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I blush, embarrassed to have revealed even this much of my inner thoughts. Maybe I’m more like Ragnar than I want to admit.
Except that I know I’m not. I’ve never kept any part of myself hidden. I’m a terrible liar, not to mention that I never saw the point in hiding anything. Maybe that’s part of growing up with six siblings, where we had to fight to get, much less keep, our parents’ attention. Or maybe it’s just how I’m wired.
Ragnar, on the other hand, was wired for secrecy. And he’d also either learned or just always felt that he needed to never show any weakness. That’s how he was when we met in boarding school, and I doubt he’s changed much in the intervening years.
Still, I know I’ve seen that side of Ragnar that he keeps so zealously hidden from everyone else. Even from Gorlag and Kroth, who were his closest friends at boarding school. I know how his eyes look when he’s about to kiss me, how they fill with desire, becoming a darker shade of hazel. I know how they seem to glow when he’s turned on, and the memory of that makes me hard.
Most intimately of all, I know how tender and kind his eyes look when we'd share a glance, at a party or in class or in the cafeteria, when all of our friends were otherwise occupied and we’d look at each other like no one else was around.
That’s the side of Ragnar that I loved the most. That’s when I saw who he truly was, and I loved him for it.
Believe it or not – and I cringe a little now, to remember how much of a meal I made of those crumbs of connection – those glimpses kept me going for years. When we were in our last year at school and our relationship was at its zenith, I convinced myself that what we had was built to last.
But Ragnar refused. “We’re only good at school,” he’d said during our last night together. “We can’t exist in the real world.”
“Why not?” I’d asked.
“Because what we have is only physical,” he’d replied.
“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” I’d shot back. But he’d kept insisting that that’s all our relationship was. That it was barely even a relationship at all.
“Bradford! You’re next!” the MC calls, and I take a deep breath. I shake my head, as if that will shake all memories of Ragnar loose, and square my shoulders. Then I step out onto the catwalk.
The crowd roars and hollers as I strut down the runway. I grin, shaking my hips to the beat. I pause at the end of the runway, where the photographers are gathered, and strike my signature pose: hands on my hips, the left hip jutting out, my gaze steely and my lip curled with the perfect balance of smirk and sneer.
The music swells and I toss my head, feeling my hair whip across my shoulders. I feel alive and vibrant as I dramatically whip back around and strut back down the runway, moving to the beat of the house music.
For my next turn I stop halfway down the catwalk and, pulsing my hips to the beat, unbutton the top button of my shirt. The crowd goes wild. I lock eyes with a man in the crowd. I don’t know him and he doesn’t know me, but for this part of my performance, I need to make him want me more than he’s ever wanted anyone.
And he does. I can tell from the rapt look on his face. I lick my lips suggestively and undo another button. He moves towards me, just as I had hoped. I flick my finger and pop the rest of the buttons loose as the crowd cheers. The man is at the edge of the stage now.
I reach down one hand and pull him up to whoops and shouts. He grins at me. “You’re my favorite model,” he gushes. “You’ve just made, like, my life complete.”
“Happy to oblige,” I grin, taking off my shirt and tying it around his shoulders. “Thanks for being such a willing participant.”
“For you?” he laughs. “Anytime, man. I’ll be at the after-party if you want this back,” he says.
I wink at him. “I’ll let you know.”
Then I take his hand and make him bow with me, the crowd cheering and hollering. My friendly stranger hops back off the stage and makes his way back to his friends, who slap him on the back and high-five him. I smile as I watch.
“Alright, Bradford!” the MC cries. “Showing us all how it’s done, yet again. Lord help whoever has to come after this boy.”
I take one final pass on the catwalk, slower this time. I don’t care how many times I walk in a show. I can never get enough of the light and heat, of the applause and camaraderie. I love photography, but this is where I feel the most alive.
Or at least, where I’ve felt the most alive since Ragnar. Dammit! Why do I have to think of him now, at my moment of triumph? I hit my mark at the end of the catwalk, determined to just soak in the joy of this show and nothing else.
As I turn and begin to walk back, a tall figure in the back catches my eye. The stage lights are in my eyes so my vision isn’t the best. But I think I see a shock of fire-red hair cascading down a muscled back.
Could that be Ragnar? No. I would have noticed him before now.
Then the figure turns in my direction, and even with the lights shining on me, I’d know those golden hazel eyes anywhere. I swallow and glance away. By the time I look back, he’s gone.
5
RAGNAR
Iwake up and sigh. A beautiful dream of happiness and luxury, given way to a crushing reality check. Yes, I’m still freeloading at Gorlag’s house. Sharing space with a friend who tolerates me, his wife who I’m sure doesn’t care for me, and a small child who outright despises me.
