“Tobin,” the man yapped in his thick Asian accent, “I need your rent money this week.”
Tobin blinked rapidly.
Kenneth Leung was twirling a chopstick into a bowl of Ramen as he stared. The asshole was like a walking cliché: always eating noodles, always slinking around in slippers no matter what the weather.
“Yeah, sorry—payday tomorrow. I’ll hit you up as soon as I got the cash.”
Kenneth just continued to stare.
“I promise, okay?” Tobin replied, craning his neck forward. “Jesus.”
“Okay.”
With that, Kenneth moved from the kitchen to his bedroom. Tobin waited for his roommate to close the door before walking to the second room, his room, and stepped inside. He tossed his backpack to the ground, locked the door, and then closed his eyes.
Tobin was tired, his shoulder ached, and his chin was starting to throb.
But none of these things, no matter how painful, hurt him nearly as much as the failed audition.
“What right?” he asked the empty room. “What right does she have?”
Tobin sighed and opened his eyes. Naturally, his gaze went to the computer on his desk and he made his way over to it. After logging into all his social media accounts, Tobin assessed the results of his latest post: the Moxy’s video.
Almost immediately, some of the anger that had been coursing through his veins began to dissipate.
In just under six hours, Lucas Lionell’s Moxy’s video had garnered seven hundred and eighty-seven likes and had been shared thirty-one times.
His breath finally normalizing, Tobin started to scroll through some of the more popular comments.
Mannythebean77: Looks cool, gotta check it out.
Dirk_D6: Why does New York get all the hip shops? @CarlosGotzStylz
With every positive comment he read, the corners of Tobin’s lips curved upward a little more.
Alright, maybe today wasn’t that bad. Maybe if I just focus on—
A single remark sent a schism through Tobin’s thoughts. It wasn’t just the negative nature of the comment—there were always plenty of keyboard warriors slinging homophobic slurs—but the content of the message that stung.
Anon42819: This loser thinks that Moxy’s is a fashion store! It’s a goddamn gay video and toy shop!
Tobin’s jaw went slack.
“No,” he moaned. Thinking—hoping—that Anon42819 was just a run of the mill troll, Tobin scrolled down.
To his horror, Anon’s comment had garnered more than half a dozen copycat comments, each one more condescending than the last.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
Tobin opened another browser and quickly typed in Moxy’s and Manhattan into the search bar.
“Shit,” he whispered. “Shit!”
Moxy’s had been an up and coming label in the nineties, but so far as he could tell, they had gone out of business in 1997. The Moxy’s that he’d taken a picture in front of had nothing to do with clothes: it was registered as an erotic boutique. One that, as Anon42819 had so succinctly pointed out, catered primarily to gay men.
“Shit!” Tobin started to rub his forehead vigorously. “Why the fuck would there be a gay boutique in one of the nicest areas in Manhattan?” He rubbed even harder. “And why the fuck didn’t you look before you posted about it, Tobin? Why the fuck wouldn’t you at least go inside?”
Breathing only through his mouth now, he went back to his Instagram feed and quickly deleted his video. Next, he reviewed the profiles of every single person who had shared his post. Thankfully, they were a bunch of nobodies, losers who had less than one percent of the following that Lucas Lionell had.
“Seven hours—it was up for less than seven hours. Nobody saw it… nobody saw it.”
Tobin knew that this wasn’t true, of course, but he also knew that he couldn’t do anything about it now.
Except for putting up another video, that is. A new video, a better video, one that would make everyone forget about Moxy’s.
Tobin checked the time. It was nearly nine now and he was dead tired. As usual, his shift had started at six in the morning and he hadn’t even stopped long enough for a bite to eat.
But he couldn’t rest, not yet, anyway. Tobin had to create a second video, one that would shut Anon42819 and all the other haters up.
Besides, the rich and famous didn’t rest, so how in the hell could he?
