The Lounge: King of Oregon Country

Hunter Draper: Black Male / Blackmail Model

POV: Hunter Draper

Waking up in a pink room never gets old, I think as I sit up and stretch. It certainly beats waking up in the Tribeca loft I share with my talent manager-turned-daddy, Jack Mercier. New York is fun, but sharing an oversized studio with the strictest man on the planet is the exact opposite.

I didn't bat an eyelash when Jack told me we would visit his mother. I adore Layla and visit her more often than Jack does. I throw a robe on and skip downstairs, ready for another one of Layla's famous omelets.

"Good morning, everyone," I sing, snagging a seat at the kitchen table. The sunlight makes the yellow walls radiate with a joyous glow, an omen of what was certain to be a great day ahead. Even if grumpy Jack tries to ruin it like he always does. He is sitting on the other side of the table, his face buried in a newspaper. Probably the Journal or the Times. I don't care enough to check.

Jack Mercier has been my talent agent since I started modeling when I was five. While my mother agency, Elite Model Management New York, handles most of my bookings, Jack has the final say in anything that goes on in my career. Our relationship got off to a rocky start, to say the least, but it changed when he adopted me when I was eight. We were both forced to grow up then. Grow up fast and grow up quite a lot.

"You're dressed pretty... normal today," I observe. Jack is the type of weirdo who wakes up while the sun is still sleeping, works out, showers and is dressed and groomed by the time normal people hit the snooze button on their alarm clocks. Usually, he wears black designer suits, Armani being his go-to, but today, he wears a burgundy v-neck muscle tee. I peek beneath the table and see that Jack also wears blue denim jeans and... Birkenstocks? I have heard fables of the aesthetic perils of this rundown foot slipper, but to see one before me on the feet of the man who runs my fashion career? Something is definitely off here.

"Breakfast will be ready soon," Layla says, fixing food on the stove.

Jack turns a newspaper page and takes a swig from his coffee mug. He isn't talkative in the mornings. Or the afternoon. Or the night, now that I think about it. That is, unless, like, mounds of cocaine are involved. But those days have been over for Jack for quite a while now.

I flip through my phone and catch up on messages while Layla cooks. When breakfast is served, I tell Layla about my latest gigs overseas.

"Paris fashion week was amazing," I say to her, still feeling the glow from the runway. "I walked for Donatella again this year!"

Layla smiles and drinks from her usual morning glass of Bloody Mary. "Goodness, I haven't seen one of her shows in ages. How is she?"

"Same as always," I say. "Brilliant and outrageous!"

I share more stories until breakfast is finished. I am about to leave when Jack expectantly extends a muscular tattooed arm across the kitchen table. "Give me your phone," he commands.

I give him a funny look. This better not be his latest ploy to see if I am talking to any boys. "Why?"

He doesn't scoff at me like I expect him to. Instead, he gives me a straightforward answer. "Got you an upgrade."

I relax. A little. "Oh."

When I give him my phone, he hands me the latest model. I start flipping through the screen and frown. "Hey, you forgot to add my apps and contacts."

"I did not."

I roll my eyes. Sure, Jack is old, but not that old. He should know how these things work. "Whatever, just give me the SIM card."