by Sabrina York
He turned off his TV. Rod would remain just another blond head poking up in a sea of bodies flowing through main hallway before first bell. By ten thirty, exhaustion claimed him, and he readied for bed. He began his nighttime ritual with a final e-mail check, elated to find a message from 1Night Stand.
“Yes!” He didn’t need to open it to know the exclusive online dating service had approved his application. He scanned the message from the company’s owner, Madame Eve, excited to learn she wished to offer him an unforgettable evening of mystery and passion. After all the work with the reunion committee taking up his free time, he welcomed the break. Trolling the local gay bars for a potential mate hadn’t yielded much success. Maybe Madame Eve could help break his dry spell.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears as he studied the mail:
I do remember Beth Kightly by way of her application and am pleased to learn she and Thomas found what they wanted in each other, read the message in part. Beth had recommended the service to him after one rather emotional lunch when he’d all but cried on her shoulder over his recent breakup. He had not heard of 1Night Stand before, but it sounded like the perfect solution for wiping the dating slate clean.
“Who knows? You may get lucky,” she’d told him as she waggled her hand to show off her engagement ring.
“Please, Beth. I’m not searching for Prince Charming. A one-night stand with Prince Well-Hung will suffice until I’m ready to get serious again.”
“Whatever you say.” Beth winked.
Thinking back to their conversation, when Beth had handed him the gilt-edged business card with Madame Eve’s contact information, he smiled, looking forward to the pleasures 1Night Stand’s service could offer him.
I have in mind for you a magnificent new venue, which happens to be located in Florida. The Castillo at Ponce is less than a year old and offers many luxury amenities and privacy. I guarantee a memorable evening there for you and the companion I will choose for you.
“Nice.” He browsed the PDF brochure attached to the e-mail. He’d heard of the high-end Castillo resort chain but never before stayed in any of the hotels. The Ponce, an appropriate name for their new St. Augustine Beach location, appeared expensive and decadent. Each room featured high-definition flatscreen televisions, jetted tubs, and gorgeous views of the Atlantic. Premium ground-floor suites, he discovered, came with their own in-ground Jacuzzis. He wouldn’t have to drive far to get there, either—another bonus.
“Like I’m going there to watch TV.” He chuckled, hoping his date wouldn’t be so much of a dud they ended up watching the tube.
He clicked the link in Madame Eve’s e-mail to a secure site where he needed to fill out various questionnaires. “Jeez, these guys are thorough.” He eyed the lengthy personal profile required to get the ball rolling. It took about an hour to complete the at-times invasive form, where he provided everything from eye color to inseam measurements, but finally he came to the last page. “At least I don’t have to mail them a urine sample,” he muttered, but chose to remain optimistic. Madame Eve needed to know all of these things in order to match him to the right guy.
He came to the final instruction on the form. Describe your ideal romantic partner.
For some reason the image of young Rod Maloney popped into his head. Tall, athletic, broad-shouldered, and drop-dead sexy—who wouldn’t want a man like him for one night? Glenn always went for the type, and while he’d dated a number of men who fit the physical description, few met the other qualifications he sought in a mate.
He took a moment to collect his thoughts, and his fingers soon sped over the keyboard:
I knew from an early age I preferred my own gender, so I definitely have to say my ideal partner must be comfortable with his sexuality. I don’t require he march in the parades and champion gay-rights causes, but he can’t feel ashamed of himself. I find confident men very sexy, and one who is willing to take charge in any situation, from choosing the movie on a date to bedroom activities, is the man for me.
Did “bedroom activities” sound too cerebral? He didn’t want to reveal he wanted a man who’d fuck him into the mattress so hard he’d have to surgically remove the springs from his stomach. Of course, maybe a French lady like Madame Eve could enjoy a good laugh at direct language in people’s forms.
