9. Arnaz
ARNAZ
“Futility”
To my future lover,
I’ve felt shipwrecked on deserted shores.
You’ll try your best to make a home for me.
Go gently when you discover you need more.
I ’m so tired that I want to physically knock myself out. Every time I nod off, I jolt awake. It’s after two a.m. when I give up. My exhaustion is the only explanation for why my resolve failed for the last week, and I’m covered in my own cum with Salem frozen on my screen.
My body thrums, recalling his last play that blocked a tip-in but sent him crashing headfirst to the floor, breaking the fall with his hands, lower body following in slow motion like a stripper about to hump the floor.
Fine. Maybe he just fell headfirst into a low plank, but the save was hot, especially at three-quarter speed.
If you’re flailing, you might as well go balls to the wall. So I google him, picking up where I left off on page twelve. Scrolling, I pause on him at a fashion show for Lucien Laurent.
I’m bored ten seconds in, so I fast forward, searching for Salem in the crowd.
With only forty-three seconds left in the video, I think I might have missed him and start to rewind when he emerges onto the stage wearing a silver metallic kerchief with a diamond-looking strip at the hem, no shirt, and a black—or is it blue?
—tuxedo jacket and matching skinny trousers.
Except when I zoom in, it isn’t a two-piece—it’s connected at the waist. It’s like a tuxedo overall, with a silver belt that matches the kerchief.
A massive round of applause comes from the audience as he strides down the runway, commanding awe.
The fashion designer, Lucien, who’s a certified smokeshow, comes out next, and Salem turns to him. With an objectively sexy smile—the camera eating up the gleam of his nose ring—he joins the crowd in applauding the designer.
Lucien says thank you, shaking his clasped hands at the crowd. I shuffle to sit up when his gaze lands on Salem, and it both softens and heats up.
Hm…they’re fucking.
Salem steps back to give him his moment, but Lucien takes his hand and gestures for the rest of the models to come forward and join in.
They all take a bow before joining the crowd and showering Lucien with a final round of applause.
As they turn and exit the stage, he turns to Salem and blushes as Salem mouths something to him.
Lucien’s long-legged with a lean frame. He’s wearing pearls around his neck and has one of those trendy boy-band haircuts.
He’s hot. Ugh. They’re smokin’ together.
I shut my laptop and rub the back of my neck.
A few seconds later, I flip it open again and type in my browser “Lucien Laurent and Salem Jones.”
I skim the search results that are full of articles covering them individually. I switch to searching images, and after five pages, I’m convinced maybe I got them wrong, but then I see a photo of them together at an art gallery in New York.
Salem is in the frame talking to a random woman, and Lucien’s in the background casting him a sideways glance.
They’ve been careful.
There’s no dating history, or anything even linking him to someone, for Salem online. None that I could find, which I get, since he’s only recently come out.
I shut the laptop again and jump out of bed.
I park in the Royals’ arena lot, grab the paper bag sitting atop the passenger seat, and make my way to the side entrance.
Pulling out my phone, I scan emails as I walk.
My thumb hovers over the one I’ve been waiting for.
I’m always careful, staying up to date on my vaccines and PrEP, but since I can’t remember what I took that night of the threesome, I need to be sure.
My thumb lowers, and I scroll down and open the attachment with the results for my recent STI panel.
I scroll through the pages and nod as the results reveal nothing out of the norm.
Pocketing my phone, I press my thumb against the biometrics scanner and wait for the quiet click before turning the metal knob.
“Sup, Gigi?” I nod to the security guard and hand her the bag.
“With extra guac and two sides of salsa macha?” she asks.
“You already know.”
“Thank you! You and Sid take such good care of me.” She sticks her nose in the bag and inhales. “Having trouble sleeping?”
“Something like that.”
“You know, some people watch TV when they can’t sleep.”
“Yeah, but games are won in the gym.”
I cringe, recalling the coach who taught me that.
“What are you working on tonight?”
I raise my left hand. “I need to improve my weak-hand finishing.”
“You might cross over with Sid. He’s usually here at the crack of dawn. I hope he brings the stuffed French toast that I like.”
Ty’s home this week. I doubt it. “Cool. You good?”
“Yep. Another day, another dollar.”
I tap her desk and head toward the practice court.
Images of Salem and Lucien filter in, and my head falls forward…damn.