Exposed

By Bey Deckard

With middle-age looming, Greg offsets his boring day job with what truly feeds his soul: photography. The camera is an extension of himself where he exposes his passion for the intersect of pleasure and pain. However, the lens also acts as a barrier, protecting his subjects from the shameful mistakes of his past, and Greg is left isolated and lonely.

Emyr stands on the cusp of fame, but adulation and abuse are both eroding his confidence, and one night, at the river's edge, he seeks solace in the rain, hoping to hide his tears.

The photographer and the virgin rock star share an accidental connection on that dark, drizzly night. When Greg invites Emyr back to his hotel room, no strings attached, the young man should have bolted. Instead, an odd sense of trust allows him to follow Greg's lead.

When the camera comes out, Emyr learns the stage isn't the only place he loves to perform as Greg touches something inside him that rarely awakens. Faced with a beautiful, talented boy whose soul is as lonely as his own, will Greg be able to face his past and come to terms with it, or will he run from the connection he so desperately desires?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bey Deckard
• Release date: Mar 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9798201067724

Bey Deckard

Artist, Writer, Dog Lover Bey Deckard is the author of a number of novels including the Baal’s Heart books, Max, Beauty and His Beast, and Better the Devil You Know. Bey lives in Montréal, Canada where he spends most of his time writing, doing graphic work, painting portraits, speaking French, cooking tasty vegetarian eats, or watching more movies than is good for him. If you’re the curious type, www.beydeckard.com is where you’ll find art and free stories by Bey as well as information on his published works.

Book preview

ONE

TEARS IN THE RAIN

I stared out at the parliament buildings down a little way across the river, trying to decide what to do with my evening. It was drizzling, but only barely, and the rain stippled my cheeks, fresh and cool. After a few moments of silent contemplation, there came a soft scuffling noise to my right, and I heard a shallow cough. Startled, I squinted into the gloom created by the burned-out streetlamp and saw that someone was sitting there on a bench.

Oh… I didn’t mean to disturb you, he said. A shy voice. Youngish. English… no, the accent not quite English. I’m sorry.

That’s all right. I didn’t see you there. Thought I was alone.

Sorry. It was nearly a whisper this time with a slight hoarseness at the end of the word, as if the young man was upset. Maybe even crying. Usually, I would have left it well enough alone and gone off on my way—I’m not one to get involved—but something about the catch in his voice impelled me to take a couple of steps closer.

I could see him better now. Dressed in dark clothes, hood pulled up against the rain, hands tucked into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. Everything about him screamed leave me alone—the rounded back, the high shoulders. He looked up at me, his eyes big in his fine-boned face, lips set in a thin line. There was something very familiar about him, but I couldn’t place it.

You okay? I murmured, not wanting to spook him. I ventured a smile. The hooded apparition on the bench blinked at me and then looked out at the water. I could see that his face was wet. Rain or tears? When he didn’t offer a reply, I decided that minding my own business might be the best thing after all. However, I couldn’t move from my spot… the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose—I let out a quiet exhale, astonished.

Just a few days ago, I’d been waxing poetic about his striking, wide-eyed gaze on the glossy cover of some American music rag as I hunched over Jennie’s paper-deluged desk, waiting for her to sign off on the banner images for the site. He looks like a fucking angel and sings like he gives the devil head, I’d said, my finger tracing the contour of his bottom lip.

Looking down at the tense, miserable-looking young man on the bench, I felt only one thing: sympathy.

I’ll leave you alone, Emyr, I said, keeping my voice quiet and letting him know that I knew who he was. I didn’t want to be that asshole who pesters the famous, but I couldn’t help but add: But… Are you all right? If you need someone to talk to…

He turned to me, dark brows low over those big sky-blue eyes. Not as impressive as his magazine photoshoots, of course—hell, I can make anyone look good with a little Photoshop—but still handsome.

No, handsome is the wrong word for Emyr Hughes. Ethereal. Innocent. I’d even used the word pretty to describe him in the past, but as he held my gaze steady, I struck that from the list. Not pretty. Too fierce—too raw. I almost turned away then, just to escape the smothering weight of his silence when he let his shoulders sag in weary defeat.

