Chapter Three

 

Two Years and Eleven Months Earlier

 

I MADE a beeline for the bar. Plenty of the other guests and attendants did too. Who liked sitting through a church wedding and then donning an ill-fitting face to make small talk with other people’s relatives? Nobody, judging by the way the drinks were flowing.

I nursed a Long Island iced tea, even though it was September, and kept getting the distinct feeling someone was watching me. I wasn’t wrong. Every now and then, as I chatted with whomever happened to sit beside me, I glanced across the arc of the bar… just as the man averted his gaze.

Yup, a man. He seemed like an ordinary guy—average height, build, face; good-looking but not breathtaking—yet there was a component in the unremarkable mix that made him seem worthy of attention.

Or maybe I was just horny.

The reception ramped up at my back. Babble increased as people ferried plates of food from the sizable buffet to tables set around the dance floor. Some stood or ate at the bar. There was no music yet—this was the dinner hour, meant for socializing and for filling bellies—but soon a local band would start churning out its versions of “Proud Mary” and the “Beer Barrel Polka,” and the empty floor space would be filled with all manner of dancers, from stiff to spastic to skilled.

I would not, I vowed, let myself be cajoled into doing the “Chicken Dance.”

Two older guys stood behind me as they stuffed their faces and awaited their beers, wondering aloud why a pretty girl like Melissa would marry a black man named Mont. I grabbed the beers when they hit the bar, swiveled my stool, handed over the plastic cups, and said, “They’re in love, that’s why.”

When I turned back, the guy who’d been sliding me those glances was engaged in conversation with a man and woman. He himself didn’t seem to have a date. I didn’t either. It finally occurred to me I might not be the only gay person there.

I watched him out of the corner of my eye.

Something made him smile. Grin, actually. His cheeks rumpled, his white, even teeth showed, and a crescent-shaped flush cradled each of his eyes. I looked more boldly and thought I saw dimples lurking within the creases.

His mouth opened wider. He tilted his head back, and a shaving of laughter drifted toward me on somebody else’s cigarette smoke.

Maybe his smile didn’t light up the room, but it certainly lit up the tunnel of air between his face and mine.

I was beguiled.

“Hi.” A woman in a bridesmaid dress—and they were some vampy dresses for bridesmaids—jammed herself between my stool and the one on my left.

“Hi.” Not wanting my chin to end up buried in her cleavage, I tried to make more room.

“I’m Madison.” She stuck her drink straw in her mouth, which bore alarmingly red lipstick. “One’s of Missy’s sisters. Who’re you?”

“One of Mont’s coworkers.”

Suddenly, my male admirer exclaimed, “Whoa!” Putting up his arms, he drew away from a skittering group of ice cubes. His arms quickly lowered as he apparently cupped his hands over his lap and caught some rogues that had bounced over the bar rail. He dumped them where the bartender’s swirling towel could sweep them away, then shook the moisture off his hands. He had long fingers.

“Who’s he?” I asked Madison. Another woman had come giggling up behind her.

“Trying to cool off that crotch, Jude?” the second one shouted.

He made a cute, good-natured grimace. Our eyes met for the length of a heartbeat.

“Quit flirting with him,” Madison muttered to her friend.

“Why? He’s single, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, but he’s shy.”

“Time he got over it,” said the seductress. “How old is he, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Around twenty-five, I guess.” Madison slid her empty cup on the bar and motioned for a refill. Then she addressed her friend. “Just leave him alone. I don’t need you trying to smear cake frosting on a relative’s junk after you get shit-faced.” Madison half turned toward me. “He’s one of our cousins,” she said offhandedly.

“Oh.” The info caught me off guard, since I’d assumed she’d forgotten about me and my question.

The persistent friend stood on her tiptoes and waved a hand back and forth. “Remember you owe me a dance, Jude!”

He smiled politely and saluted.

“Lay off, Trin.” Madison grabbed the girl’s arm and pulled it down.

Trin, who already seemed well on her way to Funkytown, wriggled free and, alas, noticed me. “You here alone?” she asked brightly.

“No.” I ordered another drink.

 

 

THE band was far better than I’d anticipated. I should’ve known Mont was too discriminating to have the usual rusty amateur musicians play at his wedding. To keep myself entertained and add to my stash of fantasies, I watched Cousin Jude move his beautiful ass whenever some matron or teenager hauled him onto the dance floor.

He was really, really good. No matter how much he had to alter his style to accommodate the music or the age of his partner, he was an incredibly fucking good dancer.

A few women asked me to dance, but I declined. I wanted to dance with Jude. Since that didn’t seem doable, I had to content myself with catching a minor buzz and dancing with him in my imagination. When I couldn’t feast my eyes on Jude, I talked a little with other people from the office.

As I came back from one of my trips to the men’s room, I saw him seated alone at a table. He pulled a frilly garter off his arm and tossed it aside.

I adjusted my beer balls. It was time.

“Excuse me.”

His gaze shot up to my face. Those pink swatches surfaced on his cheekbones.

“Mind if I join you?”

