5

 

 

“Kiss me,” the bleached blonde with zero percent body fat moaned.

Uh oh, Logan thought.

Logan had learned to keep lip-locks and cheap sex as separate as he’d keep a match flame and kerosene fumes. It was the only way to prevent overpowering flashes of the best kiss he’d ever shared with another man from wrecking his love life for good.

He’d had plenty of quick and dirty hookups with strangers since letting Connor Harcourt roll out of his life in a Rolls-Royce. But he’d told them all point blank that make-out sessions were not included. Sorry, buddy. That’s not how Sergeant Stud rolls. So if they wanted to get their hands on the broad, muscle-plated chest featured in his profile photo or run their fingers over the globe and anchor tattoo on his right shoulder, those were the terms. Most guys were fine with it.

Not the ornery little dude writhing beneath him now. Apparently he’d experienced a change of heart. During their chat session that afternoon, he’d consented to Logan’s conditions with a long string of thumbs-up emoji. But now that Logan had crossed the guy’s threshold and entered the latticework of harsh sunlight cutting through vertical blinds the guy had only partially yanked closed, Blondie was determined to neck like a teenager on prom night. And if he didn’t quit, Logan would have to politely bail, maybe head home for some quality time with his Xbox and a Heineken. Anything to avoid the memory of a name he still had trouble saying aloud.

This time around, he’d told himself he could spend a month on the apps, tops. A month of filling his spare time with quick, meaningless hookups in between heavy work weeks and visits to Donnie in San Diego.

Now he was well into month three, and the hamster wheel of anonymous, instant gratification Grindr offered was starting to give him a backache. And possibly a neck sprain thanks to a guy who wanted to share a kiss before they shared real names.

If they ever shared real names.

At least the dude wasn’t a catfish. He was, in fact, the owner of the lean torso and chiseled eight-pack he sported in his profile photo, and the other far more explicit images he’d texted Logan earlier that day in an attempt to seal the deal. But now, after throwing the guy down onto his unmade bed, after playing the part of the big, tough former Marine to perfection while he roughly stripped the guy of his clothes, Logan was using every trick he knew to render his midday conquest boneless with pleasure, anything to stop the determined twink from zeroing in on his latest target—Logan’s mouth. So far, nothing was working, and he was almost out of tweaks, nibbles, grips, thrusts, and twists.

He’d been clear as day during their three-hour Grindr chat. Would he have to say it again?

I. Don’t. Kiss.

Would it matter? His man of the moment, whose peroxided hair made him look like a Q-tip dipped in tanning lotion, kept going for Logan’s lips like a puppy, nipping and growling whenever he missed.

And, of course, as he’d feared, each failed kiss hit Logan with a burst of unwanted memory.

Memories of inviting shadows laced with ocean mist, of a head-spinning embrace inside a sea cave with a man who’d redefined Logan’s ideas of strength and beauty. So what if these memories were half a decade old? They pulsed beneath Logan’s desire like a second heartbeat.

Why couldn’t the guy—who was a HaPyBtTm according to his screenname—be content with the rest of Logan’s body? Chances were, they’d only end up spending about twenty minutes together anyway.

“Kiss me,” HaPyBtTm growled.

Shit. He intensified his thrusts instead, tightening his grip on the undersides of the guy’s lean, muscled thighs.

“Kiss me.” This time it was a yip, like a lap dog.

Snippy, that’s a pretty good nickname. His screenname didn’t seem that accurate. There was plenty of bottoming going on, but not a lot of happy.

Snippy’s brown eyes had filled with a predatory intensity. No sign of the submission he’d been promising Logan all afternoon.

When he asked a third time, Logan’s eyes started to wander, looking for a way out. He caught a glimpse of his thrusting ass in the half-open mirrored closet door, then some framed pictures on the—Oh, Jesus. Is that a boyfriend?

“I said fucking kiss me, bitch!” A squeal this time, punctuated by a punch against the center of Logan’s chest. A half-inch shy of the sore spot where he’d taken some shrapnel from an IED.

