12. I Volunteer as Tribute
I VOLUNTEER AS TRIBUTE
Asher
It’s a dick move to give Mark a hard time for turning in early.
I’ve been hoping to find a reason to head inside and watch my show.
I have a reputation as a party boy to uphold.
The Miami hotspots are just about to start their engines for the night.
But I have a hot date with a nineteenth century bad boy poet and the lord who loves him.
So I watch the house as Mark moves around, pacing the tiny living room while he says good night to his little girl.
Eventually, he disappears into his room.
The living room goes dark. And then—like a child—I legit count to a hundred before finally getting up and carrying my wine glass inside the house.
But, seriously. I’ve been waiting for An Arranged Marriage for months now. I must witness the hotness between Lord Oliver and Sir Trevor when they’re allowed more than one kiss. The trailer was full of meaningful glances and doors swinging shut at just the wrong, torturous moment. I’m so there.
At 8:59, I’m sitting on the bed in my room, clicker in hand, streaming my laptop onto the bedroom TV.
The show kicks off with a carriage ride through London, a conniving duchess and the death of the lord’s uncle, all in the first seven minutes.
And by the time Ollie and Trevor plan a secret rendezvous on a London rooftop, my tongue is practically hanging out.
Gah! Their plan is foiled at the last minute when the duchess detains Oliver on false pretenses! And poor Trevor is left, candle in hand, gazing at the gently lit rooftops of a CGI’d London, feeling certain that he’s been stood up.
Trevor, my man. I’m sorry. I know how this feels .
On a goddamn rooftop too. It’s like they know me.
Laughing to myself, I hit pause on the show.
Can’t wait to find out how the drama unfolds in the final twenty minutes.
But the sparkling water and the rosé I drank at dinner means I have to pee.
I head into the john to take care of business, walking past the screen door, and the gentle sound of the bay lapping against the island.
I love the way Florida smells—like salty air and palm trees.
If I didn’t love New York so much I’d consider living here, among the modeling agencies and the excellent nightlife.
In the minus column, there are hurricanes and alligators. But hey, nobody is perfect.
When I turn the sink off after I wash my hands, a swell of music comes through the wall, or maybe the open window. Mark is watching TV too.
But hang on. That’s a familiar swell of music.
And it’s followed by the clip-clop of horse hooves, like the sound they make on ye olde London’s cobblestone streets.
Hold the phone. Could Mark be watching An Arranged Marriage ?
My stomach shimmies with amusement. This is rich. I wonder if he knows what this show is about?
Mark is a very smart man. He’s much smarter than I am. So the odds that he doesn’t know what he’s getting into are small.
Which means something big, big, big .
Mark is either a fun-loving, super open-minded Wall Streeter from Ohio with a thing for sexy period drama, no matter the storyline. Or, he, like every queer man I know—the fun ones, anyway—cannot wait for Lord Ollie and Sir Trevor to bone down.
Standing in my bathroom like a dingus, my ears strain to hear what’s on Mark’s screen. But now, everything is quiet.
Whoa. Was the whole thing my imagination?
It’s entirely possible. Let’s face it—I have a thing for him.
An attraction. A curiosity. I’m a little stuck on this man.
I don’t know how it happened either. He’s certainly never encouraged me.
But the more I get to know him, the more attractive he becomes.
A banker . Or a trader—whatever he calls it. And with a kid. Fuck me.
But now I have to know.
In stealth mode, I leave my room and step into the living room. But I hear nothing out here. So I slip out the front door and circle the guest house. Mark’s room has a sliding glass door, just like mine. It’s pathetically easy to position myself in a way where I can see his laptop screen.
And there’s Lord Oliver, frantically penning a message to Sir Trevor, who’s about to set off on a journey to the colonies.
There, also, is my hot banker, lying against the pillows with his knee cocked, and an arm propped up over his head. He’s wearing basketball shorts and a thin T-shirt that hugs his frame . . .
