Closure (bxb)

twenty-three

'I wish my love life was as dramatic as that of the characters I write, but no, I don't derive inspiration for my books from my personal life. I mostly just let my imagination run wild.'

Then, Noah signs books - his favourite part. He sits in his chair so long his behind goes numb and signs his name so many times he fears he may have strained a muscle in his forearm, but it's absolutely worth meeting his readers who jitter with excitement as they answer his polite questions.

'You gave me the courage to come out,' said one of the girls whose book he signed, a rainbow badge pinned to her overalls. Noah froze for a moment, not quite sure what to say to that. Eventually, he landed on, 'If you did it, that means you had the courage to do it in you all along.'

Some fans are... not as courteous. They ask invasive questions about his personal life, about his relationships and the men he's spotted entering hotels with and kissing in the back of taxis. Noah gently deflects, grateful for the Xanax he took before the event.

After that, he was driven to a warehouse where he signed a couple more hundred books before finally, finally, being taken to the Four Seasons. It was the same routine in every city so far - Orlando, New Orleans, Kansas City, Dallas, Los Angeles, Salt Lake City, Vancouver, Denver, Chicago and, now, New York.

Next stop: Toronto, Ontario.

Noah is snapped out of his thoughts by his phone vibrating in his pocket. With a groan, he sits up, taking another swig from the bottle before answering the call.

"Let me sleep, Lydia."

"Noah, it's four in the afternoon," she deadpans.

"Yes, and I'm tired and I'm learning to listen to my body, so I'm going to sleep."

"Do I need to remind you to not make any crazy plans with your crazy, celebrity friends because you'll be appearing on that talk show tonight?"

"No."

"Do I need to remind you of the consequences of the crazy plans you make with your crazy, celebrity friends?"

"Lydia, genuinely," Noah insists, "I just want to take a warm bath and go right the fuck to sleep."

"Can you blame me for not trusting you? After what happened in L.A?"

"L.A. was..." Noah struggles to find the right word. "Different,"

L.A. was wild, is what it was. 

Noah was invited to a yacht party by one of his model friends where he drank too much alcohol, snorted too much of everything and slept with way too many people. Noah doesn't remember much of that night besides the constant weight of a drink in his hand and the ocean breeze in his long hair and a stranger's hands all over him. Was his name Leo? Logan? Noah vaguely remembered his face on the screen of some Hollywood blockbuster.

Thankfully, the next day's papers reminded him. Paparazzi - it's always the fucking paparazzi - loitered around the large boat, eagerly snapping pictures at the dozens of celebrities partying away obliviously. Naturally, his picture made the front cover of most tabloids - the media gets a kick out of dragging Noah's name through the mud whenever possible.

And if that wasn't bad enough, Leo - Logan? - must have asked for Noah's number and Noah must have given it to him, because the next day, he's invited to his mansion. Just the two of them. No cameras. No paparazzi. 

Noah barely made it into the extravagant foyer before he had Logan - Leo? - pinned to the door with a knee pressed between his legs. They put his shower, tub, theatre room and bedroom to very good use for a few hours and Noah slipped away as the other man slept, blocking and deleting his number as soon as he got to his car. He didn't have time for desperate clinginess.