Male Model Read online

  BOOKS BY DAVE BENBOW

  Daytime Drama

  Male Model

  Man of my Dreams

  (with Jon Jeffrey, Ben Tyler and Sean Wolfe)

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  MALE MODEL

  A NOVEL

  Dave Benbow

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  BOOKS BY DAVE BENBOW

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  Copyright Page

  For Cindy Pieratt Blass.

  The most incredible woman I’ve ever met.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank everyone at Kensington Books for their unflagging enthusiasm and commitment towards my books and me. But special thanks must be given to my dashing editor, John Scognamiglio and Louis Malcangi for yet another stunning cover—is it so wrong that I tell everyone it’s me? Their hard work only serves to make me look brilliant (which they know I’m not).

  Heartfelt gratitude goes to my fabulous agent Sally Wofford-Girand, and the many amazing people I’ve had the pleasure of working with, and learning from, during my retail days: Allen & Ally Haines, Jerry & Lois Magnin, Clif Taylor, Sue Balmforth, Jon & Mindy Peters, John Omler, John Butler, Edward Blanchard, Michael Carey, Marilyn Miller and Robb Ginter.

  And, finally, while I’m extremely grateful and thrilled that the “big box” bookstores and major online retailers have developed a growing gay and lesbian catalog, I’d like to remind book lovers everywhere not to forget to support our own. Terrific businesses like the InsightOutBooks gay & lesbian book club (insightoutbooks.com) and local GLB&T bookstores (such as A Different Light in West Hollywood) provide unconditional support and promotion of gay and lesbian writers and are the reason my books have been successful. The owners and staff of these unique and much needed businesses are an important link to our community’s past, present, and future. They are your friends and neighbors, and they depend on you for their livelihood.

  1

  Beverly Hills, California

  The constant flashes from the paparazzi were mini explosions that lit up the impressive stone facade of the Cameron Fuller store on Rodeo Drive with staccato bursts of bright light. As each new limousine discharged yet another celebrity, the cameras went into overdrive. Flash! Flash! Flash! The clicking sound from over fifty cameras, combined with the roped-off onlookers’ cheering of each new arrival, was deafening.

  Oprah. Brad Pitt. Jennifer Aniston. Sandra Bullock. Jennifer Garner. Quarterback Colt Jennings. Reese Witherspoon. Travis Church. Clay Beasley. Gwyneth Paltrow. The Rock. The Fab Five from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Drew Barrymore. Cameron Diaz. It was a cross section of early 21st century fame that had the starstruck onlookers spellbound.

  And all the dazzling celebs were at this store for one reason. To pay homage to the hottest fashion designer of the moment.

  Cameron Fuller.

  The name alone had been in the vernacular of clothes conscious Americans for years. Along with Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein, Tommy Hilfiger and Tom Ford, he had helped shape the way Americans dress, sleep, and smell.

  Tonight was the formal launch of Cameron’s newest fragrance, Pacific Coast Highway, a clean, spicy scent that had gotten remarkably high marks from every focus group that had sampled it. The marketing team was optimistically projecting sales of over twenty million dollars before the end of the year.

  Cameron had impulsively decided only weeks before to launch the scent at his new Rodeo Drive store, instead of at the Warehouse, his venerable Soho area New York emporium, as had been originally planned. The reasons he gave publicly were that the ad campaign and the fragrance itself promoted a California lifestyle, so where better to launch it than California?

  The actual and true reason for the California launch was known only by him, and one other person.

  Standing in the grand rotunda, at the top of the stunning curved Italian marble staircase that was strategically centered in the great hall of his beautiful store, Cameron Fuller himself looked around and was pleased by the turnout. He was elegantly dressed in one of his own Manhattan Label single-breasted navy suits. A crisp white shirt and sedate purple rep tie worked perfectly on his tall athletic frame.

  A worried crease appeared on his normally smooth brow. On top of everything else that had gone wrong tonight, he had just had a disturbing conversation with one of his oldest friends. With determination, he forced the dark thoughts from his mind. Tonight was supposed to be a happy night.

  He had called in all his markers, and every celebrity who owed him a favor was there. He hadn’t given these people free clothes for years without expecting some payback, and tonight was it. He could tell by the reporters’ excited questions that the notices about the launch in tomorrow’s papers would be glowing.

  Cameron saw his wife’s father, Silas Cabbott, standing stiffly with a small group of other board members. The tension between Cameron and the board had been palpable lately, and Cameron hoped the great success of this party, as well as the launch, would smooth things over. He attempted to aim a tight smile at his father-in-law, but the old man ignored him, obviously still enraged from their earlier argument.

  Cameron turned away from Oprah Winfrey and Drew Barrymore to catch the eye of his Pacific Coast Highway spokesmodel, who was across the rotunda. A new discovery, the model was everything Cameron had envisioned. He had a sexy, casual air that made you think he could go surfing, hiking, or snow boarding and still look good in a tuxedo. The hot model was lost in a sea of reporters who were firing off questions at him faster than he could answer them.

  Cameron winked at him, and was just starting to walk over to rescue him from the throng when he felt a strong tug at his elbow.

