by Willa Okati
"It's not that easy for everyone," Guy protests.
"Nope. I'm lucky." Clay drains his cup and sends it spinning expertly into the trash can. "I take it you've had some flak thrown at you?"
Guy rocks his hand to and fro in a semi-answer. He looks at his own personal reminder of Cameron, a picture tacked to the corkboard propped by the computer monitor. Station administrative assistants aren't technically allowed to have personal effects at the central desk, although everyone's snuck something in.
In Guy's case, it's a snapshot of Cameron taken on a bright July morning, dressed in his lifeguard uniform. Guy remembers snapping the picture when Cameron wasn't looking, and the natural photo is his favorite. Cameron looks sun-bronzed and content, his expression peaceful and his hair a wind-mussed mess.
"Okay. Keep this in mind." Clay stands, ruffling his hair back in an attempt to straighten it, which accomplishes nil-point-nothing. "Screw 'em. To perdition with anyone who stands in your way, and that includes you and your man if either of you gets cold feet."
"Cold feet aren't going to be a problem," Guy replies immediately, certainly. "We're in this together."
"Double good for you. Mazel tov, cheers, slainte mhath, all that good stuff." Clay waggles his eyebrows. "So was it really the eastward-facing window that woke you up, or was it your honey?"
"That would be over-sharing." Guy grimaces. "Actually, I was supposed to have brunch with my sister and his sisters this morning."
Clay stills. "And you're here instead why?"
"I didn't back out," Guy hastens to explain. "Their flights were delayed, both of them, and we decided on a late-afternoon version of brunch instead. And when the station called saying the Saturday admin didn't show, I figured some overtime wouldn't hurt."
"No urgent desire to avoid his family?"
"What are you, Dr. Phil?"
"Don't hate on my dreams and aspirations."
Guy can't quite tell if Clay's serious, and he doesn't want to ask. "Yeah, well. I'd better get moving."
"Not so fast. I want to clear my calendar. When's the happy date?"
"You assume you're being invited," Guy challenges just to see how Clay takes it.
"My natural charm gets me everywhere."
Guy likes Clay's style. "Fine. Next week."
Clay blinks. "Whoa. The rumor mill's got a jam in it when it comes to you, too, I see. I hadn't heard a word about it being this soon. When did you get engaged?"
Guy squirms. "Last week." The slight embarrassment he feels annoys him. Why should he feel the need to apologize, for fuck's sake?
"Huh." Clay ponders for a moment. "Spur of the moment, or was there some weird science and a few shotguns involved?"
Guy gapes at Clay for a moment before an involuntary snort of laughter escapes him. "You're unreal."
"I hear that a lot, and I’m proud of it." Clay thumps Guy on the shoulder. "Get out of here. Go play nice with the future in-laws, and say hi to your man for me. And tell you what -- I'll DJ for your reception, if you want."
"You're a lifesaver."
"Would that I was often told that, too. Go get 'im, tiger."
Guy offers his fist; Clay bumps knuckles with him. Guy thinks he's made a new friend, and for him that's a rarity.
The day's looking bright again.
***
"Sorry I'm late," Cameron apologizes, sliding into the metal, wicker-look chair kept conspicuously empty by Guy's side. He's damp with sweat, hair curling tightly at the nape of his neck and plastered to his forehead, not yet changed out of his board shorts and bright red, sleeveless LIFEGUARD shirt. He looks as out of place in the coolly formal beachfront bistro as a pig in a wig.
Guy's never been quite so happy to see Cameron in his life. Or quite so relieved. He snags Cameron's hand and lifts it to his mouth, kissing the knuckles.
The dour disapproval on Leslie's face is one hundred percent worth it for the far more compelling lightening of tension and pleasure brightening Cameron's clearly weary spirit. "Good to see you, too," he says quietly, squeezing Guy's hand.
"We've been waiting almost an hour," Leslie points out, her complaint reedy and her lips pinched tight. She scares Guy, and he'll be the first to admit it no matter how unmanning it might be to get the creeps from a pretty thirty-something.
Well. Sort of pretty. Blonde, blue-eyed, petite, and even Guy has to admit she's got an outstanding rack. She'd be prettier if she didn't lurk in the middle of a dark cloud of suspicion and hostility.
"I don't know about her --" Leslie refers to Nadia without looking -- "but I'm sure she--" Leslie points to her sister Alison, who's occupied herself tearing a crusty sourdough roll into equally-sized fragments, rolling the crumbs between her fingers -- "doesn't appreciate being made to wait, and neither do I. Where were you?"
Cameron sits back in his chair, lacing his hands across his stomach, his expression unreadable. "A kid went out too far and nearly drowned. I was doing my job. By the way, sis, hi, how are you? Great to see you again. It's been what, almost two years? Hope you got my birthday cards. I wouldn't know, since I never heard anything back from you."
Guy, Nadia and Alison grimace in sync. Alison looks up from her intent study of the composition of the roll -- Guy remembers now that she's a pastry chef -- and mouths they're always like this at him.