Logan hated it when bottoms punched him. Some did it for fun, to goad him on. Some did it when he went in too fast, which was maybe justified, but why not just ask him to slow down? Logan seized the guy’s wrist before he could land a second blow. And that’s when Snippy McFisty let out a defeated groan that told Logan the game was over.

Thank God.

Slowly, he pulled himself from inside the guy’s clutching heat, careful to grip the top edge of the condom so it didn’t slide off. There was nothing in it that might spill, but old habits die hard.

His first red flag should have been the guy asking to go bareback, even though Logan had already told him twice he was a condoms only guy. Didn’t matter if Snippy was on one-a-day PrEP. So was Logan. There were other things to worry about besides HIV, he’d told him. The truth was, he was saving the intimacy of skin on skin, and all the trust that required, for someone more special than a Grindr hookup. But Snippy wasn’t entitled to that information. There was a lot Snippy wasn’t entitled to as far as Logan was concerned. Including a kiss.

If Snippy wanted boyfriend information, he should do boyfriend things.

And based on his nightstand, he already had one.

They were both on their backs now, staring up at the cottage cheese ceiling. None of that gasping or panting that indicated a good, sweaty session filled the room. Instead, their breaths were low and even, the silence awkward.

It was an awful feeling when the reality of an anonymous hookup closed in around you. A lot of things could do it. Mostly environmental factors you hadn’t anticipated—glacier-sized piles of dirty laundry you had to step over to get to the bed, suffocating litter box smells, surprise drug paraphernalia. Strange scratching sounds from down the hall that suggested either a roommate or a prisoner. Maybe the last guy who’d made the mistake Logan had.

But Snippy’s insistence had stirred something else. Unwelcome memories of a guy whose big blue eyes had stopped Logan in his tracks the moment he’d first gazed into them. A guy he’d briefly slow danced with to the sounds of crashing surf, a more intoxicating and fulfilling experience than any sweaty, naked tumble Logan had enjoyed in a stranger’s bedroom since.

“What happened?” his host asked, sounding wounded and nothing like a guy who’d just punched Logan for holding to the boundaries he’d established before he’d come over.

“Look, I don’t mean to be a jerk, but I was super clear. No drugs, no fisting, no water sports. I don’t bottom, and I don’t kiss.”

Snippy let out a whiny grunt and pulled a pillow across his chest defensively. “I know. I thought I’d be the one, though.”

The one what? Logan thought.

“Hey.” Snippy rolled over to face him. “Why don’t you hang out until my boyfriend gets here? He likes it rough and dirty. I’ll watch while I make dinner.”

“Actually, I think I’m going to jet. I got some errands to run. Nice to meet you, though.”

Logan swung his legs to the floor, slid the condom off, and dropped it in the nearest wastebasket.

“Well, shit,” the guy said. “There goes twenty bucks.”

“Say what?”

Standing, Logan hopped up and down as he tugged a sock on to one foot, not the most comfortable way to get dressed but with every new sentence out of this guy’s mouth, the more Logan wanted to get the hell out before the aforementioned boyfriend burst in and chloroformed him.

“You know, you’re kinda famous around these parts.” Snippy had raised himself up on his elbows in a way that made his abs pop, but his wild bedhead didn’t match the sultry pose.

“This building?”

Had he hooked up with someone else in this apartment building? It was possible, but he doubted it.

“No, silly. The OC. As in Grindr Orange County, Sergeant Stud.”

Logan felt a flash of embarrassment at having his screen name repeated out loud. He was pretty sure the guy across the room from him wouldn’t want to be called HaPyBtTm in polite company. But there was no polite company around, so what was the big deal? Still, neither one of them included their faces in their profile pics, only their shirtless, muscled torsos, some teasing glimpses of naked waistlines. That said something about a mutual desire for anonymity.

“Oh. Alrighty, then.” Logan punched one leg through his jeans and then the other.

“Come on. Don’t get all butthurt. If you don’t want guys comparing notes, you shouldn’t hook up with every dude who’s into dudes in Orange County. Expand to LA or something.”

