Fuuuuck.
I flip through the story again, lingering on the last shot—on those sinewy, hair-dusted legs. He fucking went and did it. I laugh my shock into the dark room.
Then I pull up my story screen, pick a red background. A slow grin spreads across my face as I type, Hi, you
A minute later, and I’ve got a read receipt. Hells yeah. I grab a deep breath, hold it in my lungs, release it slowly. If he doesn’t reply—
You made me wait.
My head spins like I’ve had too much to drink. I made him wait.
I reply: You’re in DC
Time spreads out between us like a rug unfurling, pressing me into the pillows. I can feel my heart pound in my eyes. He might ghost, I warn myself.
I am, he says.
I type, Wasn’t sure you’d hit me back
Almost didn’t
LUKE! ;)
I pace my room while waiting for his reply.
Did you find out on stories? It takes me a second to realize he doesn’t know how I found out his identity. He thinks maybe I didn’t know until I saw him in my stories viewed log.
I bite my lower lip as I type: Heard you talking on a plane, on someone’s ipad
When was that?
I blow a breath out my nose. Late May
When I got home, I read everything I could about him, looked through every photo essay.
Luke McDowell, dimpled, blond-haired son of blue-blood Pastor Arthur McDowell—four-times-great grandson of the steel titan James Yancy McDowell.
Luke McDowell, sports-car-driving member of Yale’s Skull and Bones.
Luke McDowell, off-the-radar, early-20s-aged UNICEF employee.
Luke McDowell, almost-hostage at a humanitarian aid site.
Luke McDowell, San Francisco bachelor, sitting on the boards of charities and hosting political galas, working at the church and looking fuck hot in a picture for the San Francisco Chronicle.
Luke McDowell, social media magnate—who has one of the most-followed YouTube channels in existence, who is talking and laughing on like five podcasts a week and updating his Insta like a teenager on a trip, but can’t travel without a body guard. Luke who’s only ever dated women and who never, ever talks about the rainbow from the pulpit of his legendary megachurch—or anywhere else.
Luke who I met on a yacht. Who shook me up and sent me away.
Luke McDowell the enigma.
He sends me another story—this a selfie of him smiling slightly, his head on a pillow with his hand pushed back into his hair. His greenish-hazel eyes look tired. And gorgeous.
I smile down at my phone. Looking like u need some sleep there, buddy
Not your buddy, friend.
I’m not your friend, pal
His reply takes so long, I think it won’t come at all. You’re not my friend, he writes back. The white words against the black background look bleak.
I swallow. I can be your friend…
Minutes crawl past, and I know I fucked up. You didn’t fuck up, I correct myself. He’s just skittish as hell.
For good reason. I know how his circle is—or maybe it’s his “flock.” He’s a wolf in lamb’s clothes—isn’t that the adage?—preaching love and acceptance and peace, but at a church that isn’t listed as “affirming.” Evermore has no stance on same-sex issues whatsoever, other than that the Bible isn’t clear, the church encourages everyone to consider the subject in prayerful meditation, and oh yeah, everyone is welcome.
I’m not stupid, though. I know the score—or I can guess it. That’s why I didn’t message him the first day I got back to Chelsea.
I squeeze my phone. C’mon, man… You can trust me. Hit me back.
I rub my finger on the screen, searching for another angle.
Maybe you should let it go. That’s my Jiminy Cricket talking. I shut that shit down and try again: So what’s doing in DC
I’m shocked when his reply comes right through. Work
What kind of work? Just keep it moving, Vanny, nice and easy…
Bunch of lunches and dinners. White House.
Schmancy
He sends me another story, this a photo of him giving me a brow-arched, fuck-off look.
I send a smug grin back. And he goes dark. Four…five…six…nine minutes. I blow my breath out.
Too disarming, I try. It’s okay, I get that all the time
Do you? Baited! Do you do this all the time, Vance?
Bet you’d like to know. I’m grinning like a fool again, fucking buzzing off this.
Where are you, Mr. Rayne?
I send another shot of myself, shirtless with my lower body covered by the sheets. The way I’ve got them arranged, you can see the outline of my cock if you look—which he does. Of course he does.
What’s under that sheet?
Do you want to find out?
Show me.
I’m so hard, it’s bliss to stroke myself. I work my cock until it’s stiff enough to throb. Then I send the video his way.
Mr. Rayne. That looks hard enough to hurt.
I send another vid of my fingers wrapped around my tip…then another of my hand squeezing my shaft, moving firmly up and down.