by Rachel Kane
“You’re awfully judgmental about other people drinking to hide from their problems,” she said. “What’s wrong with Marcus? You could do worse. Maybe he’s not cultured like you, but he’s a sweetie. And those arms!”
I peered at her. “We don’t get along.”
“Because of your fight? That’s silly. That was a thousand years ago. In my opinion--”
“How can you have an opinion? You weren’t there.”
“Oh, please. There are no secrets in Oceanside. In my opinion, whatever your fight was, it’s over now.”
“He threw himself at Harris.”
“So? Harris turned out to be a sociopath or something, didn’t he? You’re not with Harris anymore, he’s not with Harris...no harm, no foul.”
“It’s not only that,” I said. I couldn’t tell her the story Hunter had told me. It was too much like gossip. Just because I didn’t like Marcus, and had good reasons for that, didn’t mean I needed to smear his name.
“Your loss,” she said. “I have known other guys who have dated him. They seemed to survive okay.”
“Anyway, that’s not what I’m here for this week.” I glanced at my watch. “I should be getting to bed. I have a lot to do tomorrow.”
“Oh, your big sculpture thing.”
“Assuming my tools get here. Nice talking to you.”
“Like an errrrrrr-mine, trapped in a caaaa-aaaaage,” she sang, as I went off to my room.
6
Marcus: Bedtime
“All right,” I told the guys. “I gotta...oh man, I gotta head out.”
Cal laughed. “You’re on vacation. There’s no curfew.”
“Yeah, but I want to be up first thing, so I can get to those cliffs.” I was holding on pretty tight to the back of a chair, to keep myself upright. “I missed my chance today, with all the rich-boy drama.”
“Can’t say I envy you,” said Edgar. “Staying with Sergio must be like rooming with somebody’s uptight old dad.”
“Don’t you get involved,” said Cal. “The last thing Marcus and Sergio need is you fanning the flames.”
“What? I know you go all melty for those wealthy cultured types, but--”
“I didn’t say I was melty,” said Cal. “I just think there’s no reason for them to be so damned tense together all the time.”
“Remember that party at the Georges’, when Sergio was standing three feet away from Marcus, and talking about how some people are always after money? That was a shitty thing to say.”
Cal’s fists were on his hips. “I do not remember that party, because I wasn’t invited, because we were on a break. Remember how we were on a break, because you felt stifled by the relationship? So I wasn’t there, but I’m sure you misinterpreted, because Sergio isn’t a snob, and he doesn’t go around gossiping about people, unlike you.”
“Yo, guys,” I said. “You kiss and make up. I gotta get to bed.”
They laughed, and soon their arms were around each other, and they were waving goodbye to me. I chuckled and walked off, shaking my head. They were so crazy.
Okay, honestly, I wanted to quiz Edgar, because I didn’t remember Sergio saying anything nasty at the Georges’ party. I knew pretty well what Sergio thought of me, and where he’d gotten the idea. If he wanted to believe lies about me, it wasn’t my problem, and it wasn’t my fault. And if he wanted to spread gossip, making shit up so he could justify his grudge against me, that was on him.
As I passed through the little groups of people out enjoying the night, I looked around for him. Maybe he was at the beach, or the bar; I thought I’d seen him earlier, hanging out with Rhody, but he wasn’t here now. It didn’t matter. As long as he wasn’t nearby, I could relax.
Except rather than relaxing, I tripped over a step on my way back into the hotel. I steadied myself against the door frame. Damn, maybe I’d had a little more to drink than I realized. Definitely time to get to bed, before I broke an ankle or something. I hadn’t thought I was drinking much, but the waiters just kept bringing me stuff, over and over, and who was I to say no? After all, like Sergio said, I wasn’t the server this time, I was the one being served. Kind of a nice change of pace. Except that now the hallway had gone a little wobbly.
I made it to the door of my hotel room by keeping one hand on the wall. It took a few tries to make the keycard go into the lock, but eventually it slid into the slot and the little light turned green. I opened the door and stumbled into the dark room.
