Zane did snarl this time. “God, if I were there, I’d volunteer for whatever you wanted to do.”
“Yeah?”
“Absolutely. I’ve got my mind set on you,” Zane said, gathering his courage. This whole no games thing was his idea, and he wasn’t going to let his fear of rejection screw him out of the possibility for something good here. Not again.
“Wow. Most guys would never admit something like that. Afraid they’d scare me off or whatever.”
The blood drained from Zane’s face and he wondered if he hadn’t just blown it. “I didn’t say I wasn’t terrified, but I don’t want you getting off of this phone wondering what I really think. I’ll always tell you the truth.”
“That sounds—well, it sounds really good to me. It’s nice to feel like I’m…”
“Wanted?” Zane interjected. “’Cause you are. Trust me.”
“Likewise,” there was a smile behind the words, “but you probably already knew that.”
“How would I?” Zane asked lightly, eyes narrowing in the dim light. If this was dumbed down to him being famous, he was going to be seriously disappointed. With fame, sure, he knew he was wanted, but he was almost always certain that it wasn’t him that was wanted, but the image of him. There was a big difference between the two. The image of him was make believe.
“Well, maybe we should start with how my legs seem to go jellyfish in your presence? Hmm? Or need I bring up the kiss?”
No words of celebrity. The relief was enough to make Zane dizzy. “I’ll happily talk about kissing you. I look forward to giving it another go sometime when I can really do it right.”
Mark’s low laugh had Zane’s foot tapping restlessly against the floor mat. He glanced back out the window and saw that they were already in his neighborhood and his mood fell.
He cursed softly. “We’re almost to my house,” he told Mark reluctantly. “I have to get inside and change.”
“Is ‘break a leg’ the right sentiment, or…?”
“I’ll take it.” Zane tugged his shoulder bag closer to his body and reached for his wallet, counting cash absentmindedly. “Call me anytime you want. I’ll be out of commission tonight, but I’ll let you know what happens.”
“Give ‘em hell, man. I’ll talk to you soon.”
After Zane hung up, he couldn’t move even though the car was sitting in his drive waiting for Zane to punch on the key fob that opened his gate. When they pulled up as close to his door as possible, he lowered the privacy window and asked if Robert was waiting for him while he changed to take him to Jenny’s.
“Yes, sir. I’ll help you with your bags.”
“No need,” Zane stopped him. “Pop the trunk and I’ll grab them. I have to clean up anyway, might as well get rained on.”
His suitcase snagged on part of the trunk opening, so his whole head ended up under a stream of water running down from the roof as he wrestled it out. It was cold as hell and made Zane want to sit down on his driveway and mope until his next birthday; maybe just give up on the day. When he pushed through the heavy front doors, his house was quiet in that echoey sort of way that was like an announcement of how alone he was.
No one’s here. You’re alone…alone…alone…
His keys clattered on the entryway table and he threw his stuff down and half-heartedly kicked it out of the way. Deactivating the alarm, the front room light came on automatically when he stepped inside on his way to the kitchen. He was thirsty and pissy and hungry in that order.
The fridge was stocked with water bottles and produce that was starting to look a little withered in spite of the crisp air. Zane grabbed an apple and cracked into it thinking he’d better get some real food in his stomach if he wanted to avoid snapping someone’s head off or end up sloshed off of one drink. He wondered if it was weird that he actually ate the apple under the hot streams of water in his shower. Two birds with one stone, he supposed. At least he waited to soap up until he’d finished and thrown the core out into the trash can across the room.
He dressed in one of his favorite Gucci suits that rocked out a sweet vintage jacket in dark blue wool. It was warm and it stood out and that was important tonight. Paired with a crisp white shirt and skinny black tie, he looked like he’d put a lot more effort into dressing than he really had.
