Chapter Fourteen
The door was heavy. Resort room doors always were. A thick, artificial hibiscus odor blanketed the room. Automatic lights flicked on as I walked in, illuminating my surroundings. I dropped my bag on the bed. Then my ass.
A giant, thin, frail-looking television hung on the wall before me—another, opposite the gaudy, floral print sofa and loveseat.
Heavy, oppressive curtains in the same material blocked any light from the balcony.
Each surface in the white marble and chrome bathroom reflected my exhausted, gaunt face.
Every fabric was mushy and opulent under my touch.
Not that I saw or touched anything for some time.
I didn’t stand up for at least a half hour.
I was tired. An impromptu eight-hour flight will do that to a person.
I went right from my apartment to the airport.
It took a boatload of points to get on the next flight to somewhere on a beach.
A ton more to book a last-minute room at a four-star resort.
I paid for Wi-Fi on the plane to reserve it, requested emergency PTO in the system, and put up an out-of-office notification.
That balcony, I’d learn, didn’t even face the beach I was chasing, but a courtyard with dying palm trees in a neglected flower bed next to a parking lot.
It took effort, but I had not allowed myself to think about Alec until I sat on that squishy bed alone in a room meant for honeymooners.
Alec would’ve hated it. Too soft for his back.
But then I remembered the front desk person saying the firmness was customizable, and I broke down sobbing.
He was always saying hotels should spring for adjustable beds.
The face Alec made as I left haunted me, and I cried harder. A wave of crushing defeat on so many fronts bearing down. That I left him. That I was crying for him. That I cared so much about leaving him it made me cry. But more than anything, the impossible position he put me in.
We were happy. I was, and I knew damn well Alec was, too.
Why would he want to ruin it with something so stupid?
I didn’t much care if people knew we were fucking.
He was right—it had gotten old. Sneaking around and fucking in the office was only hot those first few times.
I didn’t even care if people knew I fucked both men and women once I realized how much I liked it. Fuck anyone who had a problem with it.
But registering us with HR? We’d have to name it, then be it.
Live up to it because others knew, but worse because we did, too.
The logical next step? I was okay with the one we were on.
Not a momentary pause on the staircase of life, but a mezzanine with a luscious bar, great music, and fantastic sex.
If—and I mean a giant fucking neon IF—we ever wanted to advance what we were to each other, it needed to happen slowly.
More than three months, probably years. We’d trickle information to those who needed to know.
Alec was staying with me in my room. That’s it.
That’s all. When it became awkward, we’d just say we weren’t friends or roommates and leave it at that.
Decades could’ve passed in that perfect little bliss.
Maybe I should’ve nutted up and had the conversation after he first moved in. I could’ve made my intentions known well before we fell too far into each other. So far down that he thought it was okay to spring going to HR on me out of fucking nowhere.
But he could have had the conversation, too. Not tell me he wanted to register us with human resources as he was preparing to fuck me. After I had done a terrible job at consoling him. If I were a different person, I might’ve said yes just because I felt bad. Fuck that, man.
I replayed leaving so many times I saw it in slow motion. Mason… I… I’m sorry. The moment his heart broke, evident in his eyes, would infect my dreams. That complex, new sorrow in his voice would rattle around my skull like an earworm from hell.
Crying alone for a man that wasn’t there had no value. I stood, showered, and changed. I’d flown across the continent in my Sunday morning gym shorts and tee. Dressed in jeans and a nicer tee, I headed out for food and more drinks than healthy.
The resort was made for a certain kind of wealthy, post-nuptial American. It was their specialty, and every room was called a honeymoon suite. It made sense that the dining room was full of occupied two-top tables. Had I read even the first few lines of their website, I’d have booked anywhere else.
The bar was the only option. Literally and emotionally. The restaurant had a two-hour wait without a pre-paid reservation, but the bar was empty.
“Double bourbon, neat,” I said to the bartender.
The bartop was reflective, like everything else in that goddamn place.
Happy couples must enjoy seeing themselves everywhere.