“What’s this about twenty dollars? I don’t get it.” He knew he should get out of there and fast, but he couldn’t resist asking.

“Oh. My friends and I had a bet going that I’d be the one who could get you to kiss.”

“By punching me?” Logan asked.

“By asking nicely.”

“Awesome,” Logan whispered.

“The punching was my idea.”

“Got it.”

“So what’s your deal anyway?” Snippy asked. “You straight? Married? An assassin?”

“You going to enter it into my file with all your Grindr buddies?” Logan pulled his T-shirt over his head—the tight, plain hunter green one he wore mostly to hookups to make a good front door impression because his biceps popped in it. Now it felt sweaty and confining.

“Don’t get offended. You’re a memorable guy, Sergeant Stud. Even if you are over thirty. But with your height and that body…shit. You can keep at it for a while. Come thirty-five, though, you’re going to want to transition over to Scruff or else you’ll get autoblocked by twinks like me.”

Like you’re such a treasure, Snippy, Logan thought.

“Wait,” Snippy asked, looking panicked. “You’re not over thirty-five, are you? ’Cause that’s like a rule with me.”

“Is it?”

Logan was thirty-two, but he’d rather let the ageist douche twist in the wind than say so.

Having tied the laces on both of his sneakers in record time, he buckled his belt. Usually, unless the meeting was a complete disaster, he compensated his hookups for his no kissing rule with a light peck on the forehead on his way out the door. This hookup, however, qualified as a complete disaster. Almost as bad as the guy he hadn’t realized was a tweaker until they were both undressed and he suddenly said he just needed a minute to check the oven and see if there was still a witch inside of it. Logan had gotten out of there fast.

“Have a good one,” Logan said. “I’m going to head out before you drown me in integrity.”

“I’m wearing Cool Water. But thanks, I guess?”

“Not talking about your cologne, Happy Bottom. You take care now. And don’t punch people.”

“Men love a mystery, Sergeant Stud!” the guy called after him as he booked it down the apartment’s single hallway.

Logan answered by shutting the front door behind him with a firm thud.

 

 

It was so hot outside the air hit him like another punch from Snippy, this one in the face.

The Santa Anas were blowing desert winds over most of Southern California, lighting wildfires as far north as Kern County.

As Logan drove back to his apartment, he saw a thick plume of dark brown smoke crawling skyward from the dry, brown mountains to the west. Apparently it was Orange County’s turn in the barrel. No surprise. They’d had some terrible fires here over the years, and with the weather forecast predicting high eighties for the next two weeks, this one better get knocked down quick.

He’d try the dating thing again, he told himself as he drove.

Maybe expand to San Diego and LA. Not to rack up more quick and meaningless encounters like Snippy had suggested. He’d find quality guys who might be worth having coffee with, or God forbid, dinner. Guys he might feel comfortable kissing once they got to know each other.

Maybe Donnie could set him up with someone again.

It wasn’t like the Army guy had been a total fail. They’d had the whole military thing in common, and some fun dates. But as soon as the guy started telling stories of his hard partying ways—all-night dance parties, so much Molly he was having memory issues—Logan could see the burning bridge from a mile away.

He’d kissed the guy though. Once or twice. During sex.

And both times he’d thought of Connor Harcourt. Hadn’t just thought of him. Had seen the pain in his eyes the last night they’d stood across from each other.

Which was fucking ridiculous.

How could he still be haunted by a five-year-old make-out session that might have cost him his job?

Maybe because he wasn’t making enough of an effort to get Connor out of his head. He was still saving all those write-ups his events were getting on New York style blogs. And reading them over and over again. And he could always delete the fake Instagram account he’d opened so he could follow Connor’s. That always led to no good.

Logan was pulling into the parking lot of his sprawling apartment complex when a phone call from his security director lit up his cell.

It chapped his ass that Buddy Haskins had gotten the promotion Logan had put in for, but given he’d been at the hotel much longer and was best friends with Rodney Harcourt, it made sense.

He popped his earpiece in.