Chapter 6
Tobin’s two-bedroom apartment that he shared with his roommate would never serve as an appropriate backdrop for his new video—not by a long shot. Nor did Tobin possess the means to design a specific space, small as it might be, to film his videos that would give the impression of style and luxury that he required. Instead, he’d come up with a more creative solution: black drapes.
Hanging from a hardware store screw that he’d worked into the ceiling, the thick fabric hung down over his bed. Pulled tight on either side and combined with dark satin sheets over his mattress, it made for a rather convincing ‘black hole’ appearance. Unique, mysterious, and anonymous, it was the perfect place for Tobin to make his videos… and it was the best he could do with what he had.
Only, the second Tobin pulled back the drapes and stepped into what he affectionately called his “Hollow Shelter”, he ceased being Tobin.
He was transformed into Lucas Lionell.
That’s who he really was, deep down: Lucas Lionell. Even though his mother, who had done her best to raise him alone while fighting every addiction you could think of, had named him Tobin Tomlin, that wasn’t him.
Tobin Tomlin was a poor kid from a broken family who grew up in a part of New York City nobody ever saw or heard about. Tobin shared an apartment with a guy who he thought was more than likely in the country illegally. Tobin worked a shitty manual labor job for minimum wage. Tobin was used and abused daily by a fat redhead whose only source of pleasure seemed to be watching him suffer.
No, that wasn’t him.
He was Lucas Lionell, a budding Instagram star and soon-to-be influencer who was on the verge of getting his big break in reality TV.
All I have to do is keep striving forward. All I have to do is work harder than everyone else.
Tobin adjusted his cell phone, fitting his face squarely in the frame.
I have to do the things that others aren’t willing to.
Tobin cleared his throat, lowered his voice, and then pressed record.
“Hello, all my luscious followers, this is the Double L, Lucas Lionell…”
***
By the time Tobin finished making the video, it was nearly ten o’clock. He peeled himself out of his Hollow Shelter and then removed the outfit he’d worn to the Savage Money audition. Taking off his shirt required a level of dexterity he didn’t think he possessed, but Tobin somehow managed—maybe he was too tired to notice the pain. He was in the process of removing his jeans when he felt something in one of the pockets.
It was the business card that the producer cunt had given him.
“Jan Dewalter,” he read out loud. “Producer and Chief of Talent Acquisition @Fan Mail Pictures.”
Even her name sounds cunty, Tobin thought as he tossed the business card onto his desk. It wedged itself beneath the corner of his keyboard.
He knew that he should get some rest—and probably some food—and that it was too soon to expect a response regarding his audition. Still…
Tobin whipped his chair around and woke up his computer. After typing in his password, he immediately went to the email that he’d used for the audition: [email protected].
As it loaded, he scooped up a half-empty bottle of water and drank the warm liquid hungrily.
The worst thing about Xannies, Tobin had come to realize years ago, wasn’t the comedown but the dehydration.
No matter how much he drank, he always felt so damn thirsty after getting high.
The three most recent emails were all bullshit spam, and he deleted the
m. The fourth was what he was looking for.
Even though the title was ambiguous—Regarding your Savage Money Audition—the timing of the email was all-telling.
Jan Dewalter had sent it less than an hour after he’d left the warehouse. What surprised Tobin most was that he hadn’t seen it earlier.
After a deep breath, he prepared himself for the worst. And yet, despite these prophylactic measures, his rage was untethered.
Dear Lucas,
We would like to thank you for your SAVAGE MONEY audition today. Unfortunately, we have decided that…
“Fuck!”
Tobin slammed his hands down on his desk and then immediately shrieked in agony. The pain in his right arm was back.
Gritting his teeth, he stared at the woman’s name at the bottom of the email.
Jan Dewalter… I’m better looking, more charismatic, and smarter than all the other applicants. How could you not pick me?
Still fuming, he pressed reply and started to formulate an email. After typing roughly a dozen insults, Tobin pressed CTRL + A followed by Delete.