Guy shifts his weight, uncomfortable on the hard metal chair -- he's pretty sure he's got the latticework imprinted on both butt cheeks by now -- and irritated. He's tried to keep Clay's advice, fully correlated with his own shower pep talk, in the back of his head, but by now Leslie's aggressive disapproval has worn on him like a cheese grater on a block of Cheddar.
He wonders if Alison does wedding cakes and if so what kind of miracle she might be able to whip up with instant mix, about the only thing they'll have spare cash enough for after a meal at a bistro this fancy.
Leslie purses her lips tighter still and picks at a tiny scratch on the edge of her gilt-trimmed bread saucer. "This is idiotic," she sniffs. "Weddings aren't to be taken lightly, and I for one don't appreciate being shanghaied into stamping this nonsense with approval I don't care to give."
Okay, that was blatant.
"So why are you here?" Cameron demands.
Leslie's lips almost disappear, they're pressed so tightly together.
"Mom made her," Alison explains, glaring at Leslie. "You know how sorry she was that she couldn't come. The knee surgery's still got her down. What she hoped was that you and Les would come to some kind of truce."
From the way Cameron and Leslie glare poison-tipped daggers at one another, Guy doubts that's likely to happen any time before the polar ice caps completely melt.
"She's still bitter about her justice of the peace wedding," Alison goes on.
"At least it was a real wedding and not a joke," Leslie snaps.
Cameron trades an exhausted, helpless look with Guy. Guy can see his sister's getting to him deeply, sending his already low-ebb mood into a dark blue funk.
Okay, then. Damage control. Guy's not taking any more crap. And lucky him, he's got an instant ally. He tips his head at Nadia, who has so far behaved herself, sitting like a very proper lady with her legs crossed at the ankle and her demeanor demure.
Absolutely nothing could be further from the truth.
Nadia sparkles back at Guy, giving him the slightest of nods.
"So, sis," Guy asks casually, taking a bread roll for himself and splitting it open to be buttered. "How's the exotic dancing business going for you?"
Cameron's eyes pop open as wide as the bread saucers. Alison drops the last remnant of her roll, her lips parting wide in a gleeful -- maybe that's not a strong enough word -- grin.
Leslie sits very, very still. "I beg your pardon?"
Guy doesn't answer her directly, explaining to Cameron instead. "Nadia's moved up in the world."
"I thought she was a real estate agent," Cameron says, stunned, but already trying not to giggle.
"She is, during the day," Nadia replies for Guy, winking at Cameron. "I've invested in my dear friend's business endeavor. There's a lot of money in the trade."
"You didn't tell me," Cameron says, but he's thrilled, not annoyed, at being left out of the loop.
"It's a new development," Nadia soothes. "Barely a month now, and you've been busy from what I hear."
Guy's loving this beyond the legal limits. "Find any new stars for the lineup?"
"Lick-Me Lucy's got potential," Nadia replies, propping her elbow on the immaculate linen tablecloth and her chin in her hand. "Small and perky up top, but who needs more than a mouthful? She has a decent sense of rhythm -- her lap dances bring down the house -- and for a nice change of pace, she actually has two brain cells to rub together."
"Lick-Me Lucy?" Cameron blurts.
"Stage name," Guy explains.
Nadia claps her hands. "Oh! Speaking of names, do you remember Cottix Day?"
You read my mind, Sis. Guy resists the urge to high-five her and give the game away. That's my girl. "God, how could I forget?"
Guy can see Leslie twitching, trying not to give in to base curiosity. Alison asks for her, wrinkling her cute button nose, "Cottix? It's different, but what's so bad about that?"
Guy keeps a straight face as he replies, "It wasn't spelled C-o-t-t-i-x."
He waits for it, letting everyone not in the know run through possible alternate spellings in their heads.
Cameron gets there a second before Leslie, who turns scarlet. "No way. His parents named him Kotex?"
"His mother thought it was pretty. Go figure." Guy shoulder-checks Cameron. He deliberately doesn't look at Leslie when he says, "See? Everyone else laughed their asses off at Cottix and called him an idiot, but his mom loved him to pieces, loved his name, and he kept that same name even when he could have changed it."
Who cares how crazy people think some displays of love are? They're still love. That's what matters.
It's about as subtle as a cartoon anvil, but it gets the job done. "I ever tell you that I love you?" Cameron asks, leaning forward to drop a light kiss on Guy's lips. Under the elegant, linen cloth, he strokes Guy's thigh.
"From time to time."
Leslie looks like she's about to cry. Guy takes pity on her for Cameron's sake. "We're glad to you could come." It's a lie, but what the hell. "We'll look forward to seeing you at our wedding."
Nadia salutes Guy with her water glass. Not bad, she indicates with her pleased smile.
Guy doesn't think it was any too bad himself. Stumbling block taken off guard, neutralized, admonished, and rendered harmless. Plus, Cameron's grateful, his commitment to this scheme reinforced, and he's moved on to groping far closer to ground zero, improving Guy's already-bright mood to no end. He predicts crazy monkey sex once the relatives have gone their separate ways and he and Cameron are back home. Possibly even on the beach before then.
He looks up at the sky, enjoying the crystal-clear, saturated blue. If all their problems are this easy to solve, this wedding's going to go off without another single hitch.