“How can I help you, Buddy?” He managed to sound both professional and cheerful.

“So what’s this about an incident yesterday?”

“What incident?” Logan stepped from behind the wheel of his truck.

“Something about you messing up the camera system.”

It was such a twisted and inaccurate version of what had happened Logan needed a beat to figure out what Buddy was actually talking about. “No, no. I never touched the system. I never got the chance. I needed to review some footage, and Pete got up in my face and started yelling at me about how I didn’t have access, and I asked him since when and said if it was anyone’s call, it was yours or Rodney’s.”

“All right, well, I’m calling. So why did you need access?”

Logan stepped into his apartment, thanking his stars he’d left the AC on by mistake.

“Some guest was bullshitting us, claiming he stepped in wet paint outside the north hallway exit on the way to the pool. He wanted meal vouchers, two free nights, free parking for his car, which had been in valet for, like, six days. So I checked out the spot and the reason the signs were down is because the paint was dry, and maintenance said it’d been dry for a day at least. But when I went out front, I saw they were doing some curb painting in the motor court, so I figured if I looked at the footage, I’d see the guy stepping in the paint out there on purpose so he could rip us off.”

“Christ, dude,” Buddy muttered. “That’s a lot of work over some meal vouchers.”

“And two free nights in a king guest room, and six nights of free parking. I was protecting the hotel, Buddy. The guy was a fraud, man.”

“All right, well, Pete says you really disrespected him.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not used to guys who’ve been there three months telling me how to do the job I’ve done for five years.” Logan tried not to slam the refrigerator door now that he’d pulled a Heineken free. He failed.

“We’ve got new procedures with the camera system. Pete got told, you didn’t. Don’t bite the messenger’s head off.”

“Okay,” Logan said, feeling like he was being shoveled some heavy bullshit. “So what am I supposed to do when I need access to footage?”

“Go through me.”

“All right, well, watch out for Pete because he’s pretty damn possessive of the thing.”

“Logan, enough, man. Enough. It’s a hotel, all right? Not a war zone. A hotel. Sometimes you come at stuff too hard and you make headaches for everybody. Headaches I don’t need. Like, I know Steve liked all your emails, but Rodney didn’t, so cool it.”

It’d been a while since Logan had sent upper management an email recommending various tweaks to their security procedures. He’d always been careful to phrase them in a diplomatic manner, and always careful to offer his own services, sometimes after hours and for no overtime, to execute the little fixes he suggested. Steve used to welcome his emails, but after he left and Logan was passed over for his job, it sounded like his suggestions weren’t going over so well. Especially the one questioning the install of the new camera system.

“Just asking how I’m supposed to do my job, that’s all,” Logan said.

“Your job is to stand at the lobby doors and look as dashing as you always do. That’s why Rodney wants you on so many days. The lady guests love you, and some of the guys do too, which I know really works for you. So, you know, stay in your lane and don’t make my life harder.”

“All right,” he said. “Warning received. I’ll stay in my lane.”

To vent his frustration, he popped the top off the beer bottle against the side of the counter using the side of one fist.

“Good. But I’m sorry, Logan. I’m going to have to write you up.”

“For what?” Logan bellowed before he could stop himself.

“This is an issue with you, man. This getting up in people’s faces thing.”

“I didn’t get up in anybody’s face. Pete got up in mine.”

“Still, I need you to figure out how to de-escalate this kind of stuff when it happens. You’re a big guy, and you freak people out. I don’t need someone like Pete turning all Me Too on us.”

Logan pulled so hard from his beer he was afraid he might down half the bottle in three gulps. But he was afraid if he dropped it, he’d put his fist through the wall.

Me too? What the hell was Buddy talking about? Was he implying there’d been an element of sexual harassment in his quarrel with Pete the day before? The whole thing was insane. Logan hadn’t been written up in five years of working at Sapphire Cove. The fact that he was going to be now, over trying to do his job, and with a thread of homophobia running through it to boot, was too much to swallow at once. So he swallowed more beer instead. In this moment, there was no winning. An argument with Buddy on top of an argument with Pete, who was apparently Buddy’s new favorite, would make the whole thing worse.