No… I’m not all right, Emyr muttered and turned away again, eyes on the lights across the Thames. He pulled a slender hand out of his kangaroo pocket and swiped his cheek before returning the hand to its mate. Sighing, he seemed to shrink further in on himself for a moment, but he glanced at me again and my gut told me he was waiting for me to say something, anything, to take the reins of the conversation, and this triggered that reflex in me—the one that yearned to control and contain—gods be damned who I was talking to.

You need a break, I ventured. Somewhere out of the spotlight, eh?

Emyr stared at me, his expression a promising mix of wary and hopeful. The innocence wasn’t feigned. This was a boy with a mountain’s worth of responsibility on his back. He laughed quietly.

Yeah. A fucking break. The white hand came out again to rub at his forehead. I thought I saw it tremble. The muscles bunched in his square jaw and his nostrils flared. His composure was on the verge of cracking, so I decided to propose something completely audacious.

Come, I said, my tone firm but kind. I’ve got a penthouse room at the County Hall… It’s five minutes away. Come have a beer.

The hand dropped away from his face, and he stared at me in disbelief.

I know—I’m a stranger. But, what I’m offering is a chance to sit down and just be yourself. No obligations. No expectations. The view of the river is really nice from my room, and I have a cold six-pack in the fridge.

You’re not bloody serious.

I am. I stepped even closer and held out my hand; he frowned at it. My name is Gregory. Greg, if you’d like.

After a long pause, Emyr finally clasped my hand. His fingers were soft and warm, his grip firm.

There, I said with a nod. I released his hand, and he furrowed his brow at me, staring at me unblinking. Now we’re no longer strangers.

Emyr let out a short laugh and looked at me like I was insane. It might have been my imagination, but I thought he looked a bit flushed.

I can’t decide if you’re taking the piss or not, he muttered and then glanced over his shoulder at the two young ladies who were walking slowly towards us, blonde heads together under an orange umbrella, faces lit from the bluish cast of the cellphone they were peering at. The one on the left giggled, and Emyr tugged at his hood to cast his features into deeper shadow. His eyes darted back to me, his desire to escape being recognized obvious.

The timing of their appearance couldn’t have been better.

You should take me up on the invitation, I continued, shrugging. "One beer, if you want or drink the whole six-pack. Doesn’t matter to me—I can order up more. Beer… whiskey, champagne… whatever. Stay long enough to sit in silence with someone who doesn’t give a shit if you’re the king of the moon, or get shit-faced, stay half the night, and tell me all your darkest secrets. You can trust me."

Emyr gave another laugh and shook his head, his forehead wrinkled in doubt, so I dug into my front pocket and tossed my wallet at him. He caught it easily but just held it up between thumb and forefinger.

"You want to pay me to hang out with you?"

No. I’m just giving you my wallet to hang on to as insurance, I replied, chuckling. I’d give you my passport, but I’m not in the habit of carrying it around with me everywhere I go.

You’re crazy.

And I’ve made you smile at least three times now.

Emyr stared at me for a second, devoid of expression, but I knew as soon as he opened my wallet and gave the cards in there a cursory look that he’d come with me.

TWO

SOME CONFESSIONS

Emyr stood near the doorway, his body half turned away from me as if to make sure that he could bolt if I turned out to be a psycho. I watched him take in the room for a moment before I pulled off my damp jacket and threw it over one of the chairs. Carefully nonchalant, I walked over to the minibar and crouched to peer inside. Tucked amongst the hotel’s sampling of beers and small overpriced bottles of wine were the six BrewDog Punk IPAs I’d ordered up earlier. I took out two and, smiling reassuringly, held out a can to Emyr. He had to cross the room to get it, and I knew this made him nervous, but he shook his head and sighed as he accepted the beer.

I know I’m paranoid, he said, his brows quirked up in apology. A perfect comma-shaped dimple appeared in each of his cheeks as he grinned shyly. "Fuck, I hate being like this. You seem like a decent bloke, and here I am wondering if you’re going to tie me up like that lady in Misery. Force me to rewrite ‘Fuckhouse Blues’ so that it’s not half so offensive."

