by Rachel Kane
I guess rubbing his face wasn’t quite enough for him; as I was standing there thinking all these things, he peeled his shirt off entirely. “Might have to go back upstairs and get a dry one,” he said. He may have said something else just then, but I couldn’t hear him. I was too busy looking at his shoulders, the way their broadness led into the strength of his arms. I had a sudden vision of being held in those arms, grabbed, lifted off my feet. Squeezed against that chest.
It’s not like I’d never been with muscular guys before. And yet...something was different about Marcus. The ease with which he carried himself. The way his strength seemed utterly natural, unforced, not done for looks, not done to make other people envious. Watching him mop the sweat off his chest and back, I felt myself begin to get hard.
Oh no, I thought. If there was one thing I could not do right now, it was to find Marcus attractive. No way. I shuddered to think how he might react to that. Worse, to think how my friends might react, the howls of derisive laughter. After listening to me go on and on about how much I hated him, to even think about the way the layers of muscle on his back flexed and moved--it couldn’t be done. I had to clear my mind.
“So,” said Marcus.
I couldn’t look at him. I kept my eyes on the loading dock. “Yes,” I said.
“Guess I’m going to go get a new shirt.”
“All right. See you.”
“I mean, it’s typical that if somebody helps you like this,” he said, “that you’d tell them thank you. Good manners and all.”
“What?” I said. I looked at him then quickly looked away. “Yeah, whatever, thank you. Big help. See you later.”
“Huh. Not quite the reaction I was expecting.” Then he walked back inside.
It wasn’t until he was gone that I could actually breathe again. That was close. I was pretty sure I hadn’t given any indication I was attracted. I hoped, anyway.
8
Marcus: Off the Cliff
I was pretty sore after the ice, and was glad that there was a trail up to the cliff. Any other time I might’ve wanted to fight my way through vines and tangles, letting the work clear my head, but my arms ached, my shoulders ached, and if I’m honest, my sense of pride, ached too.
It’s not like I’ve got a delicate ego. I don’t need someone to fawn all over me just because I’ve helped them. Nobody’s got to throw me a parade. But a simple thank you is nice, especially if you don’t have to drag it the hell out of someone. And the fact that Sergio couldn’t just say it without me asking, made me feel like a fucking fool. Like he’d tricked me into doing the work or something like that, taken advantage of my good nature.
There were spots on the trail where you had to climb, and my breath was coming out in huffs, my arms straining, to get myself over the boulders. Any other day, it wouldn’t have been a problem to simply hoist myself up, but I could feel the cords in my arms protesting the work. Rocks abraded my skin, and sweat tickled the small of my back. It shouldn’t have mattered, it never mattered that hiking was uncomfortable, in the past. Yet now every new sensation seemed magnified.
Had Sergio been ashamed of smashing his finger? That would’ve been stupid, but maybe he was just that insecure. It was like those guys who showed up at the gym saying no pain, no gain, but then did something stupid to hurt themselves, pull a tendon or tear a muscle, and were too busy trying to look uber-masculine to admit they’d done something wrong. Occasional injury was the price you paid to be an active person, but it didn’t mean you had to be weird about it.
I made it to the less steep part of the trail, with a breath of relief. Now my calves had gotten in on the act, protesting and wanting me to go back to bed. I’d probably go find a hot tub once this was over, just relax and let things rest for a while.
The goal was in sight--up ahead, I could see an opening in the trees and shrubs, where the view was going to be fantastic.
What bothered me more than the lack of a thank you was the way Sergio acted like he was disgusted by me. I mean, I get it. We are natural enemies. Cobras and mongooses. Mongooses? Mongeese? But when I’d pulled my shirt off, I could almost hear him gasp with revulsion. What the hell? I’m not stuck on myself, by any means, but damn, I know guys like to look at me. I’ve known that forever. To have him look away like that...I mean, how much do you have to hate someone, that their body grosses you out? Maybe I’m beefier than he likes, and maybe the kind of guy he goes for is all pretty-muscle with cuts and rips, but still, damn.
