Damn. Why was his snark so sexy?
Chapter Two
One day earlier
Chris wheeled a bulky suitcase behind him as he entered the airport gate with passengers departing for Las Vegas. He kept his eyes peeled for his four best friends in the world, two of whom would soon be husbands. Brad and Riley snickered over something on a smartphone on seats nearby, while Bret and Harry stood at the windows overlooking the tarmac, watching planes taxi and take off. A line was already forming as first-class passengers prepared to board.
Chris had overslept that morning after a restless night. He’d wondered, as he’d snoozed far too long, then dawdled over getting his things together, if he might subconsciously be hoping he’d miss the flight. He was very much a fifth wheel on this trip, and as much as he loved his friends, their happy couple-ness only reminded him of his horrible luck in love. If something could go wrong in a relationship, you can bet it had happened to Chris.
He'd received embarrassing gifts at work from a guy who wouldn’t take a hint. Chris laughed when he told his friends about opening the package of butt plugs, with his teenage co-worker gaping at him as if he’d just whipped out his dick in public. And the time his ex-boyfriend, Mark, posted a drunk, rambling ode to Chris’s ass on social media, tagging him for all his friends and family to see.
If he didn’t laugh, he’d cry, and Chris didn’t cry.
He sped up, the duffel bag and laptop case slung over his right shoulder drumming his right hip. Now that he’d arrived, he was relieved he hadn’t let down the most important people in his life. This weekend wasn’t about him.
“I’m here!” he said, a bit breathless from his hurried trek through the Kansas City airport terminal.
“Cutting it close, aren’t you?” Riley grinned and ruffled Chris’s hair. “Not sure I’ve ever seen you this disheveled.”
“Shut up. I’m traveling,” Chris said.
He attempted to smooth his hair with one hand, while tugging the hem of his T-shirt with the other. Truth was, he felt like a slob. While most people happily dressed down for a day of air travel, Chris felt like a turtle missing his shell. He had always taken great care with his appearance to project the image of who he wanted to be, even if he couldn’t quite pull it off inside.
Meanwhile, Brad looked entirely comfortable in his skin while wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a tank top. Still, he was more conservative than he’d been before he was in a relationship. In those days, his jean shorts would have exposed a good portion of ass cheek, and his shirt would have been a size smaller. In all fairness, though, Chris had mostly seen him at nightclubs, not airports. Riley, standing behind him, looked as good in sweats and a T-shirt as he did in jeans and a leather jacket.
“Speaking of cutting it short …” Brad said.
Chris turned to follow his gaze, eyes widening as a broad-shouldered, muscled slab of his past sauntered toward them as if he had all the time in the world.
Bryant Fletcher, aka Lying Manwhore, wore his basketball shorts, T-shirt, and hoodie as if he were made to model them. Chris’s fashion sense rebelled. Ant should look like a slob in that getup, but he was gorgeous as usual. A backpack appeared to be his only luggage, and he’d stopped for coffee, sipping from a Starbucks cup as he arrived.
“Yo,” he said by way of greeting.
“What alternate reality is this?” Chris asked tensely.
“I meant to tell you—” Brad started.
“What?!” Chris hissed.
Ant flashed a big smile. “Chris, it is so good to see you again, man.”
No. This couldn’t be happening. It was bad enough to be a fifth wheel as Riley and Brad got married Vegas-style, and Harry and Bret might as well be married given their couple-cuteness levels. But in no universe would he have agreed to a trip with his four lovey-dovey friends and the guy who’d nearly duped Chris into thinking he had a shot at a happy ending for himself.
Looking at Ant now, Chris realized just how different they were. It made Chris wonder what the hell he’d been thinking. Ant might be a smart, sexy, funny man who’d made his body flush with heat, but Chris had been burned too many times — and not in a good way. He should have known better than to get his hopes up.
Ant pulled Chris into a hug, slapping his back. “I’m really looking forward to hanging out with you again,” he said.
Chris jerked back, stumbling over his suitcase and nearly falling. Riley grabbed his elbow, saving him from that humiliation.
