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Lo and Connor emerge from the bathroom about the same time my phone buzzes in my pocket. His little brother starts laughing. Connor’s grin could capsize the Titanic. It might be the combination of never seeing Ryke in white briefs and how tiny they are compared to his package. Lo and Connor were given black and navy boxer-briefs that fit them better.
Lo puts his fist to his mouth, still laughing uncontrollably.
Ryke shakes his head like his brother is the one with the issue. It’s impossible to shame Ryke out of an outfit. He’ll wear anything with the same amount of confidence he always exudes.
I stand up and click into my text.
Left waxing kit + shaving cream + razors for Ryke in the shower. Shave thighs, around the underwear line, legs to his ankles. Thanks! – Tiffany (event coordinator)
Lo is already snapping a photo of his brother, who has no care in the world about the briefs. Even though I’m pretty sure if Ryke shifts the wrong way, something is popping out.
“Stop!” I tell Lo.
All the guys freeze.
Ryke’s brows knot. “It’s alright, Dais.” He clearly gave his brother permission, but that’s not why I shouted.
“If you post a pic now, you’ll have a ‘before’ and ‘after’ picture.” Fans would definitely put them side-by-side and compare his hairless legs to the original. I doubt Ryke would personally care, but Rose would be upset if all the headlines about the photo shoot read: Ryke Waxes!
Lo swings his head to Connor while lowering his phone. “What’s she talking about?”
“Ask Ryke to translate,” Connor says. “That’s his puppy.”
Ryke gives them the middle finger.
I explain, “Tiffany left wax in the shower for Ryke.”
“Why the fuck for me?” Ryke questions over Lo’s second batch of laughter.
“Oh, man.” Lo has to prop himself against the wall, a stitch in his side. “You better believe I’m pulling a strip off.”
“It should be obvious to you,” Connor tells Ryke before I can speak.
I take a seat on the edge of the bed.
Ryke outstretches his arms. “I have hairy fucking legs. Tell me why that fucking matters?” Two fucks in one rant. He’s upset.
“Society hates body hair,” Connor says. “Even occasionally on men.”
Ryke shakes his head repeatedly. Ryke Meadows is unabashedly Ryke Meadows at all times, and I don’t think he expected anyone to tell him to change a part of himself today.
“Welcome to modeling.” I force a smile.
His hard eyes soften on me.
“I know which body parts they want you to wax, do you want me to tell you?”
Lo raises his hand. “I do.” He’s enjoying Ryke’s slight frustration. It’s a brother thing.
“No.” Ryke crosses his arms. “Text Tiffany back. Tell her that I’ll give them fucking permission to use Photoshop.”
I send a quick text, but her reply is even faster. “She says okay and to go to the roof now. Robes are on the back of the door.”
Connor finds them hung up, black cotton, and after they shrug them on, we leave the hotel room.
In the hallway, I walk backwards ahead of them. What a perfect photo this would be: all in identical robes, their strides are equal to where no one falls ahead or behind.
“Boys,” I say as serious as I can, “this is the time to put your model faces on. Cry when they ask you to cry. Laugh only when asked to laugh—unless you have a nice photographer, then you can midway through. And do not, whatsoever, touch your hair.”
Ryke touches his hair. He runs his hands through it and he gives me a look like what are they going to fucking do about it?
I love him.
“Your directions are too complex for a third of this group,” Connor says. “You need to go back to basics for Ryke. Like don’t piss on cement.”
“Don’t hump your wife,” Lo adds.
Ryke rolls his eyes. “Don’t fucking hump yours.”
Lo feigns a wince. “Not possible.”
I glance over my shoulder as we turn a corner to the elevators. “Another thing: you should all try to avoid an erection.” When I photographed with a model for a swimsuit spread, he had one mid-shoot. We were tangled together, and I tried to act like it wasn’t a big deal (he was really embarrassed) but the photographer yelled at him anyway.
I did tell Ryke this story once, and he just glowered at the ground, his forearms on his knees, deep in thought. The first thing he asked, are you okay?
Not even “were you”—just am I okay about it. I won’t ever be able to erase these memories that flare up and make me pause. Most from modeling. Things I said. Things I did. What I let roll off my back. Hand-pats on my ass. Men slipping into dressing rooms for a second or two like they had permission when they had none.