I chuckled. Nah. It’s great the way it is. I pointed to the sliding glass doors. Come, let’s go sit on the balcony… The rain’s finally let up so we’ll be dry.

After wiping off the outdoor chairs, Emyr and I sat on either side of the low table and cracked our beers almost in unison. I lofted mine towards him, and he touched the side of his can to it.

"Iechyd da," he said.

Um… Yucky day to you too? I said in return. What the hell is that?

A grin flashed across his face. Fuck off. It’s Welsh, Emyr replied good-naturedly and took a sip of his beer. Then he frowned and peered at the can.

Not a fan of IPAs?

Hm, he replied, but took another sip. After a moment, he stretched out his legs to rest his wet sneakers against the balcony railing. Across the river, the city lights were bright and fuzzy from the misty fog. When I didn’t say anything for a few long minutes, he gave me a sidelong glance. You were serious.

About?

Just… about hanging out and having a beer. That’s it?

That’s it. I shrugged.

A ripple of emotion changed his expression, just for a second, and I wished he hadn’t suppressed it as quickly as he did—it was gorgeous, the way he looked pained and pleased at the same time. He cleared his throat, played with the tab on his can, then pushed his hood back. His thick dark-brown hair was mashed down in places, and I could see that he had a cowlick that never made it into his promotional pictures.

It’s just that… You know—he shook his head, focusing on something very far away, something only he could see—people are… people.

I knew what he was getting at. Everyone wants something from you.

Yeah.

And you’re tired of that.

Yeah.

It’s okay. I don’t want anything from you.

Emyr wanted to believe me, it was like a tangible force between us, but he really had no reason to. I hadn’t given him one.

We drank our beers in silence. Finally, he spoke up again.

So, Greg, what is it that brings you to London? he asked, his tone blandly conversational.

I was given the opportunity to go to Generate London—um, it’s a sort of conference for web designers and developers—and I took it. Work-related, but I extended the stay a few days for a mini vacation.

Where do you work? He looked over, and I met his curious gaze with a smile.

A web services agency. You know… banner ads, content migration, SEO, project management for small-to-medium websites, CMS implementation, yadda yadda… We’re sort of a jack-of-all-trades solution for companies who are too cheap or too small to have their own web department.

Emyr nodded. And what do you do there?

I’m in Creative, I replied. Boring stuff. Mostly Facebook ads these days. I jiggled my empty beer can and lifted an eyebrow at him. Another?

Sure. Why not.

When I got back outside with the beers, I saw he had put my wallet down on the table between the patio chairs.

So… I started, and narrowed my eyes at him. What’s worse? The fans who love you or the fans that hate you?

After choking out the ghost of a laugh, Emyr wiped a hand over his mouth and pulled the tab on his can.

"God knows. I mean, I loved the attention at first… But it’s all come so fast, yeah?" he said, and gulped down some beer.

I watched his Adam’s apple bob in his thin neck, thinking about how something so delicate could host a voice so rich and full of passion and fury. Emyr didn’t even have a radio-safe version of his runaway hit Fuckhouse Blues yet, but it was hard to go anywhere online without seeing it mentioned. They called him the lovechild of David Bowie and Nivek Ogre, and I could definitely get behind the comparison. He looked over at me, eyes huge. Like… I didn’t count on it. I didn’t think anyone would give a shit about my naff songs, and then I’m having to tell my mum not to answer the phone or open the door to strangers.

Well, obviously you’ve struck a chord with people for now, I pointed out. But maybe you’re just a one-hit wonder.

The laugh that burst out of Emyr was just as enthralling as his singing voice, and I found myself smiling wide.

Yeah, he replied, his eyes crinkling in amusement. One can hope. Then he sobered and looked away almost angrily.

What is it? I kept my voice soft.

"I didn’t expect the hate, he admitted after a while, his words choked-sounding like they had been earlier. Being called a monster… it… It fucks me up, to be honest. He met my eyes again. I’m a good guy, I am. A nice guy."

You wrote a song from a serial killer’s perspective.

It was metaphorical.

