Chapter Four

The effect of the alcohol hits me seconds later, dulling my senses and slowing my movements. I close the minibar and sit against the closet door, sucking in a deep breath and savoring the delicious heat that rushes through me. It's as smooth and soft as the carpet under my ass.

Robin kneels by the bed and opens a suitcase of clothes. Problem is, he's pointing his very sexy butt in the air, albeit covered by a towel, and I can't help getting hard from the enticing sight. I'd give a lot to slide my hard cock into his firm, puckered hole and do him until...

Okay, enough. I extend my legs to ease the growing pressure in my groin and slur, "You really need to do someshing about that shexiness."

"I what ?" He turns to me with laughter on his face.

"Never mind. It's the booze speaking." I point a thumb backward, to the minibar. "Don't tell your girlfriend."

He has a moment of hesitation, before shaking his head. "Oh, you mean Lola? She's not my girlfriend."

I blink. "No?"

"We're colleagues."

Oh, well, that changes everything. Maybe at some point I can make a move, then. It's been a long time since my last fuck. I fill with more heat, my brain swimming. Then again, nothing tells me he's gay. What if I make advances and he rejects me?

He gives me a long stare. "You sure you don't recognize me?"

"Well, to be honesht, there's someshing familiar about you, but I can't pinpoint what. Shorry." I pull my wallet out of my back pocket, pick a twenty-euro bill, and set it beside me on the carpet. "This is for the drinks."

His emerald gaze lowers to the money but his features show no reaction. He sits on the bedside, facing me. "Remember art school? We were eighteen."

Of course, I remember art school, but it happened in another life. I slap my forehead. "Eighteen! Dude, that was twenty years ago!"

"I took dancing classes, and you music. You were gonna be the next rock star."

"Yeah." I chortle. Becoming a rock star was one of the many dreams that never happened. But I knew a dancer at the time? At the same school? I squint and concentrate on digging in my long-buried school memories.

"We weren't hanging out much," he says, "so I'm not very surprised you don't remember. I probably didn't make a big impression. But I remember you well."

He lets that last line hang, and although curiosity nearly has me pull my hair out, I don't want to push him. Something tells me he'll explain in due time.

What I do remember from school is being so bewitched by my gorgeous girlfriend that nothing else mattered. The other pupils, the teachers, the classes, everything is a distant blur.

His stomach grumbles. He mock-punches it and exclaims with a sheepish clown expression, "Oops, even a harlequin needs to eat. Let's order something." He reaches for his phone on the side table and scrolls with a finger. "You like tapas ?"

"Thanks, but I'm not hungry." A blatant lie. Alcohol always awakes an insatiable hunger for snacks, but I don't want to make him order anything for me. I honestly don't know what to think of us at this moment. I'm attracted to him like hell, but I'm also afraid of provoking a rejection that will be a hard lesson to pay and only cause me to drink more.

"Okay." He sighs and puts his phone down. "They should be here in fifteen minutes."

"Right."

An uncomfortable silence settles. Maybe I should be going. But Mira-Me is asleep in a room nearby, and I can't leave her like this. Should I wake her? What if she's too tired to walk, will I have to carry her all the way back to our hotel? I'm not sure I'm up to that.

Robin folds his hands in his lap and breaks the quiet between us. "So, I wanted to be a dancer, but a toe injury stopped me from pursuing that dream. I dropped out of school and wandered around without a goal or purpose. Lived on the street, traveled from town to town. That's when I was drinking." He pauses to send me a nod, referring to what he'd said earlier. "One day, I came across a circus and made friends with one of their clowns. He inspired me to learn juggling, balancing, and tightrope walking, and he taught me goofy clowning skits, which was a lot of fun. But instead of staying in the enclosed circus world, I wanted to go broader and do my tricks as a street performer. It allowed me to be more in touch with people, and I could use a lot more improvisation. Which is very liberating, but also a constant challenge. I love that duality. It keeps me sharp."

"But you're also doing acrobatics?"

"Yes, Lola and I are doing indoor shows. Usually booked by town officials or private promoters. Otherwise, we wouldn't be able to make a living."

