Page 10 of Riot Act
“I’m sure they’d bring you something if you—”
I slip my AirPods into my ears, shutting him out. He stops talking when he sees what I’ve done. His smile finally fades; looks like I’ve hurt his feelings. At least he leaves me alone for the rest of the flight.
The moment the plane’s wheels touch down and the seatbelt light goes off, I’m up out of my seat, grabbing my bag from the overhead storage, and I’m shoving my way down the aisle before the gangway can get clogged up by the other passengers. Thankfully, I manage to tuck my dick—yeah, I’m still sporting the boner that will not quit—up into the waistband of my jeans, neatly out of the way so that it’s less noticeable as I charge off the plane. A hostess with braided blonde hair standing at the plane’s exit pales when she sees me coming toward her.
“Have a nice day,” she mutters.
I bolt past her without a word.
“He’s the one who was growling,” I hear behind me. “He said he was gonna choke someone with his—ahem—”
Cock.
Pretty sure it was my cock, but I could be wrong. The details of the dream have already disintegrated into a haze of vague colors and shapes…
Ahh,shit. It’s fucking hot. Even in the airconditioned walkway that leads from the plane into the main building of JFK, the heat and humidity slaps me in the face. The air is cloying—a cocktail of smells that create an odor so unpleasant and unique to this airport that I immediately know I’m home.
Four days. That’s how long I was in Corsica.
Four.
Fucking.
Days.
So much for mid-semester break.
I could have stayed, of course. Nothing stopping me. With three summers’ modeling work under my belt, I have plenty of money and sweet fuck all to spend it on, trapped up a mountain at a private boarding school in the middle of New Hampshire. I could have put myself up at the most expensive hotel on the island and had a grand old time, but the trip was soured for me onceThe Contessadisappeared below the surface of the Mediterranean. As the boat listed in the water, her mast damaged the super yacht in the next mooring, and when the super yacht’s owner showed up and started cursing in Italian, I took that as my cue to get the fuck out of dodge. My return to the States hasnothingto do with my mother’s cancer diagnoses.
On autopilot, I navigate my way through customs and head to baggage claim. All of my clothes went down with The Contessa, but I bought a stupid amount of stuff to replace what I lost at the airport. I was on autopilot. I wasn’t thinking. I shouldn’t have bothered, but I did. Now, a part of me just wants to walk away from huge suitcase full of designer gear, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to do it.
I’m a million miles away, mental gears spinning, when I realize that I’m being watched. Stared at, in fact. Two girls in their early twenties hover on my left, whispering and giggling to one another as they look me over.
There was a time when I might have been flattered by their attention. Now, it just—oh, Jesus Christ.That’swhy they’re looking at me. I’ve inadvertently stood right next to one of those digital advertising screens. It’s ten feet tall, almost as wide, and guess who’s plastered all over the damn thing?
Yeah.
That would be me.
In nothing but a pair of very tight, white boxer briefs, I might add.
The girls both blush hotly when they realize that I’ve noticed them. They’re both pretty. I’m flattered that they’ve turned crimson over the sight of my larger-than-life bare chest. If I play my cards right, they’ll probably come over. They’ll stammer and flush even redder, and I’ll flirt mercilessly, and before I know it all three of us will be checking into a room at one of the airport hotels close by. My dick will thank me. I’m still hard as fuck from that random sex dream on the plane. I have a relentless pulse in my cock, and every time the tip of it rubs against my underwear, I have to fight the urge to go and jerk off in the men’s room.
I wouldn’t even have to try—if I wanted these girls, I could have one of them bouncing up and down on my dick and the other riding my face in under thirty minutes. All it would take is a smile.
I don’t smile. I take out my Ray Ban Wayfarers from the breast pocket of my button-down shirt and slide them on, aware that only an asshole wears sunglasses indoors. It’s not like they’ll conceal who I am; it’sveryobvious that I’m the guy on the billboard behind me. The ink creeping up around my neck and cuffing my wrists makes me easy to identify, as does my closely shaved head. No, the sunglasses aren’t going to fool anyone, but they do make me feel protected. As if I’ve withdrawn into another room and I’m observing the people around me through a two-way mirror.
Heat creeps up the back of my neck as another couple realize that I’m the model on the goddamn billboard. I glare at the conveyor belt on carousel number 6, willing it to start spitting out bags. This is a fucking nightmare. I’m going to kill Hilary. My agent normally gives me a heads-up if one of the campaigns I’ve posed for goes live. I had no idea the execs had even chosen an image for this ad, let alone that I’d be fucking plastered all over JFK.
Justmove, you fucking moron,I snap at myself. Can’t, though. It’ll look way worse if I slink away now. It already looks like I made a conscious decision to come and stand here, like some arrogant piece of shit with a god complex. I’ll only draw more attention to myself if I—
“Excuse me? Um…”
Fuuuuuck no. The sunglasses weren’t enough to deter the two blondes. My dick throbs again—a desperate plea for attention—which only irritates the hell out of me even more. The girls stand shoulder-to-shoulder, volleying nervous sidelong looks at each other.Jesus, where are the fucking bags?
“Sorry to bother you, but…are you…?”
The blonde on the left points to the display behind me. My lips are parted in the image, my head tilted back, like I’m baring my neck. My eyes are half-closed, and I’m looking right down the lens of the camera like I want to fuck the shit out of the person on the other side of it. I’m morbidly embarrassed by the fact that my dick looks huge in those boxer briefs. It’s probably just my perspective, standing right underneath the display, but it looks like my monster cock is ready to rip through the fabric, like when that Chest Burster exploded through John Hurt’s ribcage inAlien. Lord help me, I hope no one checks out my actual cock right now. The boner I’m rocking will not help matters.
