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“Just give it time,” I tell him quietly, though the gallery is admittedly louder than I expected, with so many walking around talking to each other, analyzing art, and clinking glasses of champagne. “It’s been a while since I’ve gone to one of these myself. Fuck, I forgot how uptight it feels,” I grunt.
Some of the photographers and models didn’t make the travel to actually be at the show, but the ones who are here, I make a point to approach and congratulate, as well as to introduce Tye, my new star model and muse.
It isn’t lost on me how many of them stare at Tye like I’ve brought some kind of giant, walking, talking diamond ring with me. One photographer from Spain, a woman with long hair parted straight down the middle and braided, practically gushes at us, saying, “Oh, your work! Yes, it’s quite fine. It’s very, very, very quite fine. Exquisite, really.” Not to mention a photographer I once collaborated with, who stopped us only to gasp, say, “Brilliant,” and then hurry on his way to wherever.
“Where is our work?” complains Tye. “I keep hearing about it, but haven’t seen it myself. Is it—?”
Then we reach the main room.
That’s when both our lives change forever.
“Is … Is that …?” breathes Tye, his eyes so wide, they could fall out of his face.
Featured like the grand finale, the main entrée, the everything, is a large display on a giant pedestal in the middle of the main room, lit exquisitely. It is surrounded by so many people, we can only stand in the back and watch, in awe at the way Claude has featured our work.
The Broken Chain. Three images that tell a story, all from that unexpected night at Manic Men. The first photo is Tye bound completely to the wheel, helpless, grinding his teeth and pulling against his binds. The second shows Tye breaking one wrist out of its bind, the camera having impossibly captured even the shards of metal midair as they flew from the shackle, and the veins of effort in Tye’s arm and wrist, bulging, and even the look of dawning surprise on his face, like he didn’t know his own strength. And then there is the final image of him standing before the wheel, glistening with power, his fist in the air with the broken chain hanging down his wrist—triumphant and free.
I smirk, then lean into his ear. “Feel like a muse yet, baby?”
Tye can’t even respond. He just stands there, staring, in awe, stunned beyond words.
And that’s only where it begins. Soon, he gets a front row seat to what it feels like to have everyone looking his way with admiration, awe, and even a bit of envy. First, we’re approached by a model who loves my piece. Then a photographer finds us, desperately wanting to know every detail about how our concept came to fruition. Then another. And yet another. And soon, we’re surrounded. I’m gracious and thank them while Tye is a wide-eyed wonder, overwhelmed by the attention. He meets photographer after photographer. He meets other models. He meets people who are instant fans.
I want to allow Tye the space to enjoy all of the attention (and get used to it), so I give him some excuse that I’m going to look for Connor and Brett and their plus-ones, since I’d invited them, then leave my boy to the crowd who have a hundred questions and words of praise for him.
As I stand by a table of champagne glasses and watch his success from a distance, sipping and totally not looking for Brett or Connor, I can’t help but feel pride for my boy Tye.
And a pinch of something else I can’t name.
“Mmm, yes, that’s the way of it, isn’t it?” comes a familiar voice at my side. “You feature your hot, new model in a masterpiece, and voila, he no longer belongs to you. He’s no longer your secret … He now belongs to the whole world.”
I don’t need to look. I know who it is. “That is quite true, Leobardo. Quite true.”
“Are you hurting? Does it hurt? I’ve watched you all night, taking him around the room like a show pony. I’ve never seen you so … enamored. It’s rather obvious. I don’t need a camera to capture your mixed bag of emotions spattered over your face like a crime scene … which is still so handsome.” He eyes me significantly. “Why haven’t you modeled yourself before? Really, it’s just the most obvious next step. Not that you’ll listen to a thing I say.”
“Thank you.”
Leo—whom I still haven’t looked at—turns to me completely, ready for a fight. “Thank you? Are you mad at me? I’m only stating the truth, that—”
“No. I’m not mad. I’m sincerely thanking you.”
Then I finally lay my eyes on his face—and find he hasn’t changed a bit. Still skinny with a long and over-preened tanned face, sharp hazel eyes, head shaved bald, and shorter than me by a foot.
