Against Fate: A Prince Castle Novel

by Damian Bloom

  A war unfolds inside of me. Something tells me not to play with him. That he’s vulnerable, and the right thing to do is send him home. But another voice, a louder, stronger, more urgent one, is shouting at me to fuck Luis right into this couch, to fuck him so hard he’ll wobble to his car.

  I increase the pressure at the entrance of his ass, the tip of my finger promising to cross the border. With shy movements, Luis glides his hand up and down my shaft, over my pants, eyes glazed over by desire. He wants this, and I know I need to make a decision soon. One way or another, things are bound to escalate before long.

  I bring my free hand up to his chin, grip it between my fingers, and pull it closer to my face. I breathe onto his lips, and he breathes against mine, our eyes still locked, as if we’re scared that if we closed them, the other would vanish like a dream.

  His face hovering so insanely close to mine, I let go of Luis’s chin and bring my hand down to my waistband.

  This could be Luis’s first kiss. Is this good enough? Is this worthy of being remembered as the first time another’s lips touched his?

  Should I be doing this?

  No more questions. Why does everything have to be so complicated all the time? Would it really be so wrong to shut my mind off for a moment and just feel? Feel Luis close to me? Feel his mouth on mine? Ease my meat out of these sweatpants and boxers and drill into his warm tight throat until I can’t even remember my name?

  Withdrawing his hand, Luis waits for my next move. I push the sweatpants down, and my cock begs for attention, raging but still smothered by the boxers.

  He licks his lips again, and man, he’d better be ready to put that tongue to good use on all the precum he’s unwittingly caused.

  My heart thumps in my ears like I’m underwater. Once my dick is out, I won’t be able to stop myself until I’ve emptied myself inside of Luis. He bats his eyelashes at me, waiting.

  He wants this, I tell myself.

  He doesn’t know what he wants. He’s confused.

  He’s an adult.

  He wants something you could never give him. You’ll only break his heart.

  But I do care for him, I do like him. Why can’t that be enough?

  It just isn’t. You’ll never be what he wants you to be, and you’re about to steal away the firsts he’s been saving up for someone else.

  I grit my teeth so hard that my ears pop. I hate the guy Luis is waiting for with all my might, whoever he may be. I hate love stories for existing and filling his head up with expectations that I can’t meet.

  And as much as I want Luis, as much as my skin singes with yearning at night when I lie awake and think of him, I stand up.

  Luis stands up with me, thinking I want to change positions, but I turn away from him. I’m quite an embarrassing sight—pants around my knees, erect against the flimsy, damp fabric of my boxers.

  Pressing the heels of my palms against my temples, I attempt to cool down.

  I can feel the question marks floating over Luis’s head.

  “I think it’s best if you go home now,” I say.

  He hesitates, wondering if this could be a joke. And maybe I could pretend it is, take it back, silence my conscience, and make him mine. With every second that he lingers there, the idea gains power over me.

  “Can you leave, Luis?” My voice comes out louder than I intended. Angrier, too. Like part of the tension that’s been building up inside of me since the day I met Luis has finally escaped. I feel the need to soften it with a lame “please…”

  “Uh, yeah…sure.” There’s hurt in his voice, and it stings like a hundred cuts. He threads carefully across the room to pack his belongings. Wary, as if dealing with a man he doesn’t recognize.

  I don’t recognize myself, either. It’s like I’m watching myself from afar as I make the most stupid decision possible.

  “See you tomorrow?” Luis asks.

  I nod half-committally, still unable to look him in the eye—partly because I can’t trust myself not to wrap myself around him and ask him to stay.

  It’s only when I hear the front door close with a click that I dare move. I pull my pants back up and turn to find Hector frowning at me. “Hector, please tell me I didn’t mess everything up.”

  15

  Adam

  Gradually, as if waking from a fever dream, my inspiration falters, and the outside world begins to insinuate itself back into my awareness. Like a drop of paint in a glass of water. How long has it been since I’ve been seeing, hearing, breathing, eating, drinking only work?

