Page 8 of Twisted God

He shook his head. “Not really. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Try me.”

“It’s just been a lot lately. I… I sometimes get overwhelmed by it all. All of this.” He motioned to the balcony and the penthouse suite in the largest hotel in London. “We used to be four kids, playing in a garage, and now look at us. The press hounds us. I don’t know who to trust. We live in this bubble, but the world is constantly watching, waiting for us to fuck up. That story earlier in the week was a perfect example. I thought I had a friend, and we shared something special, but he sold me out to the world, who are hell-bent on picking me apart until there’s nothing left.”

He paused, his eyes dropping to the floor. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be telling you this. You don’t need to hear about my shit. I need to pull myself together. I should go shower and get ready.”

“Why don’t you stay, Grayson? I’m sure none of your fans will care if you've showered or not. You smell perfect from here. Tell me about the news story. You can trust me, I promise.”

He stared at me for a moment, his gray eyes blazing brightly in the darkness, obviously deciding if he could really trust me. “He was my oldest friend.” He spoke, but his voice was so soft I could barely hear him, even in the silence of the night. “He told me he’d loved me for years. We made out. He put my cock in his mouth and made me feel things I didn’t know I felt. Then he waited until I’d made it to the big time to sell me out. And now the world is discussing whether I’m gay.” The timbre of his voice grew as he spoke, sounding almost angry by the end, and I felt his pain.

“And are you?”

“Gay? No. I mean, I enjoyed it, but I’ve not wanted a man since. I don’t know what that makes me. Bi, fluid, queer, confused. There are so many ways to define who you like these days, I don’t know what I am. I liked him; I’ve liked girls since. What does that make me? How am I supposed to work that out when everyone is out to sell another story about where I like to stick my dick?”

He smiled at me, but it was such a sad smile I wanted to pull him towards me and wrap him in my arms until he could figure out who he wanted to be. Instead, I placed my hand over his, where it rested on his thigh.

“How old are you, Grayson?”

“Twenty-four.”

“Well, take it from an old woman like me. You don’t have to have it all figured out and you don’t have to put yourself in a box to please other people. You get to be whoever you want to be, without apology or explanation. Fuck the rest of the world. As long as you’re happy and not hurting anyone, then you can be whoever you want. Just be Grayson Hill. You’re enough.”

He let out a long, slow breath. “Tell me something about you, Ivy. Distract my mind for a bit before it goes off the rails. Like how old are you, old woman?”

I went to move my hand from his, but he turned his palm, entwining our fingers together.

“Do you mind if I hang on, Ivy? I could do with someone to ground me right now.”

“Hang on all you need,” I replied, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “Okay. I’m the grand old age of thirty-two. I’m a freelance photographer, but you know that already. I’ve worked with clients all over the world, but this is the first time I’ve followed a band around on tour like a groupie. It’s a very strange life you all lead. Erm, I don’t have kids or pets. I hate chocolate, love long hot baths and I live with my partner, Ethan, in the countryside. I’m not sure there’s much more to tell you.”

“You don’t like chocolate? Are you mad?”

“That’s the bit people are always most offended about in my story. Nope, hate the stuff. Give me bread over chocolate any day.”

“Why photography?”

“My dad bought me a camera for my tenth birthday. The old-fashioned ones with film in. I bet you’re too young to remember those, right?”

“Cheeky.”

“He taught me about lenses and exposure, and we turned the spare room into a dark room. We spent all our free time in there together. It used to drive my mum mad.” I paused, sadness washing over me as I remembered my dad. His smile, his jokes, and how he proudly hung my photos around the house. “I came home from school when I was fifteen and found him lying at the bottom of the stairs. They said he had a massive heart attack and died instantly. I didn’t touch a camera or step foot in that darkroom again, but when I was twenty, I met Ethan. I was a bit lost. Partying too much, getting sacked from dead-end jobs. He saved me, even when I didn’t know I needed saving. He bought me a camera and encouraged me to start using it again. He’s a persistent bugger.” Shouts rang out from the penthouse, but Grayson nodded for me to continue.

“A few months later, I found out he’d entered my photos into a national competition which I won. To surprise me with the news, he’d created me a website, with my portfolio on there and a shop selling my prints. It had already sold out, although I’m still convinced he bought them all himself. I’ve been freelance ever since.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I remember how sure of himself Ethan had been back then. Even now, he never doubted himself, never doubted me, never doubted what we had. And what we had was pretty spectacular.

Grayson looked like he was about to speak, but we were interrupted as the balcony door opened. “Gray, you here? Oh, hey, Ivy. Look, we need to go. I need you to help me force some coffee into your idiot brother before you go on stage. Are you coming with us, Ivy?”

“Please,” I replied. “I just need to grab my equipment. Can you give me five minutes?”

“Perfect. Gray, you good?”

“All good, Addi. I’m on my way.”

Addison closed the door, and Grayson sighed again. He did that a lot. “Right, best go fix my rock star mask firmly in place. Thanks for listening and distracting me.”

He stood, rubbing his hands together like he was nervous. “Can I trust you, Ivy? Really?”

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