I looked down at myself. Holy shit, was this a sense of inadequacy I was feeling? That was new. I tried to see myself through Sergio’s eyes. He was a sculptor. I didn’t know much about art, but I knew the basics--the David that Michelangelo did, slim and strong and lithe. This old guy I used to hang out with, Xavier, had a statue he called The Apollo of Belvedere. I mean, it was a reproduction, not the original. But it was this slim guy, very little tone, not a lot of definition. Maybe that’s what sculptors liked. Skinny guys. Maybe Sergio saw me and thought I was too bulky and monstrous, not good enough for an artistic eye like his.
I found the whole thing confusing, and tried to put it out of my mind. I especially didn’t like being reminded of my time with Xavier. That had been a rough patch in my youth.
So instead I pulled myself forward, kept moving through the trees, until suddenly everything opened up, and I was at the cliff itself. The path led forward then dropped off into nothing, in a way that thrilled me. I walked right to the edge, let my toes hang slightly off.
It was like having vertigo; you kept your eyes forward, and all you could see in the periphery of your vision was open air, the soft clouds, the piercing blue of the sky. No world around you, only emptiness and sea. Below me, the waves crashed, and I took my time looking down.
The water was gorgeous and blue, white where it foamed. No rocks down there; millennia of pounding water had left it smooth. I’d heard some guys yesterday talk about diving off the cliff, and I ached to do it myself. Just let myself fall into the deep cold water. Make myself into a knife that could slice through air, that would enter the surface of the water with no splash at all.
There was another explanation for Sergio’s weirdness. I didn’t want to think about it. I wanted to think about the cliff, and about diving, about the wide-open space in front of me.
What’s the biggest reason for a guy to suddenly start acting weird around you?
He likes you.
It was ridiculous. Sergio did not like me. Sergio disliked me. But if he did like me, even a little, it made for a really simple explanation for why he’d acted so weird. Maybe he wasn’t even aware of it. But damn, he’d seen my cock more often the past few days than I had. I know he’d been looking at me when I’d helped him move the ice.
What was more likely? That his sudden weirdness was due to some artistic disgust, or due to him wanting me?
And how did I feel about that?
I wanted to dive. I wanted to go in head-first, let the water cover me. Adrenaline washes away everything else. You ever watch those nature shows, where a lion is after a herd of gazelle? For a few minutes, there is nothing in the world but pure energy, as they run away. Every instinct, every muscle, is attuned to the need for escape. Then, five minutes later, they’re grazing in another spot, calm and placid like nothing had ever happened. That’s the cleansing power of adrenaline. It focuses you on the immediate, and when you’re done, there’s no future, no past, just whatever is right in front of you to enjoy.
Common sense intervened. You don’t go cliff diving on the basis of what a bunch of random guys say back at the hotel. You find out the facts about the safety of the water. And you don’t go it alone. You have your people with you, in case anything goes wrong. There’s nothing spontaneous about going off a cliff, not really. Not if you’re smart. Because nobody wants to get hurt.
I wasn’t ready to jump.
Nor was I ready to assume either of my theories about Sergio were true. I mean, it would b
e funny as hell if he liked me. I would laugh and laugh. Right? Wouldn’t I? I hit some puzzling bundle of emotions when I thought about that, and set the idea aside. But if he were disgusted by me, well, we could get right back to the feud, and not be distracted by things like him letting me borrow nice clothes, or me helping him with that heavy-ass ice.
As much as I wasn’t sure it would be good for me, I needed to get back into his space. I needed to figure out how he felt about me. Now that we were absolutely stuck together for a while, I couldn’t have these questions lingering.
I gave the ocean one last look, and promised it that I would be back to the cliff before too much longer.
9
Sergio: Chainsaw
“Two more days?” I asked the hotel clerk.