  As I blink around the room, I’m surprised to no longer be surrounded by my characters, by dark alleyways, and creaking old houses.

  My discipline is the one thing I most pride myself on as a writer. I don’t sit and wait for inspiration; I chase it. I don’t expect ideas to appear; I unearth them. Since that fateful day, when I decided to follow my dream of writing fiction, I’ve treated writing as a full-time job, which has allowed it to become my full-time job. But while I have no problem writing even when I don’t feel like it, there are times when something—call it inspiration, call it the muse, call it whatever you want—takes hold of me and squeezes every drop of creative juice out of me. Growing a mind of its own, the story sucks me in and chews me like a toy. As if in a trance, I find it almost impossible to step away from the manuscript for days on end. These spontaneous states of flow may be a godsend for my productivity, but—the way all things seek balance—every other aspect of my life suffers because of them. I don’t sleep properly, I don’t eat properly, I don’t work out, and I don’t clean up. I never know how long these little strokes of genius last, which makes them all the more dangerous.

  Waking up from one today, I expect a mess, but the house is irreproachably neat, as if I’ve been tidying up every day. There’s even food on the stove. In my mind drift vague memories of warm, tasty home-made food and Luis roaming around as soundless as a mouse.

  Taking a quick look in the mirror, I discover I don’t look too bad either. I could stand to wash my hair and trim my beard, and the skin around my eye is still tinged with violet, but at least it doesn’t hurt anymore.

  I hear soft humming coming from my bedroom, and I head that way. His back to the door, Luis folds my freshly-washed T-shirts. He seems to be in a good mood, swinging his hips to whatever music’s playing in his head.

  “Hope you haven’t been sniffing my boxers,” I tease.

  Startled, he whirls on his heels. At first, he eyes me warily, like he’s seen a ghost, but he quickly finds a smile. “You’re a day too late,” he says. “I did that yesterday.”

  I hesitate. Did he really…wash my underwear?

  “I’m kidding,” he adds when I take too long to react. “I didn’t actually sniff anything, but you were running out of clean underwear, so I did a load of that too.”

  Equal parts tantalized and uneasy, I raise my eyebrows. “Wow, you’ve really turned into the head of the household, haven’t you?”

  “I didn’t mean to cross any boundaries. I just thought you might need some help…”

  “No, no, of course. I didn’t mean it in a negative way. I’d probably be ten pounds lighter and much, much filthier right now if it weren’t for you.”

  “At least you showered daily, so I didn’t have to sponge bath you.”

  “I’ll take that as a complaint.” I lay on the bed between him and the shirts he’s already folded. “Sorry for zoning out like that.”

  He shrugs. “No worries. I figured something special might be going on. You looked…transfixed.”

  “Thank you for taking care of me.”

  Luis scoffs and waves a hand like it’s nothing.

  “I’m serious. I don’t even know what to say. No one’s taken care of me like this since…” I almost say, “since my married days,” but Mia would have never done any of this for me. Not that I would have expected her to. I wouldn’t expect anyone to nurture me like Luis has. “Well, since ever.”

/>   I’ve become somewhat of an expert at reading Luis’s cheeks. They’re rose-colored now, which means I said something that’s going to make him avert his gaze for a few seconds. Other shades I’ve learned are the cherry shade of embarrassment and the deep crimson of his anger. And then there’s the ever-present light blush which I’ve come to see as a sign of good health, like a wet nose on a dog.

  Luis hides his gaze in the T-shirt he’s folding.

  “How long has it been?” I ask.

  “A little over a week.”

  I can’t believe he’s babysat me for that long without complaining. “I promise to make it up to you. Have you managed to move forward with the novel by yourself?”

  “A little. I wrote some stuff, but I don’t think it’s very good.”

  “I’m sure it’s something we can work with.”

  This brings a smile to Luis’s lips. I love it when something I say manages to bring out that wonderful smile.