The second email he wrote was nearly as offensive as the first, so he deleted that one, too.
Tobin wanted nothing more than to take a strip off this Jan Dewalter bitch, to tell her that she had no right to judge him, that she’d made a fucking terrible mistake, but he knew that the Reality TV crowd was a tight knit one.
Such a response might sewer any chance he had at another audition, let alone actually getting a gig.
Frustrated, Tobin growled and leaned away from his computer. The light from his desk lamp reflected off his forehead, which he immediately noticed in the monitor.
That’s why she didn’t take me. Jan Dewalter didn’t pick me because of my forehead. It’s these goddamn bumps…
Tobin swore again and then deleted every email in his account.
It was too late for Lucas Lionell; they’d seen his forehead, his bumps. They would never take him—not Savage Money or Major Temptation or All for one… self.
None of them would take him like this.
If I could just get rid of these—
A loud knock on his bedroom door startled Tobin, which reignited the pain in his shoulder.
“What?” he snapped.
“You yelling, I try to sleep. Quiet please,” Kenneth said.
Fuck you, Kenneth—I don’t have time to sleep.
“Yeah, okay, sorry,” Tobin replied.
“Quiet, please,” Kenneth repeated as he walked away.
When he heard the man close the door to his room, Tobin turned back to his computer. But this time, instead of looking at his email or his many social media profiles, he loaded up a website.
It was a site that he’d visited so many times that all he had to do was type the first three letters and it auto-filled the rest for him.
Dr. Alex Cratom, Veterinarian.
Below Alex’s headshot—how many times have I told him to change it? The lighting casts shadows on his face and makes his nose look bigger than it actually is—was a stock photo of a handful of pets. Instead of being linked to Lucas Lionell’s email, his old account popped open.
Unlike the emails he’d drafted to Jan, this one was simple and lacked insults.
Alex, I need to see you.
It’s urgent.
Tobin.
Exhausted, he popped another Xanax and crawled into his Hollow Shelter. Staring up at the black void, a single thought ran through his mine.
Soon, Jan. Soon you will have no choice but to choose me. Absolutely no choice.
Chapter 7
The pain returned in full force even before all the drugs wore off, and Tobin tossed and turned for the latter part of the night.
Groaning, he reached with his left hand and grabbed his cell phone off the night side table. After logging in to his socials, Tobin started to feel a little better.
If there was a silver lining to his awful sleep, it was that the video he’d posted the night before had gained some traction. Despite his discomfort—the entire right side of his body ached, now—Tobin couldn’t help but smile.
Scrolling through the comment section, it appeared as if his heartfelt discourse was really touching people.
The grin on Tobin’s face faltered when he came across a familiar user.
Ha, look at this loser! First, he claims that a dildo store is a fashion outlet and now he tries to post something ‘deep’? The only thing deep about this guy is how far he plunged the dildo into his ass last night!
Even worse than the offensive message itself was the fact that Anon42819 had posted a link to his Moxy’s video that somehow still seemed to be circulating.
“Jesus Christ,” Tobin cursed as he immediately deleted the comment and reported Anon… again. To try and mitigate the damage, he also flagged the Moxy video that some troll had reposted.
Tobin tried his best to calm himself, to prevent some asshole behind a keyboard from ruining his day before it had even begun.
A hot shower… that’ll help my arm and my head.
After shutting off his phone and tossing it onto his bed, he stormed out of his room.
“Fuck.”
The bathroom door was closed, and he could hear the shower running inside.
Tobin wasn’t sure what Kenneth did in there. The only thing that made sense was that he was using the shower to boil more of his fucking noodles.
That was the only explanation as to why the man felt the need to shower three to four times a day.
Either that, or he had some sort of rare fungal disease.
This thought made him shudder, which enraged his injured shoulder.
Scowling now, Tobin headed back to his room and took up residence behind his computer.
