Destination, Wedding!

by Xavier Mayne

  Fuck. Is this what second thoughts feel like?

  A pit, a heavy ache in his stomach, provided an answer. It wasn’t the answer he wanted. It had to be the wrong answer. It had to be.

  He glanced over at her, silhouetted by the dim light from the bathroom. She fell into a peaceful slumber almost instantly, and as she warmed the sheets with her body, the scent of an exotic bath oil rose to greet him. He listened to her breath, saw the soft rise and fall of her chest as she drifted away. She was as beautiful in slumber as she was awake.

  Goddammit.

  He lay there, tortured, agonized. He tried to be somewhere else in his mind but found himself inescapably here: in a bed in a picture-perfect Parisian hotel suite with a beautiful woman lying next to him. A beautiful woman who had spent the last who-knew-how-many days by his side as they rounded the globe on a ridiculous quest. She never complained, she never second-guessed. She simply smiled and laughed and cried at all the right moments.

  As a fourteen-year-old he would have done anything to be here. Hell, three years ago he would have considered himself the luckiest man on earth. Now, he was in hell.

  Pure hell.

  On the highway, America

  “‘BUT, BOLT,’ she breathed breathlessly, ‘I am promised to another!’ Torchlight illuminated his strong cheekbones and danced on his face. ‘Can another set fire to your loins the way that I, your pirate captain, can?’ His eyes undressed her while his hands locked the door of the ship’s basement.” Bryce turned the page.

  “Ooh, he gonna set fire to some loins,” Nestor sang softly.

  “I hope so,” Bryce replied. “We keep hearing about how tight and manly his buttocks are, but we have yet to see them in action. Don’t swordsmen have to thrust at some point?”

  “I think you’ll find that straight romance writers have little interest in the finer points of male buttocks,” Virgil explained. “They’re viewed as a sort of accessory, like strong shoulders or a classical profile.”

  “But the male posterior is the most versatile sex organ in the world,” Bryce cried. “It can both give and receive—ideally at the very same time.”

  “Ah, lucky Pierre,” sighed Nestor.

  “Indeed,” agreed Bryce.

  “Can we please find out what Bolt sets fire to?” Virgil asked, drumming impatient fingers on the wheel of the truck.

  “Yes, of course,” Bryce said, flipping the book open again. “Bolt threw off his shirt, exposing his sweat-kissed chest, dripping with muscle. ‘Come to me, Desirée,’ he ordered, his voice heavy and moist with urgent command. ‘No,’ she ejaculated. ‘Come to me, Bolt.’ She reclined seductively on a sinuous coil of the jute rope Bolt’s seamen used to hoist the ship’s spanker and beckoned to him with her pert breasts. His powerful buttocks drove him toward her until their lips crashed together like a gallant man o’war fleeing before the wind, and a rock. She reached down and untied his tight leather pants; his ponderous manhood exploded into view, delighting her nether regions with its heft and beauty.”

  “Mmmm, heft,” Nestor intoned dreamily.

  “Though she doesn’t deserve such a fine specimen, I guess I’m happy for her. So many times the big reveal just results in disappointment for everyone.” He looked side to side at the other men. “Are we ready to continue?” Eager nods on both sides.

  “‘Bolt,’ Desirée exhaled steamily, ‘is that a great sea eel, or are you just glad to—’ Bolt’s engorged member wedged itself sexily between her molars, turning her words into groans and her tonsils into punching bags of pure passion. Her tongue swabbed the stalwart underside of his battering ram with a diligence that Mr. Sprat, the one-eyed deckhand, never brought to his work no matter how many times Bolt strapped him to the mast and had his way with the bullwhip. ‘Desirée,’ Bolt groaned muscularly, ‘your mouth is a Charybdis.’ Her eyes crossed with lust or confusion—or perhaps it was a giddy mix of both. The first of thirty-seven orgasms washed over her like the musical flames of an animal’s passion.” Bryce’s brow furrowed as he reread that sentence to himself, lips moving slowly.

  “Gonna have to hit the pause button,” Virgil announced. “We need to pull in here for fuel.”

