise, Franco De’ath. There are no other mentions of partners since the death of his lover, but it’s the photographs that captivate me. His face and body are made for the camera: a slim but muscular body, pale skin and platinum white hair contrasting his dark chocolate brown eyes. I keep scrolling until I find one that stops me dead in my tracks; a candid shot, presumably by a newspaper photographer, of Troy standing desolate at the edge of a grave. A slight breeze lifts his hair and blows it about but it’s the hollow emptiness, a numbness that blackens and dulls his already dark eyes. The gaunt and haunted look screams out a level of pain and grief I can’t imagine ever capturing me. My heart stutters in my chest and I find myself reaching out to touch the screen. I can make you feel again. At the back of the shot is a woman in black, also looking pained; I’m not sure if she is part of the funeral or there at another grave.

Dropping my hand, I try to decipher what my brain has thrown at me. Strangely, I don’t find the concept disturbing, I find it comforting. Yes, I can bring him back to life.

I want this gig. Deciding I need to study them and their industry, I print off a few pictures—including that last one—and biographies of him and Nico Angeles. I think of the man I need to get to know.

The last month has been shitty—Nico is still pissed with me after Logan left me and resigned last month. We haven’t been able to find a replacement for him, yet. I do miss him; I wish I could have made it work. I wanted it to work, but I wasn’t being fair to him.

Thinking back to our last night, my mind fills with our last conversation.

“I love you, Troy. I feel like you love me too, but you won’t say it, or you can’t. Either way, it’s me that gets hurt, I can’t keep this up any more.” Logan paces the floor of the living room, alternating between running his hands through his hair and shoving them deep into his pockets.

“I know, Logan, and I’m sorry. The feelings I have for you are real—I love your company, I love the way we connect, I love how we are in bed—but I don’t know if it’s enough. I want to be in love with you but I need more time to say it and really mean it. You don’t want me to say it to appease you, and I’m sure as hell not doing that to you. You deserve to be loved; you are an amazing man.” I know I’m not explaining myself properly, only making things worse.

“You know what, Troy, you’re right: I do deserve to be loved and be told that. So, maybe, if you’re not able to do that, I’d be better off out of this.” Logan sighs, I can tell this is breaking his heart, but, as much as it hurts me, I know what love feels like and this doesn’t come close.

“Oh, Logan, I’m sorry. Please, don’t hate me.” I whisper sadly.

“Oh, Troy, that’s the problem: I can’t hate you. But I can’t love you and not have it reciprocated. That’s just not fair. I think, maybe, we need to call it quits before my heart breaks even more. I can’t match the man you have put on such a high pedestal. Maybe one day someone will and I hope it happens because you are a special person and are capable of great love, it’s just not with me.” Logan picks up his ball cap and dumps it on his messy hair before, with a shrug, walking up to me. “I’m gonna get away now because I’m getting too close to begging you and neither of us wants that. Look after yourself, Troy; don’t close off your heart for too long or you may not be able to find it again.”

With a sad smile, he kisses my cheek and trudges out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Nico’s reaction truly made it worse

“What the fuck did you do to make Logan leave? For fuck’s sake, Troy; he’s in love with you and you dump him.” Nico stands with his arms crossed and glares up at me: I knew he was going to kick off.

Shit, my ass hasn’t even hit my chair and I’ve got Nico acting like a dick. “He dumped me, Nico, and I am so not in the mood to have to explain my relationship to you. I never wanted him to leave his job here; in fact, I begged him not to. So, don’t kick me: I’ve had enough people telling me my failings. Do yourself a favor and close the door behind you when you leave.” “Shit, Troy, he was perfect for you and you just let him go. You’re a fool, Troy, a damn fool.” Nico shakes his head then turns to stalk out.

“Yeah, I’ve been told that already, Nico. Funny though, it hurts more hearing it from you.” I speak quietly yet he catches it but keeps on going.

I look at the computer screen, the words blurring into a grey mass. Pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, I try to stop the swell of tears from cascading. A light tap on the door sounds before it pushes open and Ryan puts his head around. His smile falters when he sees me.

“Oh, Troy. It’ll be okay, sweetheart. Some things just aren’t meant to be. Logan is a nice guy and he will be okay. You don’t need to be apologetic for someone else’s choices. He will love again and so will you. Trust me, Troy; Franco wouldn’t have been taken from you if he wasn’t sure there was someone waiting for you to find love with.” Ryan smiles and I can see he means it. I hope he’s fucking right, otherwise I’ve not long ago lost a good man.

“Thanks, Ry. Is that what you came in to tell me, are you the good cop to Nico’s bad?” I try to smile but it doesn’t quite work.

“What? No. Has Nico been ranting again?” Ryan seems pissed: he knows exactly how hot-headed his husband can be.

“No,” I shake my head but then chuckle, “well, yeah, he always does. He blames me for Logan walking out—which, I suppose, could be true—but it was still Logan’s choice to end it and I don’t blame him.” I try a smile and find I can manage one. “Oh, yeah, I spoke to Raff McMahon this morning and he sounded stoked at being asked over here. We need to liaise again about the how’s and when’s, but I want this guy working here, before someone else grabs him.”

Ryan smiles his stunning smile, one he doesn’t realize he owns, one that would turn the straightest guy gay in one glance. “Fuck! That’s awesome, I love his work. We certainly have enough going on to warrant a full-time photographer.”

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