“Why would you invite him?” Chris asked, feeling betrayed. They all knew about Chris and Ant’s failed dating attempt. They’d been set up by Brad, who worked at the gym where Ant offered weight training, and to Chris’s great consternation, Ant had remained a friend on the periphery of their circle ever since.
“He’s my friend,” Brad said in a wounded tone. “I’m sorry—”
“Don’t apologize, babe,” Riley interrupted, looking at Chris with a hard expression. “Chris will get over it and realize how important this weekend is to us.”
He sought out Harry and Bret, hoping for a sympathetic glance, but he didn’t find help in that corner. Harry frowned at him, shaking his head, and Bret fidgeted uncomfortably.
Right. Brad and Riley were getting married, and Chris needed to get over himself.
The flight attendant behind the counter spoke over the intercom. “We are now seating the rest of Flight 737 nonstop to Las Vegas. If you’re boarding Flight 737, please get in line now.”
Chris heaved a sigh. “Fine, you’re right. This is your wedding. It’s a big deal.” He dredged up a smile for Brad, who still looked torn about the situation. “You should have all your friends here.”
Brad grinned and hugged him. “Thank you! I’m so excited; you have no idea. Riley and I might be getting hitched in Vegas, but we don’t take this lightly. Marriage is serious business.”
It would be for two guys who’d once said they didn’t need romance, so long as they got laid. How ironic that they were the ones getting married, while Chris was the poor sap who couldn’t find a decent boyfriend.
Chris grabbed the handle of his suitcase as they all gathered their belongings to board the plane. Ant placed a hand next to his, keeping the suitcase from rolling forward.
“Are you serious with this? They’ll ever let you carry this on.”
Chris tugged at the suitcase. “It’ll be fine.”
The suitcase didn’t budge. Ant let Chris tug futilely until he shot a glare at him. Then he released it with a grin. “Have it your way.”
Chris stumbled as the resistance vanished, and the suitcase shot toward him. He managed to catch his balance, still scowling.
They joined the line. Chris stood behind Harry, hyperaware of Ant behind him. He could feel Ant’s gaze burning into the space between his shoulder blades.
Right where he’d stab me in the back if given a chance, he thought. But he won’t get the chance, because I am immune to him. Totally, completely indifferent.
A delectable smell wafted from Ant. Something like coconut and sea foam, which seemed fanciful and ridiculous for a trip on an airplane. Who the hell made himself smell like a freaking island cocktail when he was going to be traveling all day?
Chris shot a glare over his shoulder, annoyed that he even noticed Ant’s scent.
The man smiled. “There a reason you’re trying to kill me with your eyes?” he asked. “Besides that same misguided reason you ditched me months ago?”
Chris huffed and turned around. Misguided. Right. That’s what he’d like me to believe.
When he reached the doorway, he handed off his boarding pass and the flight attendant stopped him from moving forward.
“Sorry, sir, but we’re going to have to check that bag. It’s too large. Here, put this tag on it, and we’ll take care of it.”
Chris scribbled his name on a tag, cheeks burning, as a laughing Ant brushed past him.
Know-it-all bastard.
The
flight was cramped but boring. Ant had tagged along at the last minute, so he wasn’t seated with the other guys. He spent most the flight with his knees uncomfortably pressed into the tray on the seat in front of him.
The only highlight was his view: not of the misty clouds or mountains they flew past, but of Chris Everett. An inch taller than Ant, Chris stretched one leg out into the aisle, his track pants molding to the lines of his body. Ant could only see his profile, his dark blond hair uncharacteristically messy and stubble darkening his jaw.
Ant’s mouth watered over this unkempt version of Chris so rarely seen. Would he look like that first thing in the morning after waking up in my bed?
Ant intended to find out. He’d bribed Brad by offering to cover his weekend aerobics classes for two weeks so that he could come along, in the hopes of thawing the icy wall Chris had built between them. They’d only gone on a few dates, but Ant had already decided Chris was the man for him. Gorgeous, smart, stable. Ant was done with flighty club boys. He was looking for something real: a partner to share his life.