"I know that." It was a great song in my opinion—it was all about the glorifying of belief over fact… and the tearing down of that willful ignorance, all set to a pounding, body-rocking beat and raw, heart-clenching vocals. Visceral, intelligent… and woefully misunderstood. I’d recently stumbled upon a graphic of the song’s lyrics superimposed on the body of a battered woman, denouncing Emyr as a dangerous misogynist.

Sometimes I wish I’d never written it, he confessed, closing his eyes. The beer can made a hollow, metallic crinkling sound as his fingers tightened around it. "But I couldn’t not."

"Art, especially subversive or transgressive art, can really rile people… especially when they don’t get it. I should know."

I only realized how naturally smooth Emyr’s pale brow was when it creased at my words. He opened his eyes again and they were glassy.

I thought you just made stupid adverts, he said, trying to sound teasing and familiar, though he had to clear his throat before talking.

I do, I admitted. But I’m also a photographer.

Yeah? What do you photograph?

For a split second, I contemplated lying to him. The seed of an idea had planted itself the second he’d agreed to come up to my hotel room, and Jesus Christ, I didn’t want to scare him off by being something he wanted to escape… But I couldn’t bring myself to lie.

Nudes, I answered casually. Mostly men.

Oh. His eyes darted away from mine.

The tension felt like a solid wall of ice for a moment, and I wondered if I should have lied after all. His dark brows pinched together over his eyes, and his lips thinned, like he was having some internal debate, but his expression softened after a few seconds. Emyr finished his beer and sat staring down at the can.

Another? I asked.

When his eyes met mine, they were full of conflict.

I don’t know if I should, he said quietly. His cheeks were flushed.

Why? I was honestly curious.

"I’ve been drinking a lot. Too much. Almost every night I go to bed half-minced, just to get over this fucking ball of stress I’m carrying about. I… am not dealing well. I am not… dealing… at all. Fuck— He bared his teeth and focused on a spot over the balcony, knuckling one eye. I’m being daft. I should go."

No, you’re not… and it’s up to you, I said. I balanced my empty beer can on my knee. You can go, or you can stay and I won’t judge you if you have another beer. Or another ten. Or none. I don’t care.

Emyr bowed his head and shut his eyes.

Do you have anyone at all to talk to? I asked.

No, he replied after a long sigh. "Not my mum. Not my friends. I’m seeing a therapist, but she’s… Well, she’s not very good… And I can’t bring myself to ask for another. Twat." I knew the last was aimed at himself.

Well, that’s no good.

I know.

I waited, just watching him from the corner of my eye, trying to project a sense of trustworthiness and quiet concern. I wanted him to stay, but he had to be the one to decide on his own. I wouldn’t… I couldn’t push him into it.

Finally, he spoke up again.

How do I know you won’t sell anything I’m telling you to some tabloid website?

I wouldn’t, I replied.

How do I know you’re telling the truth?

You don’t. I turned to look at him, and I shrugged, smiling, before getting to my feet. If you want to make me swear on a Bible, I think there’s one in the nightstand, but I have to warn you… I don’t believe in God. If you want me to sign something, I will. If you want to leave, I’ll bid you farewell and good luck. It’s up to you. I want you to trust me.

Emyr stared up at me, and I could clearly see he desperately yearned to take me at my word. His eyes were slightly wet, and I had to turn away before he saw the effect he had on me.

I wanted to see tears roll down those smooth cheeks.

I wanted to see that high forehead creased with pain, with pleasure.

I wanted to coax sighs and moans from between those soft-looking lips.

I wanted to make him laugh so hard his sides ached.

I wanted to kiss him and tell him everything would be all right.

I wanted to put him over my knee and spank him until he sobbed and begged me to stop.

I wanted to pamper and protect him and give him anything he wanted.

I wanted to see bruises and welts on that pale skin.

I wanted to hurt him… And I wanted to heal him.

Letting out a slow breath, I suppressed the torment of desire that bled like an ulcer in my chest. My step was unsteady for a moment, but I covered by reaching for the phone.

"If you do want to stay, I said, my voice betraying none of my affliction, I’m ordering up some whisky. Do you have a preference?"

No. I barely heard him. But… I’ll stay for a bit, yeah.