“Uh… no.” He seemed flustered by my approach.

I pulled out a chair and sat. I wanted to know him better, although I couldn’t have explained why. Maybe because of that smile I found so captivating. Or those stop-and-linger-awhile lips. Or that ass, with its invisible “Grab Me” sign. Or those sparkling eyes, so dark a brown I could barely tell the pupils from the irises.

His hair, its cut charmingly ragged, was the color of wet sand, although his brows and lashes were darker. The loosened tie and two undone shirt buttons gave me a glimpse of damp chest.

I casually sat back in my chair. “Might we know each other from somewhere?” I asked with mild curiosity.

“I don’t think so.” Jude took a quick drink from the champagne flute in front of him. “Why do you ask?”

“I thought I saw you looking at me like you recognized me.”

He’d been busted… and he knew it.

Trying to put him at ease, I threw myself into Mr. Congeniality mode. “I’m Misha Tzerko, by the way.” Out went my glad hand. “I work with Mont.”

“Jude Stone.” His grasp was firm but proper, as was mine. Our fathers had taught us well. “Melissa’s cousin.”

“Ah.”

Oh Christ, my gaydar needed to go in for repairs. I couldn’t seem to draw a bead on the guy. Maybe he simply was one of those soft-spoken, bashful types. Or maybe he was deep in the closet, fretting over his discomfiting curiosity about man-on-man action. All I could tell from his voice was that I liked it. A lot. It made me think of torchlight and chocolate mousse and French horns.

“So,” he said, “if you work with Mont, you must live in or near Green Bay.”

I nodded. “Yup.”

By small degrees, Jude’s expression began to modulate. He no longer seemed cautious and reserved. In fact, his gaze skated around my face with no timidity whatsoever. The scrutiny set up a quiver between my breastbone and diaphragm. He drained his champagne glass and got up from the table. I thought I saw a twitch at the left corner of his inviting mouth.

“Maybe,” he said, “we have seen each other before.”

I watched him walk away and liked what I saw.

The son of a bitch intrigued me like no one had in years.

 

 

MONT and Melissa’s wedding was in the northern part of Door County, where Melissa managed an upscale resort-and-condo complex. Since few of their guests lived or could even afford to live in the artsy and tourist-trappy “Cape Cod of the Midwest,” Melissa, her parents, and her employers generously put a slew of us up for the night. Green Bay wasn’t that far to the southwest—an easy drive, under most circumstances—but I sure as hell didn’t feel like schlepping down the peninsula at one or two o’clock in the morning. Why dodge deer and cops?

The only drawback was that those of us who’d been given lodging had to double up in our rooms. That obviously wasn’t a problem for friends, couples, or family members, but I got stuck with a sixty-something widower named Milt Perlman who also worked at the same small publishing company where Mont and I were employed. I figured I’d just keep myself occupied until I was ready to drop; that way I wouldn’t have to argue with Milt over what to watch on TV or listen to him kvetch about the thousand-and-one things that were sending the world to hell in a handcart. 

Jude disappeared from the reception without my noticing. I had no idea if he’d left alone. I had no idea if he’d be driving home, wherever that was, or staying at the resort. I still didn’t know for sure if he was gay, although the odds seemed in favor of it. His final, cryptic statement at the table had been a tip-off, albeit too vague to be fully enlightening.

My regret over Jude’s departure bugged me. My tenacious interest in him bugged me even more. Both bespoke a vulnerability I wasn’t used to. I resented that he’d kept looking at me, had snagged my attention with his looking, and then hadn’t followed through. If he’d just kept his eyes to himself, I probably wouldn’t have even noticed him. On the other hand, if he’d expressed a desire to see me again, I’d be content right now instead of all itchy under the skin and ready to carve Perlman a new set of sinuses if he gurbled out a single snore.

Fuck. I’d lived twenty-eight years without fretting over someone’s lack of attention. There’d always been plenty of other attention from plenty of other someones to make up for it. But there wasn’t one here now.

I went up to my room, popped a couple of ibuprofen, brushed my teeth, shed my party garb, and slipped into my tiny piece of swimwear. The junk-hugging briefs made me even squirmier. I considered beating off just to relax myself, but Perlman might come stumbling in at any minute.

Before I put on my terrycloth robe, I paused in front of the bathroom mirror. Why hadn’t I gotten a come-on from Jude? There wasn’t a damned thing wrong with me. I was tall enough, good-looking enough, had decent musculature, a big enough dick, a round enough ass.

“You are one sorry diva,” I said to my reflection… then reminded myself that in another day or two, Jude Stone would be nothing more than a fading wisp of a memory.

I made my way to the indoor pool, which was on the other side of the hotel from the rental hall. The reception was still going on, its sounds of revelry and the lingering aroma of baked ham drifting now and then past the front desk… just as I was doing. Nobody was in the lobby. It was nearly eleven.

