Page 1 of Not Your Golden Boy

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Nikky Smith had never really called anyplace home. It was almost impossible to feel like you had a home when you were raised in the foster system. Even though Nikky had lucked out by eventually being placed with kind, considerate foster parents who had encouraged his musical talent and never once laughed at his acting ambitions, they’d moved house a staggering number of times. And they’d taken in other kids, some with far more needs than Nikky. No matter how hard he’d tried, it had been difficult for Nikky to ever truly feel settled.

Looking out from the back of the cab taking him through the mishmash of modern and historical buildings that made up the heart of London, Nikky felt a strange and thrilling sense that he might actually be able to belong to the city. He’d been there a couple times before, most recently just a few months ago, when his best friend, Drew Oberlin, had there been filming. He’d played a concert back then and had meetings with producers and directors.

He’d also had a meeting with Javier Rivera and Desmond White of Rent-A-Boyfriend.

As crucial as that meeting had been, one of his professional meetings was the official reason he was back in the UK again so soon. He’d been breathtakingly lucky to catch the interest of the star-making record producer, Dean Albion. Not that he wasn’t already a Hollywood star. But Albion and his musical wizardry would be just what he needed to shift his career to the quieter, less terrifying place he wanted it to be.

Nikky pushed back into his seat as if he could meld with it and become invisible in the swirl of the bustling city. Musicians could be famous and invisible at the same time. Actors couldn’t. The distinction had never mattered to him when he was on the way up the celebrity staircase. Now that he was perched on high, he knew just how vulnerable it felt to be adored by strangers.

Adored and stalked.

He closed his eyes and took in a deep, calming breath of faintly dirty city air with its notes of metal, exhaust, concrete, and humanity. The eyes that were always on him didn’t know where he was, he’d made sure of it. He’d insisted that this project remain as much of a secret as possible. For now. If the plan he’d been hatching since Drew had explained Rent-A-Boyfriend to him worked, everyone would know exactly where he was soon. And with whom.

If everything went according to plan, he’d be banished from the celebrity spotlight in no time. He could live his life and practice his craft without constantly looking over his shoulder in fear. In the meantime, London was busy enough in its own right that he might just be able to walk down the street, like he’d been able to do a year ago, without fans calling out to him or rushing up to take selfies.

He always smiled and took the pictures, signed whatever people wanted signed, and gave the public who was responsible for his meteoric success exactly what they wanted. Giving people what they wanted so he could keep his place and not make waves had been drilled into him from the day Child Protective Services had removed him from his drug-addicted mom’s apartment at age five.

Nikky let out the breath he’d drawn in with a tentative smile. He loved London. Things would be okay here, he could feel it.

As if to underscore all the reasons he longed for a simpler life, the cab driver glanced at him through the rearview mirror and said, “I’ve just figured it out,” with a flash of bright excitement in his eyes.

“Oh?” Nikky asked, tensing as if bracing for impact.

“Yeah,” the driver went on. “You’re famous. Like, really famous. I saw you in that big gay show last year. The one about the restaurant. What was it called again?”

Nikky swallowed hard, the dread and anxiety that gripped him every time someone yanked on the parasocial rope of celebrity he’d been tangled in washing through him like acid. “Cooked,” he said, smiling uneasily at the man through the mirror.

“That’s right. Cooked,” the driver said, beaming with excitement. He laughed, then went on with, “My wife and daughters have been talking about your bum ever since.”

Nikky laughed with him, but hot embarrassment started to make him dizzy. “The nudity served the plot,” he said, no idea why he still needed to defend himself and his choices. “The acting was the important part.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” the driver said. “But you’ve got to be proud of your bum.”

“And my music,” Nikky pretended to agree while hoping he could change the conversation.

“What was it like getting all down and dirty with another man?” the driver went on.

“Filming those scenes is very technical,” Nikky gave his rote answer. It was easier than explaining he had more than enough experience getting down and dirty with other men in real life and that performing sex for the camera felt a little silly.

“How did you⁠—”

The driver’s next question was cut off when Nikky’s phone rang. He nearly shouted with joy at the sight of Drew’s name showing up on the screen.

“Sorry, I have to get this,” he apologized to the driver, then tapped to accept the call. “Hey, Drew.”

“Nikky,” Drew greeted him happily. “How’s the jetlag treating you?”

Just hearing his friend’s voice loosened something in Nikky’s soul and calmed him. “Oh, you know,” he said. “I’ve been here for almost twenty-four hours now, prepping for this recording session, so I’m pretty much over it.”

“I’m so psyched for you working with Dean Albion,” Drew said, his genuine happiness coming through loud and clear in his voice. “This is going to make your music career, I just know it.”

“That’s the plan,” Nikky said, meeting the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror for a second before glancing out the window and praying the driver would stop paying attention to his call.

“I’m sure you’ll make it as big in the music industry as you have in the acting world,” Drew said.