“Do what you have to do, Buddy.” Despite his best efforts, he’d said it like, Come at me, pal. I dare yah.

Buddy didn’t bother with a goodbye.

At least he didn’t ask me to apologize to that prick, Pete.

Worse things had happened in his time at Sapphire Cove than Buddy Haskins becoming security director, but sometimes Logan forgot that fact.

No, the worst thing without a doubt had been the death of Dan Harcourt a few years ago, an event that had left the long-term staff members, folks who’d worked there since the place had opened in the sixties, emotionally gutted.

Martin Harcourt’s death a few years later didn’t level Sapphire Cove’s staff in the way the loss of his father did. People were sad, of course, but Martin had been more hands-off with the hotel’s day-to-day operations, hadn’t nursed the long-term relationships with the hotel’s senior workforce that his father had.

Crashing either man’s memorial just to get a glimpse of Connor felt gross.

Hoping either tragedy might have caused them to bump into each other also felt kinda gross. So he’d kept that hope to himself.

Still, Connor had slammed the door on Sapphire Cove so fast it was hard for Logan not to suspect their last meeting had something to do with it.

As he showered away the sour smell of cheap sex, which somehow smelled worse when it didn’t remind you of anything fun, he kept wondering why Pete, a guy who’d been there three months, had been told about a new procedure with the cameras and not Logan. And he kept wondering how Pete could have felt so damn confident about his newfound knowledge, getting up in Logan’s face like he was a bouncer and Logan a guy trying to crash the rope line. And he kept wondering why Buddy didn’t seem to give two shits about some asshole trying to cheat the hotel with a fake claim. Rodney had lost his shit over less.

Then there was the fact that Logan had never been written up in five years of working there and happened to be the only security agent on staff with actual fight and self-defense training, and yet Buddy, a guy whose idea of strength training was letting out several loud farts in a row, had been promoted over him. By a general manager who thought Logan looked so great in his uniform he’d practically turned him into an art installation in the lobby.

None of it made any sense.

And all of it left him debating a larger and more important question.

What the hell was going on at Sapphire Cove?

He tried to watch TV, tried reading for a bit. Texted Donnie to see how the porn awards show he was attending in LA was going and got back blurry shots of porn stars making out in a hotel ballroom. After a while, he felt the familiar call, the one that made him excited and nervous at the same time, that had him opening his Instagram account, Palm Tree Guy. Technically, it wasn’t a fake account. There were only four pictures on it, but Logan had actually taken them, and they were all of very real palm trees on the grounds of his very real apartment complex.

Connor’s profile, on the other hand, was mostly shots of the amazing events he’d been throwing in Manhattan for five years. Soaring floral centerpieces. Gorgeous ice sculptures. Backyards in the Hamptons transformed into stylish wedding chapels. But every now and then Connor was in one. Posing before an empty dance floor, or with a team of New York hipsters who’d helped him execute the festivities in question. Five years had sharpened some of the angles in his face, and most of the time now there was a serious look in his baby blues, and his outfits were a bit more muted and grown up but still stylish with glimmers of flash.

Maybe New York had toughened him up a bit.

Or maybe Logan had.

Yeah, right, dude. He’s got a big, fabulous life in New York City. He’s not thinking about some dumb jarhead he made out with five years ago.

None of that mattered. What mattered was the minute Logan laid eyes on those baby blues again, his hand went to his zipper, exposing his hard cock to the cool air, and in no time the blend of memory and fantasy—imagining what Connor would have looked like riding him, what it would have felt like to feel the guy’s arms and legs wrapped around him, wondering if every inch of him would have tasted as delicious as his neck, wondering if he smiled right before he came—had Logan dazed and stroking.

It worked like clockwork, and it always ended in an eruption that made him feel emptier and more sated than he ever had in some strange guy’s creepy apartment, the kind that left him lying on the sofa for a while because cleaning himself up meant leaving his fantasy of what could have been with a guy he’d thought about almost every day since they’d first met.