He was surprised to find a response from Dr. Alex Cratom already in his inbox.
He clicked on it, fearing that this would only bring more bad news and further sour his already acerbic mood.
However, it appeared as if the tides had turned.
I have an opening at six this evening—but only if you bring cash this time. I mean it.
Alex.
Tobin gnashed the inside of his cheek.
Cash…
He was supposed to be getting a check from Kevin today, but that was only if he went into work, which simply wasn’t possible given his injury.
Cash…
The door to the bathroom opened and Tobin leaned back in his chair to look at Kenneth as he walked out. The man’s upper body was thin bordering on sickly and the only reason the towel stayed around his waist was because it hung onto jutting hip bones.
How does he eat so many noodles and stay so goddamn thin?
Tobin hadn’t eaten a scrap of food in almost an entire day, and he still felt bloated and fat.
“About time,” he hissed as he rose and strode to the bathroom.
Kenneth didn’t even look in his direction, he just went to his room and shut the door behind him.
“Prick.”
Alone in the bathroom, Tobin struggled to strip down. When he finally managed to finagle his way out of his purple Henley, he almost wished that he had skipped the shower.
There were deep blue lines that spread out in every direction from his shoulder joint like cyanotic fingers. Tobin tried to roll his arm forward, but it locked up and he stifled a scream.
I separated my shoulder. For fuck’s sake, I separated my shoulder chasing after that asshole Kevin.
Whimpering from the pain, Tobin turned the shower on, set the water to hot, and then, after steam started to billow around him, stepped into the tub.
Typically, he liked to spend fifteen to twenty minutes under the scalding water before turning the dial all the way to the right and lasting for as long as he could under the ice water.
Years of trial and error had revealed this strategy to be the best at keeping his acne-prone skin at bay and providing Tobin with a natural glow.
But not today.
Today
, his ungrateful roommate had used so much hot water that after a mere five minutes, it started to run cold on its own. To top it off, when Tobin finally set the dial to freezing, he shuddered, which caused his shoulder to ignite again.
Cursing, Tobin shut off the water and got out of the tub. Preferring to air dry, he went back to staring at himself in the mirror again. His skin was red—a temporary consequence of his shower routine—but this did nothing to hide the bruising around his shoulder.
If anything, it made the marks stand out more, like streaks of purple in an otherwise orange sunset.
Shaking his head, Tobin realized that if he kept his shoulder locked, he could bend his elbow with limited pain. And by leaning over slightly, he was able to reach his face.
That’s something, at least.
Tobin took the first two fingers of both hands and pushed them against his skin just below his cheekbones. Then, applying significant pressure, he pushed upward and held this pose. When his cheeks started to burn, he eased the pressure.
Tobin repeated this process ten times then completely relaxed his face. Everything from below his eyes to the corners of his lips was redder now than when he had come out of the shower. But this, he knew, was only temporary.
Inside the top drawer of the vanity, his drawer, Tobin found his cosmetic kit. The case contained several different size scissors, two nail clippers, and three combs. He used the medium scissors to meticulously trim his eyebrows, then the smallest set for his nose hairs. His fingernails were somehow fine considering his fall yesterday, for which he was grateful—just the idea of clipping his nails with a bummed shoulder was enough to generate a sharp inhalation.
Tobin finished the rest of his routine over the course of the next twenty minutes: everything from shaving to moisturizing, brushing and whitening his teeth, to trying to fix his hair. The latter was the most time-consuming of the process; his forehead bumps were just so damn obvious.
But not for long… not for much longer…
Getting dressed also proved problematic. Fitting a shirt over his head at this point was next to impossible, so he had to settle for something he normally would have never considered: a zip-up sweatshirt without a T-shirt beneath. To his surprise, however, Tobin found that if he zipped it all the way up, you couldn’t tell that he was bare-chested beneath.
Almost Infamous (Detective Damien Drake Book 9) Page 3