Being able to buy quality clothes was something he really didn’t hate about his lifestyle. It was an awful feeling to go to a party with your suit pants riding up your ass crack the whole time—which he’d experienced. His old stylist dragged him to a tailor and handed him the world in a pair of pants that didn’t turn his balls into balloon animals. Zane never looked back at the old crap he used to buy.
On his way out the door, he grabbed another water from the fridge and drank half of it. Keys, cash, phone and he was gone.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was almost eight thirty and Christian was on the prowl again. All day he’d been looking and not once had he even caught a glimpse of Mark. Not on the beach, not at the jet ski huts, not wind surfing. He didn’t know how good or bad that was because he also hadn’t seen the damn actor that everybody at the bar couldn’t shut up about last night. Poor Mark…he’d been dragged through the crowd, nearly clocked by a chick with her camera phone, and then surrounded until Whitlow allowed a couple pictures to be taken. The whole time Mark had stood in the background looking sort of dazed.
Christian watched it all happen. He would’ve liked to interfere, too, but his legs were full of Jim Beam and he couldn’t have made it over if he tried. At least, not without tripping on air. But, even three and a half sheets to the wind, he saw the look in Mark’s eyes. Like he was lost or realizing what kind of attention he might be getting simply by spending time with a guy that everybody knew. Mark came across bewildered and hesitant and that would show in every single picture that the people in the crowd had been taking. That shit would end up in some tabloid before Mark’s vacation was even over. They were holding hands for hell’s sake.
Christian wasn’t going to give up though. There was something that was welling up inside him and he didn’t know if it was his secrets looking for release (lame), or the knowledge of an opportunity to tell someone who wouldn’t judge him right into the fiery pit (not so lame). When he looked at Mark, his brain started a running loop: No one knows me. No one knows me.
Mark could though. He could know who Christian really was.
While he’d been seeking out Mark all day, he’d been avoiding his “best” friend. Whenever Kyle was around he felt oddly exposed. Ever since Christian lost the bet, his friend was watching him, tracking his movements when Mark was on the scene and the uneasiness it created had Christian wondering if maybe he hadn’t hidden the truth as well as he thought. And he’d definitely buried that shit deep—under bikini models, girls from bars and parties, one night stands. Hell, he’d even had sex with a girl in the same room as Kyle at some frat party, but Kyle had never seen him do anything that would make him question Christian’s sexual preference. There was no way. But the staring, the searching looks and unreadable gaze were screwing with his mind.
And for all the women that he’d slept with over the years—the faces that blended together into a blurred mass of eyes, lashes, lips—there was only the one time with a guy. A memory he rarely brought up to himself, it rattled him so much. Nothing with a woman could surpass it—ever.
Cabo. After graduation from college. A bar with music thumping. Chicks in strips of cloth that were supposed to count as skirts were prancing around in four-inch heels pouring shots and blowing these damn whistles before they handed over the vile tasting liquor. Yet, he didn’t even have the excuse of being drunk for what happened. He’d wanted the other man immediately.
Christian remembered how the guy moved through the crowd, like people danced around him but never touched him. His hair was buzzed, his skin tanned a syrupy gold. His shoulders moved back and forth in a saunter like the guy knew exactly who he was and fuck all that mes
sed with him about it.
Kevin.
Christian’s lips silently formed the name over and over. Kevin, Kevin, Kevin. His stomach flipped.
Kevin was strong. Everything about him, down to the way he would meet Christian’s eyes and hold that gaze. Hold it until the background sort of shimmered and the music distorted until all he could see were those green eyes and that fucking golden skin. His heart had pounded and he thought how he should run. Go. Get away. This dude saw through him and the knowledge of that discovery burned in his chest and clawed at his throat.
Christian fled. Pushing through the crowd, he nearly toppled over a group of drunk chicks who let out shrieks that sounded like what he was hearing in his own head; that tornado freight train sound.
Almost to the doors, almost away from the truth that were it revealed would flay him open, he felt that wicked hot touch on his arm and the squeeze around his bicep, and Christian knew denying himself was over. He didn’t hesitate.
