Chapter 2: The Unexpected Call
The key scraped in the lock, a loud, clumsy sound in the quiet hallway. Apollo pushed the door open and the ocean night rushed in behind him, cool and vast. He stood for a moment in the dark of his apartment, breathing. His skin felt foreign, like it had been removed, polished, and put back on wrong. Every nerve was a live wire.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He knew who it was before he looked.
He answered. “Hey, Vic.”
“Where have you been?” Victoria’s voice was sharp, a taut wire. “I called you three times. It’s past eleven.”
He walked to the balcony, the phone pressed to his ear, and looked out at the black water. The lie formed on his tongue, smooth and practiced. “Sorry, baby. Phone was on silent. I was out with that photographer, Marcus. Scouting locations up the coast for a potential campaign. The service was garbage.”
“Marcus.” She said the name like she was testing its weight. “You didn’t mention that this morning.”
“It came up last minute. You know how it is.” He forced lightness into his voice, the same tone he used when promising to clean his wetsuit. “Gotta say yes to everything right now.”
A beat of silence. He could hear her breathing, could picture her curled on her sofa, one hand twisting a strand of that long auburn hair. “You sound weird. Are you okay?”
“Just tired. It was a long drive.” He leaned on the railing, the metal still warm from the day’s sun. The memory of George’s house, all cool glass and canyon views, superimposed itself over the dark beach. His stomach tightened.
“You should have told me,” she said, but the edge was softening, melting into familiar concern. “I made that quinoa bowl you like. It’s soggy now.”
“I’ll make it up to you. Lunch tomorrow? At the café by the pier?”
“I’m teaching the hot class until two.”
“After. I’ll be there.”
They hung up with the usual, perfunctory love yous. He set the phone on the table, screen-down. For a few seconds, there was only the rhythmic crash of the surf. Then the phone buzzed, lighting up against the driftwood.
Not a call. A stream of messages, one after the other.
G_E_O: Thinking of you.
G_E_O: Can’t stop.
G_E_O: Today was a revelation.
G_E_O: Can’t wait for our next meeting.
Apollo stared. The blue light washed over his hands. He should delete them. He should block the number. He should call Victoria back and tell her everything.
He picked up the phone. His thumb hovered.
Instead, he sat down hard on the couch, the memory surging up, not as thought, but as physical sensation.
He had started relaxing more, maybe it was the second drink, or maybe the hour, the way the canyon outside turned deep blue with twilight. The house was so quiet. Mr. George had stood up and walked over to him, then sat at his feet on the long couch. He’d started getting more flirty, his voice a low, warm rumble.
“You hold all your tension in your hands and feet, I can tell,” George had said, smiling. “It’s actually very healthy to have them rubbed.” So he did. He took Apollo’s bare foot in his hands, his thumbs pressing into the arch. And it felt good. Really good. Then he reached for Apollo’s hands, massaging each finger, the palm, the wrist. Apollo had never had a hand massage before. The attention was so focused, so complete. It felt amazing. Apollo was naive; he wasn’t thinking it was sexual. He was still seeing him as being fatherly, loving to him. A mentor taking care of his prospect.
“Turn around,” George had said softly. “Let me get your back. You surfers are all knots.”
Apollo, still in his PacSun jeans, had turned around, lying face down on the couch. George leaned over him, his hands strong and knowing on his shoulders. Then he was on top of him, his weight settling on Apollo’s legs, his mouth close to Apollo’s ear as he worked the muscles. “Doesn’t that feel good?”
Apollo had murmured something, a muffled yes into the cushion.
Then George lowered himself, so he was lying fully on top of him, moving his body against Apollo’s in time with the massage. A slow, steady rhythm. “Doesn’t that feel good?” he asked again, his voice thick. Apollo could feel the firm pressure of George’s crotch against his backside. He just lay there quietly, maybe he nodded. In his mind, he was telling himself this was all natural, that it wasn’t meant to be anything more. This was just how men who were comfortable with themselves were. It was health. It was therapy.