He wasn’t exactly a romantic. Hard to be when your parents bust up when you’re a kid. But he’d watched other couples commit, live together, get a house and a dog. He wanted that stuff too, even if it did make him a cliché.
The plane arrived in Vegas without incident, and they filed off and traipsed to baggage claim to grab Chris’s oversized suitcase. Brad had also checked a suitcase, but he was getting married, so Ant didn’t tease him.
Surprisingly, Bret did. “Your clothes are so tiny, I’d have thought they’d fit in a duffel,” he said.
Riley snorted. “That’s true, had he only brought enough for the few days we’re here.”
Brad flipped them off good-naturedly. “I’m getting married. I’m entitled to bring as many outfits as I want. Brides had whole trunks of clothes in the old days.”
“Those were called bridal trousseaus, and they were for their whole married life, not the wedding itself,” Chris said.
“Details,” Brad said airily.
Ant stepped forward while the friends bantered to snag Chris’s dark suitcase. No time like the present to start thawing the ice between them.
It wasn’t like Ant to persist when rejected, but Chris had liked him once, and with enough patience, Ant would see the day he liked him again.
As Chris jerked the suitcase from his grip without a thank-you, it was obvious that today would not be that day.
Brad decided they should stop to eat, and seeing as the whole trip was the Brad and Riley show, Chris agreed. He was tired, having not slept well the night before, and he felt scuzzy. He’d much rather shower and fall into bed for a few hours, but it would have to wait.
They skimmed Yelp for restaurant options, and Brad immediately homed in on Eggslut.
“I guess you sluts have to stick together,” Harry joked.
“Oh, don’t get me started on your slutty ways, Harry,” Brad shot back. “It might scare off sweet Bret.”
Bret frowned. “I’m not that sweet.”
As the asexual in their group of friends, Bret sometimes got pegged as the innocent one of their crew, even though asexuality was not a personality quirk, but a sexual identity. Considering the rest of them had been sexually active for years — some of them very sexually active — Bret was probably going to be stuck with the label of good boy.
It was midmorning when they arrived at the restaurant, so the wait wasn’t terrible. Chris sat down on a barstool at a high counter, and to his annoyance, Ant took the seat to his right. The restaurant was wide open, with a sleek modern style.
The food was just as amazing as the Yelp reviews suggested. Chris ordered a sandwich filled with scrambled eggs, chives, and spicy mayo. Brad, true to form, ordered a dish called the Slut. Ant predictably ordered a bacon cheeseburger topped with egg. Like most muscled-up guys Chris had met, he enjoyed his meat.
All kinds of meat, he thought darkly.
Ant moaned like he was cumming in his shorts as he bit into his burger. Dear God, Chris could do without that. He didn’t like Ant, but there was no denying he was hot. Chris shifted his focus to his friends, pretending he didn’t notice Ant licking his fingers.
Brad was studying his phone, with Riley peering over his shoulder, and Chris seized on it for a distraction.
“What are you guys looking at?”
“Scrolling through Vegas shows,” Brad said. “Tonight, we’re going to do a bachelor’s party thing Vegas-style.”
“I’m liking the Thunder Down Under,” Riley added.
“They also have Magic Mike Live,” Brad said, before laughing with delight. “But I don’t know. I’m pretty tempted by this penis puppetry show.”
Harry leaned forward. “What the hell is that?”
Brad held up his phone for Harry to see the screen. “Apparently they do some sort of origami involving their junk.”
“Pass on that,” Riley said.
Brad nudged his shoulder. “You just want to see some hot Aussie bodies.”
“Damn right.”
“Won’t the place be crowded with women?” Chris asked. “Might be a bit weird.”
“Eh, anything goes in Vegas,” Brad said without concern. Then he jabbed a finger at Chris. “Don’t go all prude on me, Chris. You’re my best man, so it’s your duty to have fun with me.”
“I’m not a prude! Who was your wingman all those weekends at Ozone?” he said, referring to their favorite gay club in Kansas City.
“Hey, I’m his wingman,” Riley said.
