Beautiful Box Set

Chapter 4-2

He reaches Brett’s studio at ten till two, but because he doesn’t want to seem overly eager, Johnny walks around the block once, twice, three times, then crosses Sunset Boulevard to grab a latté at Starbucks. From a perch in the café’s window, he sips the hot coffee as he watches the old five-story brownstone bearing the address on Brett’s business card. Quite a few people enter through the revolving door, but no one famous, no one Johnny knows. Once he’s finished his drink, he glances at the clock over the counter—two-thirty now—and weaves through traffic on his way back across the street. Nothing like being fashionably late, no?

The studio is on the fourth floor. Alone in the elevator, Johnny studies his reflection in the mirrored walls, glancing from the corner of his eye to check out his profile and try to catch a glimpse of his backside. These jeans make his ass look high and taut, he loves that, and his tight ringer T-shirt bunches at his waist, showing off the goods. Why guys insist on wearing baggy clothes to hide their bodies, Johnny will never know. He may not be buff but he’s slim, with a bubble butt he’s not afraid to display.

Here in the elevator, he cups his crotch to adjust his d**k, and gives it a little squeeze to perk it up. Then he tugs his shirt down over his flat stomach, runs a nervous hand through his hair, and bares his teeth at the mirror to make sure the coffee hasn’t stained them. He’d like some water now to wash that down, and maybe a mint to kill the aftertaste. There’s an old Jolly Rancher in his pocket that he pops in his mouth just as the elevator stops. He drops the wrapper on the floor before the doors open.

Brett’s office is at the end of the corridor, a nondescript door with a plaque that reads Cary Studios and, beneath that, QUIET! Shoot in Progress. For a moment, Johnny hesitates, hand on the doorknob, torn between knocking and just busting up in there. The guy’s expecting him, right? He did say he was free after two. And it’s so far after two, it’s almost three. But when he tries to turn the knob, he finds it locked. Sullen, he knocks, two quick raps, then waits. Brett was expecting him, wasn’t he? So why the hell is the door locked?

He’s just about to knock again when the door opens and Brett’s there, backlit by the early afternoon sun that streams into the studio through a wall of windows. The hair is a lighter shade than he remembers, longer too, though the front still stands up in spikes. The eyes are darker, the lips fuller. Damn. Johnny feels like he’s gotten lucky all over again. “Hey stranger.” He shrugs, a move that makes his shirt rise up off the waistband of his jeans just an inch to expose his pale belly. “Invite me in.”

“I thought you’d be here sooner.”

Johnny sort of just shrugs again; he has no answer to that. But Brett steps back and lets him into the studio, and there’s no real hint of malice in his voice. Johnny tries to see everything at once—the room is open and airy, with a high, unfinished ceiling and those huge windows overlooking the city. A handful of desks huddle in one corner by the door, laden with computers and printers and cameras, with the rest of the space given up to the art of photography. In another corner sits a mirrored vanity, a full-length mirror behind it, a tall stool in front. Makeup and brushes litter the vanity top. Nearby, vibrant clothes dangle from rolling racks, and various backdrops are tacked onto the walls or stand clustered together out of the way. Free-standing lights, their bulbs dark, stare blindly at one makeshift scene—a daybed set against a white backdrop, a bedside table nearby, pillows and feathers scattered about. Following his gaze, Brett explains, “Sorry about the mess. I had a CK shoot earlier.”

“CK?” Johnny asks.

“Calvin Klein.”

Ah yes. Which would explain the photos Johnny can see on one computer monitor, half-naked men cavorting in their underwear as they pillow fight over a woman who watches from the daybed. Is it just him, or are advertisements getting gayer? How can Lou think coming out would be bad for his career?

I want to act, not model, he reminds himself. In movies, not TV, and sure as hell not commercials.

Without warning, Brett leans in and plants a chaste kiss in the corner of Johnny’s mouth. “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he breathes.

“You said two,” Johnny reminds him.

The exasperated look on Brett’s face tells him he doesn’t mean that. But it’s a subtle reminder of just why he’s here in the first place, and Brett picks up on it easily. “My assistant’s gone for the day, but you’ve got pretty flawless skin already.” He should know—he’s inches from it. “I started in makeup. I’m sure I can get you camera ready. You brought stuff to wear?”

“Some.” Johnny hefts the messenger bag he carries slung over one shoulder. Inside are two shirts, the nicest he owns, and a pair of black twill pants that are part of his uniform at the tanning salon. He doesn’t have another pair—everything else is denim.

Brett eases his fingers under the strap and catches Johnny’s hand in his own, a quick touch before he takes the bag. “I have some things from the CK shoot, if you want to try those on, as well. Let’s get you into makeup, what do you say?”

The phrase sends a thrill through Johnny—that’s how they used to say it on the set, “into makeup.” It makes him feel like he’s actually doing something to get back into the business. With eager steps, he follows Brett, who leads the way to the vanity.