It was a mad rush into the night. Skin on skin. Wet mouths on bodies. Heart-rending sensations and pain and God! the perfect, blazing heat of it.
Just the one time. Just the one night in a hotel room with the window open and the sounds of people on the street wafting in. The only remaining evidence had been tucked inside Christian’s wallet for years now: a name and a number he’d never called on a tiny slip of napkin.
It was his memory of the one time he’d let himself have what he wanted and the memory of something he couldn’t let happen again.
Unless…
Mark.
***
He never had good dreams, or if he did, Mark didn’t remember them. After Zane’s phone call, he’d nodded off on the couch in his bungalow and woke nearly two hours later hungry and grouchy.
Fucking Rafe.
Mark wanted to move on. Why couldn’t his subconscious offer him a hand and get behind that? Not to mention that he might have something new going on with an awesome man, but the dreams wouldn’t quit.
There’d been so much wasted time grasping after men who didn’t want him. How nice that he could relive the embarrassment in his sleep, too, with an added bonus of revisiting the moment of being dumped time and time again.
Sometimes he wanted to call his ex up and holler at him or demand some type of explanation, but it would do no good. Rafe was a different guy back then, too. He was into power plays, like the guy who cared least was the one with the most power. Mark wished like hell that he hadn’t continued fighting for that relationship after Rafe told him they were through the first time. Instead, he’d been too needy.
Mark had forgiven Rafe, who was a changed person now that he was with Jeremy. He simply couldn’t forgive himself. The memories were so mortifying; the dreams even worse.
Still groggy, he grabbed his wallet and room card and shuffled in the humid evening air to the bar area. It was the in between time after most people had eaten dinner and before the drinking crowd showed up, so he was hoping to grab a table, do a little people watching, and eat.
He didn’t expect another call from Zane tonight, but if it happened, Mark wanted to be in a better mood. A beer would go a long way toward erasing the effects of the dream, though not nearly as much as talking to Zane would.
The bar wasn’t busy and he nabbed an open air table that was fairly secluded. He gave his order and sank back in his seat, reliving that moment when his phone rang and Zane’s name showed up on the display. His heart was palpitating in that way that made his words come out all breathy. Now that was an incredible feeling. It had all of his lust sensors firing their alarms and his hands adjusting his shorts every few seconds.
Zane Whitlow was calling his cell phone. Yes sir.
The whole brand new relationship/new guy sensation was taking over. He could logically look at the time he’d spent in Zane’s presence and know that he should be careful, but in some ways, he couldn’t help it. Mark was honestly excited. Zane made his nerves jangle and his breath catch. And so far, the best part was that hanging out with Zane was like hanging out with any average guy.
Mark missed him. Or was that not the right word? Was he being too fruity about it?
Maybe he should say that he wanted Zane to be with him at the table that very second. That’s who he wanted to spend time with over everyone else right now. The no games thing could translate into his day-to-day also—so why lie to himself? He liked the possibilities here and he didn’t want to think about what happened once the vacation was over. Mark had a hunch that he might not be memorable in the face of everything Zane had going on in his life.
He slouched even lower in his chair and took a swig of his beer, surprised to see his server walking up with a refill.
“Sir, the gentleman at the bar sends his greetings.”
Mark tilted sideways to look around the server and smiled in resignation. He signaled Christian over with a wave and the answering grin was like sunshine. The man had trouble written all over him. He was a great, big, walking sexual party favor… Totally dangerous.
With lithe movements, Christian made his way through the tables and stopped, looking down from his great height at Mark. Leaning over until his God-so-gorgeous tatted arms and hands were braced on the table top, he asked, “Is this seat taken?” Man, his ink made Rafe’s best friend Brian’s tatts look like doodles…
Mark snorted at the not-so-subtle come on. “Thanks for the drink. Sit down.”
Christian made a show of looking over both shoulders. “Are you sure I’m not going to be waylaid by an action star popping out of the woodwork?”
