13. This Could Be the Big One
THIS COULD BE THE BIG ONE
Mark
I cannot believe the words coming out of this man’s mouth.
“There’s no such thing as totally harmless fun,” I say, sounding just as uptight as the duchess from the show. But I don’t do well with surprises.
And Asher St. James propositioning me definitely falls into the surprise column. He can’t actually be serious. Nothing he does is serious.
So I soldier on. “That’s a terrible idea, anyway. We’re here to throw a wedding for Hannah and Flip. And also?” I have to address the annoying bleat coming from the other room while we’ve been arguing. “Your phone is ringing.”
“What?” He’s gazing dreamily at me with those beautiful hazel eyes. Maybe he’s drunk. That would explain a lot.
It makes no sense for Asher to proposition me. He probably gets more sex than the entire Brooklyn Bruisers team after a playoffs win. He doesn’t want me.
I don’t need that kind of pressure, honestly. While I’m looking forward to someday exploring the dude side of my bisexuality, it hasn’t happened yet. Except for some making out in college . . .
The damn phone squeals again. “Your phone,” I repeat, crossing my arms like the uptight fuck he thinks I am. “It keeps ringing.”
“Oh,” he says, giving his head a shake. “So I should go answer that.”
I don’t bother agreeing with him. I just wait.
“You should play poker,” he blurts out.
What?
I don’t get a chance to ask what that means, because Asher seems to shake himself out of a reverie. “Right. Phone. Later.” He leaves through the screen door, sliding it shut behind him.
And now, it’s silent again. My laptop screen is still frozen with Lord Oliver’s hand clutching the quill. I should press play and pretend like none of this ever happened.
As if I did not make a speech that somehow mentioned Peppa Pig and sixty-nine in the same breath.
As if Asher did not offer me a pity fuck.
And as if I sure as hell didn’t turn him down .
Seriously. That did not just happen.
I throw myself on the bed, push my face into the pillow, and groan so quietly that there’s no chance in hell he can hear me. And I lie there for several minutes, trying to think calm thoughts, with zero success. Example: I’m still losing that chess game to Brett.
Losing is a theme this week.
The only thing I did right today was make Rosie laugh at bedtime.
There’s a knock on the bedroom door—the interior one that non-creepers would use.
“What?” I mutter from the pillow.
The door opens. “Um, sorry. Trust me, I really, really didn’t want to knock on your door right now. But we have a situation.”
I roll over. “What kind of situation?” I’m already imagining the worst. “Is Hannah okay? Is Flip?”
“No. It’s not that kind of situation. But our DJ just bailed.”
“What?” I sit up fast. “Why? I’ll kill him.”
Asher hands me his phone, where there’s a voicemail. And I tap the play button.
“Dude,” says a stranger’s voice. “Look, I was on for playing that wedding on Saturday. That address looks righteous . But my buddy just called. He found some sunken treasure off Bimini, and we gotta fly, man. You only get one shot at treasure. This could be the big one, ya know? I gotta go and meet my fate. You be well, yeah?”
Click.
“Fuck!” I shout. “He had four point nine stars on Yelp!”
“I know,” Asher says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s a blow.”
I grab my phone off the bedside table. “Let’s start googling. Which half of the alphabet do you want?”
“Actually, I have a better idea. There are a couple of clubs where I know people in town. I’ll drive us to one of them and we’ll see if we can’t hire the DJ for Saturday—or else hire one of his friends.”
I can’t think of a better solution. And Asher seems to have a plan as he rattles off details about DJ Drake.
“Okay. Let’s go. But I’ll drive.”
“Fine. I’m going to change. Meet me out front in ten?”
“I’ll be there.”
Miami twinkles magnificently as we cross the causeway again in the dark. Warm, salty air blows past my face. But I am not relaxed.
It’s still sinking in that I just turned down sex with Asher St. James.
But that was so far outside my comfort zone.
I've been with one person for seven years. I don’t even remember how first kisses work.
There’s no way I could pretend to be cavalier about his offer.
I’d probably go in for the kiss and break his often-photographed nose or something.
Where is my sex spreadsheet when I need it? But I know for certain that none of the items on my sexual to-do list read: Make fool of self while naked with a professional athlete and underwear model .
Strangely, Asher is quiet in the passenger seat. He doesn’t seem drunk at all, though. I might have been wrong about that.
So, what the hell was he thinking? And why did I shut down the conversation before I got to hear more?
Because he was flip about it, I guess. And because I was angry that he’d extracted a truth about myself that I’d chosen to protect.
Not that it’s a state secret. My family knows, and they don’t care. My ex has always known. I’ve been out to her from the start. Valencia is aware too. But that’s the whole list.
Now that I’m single again, it’s more relevant. But divorce is humiliating. I haven’t discussed my sexuality with other people in my life, because I’m a little sensitive about people’s speculations about my marriage. Sometimes a guy needs some time to sort himself out in private.
And everything with Asher St. James is very exposed.
Including my attraction to him.
Waze tells me to turn left, and that my destination will be in one hundred feet.
I do as told, and pull into the parking lot, then check out the colors on the sign. Another thing that’s very, very exposed?
The clientele at this club. There are all manner of toned, tanned hot guys in twos and threes outside. They’re smoking, laughing.
Kissing. Letting loose.
Suddenly, I’m aching to go inside, and that desire has nothing to do with finding a new DJ.
I want to let loose for once in my damn life.
I want to get out of my head.
No— I need to.