  “Was it worth it?” Luis asks. “It looked like you made a lot of progress. Sometimes, your fingers wouldn’t stop tapping the keyboard for hours.”

  “I’ll have to check it out, but I’m hopeful. I might have written some good stuff, I think.”

  I lay a hand over the next crumpled shirt Luis is about to pick up. “You don’t have to do this anymore. I can take care of my own laundry now.”

  He nods and drops my clothes.

  “Come,” I say. “I’ll make you that coffee you like.”

  It’s a Sunday afternoon. It feels like it’s much later than it is because the sky is overcast with clouds and the house is dipped in shades of blue and gray.

  “I love this weather,” Luis says.

  “Me too. It makes me want to lie on the couch and read all day.”

  “Yes, and wrap myself in a soft blanket like a burrito.”

  Luis wistfully admires the sky.

  “Let’s do that then,” I say.

  “What?”

  “What we just said. I’ll take a shower, then we can sit and read and drink some coffee. Wrap ourselves in blankets, too.”

  Luis leans over the kitchen counter, rests his chin in his palms, and smiles. “I’d love that.”

  That’s how the rest of the afternoon sneaks past us—Luis and I on the couch, heads pointing in opposite directions, bodies wrapped up in separate comfy blankets. He’s still on the third novel of my series while I breeze through the sappy finale of a somewhat romantic erotic story.

  When I reach the end, I slam the book shut with a thud and stare out at my brightly colored garden. It looks humid, so it might have started raining.

  Uttering a loud yawn, Luis stretches his arms over his head. He points to the book I’ve just put down. “Do you feel like crying now?”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “No. It wasn’t that kind of book.” A high-pitched gust of wind scratches at my windows. “But it was okay. It was nice.”

  “Did it make you want to believe in love?” Luis asks, setting my novel aside.

  His question requires a moment’s contemplation. “Hmm, I think everyone wants to believe in love. I think everyone wishes love stories like this were real, right?” My mouth feels dry. “Even the skeptics.”

  A smile wavers over Luis’s lips. He presses a stiff finger to his mouth like he’s trying to hide it. “It’s funny…Although you don’t want it, I feel like you’re in a better position to find love than me.”

  I loose a dry laugh. “And why’s that?”

  “Well, because you don’t want it. I believe love has a tendency to surprise those who don’t expect it.” He jabs his knee into my thigh. “It’s more fun that way. Those like me, we can wait.”

  Outside, long shadows win over the light of day. The house sighs as it settles around us. I relish the feeling of Luis’s body, separated from my own by two blankets, and I’m so comfortable I might drift off to sleep.

  Is this friendship? True, full-hearted friendship?

  “Luis,” I say.

  His eyes are closed. “Mhm?” We’re dozing off like a couple of cats.

  “I really hope you’ll find what you want soon.”

  “Thanks,” he mumbles, then stirs just a little. If he says anything else after that, I miss it because I’m already asleep.

  16

  Luis

  After furiously tapping the Enter key, Adam arches his cracking back, then drinks the last of his smoothie. “I’m taking a break.”

  Keeping my eyes glued to the screen, I acknowledge his words with a nod. If I don’t let myself get distracted, maybe I’ll get unstuck soon.

  My mind is not cooperating anymore. I nibble on my lip like frustration’s chewing on my patience.

  It was going so well, too. The words were flowing, my heroes were coming to life like never before, and then…

  Then the first sex scene struck.

  Honestly, until now, I thought Adam was exaggerating how difficult it would be for me to make up for my lack of real-life experience.

  The well of romantic fantasies I’ve got inside of me doesn’t feel like it will ever dry up. So far, it’s allowed me to write about love even if my only contact with it has been through novels or daydreams.

  I hoped the same would be true for sex. And it’s not that I can’t think of lewd scenarios as well as the next guy or that I lack the vocabulary for it. I can come up with enough different euphemisms for male genitalia to not have to repeat myself.