The smell of warm, chlorinated water greeted me before I pulled open one of the double doors to the pool area. The sound of a swimmer displacing that water was audible as soon as I stepped inside. Evenly spaced lights illuminated the pool from within. Muted lights fanned over the surrounding tile floor. I dropped my robe onto a lounge chair and stood at water’s edge.

The swimmer, a man, stopped and stood near the shallow end, then ran both hands over his hair. He faced the bank of windows and sliding glass doors that revealed, in daylight, a large patio. Just beyond the patio lay the outdoor pool. Umbrella tables were visible in the ethereal glow cast by strings of white fairy lights.

Hope welled within me. I remained still but expectant. The man turned and did a slight double-take. I could feel his shadowed gaze move down and up my body. It made me glad.

“Barbarosa’s,” Jude said. “Last November, the Saturday after Thanksgiving.”

I smiled. Barbarosa’s was a gay bar.

No wonder Jude had grabbed my attention today. He’d grabbed it before. Seeing him must have struck a dim spark of recollection.

“You going to come in, Misha, or just stand there and make me admire you?” Jude’s right hand fell below the waterline. I imagined him fondling a growing erection.

I dove in.

It seemed a shame to surface right away, so I remained underwater and immediately swam up to Jude. He hadn’t moved; he was waiting for me. Down to the bottom I went—the water was about five feet deep at this point—and slowly ran my hands up the backs of Jude’s legs. He spread them farther apart, encouraging and directing my touch. I cupped the tight, pronounced curvature of his ass, gave it a squeeze, then brought my hands forward without lifting them from his hips. My fingers bracketed the bulge in his swim shorts. First my thumbs and then my mouth tested the mound. Jude’s cock was dense, more resistant than resilient. Mine responded to the feel of it.

If only I’d been a merman….

Instead, I had to break the surface and gulp some air. I gained my footing. Excited as hell, I gripped the sides of Jude’s face and stared into his dark eyes. Beads of water weighted his long lashes like seed pearls.

“You came out of the men’s room,” he said in a low, rushed voice. “I was just standing there, making small talk with some Indian guy. And you grabbed me and said, ‘I really need to kiss you.’ And you kissed me.”

“Like this?”

Our lips were slack and water-slick, but they managed to come together. Damn, he had a beautiful mouth. Mine instantly opened to it. We kissed deeply in a kind of frenzy, lips pressing and tongues thrusting, as if neither of us had gotten laid in six months. Jude wrapped his arms around my head. I lifted a leg and curled it around his ass, trying simultaneously to feel it and urge his dick against mine.

We were both hard. My desire careened toward delirium. 

“I want to fuck you so bad,” I said into Jude’s mouth.

He groaned feebly in response and kept kissing me. Our hands fumbled toward each other’s crotch.

“Pretty superficial, aren’t we?” Jude said.

“Mm.” I massaged his promising package. “And how fortunate for us.”

Laughter echoed from a nearby hallway, as if my comment had been overheard.

Breathing heavily, Jude and I bounced apart like magnets repelling.

“We can’t do anything here,” he said. “Too public.”

“It isn’t public beneath the surface.” God damn, I wanted him.

“That’s not an option.”

I knew what he meant, of course. Fucking in water wasn’t wise, and since neither of us had gills, even a blowjob wasn’t feasible.

Shit.

Jude approached me, his arms moving in ovals over the water. I tilted forward. Our lips gently met. The kiss was soft and sweet, almost tentative. I could’ve kissed him for hours, but once again, we had to draw apart. Those voices in the hallway had neither receded nor advanced. Jude clearly didn’t know what to do any more than I did.

“I suppose you’ve got a roommate too,” I said.

Jude sighed. “Yeah. One of my nephews.”

“Fuck.”

“I wish,” he murmured.

The male and female voices got closer. Jude dropped beneath the surface and headed for the pool’s edge. I launched into a breaststroke that took me in the opposite direction. The doors opened on restrained laughter and a jumble of conversation. I glimpsed what appeared to be two middle-aged couples as I continued my inoffensive stroking.

“That you, Jude?” a woman called out.

He’d climbed out of the pool and was buffing himself dry. I kept swimming and pretended to be oblivious. I finally stopped at the corner farthest from where he stood and angled a glance at the four people who’d just come in. One of the men, a lean, straight-backed dude with salt and pepper at his temples, appeared to be watching me.

Without acknowledging the newcomers’ presence, I inched my way along the tiled edge until I was directly across from my discarded robe. I felt self-conscious as I boosted myself out of the pool. My swimwear barely covered my ass and my hard-on hadn’t entirely gone south, but that wasn’t all I was acutely aware of. These couples, who obviously knew Jude, had walked in on two twenty-something guys in tiny briefs going for a midnight swim together. If that didn’t look a little peculiar….

As I donned my robe, I tried hard not to glance in Jude’s direction. He was circling around the pool to join the four people. Suddenly and surely, I knew one pair were his parents. Their laughter had ceased. Suspicion laden with disapproval curdled the air.

Jesus. Twenty-five. The guy was twenty-five, and he had to worry about Mommy and Daddy seeing him alone in a room with another man.

There wasn’t much I could do but leave.