14. I Don’t Want to Do the Conga
I DON’T WANT TO DO THE CONGA
Asher
Well, ouch. Mark’s rejection stings.
But I know how it is. Rejection is part of life. Rejection is an opportunity for growth. Rejection is merely God’s way of saying: That was the wrong attack on the ball, you dingus .
Fine. I’ll find another opening, and I’ll redirect.
But first, we’re going to hire a DJ and save this wedding.
In the parking lot, I slam the passenger door with a resounding thud, the music from the club seeping out before we even reach the entrance.
As we walk toward Edge neither one of us says a word, just like on the drive over.
I’m still trying to untangle the math problem of Mark Banks, so I can give him what he needs. So I can solve his equation.
Possibly with my tongue.
But I’m getting ahead of myself as the music grows louder, the electronic beat pulsing in the humid air.
The neon sign above the entryway greets us, blinking bright in the South Beach night, and crystal clear.
The name of the club flashes on and off, each letter cascading through red, orange, green, blue, and so on.
Above the door, a rainbow flag with a triangle on the side billows in the breeze.
“So, you do know this is a gay club?” I ask.
Mark turns his head to me. “It is?” His delivery is so perfectly deadpan, it could go in the dictionary as a usage example.
“Just making sure you were aware,” I reply. He gives me a searing look, and it turns off my snark spigot.
Mark is the only man I know who can make me half-speechless.
“The neon rainbow signboard was kind of a clue,” he says, then grabs the door. “And since you just established I’m a friend of Lord Oliver, I think you know now I’m all good with that.”
But not with me?
Patience , I coach myself. It will happen in good time. And why the hell not?
The doors swing open, and a couple of guys spill out onto the sidewalk.
A Latino guy in tight white shorts has his arm wrapped around a toned Black dude in a crop top.
Behind them stream more men in barely-there clothes, and I’m suddenly overdressed in my shorts and button-down shirt, but at least my clothes are relatively tight, and show off my arms. Mark sticks out like, well, like a straight guy in khaki shorts and another one of those god- awful polos.
I bet those red briefs I caught a glimpse of in the dressing room were a fluke. It probably was laundry day, and those were from his . . . I dunno . . . Halloween costume drawer.
Bet he has on navy-blue boxer briefs.
Bet I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.
Except, I’m dying to know.
Mark follows me through the door and into the club as we make our way along a dark hallway to a ticket counter.
Dance music pounds, and a host with a white feather boa around his neck and silver skyscraper boots on his feet flashes a smile.
“Hey there, hotties. There’s a twenty-dollar cover charge tonight,” he says to me.
“We just need to see DJ Drake about an event,” Mark says, coming up right by my side, and taking over.
Okay. That’s how he’s doing this.
But really, we should pay the fee even for a quick meeting.
The man with the boa gives Mark an aren’t-you-cute-you-preppy-straight-guy smile. “It’s still twenty dollars to get past me, hottie,” he says sweetly, but firmly.
I grab my wallet, and reach for my card. But before it’s even open, Mark slaps two twenties on the counter and says thanks.
“Drake is on his break for ten, so he’s in the green room.” The host points polished silver fingers behind him. “Go that way, then past the main dance floor, and turn down the hallway, and it’s at the end.”
With a crisp nod, Mark’s off, stalking down the corridor. Like he can’t wait to get this over with.
“You didn’t have to pay for me,” I say as the music grows louder and we turn into the main dance area.
I expect an eye roll. A zinger. Instead, his gaze lands square on me. “I know.”
And he leaves it at that. Just an I know . Like he’s fucking Han Solo.
And it’s just like when Harrison Ford said it to Carrie Fisher. It was ultra-hot then, and it’s ultra-hot now as I follow Mark Banks into a gay dance club in South Beach.
My world is officially topsy turvy. I’ve been to this club before.
I’ve even partied with Drake. But I’m not in charge this time, it seems, as Mark Banks leads me through throngs of men, weaving past bodies, and muscles, the smell of sweat and cologne and the promise of sex potent under the dark purple lights of the dance floor.
We reach the green room and find Drake slouched on a leather couch, flicking aimlessly on his phone. A sleeve of tattoos covers his right arm, a dragon tail intertwined through the mouth of a skull.
The second his gray eyes land on mine, he pops up from the couch. “St. James! How’s it hanging? How the fuck are you? When are you going to Ibiza again to party with me and my man?”