  Physical sensations, I discover, are the real challenge. It turns out that putting a sensation you’ve never had into words is about as easy as describing a color that doesn’t exist. How does someone else’s hand feel around your cock? How would I describe the feeling of a penis up my ass when none has been in there yet? When I try to, the words come out cold and stilted.

  The bathroom door opens and closes, then the shower turns on.

  Luckily, I’m sure my writing buddy can help out. While not exactly professionally experienced with writing sex scenes, he’s had plenty of real-life encounters with the subject. Some evenings, once our brains have been thoroughly fried and there’s no chance of getting anything else written, Adam and I crack open some beers, and we chat. We don’t always drink, but the nights when we do always turn out different.

  Two or three beers in, Adam usually gets this look in his eyes—a naughty twinkle, which he pairs up with his characteristic mischievous smirk. Something—maybe a scene he wrote that day, or a word one of us inadvertently drops—inevitably reminds him of a past conquest. And then he’ll open with a funny or unusual story, like the time he found out his two regular fuck-buddies were brothers, but neither of them knew the other was gay. However, the exciting part starts when he dives into the spicy details—how the sex was and what made it memorable.

  As a testament to his skill as a writer, Adam can paint a gripping scene. Listening to his stories, I always end up with a boner and a ruddy face. And, just like anyone in my situation probably would, I wonder how I would fare if I ever ended up under Adam. Would I intuitively know what to do? Could I manage to satisfy him?

  Unlike Freddie, he manages to breach the topic tastefully enough to leave me wondering and hoping for more. He also checks almost obsessively if I’m still comfortable with the conversation or he’s going too far. My answer’s always yes because I’m so damn curious.

  It’s not only the sexual curiosity of a virgin that’s got me hanging onto his words. As I learn about another man or woman that has passed through Adam’s bed, I glean a little more of who he is and what he likes between the sheets. For example, I gathered he’s a big fan of blowjobs—almost every one of his stories begins with one he remembers fondly. He’s also repeatedly hinted at a dominant nature that comes to play in the bedroom.

  I think way too much about the things he tells me on nights like that. I never ask myself why, because the answer is clear as day—I’m helplessly infatuated with Adam.

  To think I used to be so proud of my self-control around me
n. Always focused on my ideal, I could resist any hottie, ignore any texts or pick-up lines. I understand now that I’ve never been truly challenged. Challenged like I am now. In just a few weeks of knowing Adam, I’ve noticed my conviction and patience fray. The more I learn about Adam and the closer we grow, the harder it is to imagine meeting anyone better.

  And although I wish it were only lust, I’m afraid it might be much more. For all the inappropriate thoughts of Adam that clog my mind, I think just as often of his smile, of his laugh, of that most beautiful pair of eyes. I see him more than I see my housemates, and still, one day without him feels like a century. My head’s already carefully stored so much information I never intended to memorize—his birthday, his childhood dog’s name, his mother’s maiden name. I wake up with him on my mind, and he’s the last thing I think of when I go to sleep.

  I’ve read enough romance novels to know what sort of trouble this slippery slope leads to. In my case, it spells a broken heart. But time passes, and sometimes, allowing myself to forget about Grandma’s vision is as easy as believing Adam would ever hurt me is hard.

  While Adam showers, I take the opportunity to write in my journal for the first time in two weeks. I’ve been rather bad at making a habit of it.

  Thunder roars in the distance as I flip the notebook open.

  Dear Diary,

  I’m happy to report that things are back to normal between Adam and me after our awkward little petting session. Well, as normal as they can be, now that we’re living with the undeniable confirmation of our mutual attraction.

  Sorry for not updating you for a while, but here’s what you’ve missed.

  After the incident, Adam was weird. So weird, in fact, that I believed we could never go back to being friends. Ditched phone calls, unanswered texts, postponed writing dates—the signs were all there.

  Luckily, I didn’t give up, and eventually, we met again. When he saw I didn’t mean to bring up what happened, I guess he eased up on the whole banishing-me-from-his-life thing.