The door slid shut behind me, and suddenly it was pitch black. No light from the curtains. I wasn’t expecting that. It made me feel a little dizzy. Carefully, I unbuttoned my shirt, and let it slip to the floor. Wait. Was Sergio going to get mad at me for that, would he see it as me not taking care of his property? Oh god, who cares, I have got to lie down, I thought. I dropped my pants--his pants, I should say, the ones I had borrowed. Then I fell heavily onto the bed.
“Ow! What the hell?” called the voice of the person beneath me. I hadn’t been expecting to find anyone there. Suddenly in the darkness, hands were on me, trying to push me away. I tried to get up, but my leg was tangled in the sheet, and so I fell back onto the bed.
“Dude, quit!” I shouted. It had finally gotten through my head that this was Sergio, and he seemed really pissed off. I guess I would’ve been too, if he’d landed in my bed. Except...wait, which bed was which? In my state, I had some trouble thinking it through, but it was impossible to remember, when he was shoving and slapping and scrambling to get out from under me.
There was a click and suddenly the room was bathed in soft lamplight. Sergio was sprawled in the bed, half of him underneath me, half reaching towards the lamp. He looked pissed and confused, his breath heavy and fast, his chest swelling with each breath. For some reason I’d figured he would wear silk pajamas or something to bed, but instead, he was...naked? It was hard to tell because I was half-lying over him, my leg still tangled in the sheet, but as I pulled myself off of him, sure enough, he was completely bare.
“Dude,” I said. “Why are you naked in my bed?”
“It’s not your bed. Your bed is there.” I looked to where he pointed. There was indeed a bed there.
I looked back at him. “Are you sure that’s mine?”
He grabbed an edge of the sheet and pulled it over his crotch. Which was fine, I didn’t need to see his fat dick anyway. I am sure he was just as stuck up about it, as he was about his body and his money and his perfect teeth and hair. Although his hair wasn’t really perfect right now; it was all crazed from sleep.
In a voice that reminded me of my third-grade teacher, he said, “Marcus, my bed is the one that had the shopping bags on it.”
I squinted at him. Some part of my mind reminded me that if his point was correct, I was staying in his bed longer than strictly necessary. Which was socially awkward, since he was naked and I was just in my briefs. If someone walked in right now they might really get the wrong idea. I puzzled over that a moment.
“Marcus...? How drunk are you, man?”
I raised a finger and explained, “Very.”
“Do you want to just switch beds?”
“No. I can make it.”
We stared at each other for a few long moments.
“Well?” he asked.
“What?”
“Are you going to go to your bed?”
“Which one is mine again? No, I know, that one. Because it had shopping bags on it.”
“Yes. No. Mine had the bags.”
“So that one’s yours?” I looked from bed to bed in some confusion.
“Okay, you just stay in this one,” he said. He stood up, pulling the sheet around him. “I’m going over there.”
“You ought not sleep naked in other people’s beds,” I said sleepily. “It’s rude.”
“I wasn’t--ugh. Yes, you’re right. That was rude of me. I’m sorry.”
I nodded and smiled. “See? Apology solves everything. Now we can go back to being friends.
Enemies. We can go back to being enemies. Because you hate me.”
“I’m just going to sleep now,” he said.
“But I can’t figure out why you hate me,” I said. I lay down and put my head on the pillow. There was no sheet, so I pulled the blanket up. “I’m not so bad.”
“Oh, I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “I just want to sleep. I’ve got so much to do tomorrow.”
“Is it because I didn’t go to college?”
“Is what?”
“Your hate. I’m never going to be rich and smart like you, Sergio.”
“God, Marcus, seriously, can we not talk about this? You’re so drunk.”
“So drunk. But you always act so stuck-up around me.”
A sigh from the other bed. “Turn out your light, Marcus.”
Click. The room was dark again.
“Sergio?”
“Yes?”
“This vacation would be a lot easier if we didn’t hate each other.”
“Good night, Marcus.”
I don’t know if he said anything else. I was asleep.