  “Ooh, how exciting,” cried Bryce. “Now that I know what a hotbed of pent-up truckers these places can be, I’ll have to try out what Bolt has taught me about straight men.” He drew an eyebrow pencil from his clutch and began a quick touch-up.

  “Hold the phone there,” Virgil said, his voice serious. “You can’t just flit in there and start mashing on every guy you see. It can be tricky—and dangerous. You two stay in the cab, okay?” He looked at them with a glare of warning that set them both back in their seats. “Good. Now, it’ll take about ten for the tank to fill. Want something to eat?”

  “Oh! Interstate cuisine!” Bryce hooted, bouncing up and down. “Yes, please. Just pick something that tastes like trucker so we can have the full experience.”

  Virgil laughed and shook his head as he jumped out of his seat to the ground. “You got it. I’ll find something authentic and then slop chili over it.”

  “Sounds delightfully dire,” Bryce replied. “Oh, and if they happen to be pouring mimosas?” He cast his best flirtatious look.

  “Then I’ll know I’m in the wrong place,” Virgil replied and shut the door behind him.

  “You know, I’m not at all sure that mimosas are in our future, Nestor,” Bryce lamented. Nestor put a consoling hand on Bryce’s knee and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you, love. You are my rock.”

  About fifteen minutes later, when Virgil had not returned, Bryce began to grow impatient. “What can be keeping him? Does it really take that long to ‘slop chili,’ as he so colorfully put it?” He craned his neck over to the mirror and looked down the length of the rig. There, at the back bumper of the trailer, was Virgil. He was speaking with another man, and their conversation grew more animated as Bryce watched.

  “I wouldn’t mind eating that covered in chili,” Bryce growled as the men talked. Nestor slid over to take a look over Bryce’s shoulder.

  It was at this moment that the man to whom Virgil was speaking reared back and slammed his fist into Virgil’s jaw.

  Bryce screamed. As he watched, Virgil steadied himself on the bumper of the trailer and managed to remain standing, but the other man lunged again and began pummeling him mercilessly. Virgil staggered under the hail of blows.

  “Nestor, stay here,” Bryce ordered as he flung open the door and leapt down from the cab of the truck.

  “You. Fucking. Faggot!” the man beating Virgil yelled, and Bryce saw red (or, as he would recount it later, vermilion). He looked around desperately and spied a wrench under Virgil’s driver’s seat. He grabbed it up and dashed to the back of the trailer. By the time he got there, Virgil was on the ground being kicked savagely by the other man. Bryce hefted the wrench over his head, holding it precariously aloft until he brought it down with a mighty thud onto the back of the man’s skull. The impact pitched the man over, stunned, and he staggered back.

  “You goddam fucking faggot!” he bellowed, clutching the back of his head.

  “That I may be,” Bryce replied, straightening his back and glowering at the man with a haughty grandeur, “but I dare a bitch to kick my friend when he’s down.”

  The ruckus caused by the fistfight had caused heads to turn all along the fueling islands. The assailant cast a wary glance to both sides, seeming aware of the attention the group was attracting. Virgil got to his feet and stood beside Bryce.

  “How badly do you want to get beaten by two faggots, asshole?” Bryce growled, his voice an octave lower than his normal register, as he menacingly slapped the wrench into the palm of his other hand.

  “Go to hell,” the man spat, and he turned and stalked away, hand still clutching the back of his head.

  “Are you under the impression that we aren’t already there?” Bryce called, gesturing around the diesel-smelling truck stop with the wrench still in
his hand. Upon realizing that he still held the grimy tool, he dropped it as if it were a snake. It clanged to the concrete. “And the name is Bryce, bitch.”

  If the man heard, he gave no indication. He opened the door of the truck stop’s convenience store and disappeared inside. Once the door closed the spectacle was concluded, and the other truckers went back to minding their own business.

  “Bryce… I can’t believe…,” Virgil said, blinking as if trying to focus. “You were amazing.”

  “Oh piff.” Bryce said modestly. He nonchalantly smoothed the rumpled front of his blouse and then collapsed into Virgil’s arms, unconscious.