“I assure you, sir, the airline has told us it’s doing everything--”
“Two days? The wedding is in three days. Are you seriously telling me that by the time my tools get here, I’ll have less than twenty-four hours to create a sculpture for my friends? Do you realize--”
“Sir, sir, sir. I understand.” The clerk looked abashed. “We have spoken to the airline several times about the urgency. But we are not the ones who lost your luggage, and there is a limit to what we can do.”
I wanted to yell at the guy, but like he said, it wasn’t his fault. I shook my head and turned from the counter. I had the ice, but nothing to do with it. I needed to work. After the embarrassment with Marcus earlier, I had to get my hands and mind busy, put myself to the task, so that I could focus. I didn’t need to sit out by the pool with a drink thinking about his sweaty chest. That wasn’t good for anyone. I needed to work.
The last thing I needed was to spot Owen and Nat, accompanied by Mr. Thurgood, as I paced angrily around the courtyard. They saw me and waved, and sure enough, Owen began to approach. How could I face him, having promised him this big decoration, that now wasn’t even going to get done? They had been so excited by my offer originally, and now I had nothing to show for it.
“Hail fellow, well met!” called Owen, when they were still about thirty feet away. He and Nat were arm in arm, with a chummy familiarity that left me feeling isolated and lonely.
“How is premarital bliss?” I asked, trying to keep a light tone.
But they could see the stress written on my face. “Trouble in Paradise?” asked Nat.
I hooked a thumb back at the hotel office. “My luggage. My tools. Apparently they started to ship my stuff here, but when they x-rayed my bags and saw the sculpting tools, it set off a security alert. So everything is delayed. I...I’m not sure I’m going to be able to do the sculpture, guys.”
“Oh, no!” said Owen. Mr. Thurgood got up on his hind legs, and I scratched his head.
“I feel awful,” I said. “I promised to make you this beautiful tribute, and instead...” My voice trailed off and I shrugged.
“Don’t worry about us,” said Nat. “Have you seen all the presents that have shown up at our suite? We’re not exactly hurting for gifts. It’s just sad to see you looking downtrodden about it.”
Owen began, “At the risk of sounding like a cliche--”
“Which has never stopped you before,” said Nat.
“--having you here is gift enough. You’re my best man! I would have loved to see what your creativity would’ve come up with, sure, but it’s more important that you’re here.”
They both reached out and gave me a hug, while Mr. Thurgood snuffled at my feet. I felt bemused. Maybe I had looked more anguished than I actually felt. Or maybe I was more anguished than I was willing to admit. I don’t know, but I sunk into my friends’ arms, feeling just awful about myself. “Sorry, guys. Things just haven’t been going well lately.”
Owen nodded. “If anyone understands how a break-up with Harris can affect someone, it’s me. You were lucky to escape him.”
I blinked. I hadn’t even thought about Harris today. That was strange. He was such a manipulator, that even with him gone, he’d weaseled his way into my thoughts over and over. And yet today, he hadn’t entered my mind even once. He’d been entirely replaced by Marcus as the most bothersome person in my head.
But I couldn’t tell them that. Instead, I accepted their sympathy and said, “But look, quit, you go enjoy your vacation together. Soon it’ll be time for rehearsals and weddings and speeches. Don’t worry about me, I’m a big boy.”
“That’s the spirit,” said Owen. “Besides, it’s not like we’ve left civilization. Maybe someone has tools around here that you could use!”
I blinked. “That’s...not a bad idea.”
“Look, you can almost see the hope welling up in him,” said Nat.
“It springs eternal in the human breast, or at least so Shakespeare says,” said Owen.
Nat shook his head. “That’s Alexander Pope, not Shakespeare.”
“What? No, it’s from--”
“Absolutely not. It’s from An Essay on Man, and is actually a much more morose line than you might think. Here, let me quote it in its entirety--”
“All right, guys, I’ll let you work out this dispute by yourselves,” I said, laughing. “I have to go find some hardware.”