He continued:
I could be described as wiry, and I’m attracted to men with more bulk. I love muscles on a man, especially in the arms and chest. I love the feel of two strong arms wrapped around me, whether spooning in bed or protecting me from the cold. Full disclosure here: I am a “bottom” and have no interest in penetrating anything or anybody. I love the sensation of a man’s shaft inside me, taking me roughly for as long as he can hold out. I am very oral, too, and could spend hours worshipping my partner’s manhood.
“Can you see me blushing, madame?” he asked the computer.
Race and creed are not important to me, though I admit I am partial to the virile, outdoorsy type. Imagine Daniel Craig emerging from the ocean with his bathing shorts clinging to his thighs…can I order one of him to go?
He detailed the physical attributes of his dream man, keeping Rod Maloney in mind the whole time. Madame Eve wanted to know everything, so why not stress his preference for an approximate clone of his fantasy? Who would he find when he unlocked his guest room at The Ponce?
After proofing the form for spelling errors, he hit send. A joyous tremor shot through his veins, and he just about skipped to bed, anticipating final arrangements from 1Night Stand. Soon he’d have all this class reunion work finished and could enjoy a brief vacation in the arms of a willing lover. He drifted off to sleep minutes after his head hit the pillow, the image of a naked, gorgeous blond reaching for him.
Madame Eve, please, his mind sang to the tune of “Mister Sandman,” give me a dream….
Chapter Two
“Rod? Hey, Roddy? You in there?”
Cassie Maloney rapped her knuckles against Rod’s temple, rousing him from the dark cloud that had settled in his brain. He shuffled browser windows on his computer, sighed, and offered her a weak smile before turning in his chair to acknowledge her. “Sorry, sis,” he said. “Something ticked me off earlier. It hasn’t quite gone away.”
The waifish redhead, whose slight frame betrayed a physical strength that helped her often best her brother in various sports, quirked up her lip and settled into the other chair by his desk. “Don’t tell me the fulfillment service is giving us grief again,” she moaned. “We have so much paperwork and can prove their negligence—”
“No, this is personal,” he broke in, and regretted it. Feisty Cassie never wasted a moment at work on idle gossip and surfing Facebook. As second-in-command at Sigmund Brewing, she took the business he founded more seriously than anyone on the payroll. The mere mention of anything relevant to his personal life, however, never failed to perk up her interest. Already she’d pinned her elbows to the desk and rested her face in her hands.
“Ooh, man problems, is it?” Her green eyes sparkled with a hint of merriment. “I take it last night’s dinner with Joshua ended badly.”
“It just ended, and I mean a different problem.” Well, maybe he fibbed. Cassie had arranged the blind date with the bar owner—one of many who stocked Sigmund’s craft beers—and to appease her, Rod went in with some enthusiasm. Josh turned out to be a nice guy, just not the guy for him.
He watched Cassie study him, and winced at the memory of his dull-as-dishwater date. He appreciated her desire to see him matched, but she’d flopped.
“You know, I’m sorry about Derek,” she said. “ I miss him, too, but you have to let him go and not look for him in other men.”
“This isn’t about Derek, not this time.” He shook his head and turned back to his computer in an attempt to end the conversation. This did involve Derek to some extent—the damned phone call from FDR High brought everything back yet again, but he didn’t dare reveal it. She’d witnessed some of the sh
it that had gone down herself, and she would speak her piece if she learned about his volatile reaction to the reunion invite. It happened ten years ago. People change. Be the better man and go.
Like hell. His former classmates may have let a decade smudge and distort memories of hallway taunts and sneers, but he held fast to the pain. They might view the time as fleeting moments of teenage rite of passage teasing, but unlike him and Derek, those assholes hadn’t stood on the receiving end of all the bullshit.
Letting go of the past, too, would mean losing Derek because he hadn’t stuck around to enjoy the success they’d planned.
Cassie slapped down the folder in her hands and rolled her eyes. “Fine, keep it in your precious vault. I only came by to show you the label options for the fruit ales,” she said. “I thought it would be cool, rather than you and me picking one over lunch break, to set up a poll on Facebook and let the people vote. We could give away some swag…really build up the buzz for the new beers.”