  At sea

  “HOLY MOLY, do these people love bingo!” Sandler was reviewing the daily program of activities on the ship. “And art auctions. And wine tasting. Here I thought the point was to stare out at the ocean and reflect on one’s life.”

  “I think bingo’s just about as much excitement as most of these folks look like they could take,” Donnelly said, toweling his hair before choosing a shirt to wear to breakfast. “At their age, reflecting may be too much, given reflections that stretch back to World War II.”

  “That does it,” Sandler said, slapping the daily program onto the coffee table. “We are going to find someone else on this ship under the age of eighty.”

  “I don’t like our chances,” Donnelly replied, stepping out of the bedroom. “But I’m up for a scavenger hunt if you are.”

  Sandler poured coffee from the silver service Rutherford had brought at first light. “Excellent. Let the hunt begin.” He handed Donnelly a steaming cup of black coffee. “After coffee, of course.”

  “Of course,” Donnelly replied, sipping from the fine porcelain. “Oh, and after breakfast. I looked at the menu, and they’re serving American-style pancakes with artisanal blueberry compote. I’ll happily forgo all the bingo in the world for those.”

  “Well, let’s get to it, then,” Sandler said, tipping back his coffee cup and standing. “And after we have hunted down pancakes, we will scour this ship until we find someone who isn’t old enough to have voted for Churchill.” He walked over to the safe bolted to the wall of the walk-in closet and placed his messenger bag inside it. He shut the door with a clang and punched in a combination. “Ready for pancakes.”

  After breakfast—which exceeded even Donnelly’s high expectations for pancakes—Sandler led the way to the beauty salon and spa complex at the front of the ship.

  “Feeling like a hot stone massage and a cucumber facial?” Donnelly teased as they approached the frosted-glass doors.

  “As intriguing as that sounds,” Sandler replied, “this is merely the first stop on our scavenger hunt.”

  “We’re starting at the spa?”

  Sandler nodded and pulled the door open. He walked up to the reception desk and had a brief conversation with the young woman who smiled with professional zeal as he approached. He returned a moment later.

  “So?” Donnelly inquired.

  “So, we’re going to get haircuts,” Sandler replied.

  “Are you telling me I look unkempt?” Donnelly demanded with fake outrage.

  “Not at all. But I’m afraid good grooming is the price we have to pay for information.”

  They were soon seated in salon chairs that faced both mirrors and large windows looking out over the sea. A pair of sharply dressed, whippet-thin young men with impeccably groomed eyebrows came up behind them. They exchanged a glance after they had looked Donnelly and Sandler up and down.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” the taller of the two softly sang in a voice that managed to be both elegant and lilting at once. “Since you’re in our chairs, I have to assume that you somehow expect us to improve on what God has wrought. A daunting challenge indeed, but we shall do our best not to disappoint.”

  “We deliver ourselves into your capable hands,” Sandler replied smoothly. Donnelly noticed a slight rise in his inflection that he hadn’t recalled hearing before. The smile on the faces of both hairstylists indicated they’d heard it as well.

  “My capable hands are delighted to welcome you,” the young man replied, and he and his partner set to work. It was nearly an hour later, after Sandler and Donnelly had been shampooed, dried, cut, and even shaved, that they were released from the clutches of the two stylists.

  “That took longer than all of the haircuts I’ve had in the past year combined,” Donnelly said with a laugh as they made their way out of the salon.

  “Totally worth it, though,” Sandler replied.

  “Do you think it made that much of a difference?” Donnelly asked, running his fingers through his brilliantly shiny hair.

  “Of course it did. But not just in the way you look. While my guy was taking his time massaging my scalp, I asked about places on the ship where we might be able to find passengers who are not yet pensioners.”

  “That’s some pretty good detective work there. What did you come up with?”

  “Two things: first, some ideas of where to look on this vast vessel for signs of life, and second, the exact place our two stylists will be meeting us when their shift is over tonight.”

  Donnelly stopped in his tracks. “What?”

  Sandler smiled. “Well, I’d asked about places to go, so it’s kind of natural that he offered to show us some.”

  “I was thinking about a place to get a drink and talk with people somewhere nearer our age, not going clubbing with those barely legal fashionistas.”