But his own body started to react to all the touches, the rubbing against him. A low, unwelcome heat flared in his gut, a tingling tension that scared him. He pushed himself up suddenly, dislodging George.
George looked disappointed, his face falling. “Don’t you like it?”
Apollo felt bad, like he’d upset him, shattered a peaceful moment. “I do,” he said quickly, too quickly. “I like it.”
George’s hands began rubbing his thighs then, over the denim. He was watching Apollo’s face, his eyes dark and unblinking. His hands, his fingers, crept higher. Apollo didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. His heart was a trapped bird in his chest. Then George’s palm was rubbing against his crotch, a gentle, circling pressure, and George was able to tell—of course he was—that Apollo had already started getting hard. He rubbed more, gently and slowly, feeling for him, exploring the shape of him through the jeans. Apollo, in a spike of panic, moved his own hand to push his away.
He doesn’t remember George saying anything right away after that. Maybe he was playing dumb about what he was actually doing. It wasn’t just a massage anymore. The air was different. Charged.
George moved off the couch and sat in a chair nearby. He looked sad, his shoulders slumped, like he could cry at any moment. “Are you scared?” he asked.
“No.”
“Do you like me?”
“Yes.”
“I like you very much, Apollo. I wouldn’t do anything you didn’t want me to do. Did you like what I did to you?”
Apollo, wanting to fix the sadness, said, “Yes.”
“You don’t have anything to worry about with me. If I ever make you feel uncomfortable, you tell me so, and I will stop. Immediately.” His tone was solemn, a vow.
Then George went to his bedroom, down the short hallway. He came right back. He’d changed clothes, freshened up. He wasn’t gone long. “How are you feeling?” he asked, standing before Apollo.
“Okay.”
“Can I continue?”
It was vague. What did ‘continue’ mean? The massage? Something else? Apollo, unsure of what he himself wanted, knowing only that it wasn’t something he didn’t want, just nodded.
George took his hand and led him to stand straight in front of the chair where he sat back down. Then he guided Apollo to sit down over him, in his lap. He cupped his hand under Apollo’s crotch, then over him, rubbing again. He spoke in a hushed, conspiratorial tone. “I think it likes me,” he whispered. “It wants out. It needs to breathe. I think he wants to see me. Is it okay?”
And Apollo would nod.
George unbuttoned his jeans, kept rubbing, then started putting his hands down the back of Apollo’s pants too, until he stood him up again and pulled them down. That’s when he started to give Apollo the most amazing blowjob he’d ever had, just like he’d promised in the car. He was so gentle and careful, his eyes constantly flicking up to check Apollo’s, making sure he was okay, that it was good. And it was. It was a wave of pleasure so intense it short-circuited every thought, every fear.
Then he stopped and got up, took Apollo by the hand, and led him to his bedroom. By now, Apollo had committed to this. He was no longer stopping it or saying no. George laid him back on the big bed, and to Apollo, in that hazed-over mind, it was the most amazing thing ever. He was in Mr. George’s bed. And he was having him all to himself. Mr. George wanted him. The validation was a drug, potent and dizzying.
Apollo got signed to his agency the very next day. The contract was waiting at George’s office, crisp and official. The pen felt heavy in his hand. George, now all business in a sharp suit, smiled warmly from behind his desk. “Welcome to the family,” he’d said, shaking his hand, a firm, public grip. The touch felt like a secret.
Now, in his dark apartment, Apollo’s phone lit up again.
G_E_O: I meant what I said. Everything stops if you say so.
G_E_O: But I hope you don’t.
Apollo didn’t reply. He just held the phone, watching the screen go dark, reflecting his own wide eyes back at him in the black glass. The ocean roared, a constant, accusing rhythm. He was on the other side of something now, and the door behind him felt like it had vanished entirely.