Harry scoffed. “You’re his boyfriend, and before that, you were his fuck buddy. Not the same thing.”
“Well, Chris might have been at the club in body, but he hasn’t been there in spirit for a long time,” Brad pointed out. “Nearly as long as Harry.”
Chris sighed and gave up the argument. Brad wasn’t wrong. Chris had tired of the club scene. For a while, he’d relied on hookups to cure his loneliness when his relationships failed, but after a few hookups went sour, he’d lost his taste for them.
Chris changed the subject. “Have you picked a wedding venue?”
Riley snorted. “Does my fiancé strike you as the kind of guy to plan that far ahead?”
Chris gaped. “But you’ve brought us all out here. You must have a plan!”
“Getting married in Vegas is about being spontaneous,” Brad said.
“I thought it was about getting married by Elvis,” Harry joked.
“That too!” Brad enthused. “I want the tackiest wedding possible. That means we can find some chapel that takes walk-ins, and ta da! We’re married.”
“Oh my God,” Chris said. “Riley, you’re marrying a crazy man.”
Riley grinned, throwing his arm around Brad’s shoulders. “I know. Isn’t he great?”
“I’m pretty sure you still need a marriage license,” Bret volunteered. At everyone’s look, he shrugged. “I did some research on it.”
Brad turned in his seat and slapped Harry’s arm. “Harry! I just had the best idea. You should totally marry Bret this weekend too!”
Harry and Bret wore matching looks of horror.
“Seriously,” Brad continued, “you two are perfect together. I can’t believe you haven’t already tied the knot.”
“I don’t think Vegas is Bret’s style,” Harry said hesitantly.
Bret jumped in, “Right, my mother would kill me. I have to do the whole wedding and reception thing.” He licked his lips, glancing at Harry. “Not that I’ve given it a lot of thought.”
“Obviously,” Harry muttered.
Uh-oh. There seemed to be a story there.
Chris jumped in again. Keeping the peace was his de facto role in their friend group. He prided himself on being the glue that kept their little group together through thick and thin. Bret, in particular, presented a challenge. No matter that he’d been part of their circle for two years, he kept to himself. Chris knew he considered them to be Harry’s friends, not his
, but Chris hoped he could change that on this trip.
“Maybe I should check out some wedding venues,” Chris offered, diverting attention from Bret and Harry. “It would be awful if you couldn’t get the type of venue you wanted.”
Brad nodded, looking serious. “Good point. I’d probably cry if it was classy and elegant. It must be tacky.”
Brad’s priorities made Chris smile. Brad wouldn’t be Brad if he wasn’t flaunting his unique style — often the opposite of good taste — everywhere he went.
“Could you go by the marriage license office too?” Riley asked. “I think we should be able to swing by right before the wedding, but just check it out and make sure there’s no surprises.”
Chris nodded. “Sure, I’d be happy to do it.”
“You still have to come out with us tonight,” Brad added.
Chris pulled a face. “We could find a little bar, drink some absinthe—”
“Nope. Bring me the thunder!”
The group went their separate ways after check-in, with Brad extracting promises they’d meet up later that night. “Get your gambling out of your system,” he said, “because after 8 p.m. you’re mine!”
“I hope you’re aware you’re marrying a bossy fucker,” Ant said.
Riley grinned. “Oh, I know. But he’s bossy in all the best ways.” He winked, and Ant’s mind filled with visions of Brad bossing Riley around in bed.
Ant was pleased to see that despite making his own reservations, he was on the same floor as Chris. They rode up in the elevator in a group of people, and Chris carefully didn’t look at him. Chris stared so hard at the doors that Ant was pretty sure he was at the forefront of Chris’s mind.
The doors opened, and they stepped out. Chris glanced at him in surprise. “You’re on this floor too?”
“Well, I’m not stalking you, sweetness.”
Chris rolled his eyes and walked ahead, dragging his bag behind him. He slid his keycard into the lock and shoved his door open, but before he stepped in, he looked back over his shoulder at Ant.
My Anti-Marriage Page 2