“Sounds good. Can you draft it and send it to me before you post?” He wanted to sound more enthusiastic—he liked the idea, and Cassie never laid eggs when it came to marketing—but the damned phone call from the FDR alumni people weighed on his mind. He hadn’t bothered to ask who spoke to him and, for a brief moment, thought the timid-sounding man on the other line might have been one of the worst hallway offenders. Catcalls of “Hey, faggot,” and “Got AIDS yet?” echoed in his memory, but he couldn’t place the voice. No matter. He had no intention of going to the reunion to find out.
Cassie lingered at his desk for a moment longer, and when he offered no further avenues for conversation, she announced she’d return to her office to finish answering e-mails. Rod waited for the door to close all the way then switched browser windows on his monitor.
Before his sister had interrupted his reverie, he’d spent several minutes staring at a message from Madame Eve at 1Night Stand. He didn’t want Cassie seeing it.
When he came out as gay in college, his sister, unlike the rest of the immediate family, had supported him. Only she still spoke to him, encouraged him to have the happily ever after with a handsome fellow, maybe a house with a few cats and plenty of money with which to spoil her future children. He wouldn’t mind the picket fence dream one day, but he’d settle for a nice, hard fuck with a hot body until his prince arrived. If she found out he intended to hook up with a total stranger, she’d have a fit and spend the rest of the week littering his car and office with HIV awareness pamphlets.
Rod took a deep breath, pushed FDR High and nagging sisters out of his mind then started on Madame Eve’s message from the top.
Mr. Maloney, I hope this letter finds you well. I thought you might be pleased to know Jackson Castillo is interested in carrying some of your products for his guests. I trust he will be in touch soon.
He sure wouldn’t mind if one of the largest resort chains in the world served Sigmund beers in its bars and restaurants. He’d have to expand their base of operations if the orders increased soon.
On to the news you wish to hear, no doubt. I have matched you to a gentleman who best fits the profile of an ideal mate you submitted to 1Night Stand. You will receive, in a separate e-mail, information on your reservation at The Castillo at Ponce, along with a brief profile of your companion.
Rod switched to his inbox to find another e-mail from 1Night Stand. He opened the attached color PDF brochure for the resort and the document on his date. “Brief” indeed. Madame Eve chose to play coy with the details, providing only a first name and some personal trivia. His future fuck buddy, a guy named Glenn, worked as a schoolteacher, enjoyed science fiction TV and movies and hiking. He found no picture to accompany Glenn’s data odd, considering the application required a photo.
“They must use those for security purposes.” He saved both messages to a private folder. Well, in a few days, he’d discover what his date looked like. What to pack for this brief trip? And what to tell Cassie when she asked why he had to take off overnight?
Rod leaned back in his chair, and his cock stiffened in anticipation of his upcoming one-night stand. Forgive me, Derek, but I need this.
Chapter Three
Damn it, I bet I’m super early. Counting the days until his big date had almost left Glenn a mental case. Throughout the past week, he’d fumbled through lectures and passed back exams with trembling hands, and arrived late to a few classes due after lunchtime daydreams held him hostage. He found it challenging to discuss themes of romanticism in Madame Bovary without the interruption of strong, imaginary hands caressing his body and breaching his ass.
Not two seconds after the final bell, he darted straight for his car to begin the hour-long drive to St. Augustine. A duffel packed with his overnight shaving kit and two changes of clothes—casual and dress wear, for he didn’t know what to expect—sat in the backseat, and up front, he kept a manila folder with his printed reservation and his date’s profile. He checked the side pocket of the bag once more for the strip of condoms he’d stuffed there then surged forward toward his destiny.
As he pulled off US Highway 1 into the long driveway leading to the resort, he bit back a gasp at the property’s beauty.
Roderick…. Madame Eve had paired him with another Floridian, one who owned his own business and enjoyed similar outdoor pursuits as he. What were the odds this Roderick might turn out to be the angry Mumbles Maloney, FDR High Class of 2004? The reunion paperwork Beth gave him offered no personal information beyond his date’s birthday, but when he received his 1Night Stand dossier he, let Google do the real dirty work for him.