  “Well, listen to you, ready to be consigned to the old folks’ home.” Sandler smiled slyly at Donnelly. “You said it yourself, mister: you’re not dead yet.”

  “But I am engaged and on my way to my actual wedding.” Donnelly’s voice took on a harsher tone, revealing the frustration he was feeling.

  Sandler took a deep breath before continuing, his voice soothing. “This is not a double date. I asked them where we could have some fun on this stately boat, and they offered to show us around. That’s all.” He studied Donnelly’s face. “Gabriel, I’m not setting you up to cheat on that amazing man of yours.”

  Donnelly shrugged. “I know. I just… I don’t know how to do this.”

  “Do what?”

  “Go… out. Without him.”

  Sandler took in a breath as if a puzzle piece had finally fallen into place. “Oh, I get it. You skipped this part, didn’t you?”

  “What part?”

  “The part where you go out and have fun and have a drink or two. Maybe even dance. You wouldn’t know this, because you jumped right from straight to committed, but this is what guys do.”

  “Yeah, if they’re looking for another guy.”

  “Yes, but this is also what guys do when they just want to spend some time with other guys. It doesn’t mean you’re looking for someone to take home with you.”

  “Are you sure?” Donnelly asked, squinting at Sandler. “Are you sure those guys aren’t expecting us to be… available?”

  “I’m sure they’re hoping you might be, but it’s not like they’re going to run screaming away when they find out you’re engaged. I think your guy mostly wants to sit and watch you smile—I tell ya, every time you smiled in the mirror he lit up like a Christmas tree. On fire.”

  Donnelly laughed in spite of himself. “Okay, if you promise me this won’t get awkward, I’ll give it a try. But if things get weird, I’m out. Deal?”

  “Deal.” Sandler extended his hand, and Donnelly shook it with ridiculous vigor, as if they were concluding the Louisiana Purchase. “Now, where can two well-groomed gentlemen get some hot bingo action?”

  That evening, after another unspeakably elegant dinner at their secluded table for two, Donnelly and Sandler made their way to one of the ship’s nightclubs.

  “Good evening, Mr. Donnelly, Mr. Birkin,” the bartender said as they sat. “What can I get for you?”

  “A whiskey sour, my good man,” Sandler replied jovially. The bartender smiled and turned to Donnelly.

&nb
sp; “I’ll have the same,” Donnelly said, “and one thing more. How did you know our names?”

  “I wish I could tell you it was magic,” the bartender replied, his voice suddenly laced with a lilting Irish accent, as if he had thrown off the proper British his employer required. “But for the guests in our royal suites we make it a point to welcome you personally.”

  “So there are mug shots of us circulating among the staff?”

  “Aye,” the barkeep said and flipped his tablet toward the men. On it were the pictures they took at boarding, along with the name of their suite, their butler, and every drink they had ordered since getting on the ship. Including, now, whiskey sours.

  “Well, that’s personalized service taken to a frightening extreme,” Donnelly said cheerfully. “Thank you…?”

  “Emmet, sir. And you’re welcome.” Emmet winked. “To anything you like,” he added slyly as he turned to make their drinks.

  Sandler leaned close. “I think Emmet’s taken a bit of a shine to yeh,” he whispered in a leprechaun brogue.

  Donnelly rolled his eyes. “He was just being friendly.”

  Sandler tucked the corner of his mouth up cynically and shook his head.

  “If I may be so bold, gents,” Emmet said as he laid the drinks before them, “Dax didn’t do you justice.”

  Sandler laughed. “Mentioned our conversation, did he?” Emmet nodded. “Well, it’s his doing. I was a frightful monster before he plied his trade on me this morning.”

  Emmet chuckled. “I have a hard time believing that, sir. But he was very excited that he might see you tonight.”

  “Tell me,” Donnelly broke in. “Is it okay for staff and passengers to… fraternize?” That was a far more loaded term than he had intended, but he didn’t know how else to ask the question.

  “This hallowed line is one of the few that still provides gentlemen hosts so that our single ladies have someone to dance with,” Emmet explained. “They could hardly begrudge our single gentlemen the same kind of attention, now could they?”