I give him a quick hug. “The answers are to the left, great, and not soon enough. How’s Axel?”
“The best,” he says, with a dopey grin befitting the newlywed. Then Drake slides his gaze to my confusing companion. “I’m Drake.”
He extends a hand to Mark, and they shake.
“Mark. Brother of the bride.” He’s all business.
“Tell me what you need, Mark,” Drake says, catching on fast.
“We need you on Saturday at noon. Daytime wedding. No Macarena. No chicken dance. No ‘ Hello’ from Adele, since it’s not a love song.
Nor is ‘Stay With Me’ by Sam Smith, no matter how much the ladies love them.
Or the dudes. I don’t want to hear the conga, or do the conga. Also, no Coldplay whatsoever.”
Before I can even say who would play Coldplay at a wedding , Mark adds, “Brett’s DJ played it at his wedding at Tavern on the Green and it killed the mood.”
No, Mark. Tavern on the Green killed the mood.
But I don’t correct him, because he continues his wedding song diatribe that’s inexplicably turning me on.
“‘You Send Me’ by Sam Cooke for the couple’s first dance.
So, if you can do all that and show up an hour early, and stay till six, I’ll pay your regular rate, plus a twenty-five percent premium if you agree now. ”
Drake blinks, dollar signs in his eyes. “Someone knows what he wants.”
You’re telling me.
“Will that work for you?” Mark asks, and he is not a three-martini lunch guy. He doesn’t schmooze. He just fucking throws down. And it’s getting me hot under the collar.
Or hotter.
“Yes,” my DJ friend says. “Anything for a friend of St. James.”
Mark and Drake finish the details, exchange numbers, and then I say goodbye, telling him to send my love to Axel. We head back down the hallway, the music thumping louder with each step.
Bodies come into view on the dance floor. Hips swiveling. Arms tangled, legs intertwined, and pelvises grinding. My eyes gobble it up, the press of skin, the lips colliding, the preludes to fucking.
But I’m not the only one staring. From the looks of it, my companion is drinking it all in too.
When we reach the dance floor, since we have to cross it to leave, he stops, grabs my arm, and tips his chin toward the bar.
“Drink?” If he doesn’t want to leave yet, I am here for it. I’m here for a lot of things.
Mark nods.
Yeah, baby . “Hey, Banks? Who’s the driver?”
“I was going to order a soda,” he yells over the throbbing music. “I wouldn’t drink and drive.”
“Yeah, I know. But how about I order a soda and you order whatever you want. A soda. A Shirley Temple . . .” His eyes narrow, so I rush on. “A shot of Jack. A kilo of heroin.” I wink. “If you feel like letting loose, I’ll drive home. Your call.”
Something shifts behind his eyes when I say letting loose . His expression is still intense. And determined. I’m lost in that hungry blue gaze when he abruptly turns away, slicing through the crowd toward the bar.
Mark edges his way past guys in leather, guys in dresses, guys in nearly nothing, and he’s totally unfazed. Maybe he’s even, dare I say, in his element?
I hurry to keep up.
When I reach his side, Mark has already captured the bartender’s attention with his Jedi skills. The man behind the bar puts one LaCroix on the bar. And? A shot glass of tequila.
Then? Mark hands me the soda.
It’s so on.
And when he tips the shot glass back and downs the liquor, I see it.
The heat in his eyes, followed by that hitch in his breath.
I can’t hear it over the music. But this time, since we’re inches away, I can feel it.
His breath ghosting near my neck. The low hiss of a murmur.
And, I let myself feel it, too, in my body as I fully enjoy the possibility of him.
Oh yes, I want you, Mark Banks.
Because it’s not math, and it’s not logic.
And I am not a math person. I’m all about instinct. Instinct on the field from my playing days, and instinct behind the lens now as a photographer.
I don’t operate according to lists or numbers, columns or rows.
I go with my gut.
And my gut, which has a direct connection to my favorite body part, knows that Mark Banks wants what I offered.
Desperately.
There’s no mistaking his interest.
So there’s a reason he said no.
And my gut has the answer.
Actually, my cock has figured this one out. My interest in being the car Mark takes out for a test drive simply wasn’t clear enough for the hot nerd who lives in his head.
The guy doesn’t know how to listen to his body.
So I’ll show him with mine.