A search on Rod brought up several articles on the owner of a growing microbrewery. He didn’t need to research too much to know what, or rather who had inspired the man to choose Sigmund as the name of his company, and though the article made much of one beer label featuring a cartoon Sigmund Freud raising a glass, there had to be more to it. He’d never tried any of the Sigmund beers…maybe tonight in the hot tub with a sexy brewer man.
Right. Roderick wasn’t an uncommon name, and he couldn’t know for certain his former schoolmate waited for him in their room. If Mumbles Maloney ended up as his date, though, should he say something about the reunion?
“God, no,” he muttered, surprised to hear the words out loud. He’d come here to have a good time, and he imagined Roderick had similar plans. The mere mention of high school would put a damper on the evening. He took a deep breath as he slowed the car to a stop by the valet station. Whoever he is, I’ll like him, he decided. If only he could stop his hands from shaking.
***
The Castillo at Ponce consisted of a large, multi-storied building of suites with a ground-floor restaurant and piano bar. A dozen detached bungalows surrounded a large swimming pool. Glenn admired the resort’s décor, a fusion of the old Spanish motifs defining the region and shining art deco. He took a moment to soak it in, unsure of how much he’d get to see once he met up with his date.
The clerk at registration—a comely brunette with wide, dark eyes—handed him a key card and a property map. “Your companion has already checked in,” she informed him in a soft voice before pointing him to the correct doors. Her smile, matched with an arched eyebrow, seemed to say more about her knowledge of his business here. Embarrassment heated his face, and he slipped away.
Short palm trees with large fronds lined the entryway to Bungalow 12. He tested the door and found the security bar blocked it from closing all the way. “Hello?” he called out, his heart palpitating. His date might have decided to explore the grounds, leaving him about to surprise some poor maid who came in to stock extra towels. Nothing wrong with extra towels to clean up after a night of passion…don’t want to leave the floors all sticky.
Breathe. He inhaled and stepped deeper into the room. Should he leave the entryway? What if he locked Rod out? Had he come to the right room? Those palm fronds waving in the breeze might have concealed an extra number on the outside wall. What if this was B
ungalow 120 or 12B? He would soon walk in on a senior citizen couple celebrating their sixtieth anniversary and give them both heart attacks. Talk about a date to remember.
“Hey, somebody in there?” The voice traveled in through the glass door opened to the screen across the room. He set his bag on top of the low dresser and followed the sunlight slanting in, noticing another bag on the far side of the bed. Outside, a tall wooden fence provided privacy from the rest of the resort. Only then did he notice the gorgeous blond soaking in the in-ground Jacuzzi, his muscled arms propped on the tiled rim.
The man had his face to the sun, eyes pinched shut and smiling. “Is that the mysterious Glenn?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah. I just got here. N-nice to, uh, meet you.” He pushed the screen door out of the way. “Do you need a towel?”
“Not at the moment. It feels good in here. You’re welcome to join me.” The blond lowered his face, and he sucked in a breath. Mumbles Maloney of French Club stared back at him, appearing just a bit older than his fuzzy yearbook photo. Damn, but he looked sexy as all hell, crooking his neck in a come-hither invitation to get wet.
Madame Eve must be psychic. He must come off like a slack-jawed idiot because Roderick fixated on his awkward stance on the patio door threshold and boomed with laughter. He didn’t sound like a mumbler.
“Hey, man, I don’t bite. It’s okay.” The man squirmed a bit then rose from the swirling white water. Ho. Lee. Shit. Every single slow-motion movement done to heighten the sex appeal of a movie hunk paled in comparison to this glorious, naked body stepping out of the Jacuzzi to greet him. Dark blond hair matted against tight legs and a pumped chest, and a thick cock—perfect for hours of sucking—dangled and bobbed with each step. Water droplets beaded and slid down smooth shoulders, and bold green eyes appraised his certain shyness.