Back then, I shoved the attached sentiments to these violations so far down. I didn’t feel a thing. It’s easier being numb, to have zero regrets, but I wouldn’t trade what I feel now for feeling nothing. By processing these moments, I’m more apt to say no. I feel more empowered to walk away. To speak out about my experiences.
After my pain and healing came strength.
I’m stronger today.
“Will Rose be speaking at the shoot?” Lo asks me while we stop at the elevators.
“Yeah.”
“Great, hard-on avoided.” He flashes a half-smile at Connor. “You’re in trouble, love.”
I smile at Rose’s husband. “Her voice gives you an erection?” I’m even surprised I asked Connor Cobalt this. His intense all-knowingness has a way of making everyone feel small and inferior.
I wait for his answer, but he just stares at me. And then he says, “I’m going to assume your question is rhetorical because you should already know the answer. Unless you’re not as intelligent as I believe you are.”
Burn. So my sister’s voice definitely turns him on, probably among a long list of other traits. I push the elevator button a couple times since it’s taking forever. “What do you think about to avoid…” don’t think about Connor Cobalt’s ginormous penis.
Too late.
I mouth to Ryke, help.
He shakes his head. “You got here all on your fucking own.” Then he reaches for my hand, holding tight. Ryke has trouble abandoning anyone in a sinking ship, and Connor would probably call that his greatest flaw.
Connor barely even blinks. “I think about Ryke’s infinitely small vocabulary.”
“We know who the nerd is,” Lo says.
He’s probably one of the most sophisticated, yet domineering nerds I’ve ever seen in my life. I squeeze Ryke’s hand. “Is yours still Lily?”
My older sister turns him off that much.
“Yeah, her and her fucking whining,” Ryke clarifies.
I lean my shoulder on the elevator door. “Hey, her whine is like a cluster of koala bears, pandas and chipmunks.”
“Being killed,” Ryke deadpans.
I almost laugh. Lo is actually really quiet. I thought he’d say something in reply, but he stares off towards a potted plant. I’m about to ask what’s up, but the elevator opens—I fall in.
Ryke still has my hand, so I don’t go down.
He walks inside and pulls me to his chest. I wrap my arms around his waist. It’s safe here.
Connor pushes the rooftop button, and as we rise, Lo finally speaks to Ryke. “I bet I can give you something that’ll really turn you off.”
“What?”
Lo has this rare smile peeking at his lip. He rubs the back of his neck, unsure if he’s actually going to say it, but then he does, “Lily pregnant.”
My mouth falls. “Is she?”
Lo nods and his smile bursts. “Yeah.”
My heart swells, and I bounce on my toes.
“She wanted me to tell everyone, so don’t let Rose near me with a goddamn knife for some kind of sisterly betrayal.”
I’m in this happy, surprised state of shock. I never really expected Lily and Lo to have another baby. Even when they said they could, I didn’t think they’d try. I’m not sure any of us did.
“Congratulations, darling,” Connor says.
Ryke affectionately messes Lo’s hair like the big brother he is, and I exchange a smile with him. Moffy will have a brother or sister, and this time no one here is worried if Lily and Lo can do this.
We all know they can.
* * *
“Who’s the genius who scheduled a rooftop underwear shoot at the beginning of March?” Lo’s breath smokes the air, shivering in just his black boxer-briefs.
The New York City skyline glitters behind him, the afternoon sunny. The rooftop is dressed like a summer bash: lemonade in mason jars on a nearby bar, beach towels over lounge chairs, and an inflatable swan floats in the pool.
“There are only two geniuses here,” Connor says, “and I’m not to blame.” His conceited aura never diminishes, his black sunglasses pushed to the top of his head, wavy hair styled totally perfect. He reclines on a lounge chair without goose bumps or reddened skin.
Connor Cobalt is impervious to frigid temperatures.
Lo can’t stop shivering, sitting on a blue cooler. The camera flashes repeatedly. Standing beside Lo, Ryke battles the cold better than his little brother, but he’s as stiff as can be. The photographer has already asked him to “loosen up” three times, and Ryke shook out his arms but he’s still six-foot-three-inches of stone.