Guy realizes, almost immediately, that he's just damned and doomed himself and Cameron.
He tries to do a quick take-back, but unfortunately, karma -- who is a mean bitch -- doesn't work that way.
Chapter Six
Once she's got her teeth in, karma doesn't let go, either. It's not as bad as Guy had thought it might be.
It's much, much worse.
Two days left until the wedding, and Guy's life has gone to hell in a gilt handbasket festooned with ribbon. There's no way Guy's going to get through this wedding alive. Or in one piece. Or at least with Cameron in one piece, because as the days grow fewer the screw-ups have mounted higher.
Two days left until the wedding, almost nothing has gone according to plan, and in the pit of Guy's increasingly smaller and grittily darker black heart, the urge to rip Cameron to shreds gets stronger by the minute.
With a guy of Cameron's stature and bulk that'd mean a huge amount of pieces Guy would have to clean up. At the moment, Guy thinks it's a worthwhile tradeoff.
He glares at Cameron over the monitor of the secondhand notebook computer Clay's lent him and repeats, making sure he's heard the insanity correctly, "You want to email the wedding invitations?"
Cameron, damn his hide, lazes casually in his chair, sipping a glass of orange juice with indolent grace. The last glass of juice. Cameron had tossed the carton in the trash, not even bothering to ask if Guy would like to share, which he would have, thanks. Even Guy can only drink so much coffee before he starts vibrating in place and he's passed that point three mostly one-sided arguments ago.
"Cameron? Email? Seriously?" Guy pushes. Cameron's lazzez-faire attitude is treading his last nerve. If a guy's going to fight, he should do it openly with lots of cursing and yelling, not employ this passive-aggressive crap.
Cameron shrugs, tipping the glass back. He has an orange-juice mustache when he comes up for air and licks it off absently. On an ordinary day, Guy would have tackled Cameron before his agile, pink tongue had a chance to come into play. Now, all it provokes is bitterness. Guy wants some of that juice.
In the back of his mind, a small voice tells Guy that if he's too stressed to think about sex, that's several miles beyond the point of good sense. He ignores it in favor of crossing his arms and glaring.
Finally, a reaction. Cameron rolls his eyes and exhales lengthily. "Yes, Guy, seriously. The wedding's in two days. It's not my fault you --"
"You," Guy cuts in, seething.
"Whoever forgot to mail the invitations. Does it matter?" Cameron points at the small, neat stack of envelopes sitting at the edge of the kitchen table. "Even if I put on my jogging sneakers and ran to the post office right now, they wouldn't reach anyone in time."
Guy sulks. Damn him for making a valid point. "Email. That's…"
"Modern?" Cameron suggests, dry as ancient dust.
"Tacky is the word I had in mind."
"You've got a better idea?"
Guy huffs and pokes at the laptop. He's got half a dozen screens open, each one filled with spreadsheets and checklists. They've got food, music, rings -- supposedly; Cameron was delegated to pick those up and if he has or not Guy hasn't had a chance to ask -- watch him have forgotten; that'd be like Cameron -- where was he?
Right. Everything's taken care of except inviting people to come and watch them get married, which was the original point. It mattered less soon after the fact, but the point is now that Guy is aware, he's turned into Groomzilla this morning, but he cannot be stopped, because after all this there had damn well better be a metric fuckton of people showing up at their wedding to appreciate his hard work.
"What else could we use, Guy?" Now that Cameron's façade has cracked, the gaps in his normally cheerful temper are widening fast. "Carrier pigeons? No, wait, we live on the beach. Carrier seagulls."
"Cameron," Guy warns. He knows he's gotten what he wanted by provoking Cameron to anger, but… but… he's changed his mind.
"Nuh-uh. You started this," Cameron snaps. "What about telegrams? We can Western Union everyone. Or hey, singing telegrams, even. We can see if Nadia's got any local contacts who'll show up half-naked at everyone's doors, shake their booties and ask if they want to come watch two guys tie one on. I mean, tie the knot."
Guy can hear Carrie and Heidi's mocking voices ringing all too clearly in his head, joining a peal of warning bells. All the same, he's too worked up and can't seem to slow down. "Fine! You want to call the whole thing off?"
Cameron slams his mostly-empty glass on the table. The juice level is low enough that it doesn't slop over, spraying up the sides instead. Good thing, too. If Cameron had soaked Guy's stacks of receipts and notes he'd have jumped over all of them and strangled Cameron. He'd end up hauling a corpse to the ceremony, but by damn it'd be well-behaved and quiet and probably make a better show of itself. "Are you even listening to yourself?"
"Not rea
lly, since you're shouting at me --"
"Swear to God, I'd turn you over my knee --"
Guy barks a laugh. "I'd like to see you try."
Cameron starts to stand up, his chair screeching across the kitchen tiles.
Guy stands with him, holding out one hand with the palm facing Cameron, warning him. "Don't even think about trying."
Cameron glares at Guy for a moment, then collapses heavily back in his chair and fixes his glass with a death stare.
Guy takes a deep breath, trying to compose himself. "Okay. Okay, we could… we could call everyone."