“I guess you’ll have to risk it.”
Christian’s look was loaded with meaning as he pulled back a chair and folded his long legs beneath the table. “I like taking risks.”
“Hold up. Time out.” The laughter came from that cynic’s edge in Mark and Christian’s eyes narrowed at the sound.
“What?”
“Is this how you are all the time? It’s like a concentrated bar room assault—I feel like you expect me to melt in the face of your wit.”
Regrettably, Mark was closer to melting than he’d ever admit. It’s like his cock was on the hunt no matter what his brain said.
Christian looked hurt in the split second before his mouth started moving again. “So it’s working?”
“See!” Mark pointed. “Knock that shit off. I can’t take you seriously when you do that.”
“Do what? Show interest?”
“Throw the lines at me rapid-fire. One line, maybe two, but every sentence and I’m like, what’s with the act? Did your buddy put you up to this?”
Christian’s eyes widened and he gripped the chair arms. “W-what?”
Mark nodded his head toward the guy he’d seen with Christian the day before. “He’s at the bar watching you like this is hilarious.” Christian swiveled in his seat and his friend was there, lifting his beer in salute, a smirk on his All-American face. “See what I mean? With the game you’re spitting, the persistence, and the buddy watching you, something tells me I shouldn’t be taking this seriously.”
An embarrassed flush rose in Christian’s face making his tan even richer. “Kyle’s such a dick.” He let out a huge breath like he was bracing himself for something unpleasant.
“Do you want me to try to guess what’s going on here, or do you want to explain?”
“Why can’t I just be a guy interested in you? And maybe I’ve got a friend who’s been teasing me about it. Maybe I’m vocal about who I like.” Christian met his stare and didn’t hide the bitter twist to his lips.
Mark rolled his eyes and relaxed into his seat. “Bullshit.”
“Damn,” Christian spat. “Thinking you were an easy going guy was way off-base. Enjoy the beer.” He abruptly pushed his chair back and moved to leave when Mark shot forward and latched onto his arm around the bicep. At the touch, Christian stopped and looked down at Mark’s hand, an odd look crossing his face.
“Hey…” The guilt
was immediate as Mark saw what appeared to be genuine hurt in Christian’s eyes. It was amazing how quickly the old Mark could come back. He knew there was nothing wrong with protecting himself, but lashing out without a real reason had become way too easy. Plus, the mood that he’d been in when he got to the bar wasn’t the best; there was no need for him to take it out on Christian. “Sorry. Really I—I’m just sorry. You didn’t deserve that. I’m kind of in a mood.”
Christian looked away from the hand still gripping his bicep—zing! it was an extra lean bicep, too—and he shifted back Mark’s direction. “I may look young, but I’m not some slut kid, you know.”
Mark let him go and reached for the chair that Christian had abandoned, pushing it out invitingly. “I never said you were.” He’d thought it though.
“I’m not always out hitting on every dude I see.”
Yep, Christian was definitely hurt.
“Understood.” Mark nudged the chair again. “Come on. Sit down. I really am sorry.”
Christian eyed the chair for a few seconds before slowly sinking back into it. He watched Mark warily and then surprised him by heaving a sigh and slumping in his seat. “You’re right.”
The server chose that moment to deliver Mark’s sandwich to the table, so he had to wait to ask his tall companion what he meant. The pleasant air of Christian’s arrival became heavy with the sudden tension.
“Right about what?”
Christian scowled once more over his shoulder at his friend, and then looked back to Mark. “I really am gay. Not bi, gay.”
Mark blinked, purposely keeping his expression bland. “Okay.”
“And you’re the second person on the planet who knows that.”
“After Kyle over there?” Mark pointed.
“Never in a million years would I tell him. As far as he knows, I’m straight as the day is long.”
“So talking to me is, what? You coming out, but not really?” To hell with this horseshit. He didn’t have time for this cutesy crap. It was like one extreme to the other: no games to sports day.
Question Mark Page 7