Chapter 1: The Comment That Changed Everything
The salt air always hit him first. Apollo let the screen door slap shut behind him, the morning Pacific cool and bright through the open wall of his apartment. He nudged a sand-speckled surfboard out of the way with his foot and dropped onto the worn linen couch, the fabric sun-bleached and soft. He scrolled.
Instagram was a gallery of his own life, curated and filtered. There he was, squinting against the sun on a longboard. There, laughing with a group of girls, all tan limbs and glossy hair. The captions were easy. Dawn patrol. Nothing like it. Or, Squad goals. The comments were a predictable chorus of fire emojis and hearts. He liked them, thumb moving automatically. It was part of the maintenance.
Then his thumb stopped.
A direct message. The username was just three letters: G_E_O.
His breath hitched. The coffee in his stomach turned to something acidic.
He opened it. Sent two hours ago, just after he’d posted a story. It was a clip from his balcony, the view straight down the coast, cliffs plunging into turquoise, the light perfect and golden.
The message beneath the forwarded story was just two words.
nice view
Apollo stared. The noise of the waves faded. His heart was a frantic, hammering thing against his ribs. It was professional. It had to be. George was a director, a connector. He admired aesthetics. That’s all.
But the timing. Two a.m. And the phrasing. It wasn’t “great shot” or “beautiful location.” It was nice view. Personal. Subjective. The kind of thing you said when you were looking at something, someone, you wanted.
His thumb hovered over the screen. A dozen replies drafted and died in his mind. A simple “thanks” felt too dismissive. A “thanks, man!” too forced. Anything more was an admission he understood the subtext.
Before he could decide, another message appeared.
I’m downstairs.
Apollo shot to his feet, spilling his cold coffee across the driftwood table. He lunged for the balcony, leaning over the rail.
A sleek, black car idled silently in the parking lot below, windows tinted to oblivion. The driver’s door opened, and Mr. George emerged. He didn’t look up. He simply leaned against the door, face turned toward the ocean, as if he had all the time in the world to wait.
Action. Apollo needed to move. He shoved his feet into sneakers, grabbed a worn denim jacket, his phone clenched in his other hand.
At first, Apollo worried about leaving his car there at the cliff house, alone. He quickly sent a message to Kai, "Please arrange to get my car at the cliff house, as soon as possible. Mr. George is taking me somewhere."
He took the stairs two at a time, the metal clanging under his feet. When he pushed through the exterior door, the cool shadow of the building swallowed him, and then he was standing in the sun again, a few feet from the man.
“Apollo.” George said his name like it was a finished statement. He smiled, easy and wide. He was older, of course, hair silvered at the temples, but he carried it like an advantage. He wore a simple black linen shirt, sleeves rolled, and dark jeans. “Saw your story. Thought you might be bored of your own view.”
“Not really possible,” Apollo said, falling into the easy, charismatic tone he used for castings. “But a change of scenery’s never bad.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The car interior was all cold leather and the clean, citrus scent of expensive cologne. The door shut with a vault-like thud, sealing them in quiet. As they pulled onto the coast highway, the silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick, full of the unspoken thing the two words had started.
“I’ve been watching you for years, you know,” George said, his eyes on the road. His voice was conversational. “Since I was a guest judge at that all-ages industry competition. The one you won for your age group.”
Apollo felt a flush of pride, warm and genuine. “That was a lifetime ago.”
“I always saw something special in you. A rawness. The camera likes you, but it believes you. That’s rarer.” He glanced over. “Have you ever considered joining a proper agency? My agency.”
Apollo’s mind went blank, then white-hot. “Your agency?”
“We have a stellar team of girls. They do very well. But we would do exceptionally well to have someone like you. With your… pretty boy looks.” He said it as a simple fact, a market assessment. “We could shape that. Take you beyond the mall catalogs.”
Of course, Apollo was super excited he'd even consider him. His mind began racing, tripping over logistics. His current contract was a standard thing with a local boutique agency, non-exclusive. It was already fraying. He’d already done the higher-end type photo shoots (PacSun, Diesel, American Apparel, etc). A lot of those jobs were now drying up, mostly because of the backlash that Abercrombie & Fitch had gotten for using young models and staff in their stores and photo shoots. This was bigger. This was the door to the rooms he’d only seen in magazines.
He tried to play cool. “Yes, I’m interested. Definitely. But I’d have to look at my current deal, see about an exit. I’d have to get back to you about that, if that’s okay.”
George laughed, a low, pleasant sound. “Don’t take too long. I might have to come kidnap you if you don’t get right back to me.”
They laughed about that, but it kind of made Apollo anxious since here he was already trapped inside Mr. George’s car. The joke lingered in the air between them, the truth of it humming in the locked doors.
Apollo knew this was even bigger, and he told Mr. George that he would be honored to join him. Apollo was buzzing inside with energy, thrilled to have this one-on-one time with him. Mr. George was acting like he had nothing else to do but to just spend time with Apollo. He felt so special. Half the time, they didn't even talk. It was Mr. George looking at Apollo, and Apollo looking back at him, both of them smiling.
The car climbed into the hills, leaving the ocean behind. They arrived at a secluded modernist house, all glass and sharp angles overlooking a canyon. George led him inside, poured them both sparkling water with lime. The conversation drifted.
He started talking about other interests. He would ask about Apollo's girlfriends, what he liked about them, and then asked how much Apollo had done with them. Apollo gave vague, breezy answers about dates and surf trips, keeping it light.
George listened, nodding, then took a sip of his water. “I’m gay, you know,” he said, as if mentioning he preferred red wine to white. “There’s nothing better, in my opinion, than getting a blowjob from an experienced gay man. They know what they’re doing. It’s an art form.”
Apollo froze, the glass cold in his hand.
George tilted his head, his gaze steady, probing. “Have you ever gotten one from a man?”
The lie came out smooth, automatic. “No.” It wasn’t exactly true since Apollo had messed around with some friends – but with a man, no. Those had been fumbling, drunken experiments with other surfers, all confusion and quick, shameful resolution. This was different.
“Pity,” George said, his smile turning knowing. “I’d have you climbing the walls if I ever had the chance to give you one. It would be the best blowjob you would ever get from anyone, ever.”
He wasn’t being pushy. He was stating a hypothesis, sharing a review. But he had picked up on Apollo maybe not being exactly straight – that being straight was more for public image. Mr. George questioned him about that and Apollo's true sexuality, and if he ever wanted to explore it more. Apollo didn’t take it as him making a move on him or grooming him. Apollo saw it as basically Mr. George encouraging him to never say no to his gay tendencies, and that Apollo wouldn't ever know what he was missing if he didn't try it.
Part of Apollo was thrilled that Mr. George liked him that much, and that he felt that close to him to tell him such personal things. It made Apollo feel real special, like he had this relationship with Mr. George that no one else could have – cause it was kind of sneaky and secret too – for him as a celebrity of sorts to be talking to Apollo, someone much younger, like this. No one could ever know about some of the things they talked about. It was a secret they both shared. And to Apollo, for whatever reason, it meant something more that a grown man was interested in him sexually. That made Apollo feel even more special. That a man would like him that much to talk intimately with him and about him.
The afternoon light slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting George in gold. He was still talking, about the industry, about vision, but his eyes never left Apollo’s face.
Apollo’s phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Kai: Got your keys. Car’s all good. Where are you?
He didn’t reply. He just sat there, in the beautiful, silent house, feeling the shape of the secret growing inside him, heavy and warm and terrifying. He took a slow sip of water, meeting George’s gaze over the rim of the glass, and offered a small, private smile. It was an answer to a question that hadn’t fully been asked aloud.
Not yet.