By this point, the desk clerks were willing to do almost anything to keep me happy, since they hadn’t managed to get me a room to myself, or to get my luggage here. When I’d told them what I needed, they were eager to help, telling me I was free to borrow whatever I needed from the groundskeeping and maintenance offices, and drawing me a little map of how to get to that complex from the main part of the hotel. It was the first spark of optimism I’d had all day, and nothing was going to bring me down.
Except that literally the minute I walked back outside, I saw Marcus, and I knew he spotted me too. He hesitated a moment, looking my way. I glanced down at my map. I didn’t need to be interrupted with more complications. I had to get these tools.
But I felt frozen in place, watching him finally come to a decision, and walk over to me. Worse still, I could tell he had something on his mind.
I didn’t want to talk. Was he going to complain that I hadn’t said thank you loudly enough?
As he got closer, though, I realized there was a look of concern on his face. He wasn’t simply peeved at a lack of manners on my part. There was something else there. He looked uncomfortable. Nervous.
“Look,” he said. “I think we need to talk.”
“I don’t think we need to,” I said.
“There’s just something I need to understand.”
“I don’t think I can talk right now, Marcus. I’ve got things to do.”
I tried to walk past him, but he grabbed my arm. Not harshly. In fact his fingers were very light against me.
“Do we have to be enemies all the time?” he asked. “Give me five minutes.”
I sighed, more with nervousness than irritation. “Fine. Walk with me. I have to get a chainsaw.”
He paused. “Damn, how mad at me are you, dude?”
I couldn’t help it: I burst out laughing, and he joined me. The situation was just ridiculous, and I had my eyes shut, I was laughing so hard. His hand was still on my arm, and my body was so aware of that, which just made it that much more laughable. “God, life has gotten ludicrous,” I said. I didn’t want him to come with me, part of me dreaded to have to deal with him right now, but still I told him, “Come on, walk with me.”
The resort had an elaborate layout, full of hidden areas: Pools that were almost completely private, statuary gardens, stretches of beach that were reserved for the people who had the most exclusive suites. Getting to the maintenance area would take a while.
“I feel a little better,” I said, trying to deflect Marcus from whatever he actually wanted to talk about. “Knowing that there are some tools available, at least I can get something made for Owen and Nat. Originally, I’d had some very complex plans. Colored ice, liquid nitrogen--I spent a month, off and on, researching the things I could do. I think that’s why it came
as such a shock to me to find out my things were missing; to my mind, I’d already put a month of work into it.”
Marcus didn’t say anything, even though he clearly had things on his mind.
“If my laptop were here,” I continued, “I could show you my sketches. I envisioned something that would start as this delicate ice palace, all parapets and minarets and thin bridges crossing the air, but that would melt within an hour into an entirely different shape, something much more abstract and yet somehow more--”
“I get that we had that fight a few years ago,” said Marcus, interrupting. “But how long are we supposed to hold it against one another?”
It caught me off-guard that he would go so directly into the problem between us. “What?” I said.
“You loaned me some really nice stuff to go to dinner in. I helped you shove hundreds of pounds of ice around. Clearly we’re able to be civil to one another. But we have to drag thank yous out of each other. I guess what I’m asking is, why are we still fighting, after all this time?”
How do you answer something like that? How do you put simple words to confusing feelings like this? I had hated him. I had resented him, disdained him. Had discovered I was pointlessly attracted to him, a discovery I had to tuck away somewhere safe so it would not come out into the open.
“We’re not fighting,” I said, with what I hoped was a note of finality. I really didn’t want to talk about it. I don’t like social discomfort, nobody does. That’s why we have gossip and friends sticking up for us and all that, isn’t it? So that we can settle things without the discomfort of talking face-to-face? We’d all rather die than deal with tension with a conversation.