I smiled as I dialed room service and convinced them to sell me a full bottle of whisky from the bar. When they said they had a relatively inexpensive bottle of Penderyn single malt, I ordered it, wondering whether my young guest would be amused by me getting Welsh whisky. Then I frowned. Maybe it would make him uncomfortable. Maybe he’d think I was trying too hard to impress him. I nearly reached for the phone again to pick something a little less particular, but caught myself. Would he even notice? Why was I overthinking this?

I laughed under my breath and glanced at the mirror above the desk. I looked downright giddy.

Running a hand through my hair to tame it a bit, I turned back to the balcony where Emyr was hurriedly trying to put something back into my wallet. From the high flush in his cheeks and his sheepish grin, I gathered he’d seen one of my business cards. Whoops. On one side was my info and business logo, but on the other was one of my favourite pieces: a young man wearing nothing but a leather open-mouth gag, lying on a pile of black satin, positioned so that only a tantalising suggestion of his cock showed. His eyes are closed in the picture, and he looks serene, like he’d resigned himself to whatever the onlooker desired.

Sorry, I was just… Emyr thrust my wallet towards me, his eyes averted. I was curious.

That’s all right, I replied and sat down. I’d actually forgotten they were in there. You can look through it again if you want. I gave you my wallet to hold, after all.

Emyr laughed a bit hoarsely and then sobered, frowning out at the city in a sort of tense silence. The whisky came a few minutes later, and when I offered him a glass, he nodded.

So… You’re gay? he asked after a while, still looking away from me.

I am.

I’m not.

That’s fine, I replied. It was a little cold and damp on the balcony, but the whisky warmed me and took the edge off the disappointment over what I’d already assumed about him.

But… Emyr rubbed a hand over his mouth again, his forehead creasing deeper as he inspected the skyline.

But? I prompted.

"But, I don’t know that I’m straight."

Ah. I nodded and peered at the giant Ferris wheel’s lights through the amber in my glass, suppressing a smile. That’s fine too… But you sound a little confused.

Yeah, maybe. It’s complicated.

Oh? was my reply with a little nod. Nonchalant. Unaffected. Politely curious. Completely devoid of the excitement that was filling me up the longer he stayed.

Greg, if I can trust you… No, wait what I meant was… Can I ask you anything and you’ll answer it honestly?

Of course.

Did you ask me back to your hotel room so that you could get me drunk and have sex with me?

No. I shook my head firmly, meeting his eyes.

Why did you ask me here?

I mulled over the question, trying to pick out the right words and distill my answer down to the exact truth.

Well… I wanted to be a source of comfort—I felt sympathy for you and wanted to help. The only selfishness in my invitation was that I wanted to look at you a little longer. You have my word, Emyr.

My answer widened his eyes a touch.

So you find me attractive.

I do. Of course I do.

Emyr gave me a wry grin then shook his head, turning back to the view. He blew a little air out between his lips and took a big sip of his whisky. I saw the muscles roll in his jaw, followed by another flush to his cheeks.

Is there something you want to ask me? I murmured, my heart pounding so loud I was afraid it would drown out his answer.

As Emyr nodded, his expression slowly hardened. When he looked at me again, his gaze was level.

Do you want to photograph me? It was issued like a challenge.

I couldn’t quite scrub the hoarseness out of my voice when I replied, Yes.

Eyes locked with mine, Emyr ground his teeth again. He looked terrified. Desire stabbed me hard in the gut again, and for a moment I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t dare hope.

This is a bad idea. What are you doing? cried my conscience, but that old taskmaster, desire, silenced it.

"Would you like me to photograph you? I asked in a perfectly calm voice. I watched Emyr swallow, lick his lips, glance away and back again. If you do, I can assure you that you’ll get the only copies. I won’t even keep any myself if you don’t want me to. We’ll only go as far as you want to. And… I’ll never tell a soul about it. You have my word."

I don’t know what your word is worth.

I scrambled around in my thoughts, still trying to come up with a way that he could trust me. We were so close to doing this together… I don’t know what was driving it, but I was now sure that he wanted me to take pictures of him. Did it even have to