7
Sergio: The Ice-Man Cometh
The morning sun pierced my retinas, as I waited by the hotel’s loading dock, regretting last night. A cup of black coffee had done nothing for the burning in my stomach, and the ibuprofen hadn’t touched my headache yet. When I’d left the room, Marcus had been curled into a little ball on my bed--now his bed, forevermore--his broad muscular back facing me. I’d stared at it a while before getting up. If anyone had told me a couple of years ago that I’d be spending the night four feet away from a guy who looked like Marcus, and that nothing at all would happen between us, I’m not sure I would’ve believed them.
I’d been surprised, though, to wake up and find that I was naked. I wasn’t sure how that had happened. I usually pull on my pajama bottoms before getting to bed. Oh, wait. My pajama bottoms were 3000 miles away still. I hadn’t bought any new ones. I had some vague memory of Marcus seeing me naked, and it made me a little embarrassed, but I suppose that made us even, since his cock was falling out of his clothes every five minutes.
I had to put those kinds of thoughts out of mind, though, because I had work to do. The ice blocks were going to be delivered this morning, and I had to get them to the freezer space I was renting in the hotel. Even if I couldn’t work on the sculpture now, I could still have the ice on hand for as soon as the tools got here. If the tools were delayed much longer, I was going to have to find something in town. The thought was dreadful. Ice is tricky. You can get good results from a chainsaw and an angle grinder, but I had more in mind. Among my tools was a book of sketches and templates for what I really wanted to build for Owen and Nat, something beautiful yet abstract, something that would, even as it was transient and melting under the sun, still suggest the permanence we all hoped their love would have.
Damn. Lofty thoughts for someone with a hangover. But my mind quickly descended to more mundane matters: Where is the ice truck?
When the door behind me opened, letting out a huff of cold air, I turned. I almost groaned when I saw who it was.
“Surprised to see you here,” Marcus said. He was wearing mid-height hiking boots, longer shorts than yesterday, and a t-shirt that must have some UV-blocking, as it gave off an odd glow where sunbeams hit it.
He seemed to be in better shape this morning than I was, a bounce in his step, and only a little redness to his eyes lingering from last night. It took me a beat to realize I was straining to hear sarcasm in his words. Calm down, I told myself. I’m too exhausted to take offense.
“You’re up early too,” I said. I pointed at the loading dock. “Odd direction to see you coming from.”
“It’s the shortest way out to the cliffs,” he said, pointing out to one end of the island. “All the main exits make you go past the shops and restaurants and gardens and stuff. But what are you doing here? Waiting for your luggage?”
I think I was actually surprised not to hear a tone in his voice. Maybe he was too tired for offense, too.
“My ice,” I said.
He glanced at the building. “They don’t have ice already?”
“Not big blocks, no.”
“Weird,” he said. “I thought this place would have everything.”
“Actually...well, nevermind.”
“What?”
“Nah, it’s not your problem. I don’t want to interrupt your trip to the cliffs.”
Marcus laughed at that. “Thanks for deciding to spare my feelings, I guess. But dude, you’re standing there rocking back and forth on your heels, you’re biting your thumbnail, and you’re clearly stressed the fuck out. And for once it can’t be because of me, because I just got down here. What’s wrong?”
I looked down at myself. One arm was held tightly over my chest, my thumb was pointing right at my teeth. I hadn’t realized how tense my shoulders had gotten. “Huh,” I said. “It’s this ice thing.”
“Your tools not showing up?”
“Nothing showing up. The ice was supposed to be here half an hour ago. The hotel was supposed to have a couple of guys out here to help me get it into the freezer I’m renting. Meanwhile every minute that goes by, I’m getting closer to giving Owen nothing but a damned ice cube for his wedding.”
“You want me to help get the ice in?”
“What? No, I was just saying, the reason I’m stressed--”
“Yeah, I get that,” he said. “But if they’re not helping, do you want me to?”
“The cliffs--”
“Dude, I am trying to be nice here, okay? Now you be nice and take me up on my offer.”
