Page 1 of Gym Bros
1
CALYX
One of the many occupational hazards of being a model, because there are surprisingly a lot, is I never stop posing.
“Look at you.”
I tilt my head, knowing exactly where my light is, and fix my attention on my long-time manager. Marcus is fresh out of the shower, wearing only a towel and holding my cat in one of his perfectly sculpted arms. With the other, he reaches out to slide his fingers along my jawline.
As he takes up the space I’ve left available on the chaise, he promptly deposits the cat onto my outstretched lap. Ignoring the man, I hug Siva to my chest and bury my nose in her soft fur, snuggling her close. It’s a wonder we got separated. She must have been trying to steal water from the tap when Marcus went into the bathroom for his shower.
I’m not surprised he didn’t send her away. She’s the most beautiful cat in San Francisco, and Marcus has an eye for beauty. She should probably be a model, too. She’s a breed marvel, a champagne mink Tonkinese with a buff-colored body, dark markings on her face and tail, and big, bright, aqua eyes. She’salso exactly as advertised—overly attached and affectionate. A velcro cat. My baby. Worth every penny. But I’d never force her into the limelight the way I once was, subjecting her to the harsh, critical gazesI’vebeen subject to over the years.
“If I had my phone handy,” Marcus says because his gazes for me are rarely, if ever, harsh.
“No photos,” I tell him. “You have a job to get to.”
“Youaremy job,” he reminds me. He runs a hand up my calf, stopping briefly at the bend in my knee before realizing once again that once he starts touching me, he has trouble stopping. The stroke becomes repetitive, his expression pained and pensive.
Marcus’s gaze tracks the path of his hand. I’m dressed in a tank and satin boy shorts, so he has plenty of leg to work with and skin I keep silky and smooth. I’m expecting him to leave, though. Hopeful for it. I’m not up for another round. It took him forever to get off last night. So long, I considered asking if I was the problem since I’m not getting any younger, or if he was dealing with some dysfunction, but he stayed hard well enough, answering both questions without my needing to ask.
My guess is he’s got a lot on his mind. In fact, he seems to be working himself up to say something to me. Otherwise, his hand would be moving up my thigh by now.
Finally, he comes out with it. “I need you back at work, angel.”
“But I do work. I have two classes to teach today,” I say, intentionally avoiding his meaning.
He shoots me an admonishing look. So handsome when he’s annoyed or angry or frustrated. Handsome in general. A white man with rich, brown, stylishly overgrown hair and a natural tan. His eyes are piercing and blue like Siva’s. He’s chiseled and symmetrical, and he keeps his body in fantastic shape. He was a model once, too. He still could be, but as a husband and father,he chose model management as a way to “settle down.” He still travels constantly, but I suppose his life has a bit more routine than a busy, working model’s does. The hours may be slightly better. I know for a fact he doesn’t show up to five a.m. runway show calls. He strolls in around eight, always looking dashing and well-rested.
“ItalianVogue?” he says, trying to tempt me.
“Did they ask for me?”
“They’rewaitingfor you.”
“Nothing local?” I ask.
Marcus sighs. “Did you develop a fear of flying you didn’t tell me about?”
“You know it’s not about the flights,” I say.
“Then what? Is it the cat?”
It’s not about the cat, either. I have friends I trust with Siva when I travel. The reason I’m not leaping at the chance to shoot a spread for Italian Vogue is standard issue burnout. I thought taking a few months off from modeling would shake me loose from the ennui, but it’s only gotten me more used to home. More ensconced. I worked enough last year to be able to afford ample time off, but I also workedtoomuch. I was barely ever home. I calculated my miles once, and it was more than flying around the world twice.
“I’d consider AmericanVogue,” I tell him.
He arches a brow. “Is that so?”
I give him a simple shrug, not committing.
Marcus lets out an exasperated sigh. “Aren’t you out of money yet?”
“Are you?” I ask. “Is that why you’re being so persistent? Are your other clients not performing for you?”
“I’m fine.” His brows pinch. “I’m worried about you.”
“How sweet,” I say, not without sincerity. Marcus has several major money-makers on his roster. His firm represents the A-listof the modeling industry. I’d hardly consider myself an A-list model, hence American Vogue’s persistent lack of interest in me. My androgyny makes me unique but challenging to cast. I’m either a gem or a lump of coal. It’s all in the eye of the beholder.
