Page 6 of The Photo
N Adams:
My cab is here. I’m traveling to Brazil for a shoot. It’s been fun, Rowan. Thanks for making me laugh. N
That’s it. Our quick, nonsexual fling is over. Just like that.
Three
Alexa, my agent, struts into my city apartment, all cheery and pink lips with sleek black hair, wearing clothes paid for with my success. She's a good girl who works just as hard as I do, so I don’t resent her vested interest in my career or her big rewards. We’ve bonded over the years, developing a close friendship, even though there’s a seven-year age gap. Aside from my family, she’s one of the few people I trust implicitly. In this business, it’s rare to find true solidarity.
“Why aren’t you dressed, Noah?” She doesn’t look pleased with her amber eyes darting around the room to scout for unusual activity. “The flight leaves in a few hours.”
To the world, I’m an object of desire that women want and photographers book in advance, so my schedule fills up quickly. To her, I’m like the annoying kid brother she enjoys bossing about. “I’m nearly ready, Alexa. There’s no panic.” I toss my phone on the sheets and clamber off the bed. A pale blue tee glides over my freshly washed hair, and I pull up the zipper on my jeans. “Stop staring.” I pad across the wooden floor barefoot.
She flicks her wrist, glancing down at a thin gold watch. “I’m allowed to check you out. It’s my job to assess the physique. If you lose those abs, we both suffer.”
“And you’ve seen my workout schedule.” I flip her the bird.
Palms float to her hips, and she tips her torso. She screws up her nose to make a stupid ‘know it all’ face. “You’re a model who needs to keep in shape.” A coral-colored nail jabs the air. “And, like I said, Noah, it’s my business to make sure you stay that way.”
With my thumb hooking the hem, I hitch up my tee to give her an all access view of my stomach. I pat my rock-solid gut. “I’ve just eaten, but still, I don’t think you should worry.”
Alexa squints, trailing her eyes from my pecs to my navel. “Hmmm.” She inspects my torso like she’s assessing a horses form at the racetrack, detached from the physical aspect. “You’re in fantastic shape, pretty boy.”
I let go of my tee and fasten the belt snug to my hip bones. “The new personal trainer put me through hell this week.” I glance at my reflection in the mirror. A day's worth of unshaven prickles seems lazy, but I like it. I rarely have a smooth face because facial hair is a big trend, and it works well with my laid-back style.
I catch Alexa in the background fidgeting with her denim sleeves. She’s suddenly acting weird. It has nothing to do with my appearance. That’ll never be an issue for us. I’m not her type, and she’s bossy as fuck. “Something you want to tell me about my new trainer?”
“Nope!” she exclaims, fingering a diamond ear stud. “Nothing to report. He’s obviously putting you through your paces.” A crimson wash of guilt peeks out from the subtle opening of her pale pink satin shirt.
I eye her closely. “You’re burning up, Alexa.” I smirk. “Are you sure you’ve got nothing to tell me?”
Alexa swivels away, hiding her flustered wide eyes. “I’ll wait downstairs.” She storms to the door. This is hilarious - she’s so screwing my trainer, Felix.
I chuckle. “He’s a nice guy. Shall I put in a good word, or has that ship sailed and you’ve already docked at the harbor?” I love making her squirm. We bicker like brother and sister, her being the older, prim and proper pushy sibling.
Her head rotates. “You’re an asshole, pretty boy.” She doesn’t leave. Instead, she flips out her phone and leans her shoulder against the wall. “Hurry up.”
At eighteen, I was picked out by a talent scout in the local mall and put on the modeling agency’s books. A year later, a major fashion house saw my potential, and the rest is history. Ten years in, and I’m not just older and wiser, I'm a touch jaded too.
I didn’t go to college like the other guys I hung around with back then. While they played beer pong and puked in trash cans, I fast tracked my way to the top with a first class pass to international fame. They went one way, and I rocketed into the universe. Sadly, I can count the number of friends I have now on one hand.
I missed out on frat parties and stupid male shit that’s a rite of passage for every other young guy. Instead, I hung out at glamorous parties with A-listers, wannabes and backstabbers. I snorted lines of cocaine and fucked hot bikini models.
That was then.
It didn’t take long to realize the scene was false. The drugs aged my good looks. The women were only after dick selfies and kudos for fucking the model that was trending. Parties were crammed with pretentious assholes who faked friendships to further their career. The whole scene was a sham. Fictitious news stories found their way into the press, and my reputation for being a bad boy gathered momentum.
These days I’m sensible—ish. The party invitations are declined, and groupies kept at arm's length. I respect my mind and body, which preserves my modeling career. With time, looks fade and the money will stop flowing. In this industry, you’re easily replaced by the next up-and-coming face. Alexa and I have been brainstorming business ventures. We’re always on the lookout for new opportunities.
When reporters question life as the international hot shot model, Noah Adams, I rhyme off the usual pre-scripted bullshit. They want the glossy image, not the boring truth. I tell them what they want to hear.
My reality is loneliness.
I'm constantly on set in many locations around the globe three-hundred-sixty-five days of the year. A rock n’ roll lifestyle doesn’t exist because I don't take part in the mad life anymore. I train in the gym six days a week, mixing cardio and weights, with one day off to chill. My meals are created by a food technician, and I swap out alcohol for water and early nights.
Today was my rest day until Alexa announced a last-minute booking and a schedule reshuffle. We’re flying to Rio for another photoshoot. Some hush hush ad campaign with an upcoming sports brand is paying top dollar for Noah Adams to wear their skimpy swim shorts on a white sandy beach. It sounds like my life’s a vacation, but shoots are notoriously long, and I’ll spend more nights alone in a hotel room. Typically, I start off with hair and makeup at an ungodly early hour and never leave the set until we have explored every angle. At least I’ll be able to top off my tan.
This is my life.