  “Cameron, I don’t know how you do it, but you manage to pull it off every time.”

  Annoyed that he was being diverted from his mission, Cameron looked harshly at the woman beside him. “Yes, Suzette. I try,” he said through tight lips.

  She raised a champagne flute in his honor. “To my husband. Who else could pass off horse piss as cologne? Salut!” She drunkenly tipped the glass to him, then brought it to her lips. As she drank, she spilled a fair amount of the Dom Perignon onto the top of her black Dolce and Gabbana sequined minidress.

  Cameron stared at her in bemused disgust and detachment. He eyed her dress, noticing for the first time that it was a competitor’s design. “Jesus, Suzette. Couldn’t you at least have worn one of my dresses tonight?”

  “I don’t like anything you make.” She tipped her glass up again. “Besides, don’t you want to congratulate me?” she asked, too brightly, her almond-shaped eyes flashing.

  “What for, my dear?”

  “Because I’m going to bury you, you sanctimonious bastard! You swore an oath to me! You swore you’d never tell, but you did! You won’t have anything left when I’m done with you! Ha, ha!” She laughed, spinning around. Her carefully arranged, sun-streaked hair flew out, and then obediently returned to its original position. “You’re going to be left with nothing!” she derided him, her face becoming pinched and spiteful.

  “It’s been a hard night, and I think you’ve had too much to drink, Suzette. Maybe you should lie down. Let me escort you back to the VIP room,” Cameron said, trying to take her fashionably thin arm. He just hoped to God no one was paying attention to her.

  “Is everything okay, Cameron?” asked Rafael Santiago, Cameron’s Director of Creative Services, and right hand man. He had stepped up to the arguing couple unnoticed.

  “Yes, Rafe. Everything’s fine. I’m taking Suzette to the VIP room. She’s had a little too much celebration,” he explained, falsely cheerful.

  “Take your hands off me!” Suzette slurred the words as she tried to pull away from Cameron. “I’ll tell you when I’ve had enough! And not versa vice!” she said, her famous temper flaring. She tripped on her own feet, which were shod in a simple but obscenely expensive pair of gold Gucci strappy stilettos. Stumbling, she fell toward Cameron, who took firm hold of her and tried to lead her to the stairs.

  “Suzette! For God’s sake, sober up!” hissed her father, Silas. He had come up behind the small group silently. Suzette shooed him off with an airy wave.

  Blake Jackson observed the scene between Cameron and his wife, and was concerned. Blake had been an uncomfortable witness to the earlier nasty argument. Now, Cameron looked embarrassed, and Suzette was obviously too drunk to be left alone. He knew he should go to Cameron’s side and help him with his shrewish wife, but he doubted he could get through the crowd in time. The camera flashes started up again
, temporarily blinding him.

  Blake had been pushed by the crowd up against the railing above the stairwell. When his eyes cleared and he could see again, he looked down the staircase at the even larger crowd milling around on the floor below.

  Quite the turnout, he thought. Simply amazing. All these people here to meet some male model no one had ever heard of before tonight.

  He looked up again and saw that Gwyneth Paltrow happened to be standing next to him, and again a flood of camera flashes went off in his face. At that exact moment, a woman’s scream built in pitch and intensity until it could be heard by everyone.

  As the spots vanished one by one from Blake’s eyes, he looked toward where the scream was coming from. Oddly, it now seemed to come from below. He focused on a blur of black that was falling, rolling and tumbling down the Italian marble staircase. It was a woman’s body, and Blake could hear her head thunk against each one of the cold stone risers as she tumbled. The screaming suddenly stopped. Silence fell over the entire area as people watched in fascinated horror, and the woman’s descent continued all the way to the bottom of the wide staircase. Spots and smears of bright red could clearly be seen on steps as she passed them, tumbling toward the bottom.

  “Suzette! My God!” There was a flash of movement at the top of the stairs as Cameron Fuller leaped down the staircase two risers at a time. Every photographer in the store had now trained his or her camera on the terrible drama happening on the marble steps. Photo flashes burst like fireworks in the three-story space.

  Suzette’s body came to a stop in a twisted heap at the base of the stairs. Both her arms were bent at odd angles, and a large laceration on her forehead was pumping blood into an ever-widening pool about her. She did not move.

  Halfway down the stairs, Cameron slipped on a bloody wet spot, almost falling over himself. He regained his balance and proceeded more cautiously down the staircase. At the bottom, he squatted down, picked up Suzette by her lifeless shoulders, and cradled her to his chest.

  “Call 911! Someone, please! 911!” he shouted at the crowd.

  Dozens of people whipped out cellphones and dialed.

  Blake stood rooted in shock where he was. Even though he was far above, away from Cameron and Suzette’s huddled forms, he knew she was dead. Cameron looked up frantically and caught Blake’s eye. They stared at each other helplessly for a beat, then Blake turned away from the grisly scene as the photographers pressed forward to snap off shots of the tragedy below.

  “Did she fall?” one of the photographers breathlessly asked him, snapping off a long series of shots with his automatic camera. “Or was she pushed?”

