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Summary
When Mark approached him a month ago, phone in hand, he assumed the worst and began planning a to-do list of numbers to call—lawyers, security, other agencies he’d have to contact if this was another case of an asinine fan invading his privacy—yet, once Mark’s phone came into view, and the screen showed an art piece of him in a black leotard and red tights, black paint applied and an almost despondent look on his face as he discarded his white shirt with a delicate kick of his foot, his heart quickened for a very different reason.
“That’s not socks,” he said.
“No, that is not socks.” Mark lifted an eyebrow. “Josh had an idea.”