I found his offer far more confusing than I’d found his aggression. At least there was a history of ill-will to explain that.
Am I a bad person, that I was immediately suspicious? I don’t even know what I was suspicious of exactly, but I was tired, hung-over, stressed, and so I was stupid and asked, “Why would you help me?”
“Oh come on. Don’t be weird and fussy. If you saw me twist my ankle or something you’d help me, wouldn’t you?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Maybe.”
“Put it this way. Nat and Owen are counting on you, and I don’t want them to be disappointed. So I’m doing this as a favor to them instead of you. Does that make it all better?”
He was right, of course, and I nodded, and was going to respond, when finally the ice truck came up. The guy that hopped out of the cab was ancient and wiry, but seemed to be made of iron springs, the way he moved.
“You Taylor?” he said to Marcus, but Marcus pointed at me.
“It’s my ice.”
He pushed a clipboard at me, and I signed the paper on it. “Where’re the boys?” he asked.
“What boys?”
“Hotel boys.”
“Nobody showed,” I said.
“You gonna move this ice yourself?” he said.
“With his help,” I said, nodding at Marcus.
“All of it?”
“Uh...how much is there?” asked Marcus.
“Twenty-four cubic feet,” said the man.
Marcus nodded knowingly...then scowled. “Wait, that’s a lot. How much does it weigh?”
“Fifteen hundred pounds, give or take,” said the man.
Marcus swung toward me, his mouth open. “Um, Sergio--”
“I am very glad you offered to help,” I said, rolling up my sleeves.
“What’s great about ice, compared to marble,” I said, struggling to get the handcart up the ramp, “is that you can fuse together smaller blocks, so you’re not starting off with this megaton chunk of rock.”
Marcus had built up a sweat by this point, and it was pouring down his face and throat into his shirt. His arms bulged under the load of ice he was carrying. Gasping, he said, “No, dude, seriously...that’s the most interesting...thing...I’ve ever heard.”
“Of course, the problem is, it doesn’t hold as much detail--”
&nbs
p; “I was being sarcastic. Please don’t tell me about how great ice is.”
It was a little like having a fever. As the morning sun blazed heat over me, my skin was hot where it touched, but where I touched the ice, I was freezing.
The whole thing was extraordinarily hard work. The hand-truck’s wheels wanted to stick. The ice was so heavy. The iceman was impatient to go, so we were trying to get it moved as fast as possible, so with fewer, but heavier, trips.
I was already exhausted. I couldn’t understand how Marcus could keep up. Except I had to acknowledge he was much stronger than me. Where I struggled to get the handcart up the ramp, there was still a bounce in his step as he carried the ice in his arms. Less bounce than at first, maybe, but his strength was impressive.
When I smashed my finger between two blocks, it was because I was so busy looking at him, the way his back flexed as he set the ice down.
“Shit!” I said, pulling my hand away.
He glanced over. “You okay?”
I shook my hand. “My finger. It’s all right. I banged it with a block.”
“Oh, man, that’s gonna swell. You should ice it.”
It took us both a moment to realize how ludicrous yet correct that was, and we laughed, me still wincing in pain. “I did ice it, that’s the problem,” I said through clenched teeth. I didn’t want to appear weak in front of him, but damn my finger hurt. So I smiled and tried to act normal.
The ice truck drove away, leaving us sweating and tired but with the job done.
“So much for moisture wicking,” said Marcus, picking up the hem of his shirt. He pulled it up, using the shirt to wipe the sweat from his face. I was treated to the sight of his muscular flanks, and the little trail of hair leading down from his navel.
I had to look away. I couldn’t take the embarrassment of pain and the embarrassment of being caught looking at him yet again.
Naturally, he didn’t seem to be bothered by either one. I guess in his line of work, getting hurt was just something that happened. Well, hell, it was in mine, too, I don’t know why I felt like I had to act like smashing my finger hadn’t hurt; sculpting was hard work, occasionally dangerous, especially when you were working with heavy stone. Yet here I was, feeling like he might say something sarcastic if he realized how much pain I was in.