The screen freezes, and the sound cuts off.
I stop breathing.
A long moment glugs by with only the beating of my heart as the soundtrack.
“Well?” Mark asks drily. He doesn’t even turn his head. “Are you just going to stand there like a creeper? How worried should I be right now?”
“S-sorry,” I sputter. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Really?” He tosses the clicker onto the quilt as he finally turns to me. “So you’re not watching me from outside the door? I’ve seen horror movies with scenes just like this.”
My face is on fire. But if I slink away now, it will only get weirder. So I square my shoulders and take a step closer to the door. “Can I come in?”
“I’m guessing I can’t stop you, so . . . sure?”
I slide the screen door open and step inside. He doesn’t move from the bed, though. He just watches me with amused blue eyes. There’s something sturdy about his character that I find refreshing. He’s unflappable.
And I dig it.
“Look,” I try. “I just heard your show through my open door. So I stepped outside to see if we were watching the same thing. I’d been working on a theory about you, and this seemed like a harmless way to investigate. I wondered if you were a fan of Lord Oliver.”
He actually rolls his eyes. “Is that the secret pass phrase? Hey man, are you a friend of Lord Oliver’s ?”
Our gazes lock. His gives away nothing. My crush is seriously formidable. Not for the first time, I wonder if he plays poker.
He should.
I run a hand through my hair—then stop. That’s always been my tell. “Look. It’s none of my business. I just thought you’d want to know this show is about to get gayer than a kick line in a pride parade.”
“Thank you.”
That’s it. He doesn’t even blink.
For once in my life, I don’t know what to do or say. I’ve literally got nothing. “Right.” I gulp. “Thanks for sharing.”
Mark snorts. And something in his expression slips. “Is that a requirement? That I spill my guts to you?”
“No,” I say quickly. He’s right. Of course he is. I cannot figure out how to stop being a dick where Mark is concerned. “Never mind. Sharing is, well, not easy for some people.”
Then he snarls at me. Actually snarls as he sits bolt upright in bed, staring hard at me.
“You don't know me, asshole. You think I'm just an uptight banker.
I could be anyone. I could be a guy who has always known he was bi, and couldn't wait to take that out for a test drive.
But then he got his ungrateful college girlfriend pregnant and is now an overworked single dad who knows everything there is to know about Peppa Pig but who has been off the market so long he has no idea when he'll ever relieve some of this unbearable tension since he doesn't know how to find some willing, non-creepy single dude with good hygiene to sixty-nine.”
Holy wow.
I’m still trying to take that in when Mark swings his legs off the bed and stands up.
Suddenly, we’re eye to eye. His are angry.
“We don’t all have a big, loud life on four continents.
But here you are, interrupting my show! For what?
To say Aha! I knew it? That’s just rude.
My entire sex life for the past year has basically been replaying the Troliver kiss over and over while I got myself off.
So, thanks for busting in here to satisfy your own curiosity. ”
“Jesus.” His blue eyes are on fire. “Sorry. But . . .” The image of Mark stroking himself has lodged right in the center of my brain, making it hard for me to finish sentences.
So I manage to say exactly the wrong thing.
I raise my hand into the air and pull a total Katniss. “I volunteer as tribute.”
Mark blinks. “What? You’re teasing me right now? This is when you decide to do that again?”
“No. No, no, nope.” I shake my head. “I tease you a lot. I know. But this time, I’m serious. We could, uh, have a little vacation fun. Totally harmless fun.” I’m practically babbling right now.
And I don’t babble. The last time I was this flustered was five years ago when a bull ran onto the field mid-match during a game against Barcelona. For the long moments between the bull’s invasion and the ref’s whistle, I couldn’t decide whether to run down the ball or cover my balls.
This is almost exactly the same situation. I can’t figure out if I should dive to safety through the screen door, or start stripping off my clothing like a go-go dancer who’s late for his shift.
I prefer the second option.