I couldn’t stare at myself, but I couldn’t look away.
Not until the bartender returned with my drink, and I stared into that.
It went quick, and I ordered another. I took my phone out, avoiding unread messages and missed calls.
I was staying in a resort town on some faraway archipelago.
Other resorts catering to different clientele surrounded my hotel.
Once the booze hit, and I felt the slightest bit better, I looked them up and chastised myself for not doing my research.
The place next door screamed spring break.
That was the vibe I needed. I fired up Flare and made my location visible.
My screen filled with adorable twinks who’d gladly take a ride on my lap. Other guys too, my age and older, in my shape or better, who, after Alec, I’d happily ride myself. Several of both kinds messaged me within moments of signing on. Not a single one piqued my interest.
The logical next step was Tinder. It was foolish to think hooking up with a guy would make me feel better.
No, I needed a feminine touch. Big tits in my face and long blonde hair in my fists.
And there was plenty of that. Yet again, not a smidge of desire.
Not a twitch of my cock or tingle in my stomach.
I sighed, put my phone away, and finished my drink.
My solitary reflection in the gold-speckled, mirrored bartop stared back at me.
Even my glass was empty. I missed Alec. Quiet moments in faraway bars were better with him.
The distance and setting allowed some of his facades to drift, and we’d talk for hours.
Then, head back to our room where he’d perpetrate the weirdest, hottest sex I’d ever had.
“There’s only one reason a man like you would have a face like that in a place like this.”
I hadn’t heard him sit next to me. He was older, in his sixties or better, and not in terrific shape. A new white beard hugged his face. New because he scratched at it like every twenty-year-old, including myself, after growing one out for the first time.
“Excuse me?” I said, drunk and still processing his comment.
“What’s his name?” the man asked, his grin widening, but not his eyes.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“The man who stole your woman. I’m guessing your lady got with another mister before the big day.
Instead of losing your deposit, you came anyway, not knowing this place is Cupid’s nest.” He laughed.
“Tell me his name, and we’ll drink in his dishonor.
Better that than drinking in sorrow over what could’ve been with her. ”
“I…” I laughed. It was so far from the truth it was funny. Why not play along? Better to laugh than cry. “Alec. He’s my boss.”
The man’s forehead crinkled a dozen times as his face expanded. “Holy cow,” he said. Then to the bartender, “Another of whatever this young man is having, please. And I’ll have my usual.”
“Thanks, but—”
“I do hope you mean old boss. And that he’s the one looking for alternative employment after such a disgraceful showing as that,” he said.
“Uh, no, actually. It happened just before I left. I don’t know what my employment will look like when I get back.”
“Oh. Oh, I see... Oh, no. That’s terrible. Y’all walked all the way down the aisle, just to find out the next day a man you held respect for, maybe even kept in confidence, was doing the worst thing one man can do behind another’s back. That’s an abomination.”
Alec was guilty of doing some of the best things a man can do behind another’s back. Many, many times in fantastic and inventive ways.
I laughed again. “Something like that, yeah.”
He chuckled. “You’re laughing. That’s good. Or terrible. Either you’re seeing the world for its deep absurdity, or your head’s broke like an omelet egg.”
“Both, I think.”
“Both is good. I can work with both.” He held his hand out. “I’m Charles, but you can call me Chucky.”
“Mason. Nice to meet you, man.”
What a strange, funny man. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone, but he seemed harmless. It might be good to let out some of the toxic shit brewing inside me.
The bartender returned with another bourbon for me and what looked like a sangria for him. Chucky raised his glass and said, “To being a little crazy on both accounts. And screw Alec. May his dingaling shrivel every time he goes to put it in what was once yours.”
I couldn’t keep my smile as we clinked glasses. I was once Alec’s, and as much as I wished he was there so I could screw him, I didn’t like his toast. Something about the way he said it felt like he wasn’t toasting to my future, but to the fact that I’d learned something he already knew.
Chucky slapped my back hard after taking his swig. His drink may have looked fruity, but he drank it like hard swill and slammed the delicate glass on the bar.