  Blake ignored him, and fighting his way out from the gasping, gawking crowd, walked over to an enormous potted palm tree and held on to it for support. He closed his eyes tight, but the photographer’s words kept ringing in his ears.

  Did she fall, or was she pushed?

  2

  West Hollywood, California

  Four weeks earlier

  “Ohhhh! God, baby, that’s it!”

  “Yeah? Mmmmmm . . . Yeah!” Blake pulled out slightly, then thrust back in, the gasp of delight from his sex partner telling him that what he was doing was not only welcome but wanted. His hands had a firm hold of Brady’s tapered thirty-two-inch waist, and he pulled him back into each push, in effect bouncing Brady’s perfect bubble butt up against his pelvis. The muscles in Brady’s broad worked-out back flexed slightly as he adjusted his stance.

  “Oh, maaaan!” Brady sighed deeply. The palms of his hands and his knees were getting rubbed raw from the rough natural sisal carpet, but he didn’t care. He hadn’t been plowed this good in weeks. Sex with Blake had always been good, but this was, like, another world!

  “Daaayum! You feel so good, Brady,” Blake murmured, picking up the pace a bit. The sensation of having Brady’s beautiful ass slam into his crotch was bringing him to the brink.

  “I’m gonna come, Blake!”

  “Me, too!”

  “Together ! . . . Ohhhh ! . . . Yeah ! . . . Now . . . !” Brady’s voice trailed off into a long, sustained whoosh of air.

  “Ohhhh, damn . . . ,” Blake added as he slipped out, tugged off the condom, and shot all over Brady’s back. At the same instant, Brady came as well, valiantly trying to come in his cupped hand.

  Afterwards, the two men lay on the scratchy fiber rug catching their breath. Blake began to laugh hysterically.

  “I’ve never understood why you always laugh after you come,” Brady observed dryly, stretching his arms above his head. He reached for his balled up navy blue T-shirt with the yellow West Hollywood Sheriff’s Department logo on it, and brought it under his prematurely gray head, like a pillow.

  “Tension release, I guess,” Blake laughed. “I can’t believe we just did that! Jesus.”

  “I know. Oh, well . . . if you can’t have rockin’ sex with an ex-boyfriend, then who can you have it with?”

  “True,” Blake agreed. “Sex was never the problem with us. It was the whole ‘relationship’ thing we couldn’t make work.”

  “I know. Not that I didn’t try.” Brady leisurely reached up to his left ear and deftly removed the small gold hoop that had been there. He reached over to his shorts and shoved the tiny earring into his pocket. Men were not allowed to wear earrings while on duty, and last week Brady had forgotten to remove his before reporting for work. He’d been written up for it.

  That small task completed, he rolled over on his side and propped himself up on one muscular arm. He looked intently at Blake through warm brown eyes.

  “I know,” Blake said softly.

  “Well, maybe we could try again. I miss you, Blake. Don’t get me wrong. I like being your friend and workout partner. But maybe we should try for more, again.”

  “Brady,” Blake began, turning to face his ex-lover, “we tried it. It didn’t work. And yes, I’ll admit that I miss you, too. What I don’t miss are the fights. I don’t know . . . I just can’t see it working out,” he said, being honest.

  “Well, think about it. That’s all I ask. Just think about it, okay?” Brady gently pleaded. Even though he was easily six feet, two hundred twenty pounds, and a tough looking sheriff’s deputy, he could seem very childlike in his needs.

  “Okay, I will. I promise.” Blake glanced at the clock and was shocked by the time. “Jesus! I’m gonna be late! I gotta get in the shower.”

  “I don’t have to report in for another two hours. Want me to join you?” Brady hinted suggestively.

  Blake laughed. “No, thanks. You caused enough trouble for one day, deputy. By the way, your chest presses today were sad.” Blake got up and trotted out of the living room and into his bedroom.

  “Fuck you!” Brady called after him good-naturedly. “You know I pulled a double shift yesterday! I couldn’t keep up with you.”

  “Jealous, much?” Blake shouted back, turning on the shower. “You just wish you had my body!”

  Brady sighed deeply, and sank back to the floor. “You have no idea how badly, and not in the way you think,” he said quietly.

  3

  New York City, New York

  Three thousand miles away, another shower was being turned on. The scalding hot water shot out of two large facing nozzles set about six feet apart. The heavy glass door swooshed open and Cameron Fuller stepped into the enormous stall. Made entirely of imported beige Italian tile, the stall was ten feet by ten feet square. A low flat bench had been created along one side, and the platinum chrome fixtures gleamed with the shine of daily cleanings by Josephina, the trusted housekeeper.

  Cameron Fuller was forty-six but looked to be only in his late thirties. A few nips and tucks here and there had helped with the subterfuge, but he had always looked younger than he was. In fact, when he was first starting out in the rag trade, he would sometimes get doors slammed in his face because the vendors couldn’t believe this kid could deliver what he promised. Now his handsome face was the iconic image of Cameron Fuller USA, CF America, CF/Active, and Cameron Fuller Manhattan Label. He was quickly becoming one of the world’s hottest clothing conglomerates, and along with his wife Suzette, he was used extensively in advertising and commercials for his company.