"Impreshive. I didn't know this way of life still exishted." I stifle a yawn. The booze is making me sleepy. "Well, the musichian dropped out, too, went to polishe academy, was a cop for a few years until they kicked him for shubstance abuse, then converted to bar goon and bodyguard slash chauffeur. Long shtory short."

"What about women? Are you still with that Kathryn beauty you were dating?" He throws me a pillow. "Here, be a bit more comfortable."

"Thanks." I prop the pillow behind my head and shoulders. But shouldn't have done that. The heavenly comfort of the fluff makes me even sleepier, my eyes closing. "No, Kathryn no more. No more." And it doesn't even hurt to say her name.

****

I wake up from a warm hand on my arm.

"Zane, you're having a nightmare," Robin's voice says.

I blink, at a loss. "Where am I?"

"On my bed. You fell asleep and you had a bad dream."

"Damn." I am indeed on his bed. I sit up and gaze at him with what must be a wild look. "How… how did I get here? Did I walk in my sleep?"

He smiles and turns to the side table, on which is a plate of cheese cubes, chorizo slices, and olives. "No, dummy. I carried you. Are you hungry?"

"Oh, damn. You really are strong."

"Are you hungry?" he repeats, using a toothpick to pick up an olive.

"No, thanks."

"You don't remember anything?"

"From what? My dream, or our days in art school?" I've sobered up during my sleep, my thinking clear again.

He gives me a long look full of brotherly warmth.

I nod, images slowly coming back to me. "I dreamed about my kiddo. I saw him in the hospital, tied to machines with doxorubicin slowly dripping into his artery." I pause to explain. "It's called that because of its ruby-red color. It's extremely toxic, it can damage the heart." A new pause, as the images reappear before my eyes. "I dreamed that the machine started pumping faster and faster so my kid became all inflated and red-faced. I wondered when it would stop, whether he would burst like an overfilled water balloon or something. Then you woke me up."

Silence.

I check Robin's reaction. He's livid, his green gaze wide and blurry. "Oh my God. Are you saying your son is undergoing chemotherapy?"

"He was. He passed." I suck in a loud breath. Talking about him and reviving the trauma used to hurt like a mother, but the regular consumption of alcohol has helped to control my pain.

Correction. Sometimes, alcohol gives access to the pain, like an evil bastard sending a line down to the darkest enthralls of my soul to locate the most atrocious feelings for me there—raw despair, fear, anger, profound sadness—and then enhancing them to such an extent I scream and cry until I pass out from exhaustion. But most times, the numbing effect of the alcohol helps me stay afloat above the abyss. I know it's there, the pain lurking right under the surface, but I'm swimming around happily unconscious.

I guess I must have put on some kind of face, for Robin's eyes fill with tears. "My condolences," he croaks. "It must've been awful."

"It's okay. I'm all right. I've learned to live with it." I hate to have hurt him, I need to work on concealing my feelings better. One thing is how I am inside, another entirely is how it affects my surroundings.

A tear rolls down his cheek, tracing a lone wet line on his skin. "Was he Kathryn's son?"

"Yep. That's when our relationship went downhill. She couldn't deal with it all. We ended up divorcing."

He wipes his cheek. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. We're both in a better place now." Wishing to change the subject, I ask, "What about you, and your love life?"

"Oh. Well." He sniffs and studies his hands. "It's not much to brag about. There was a time when I had the hots for a guy in school, but he was—"

"A guy?" It takes me a second to process the information. Wow, to think he's into men is downright baffling. My curiosity is piqued to the highest possible level. Gone is the pain, the bad dream.

A nod. "Yeah, but he was busy being a popular rock dude playing the electric guitar and dating the most beautiful cheerleader, so my feelings toward him never led to anything. It was a difficult time for me."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"I was envious of his girlfriend." He sends me a direct look and seems to wait for a reaction.

"I can understand that," I blurt out, at a loss for anything else to say.

"Her name was Kathryn."

"Kathryn?" I blink several times. "What the hell are you telling me?"

"Don't you get it?" He rolls his eyes, like he can't believe the level of my stupidity. "I had the hots for you, dummy."

"Well, I'll be damned." I'm so surprised, I'm tempted to bark a laugh. But he's serious, and I don't want him to think I'm making fun of him.

"Uh-huh," he says. "But you don't recognize me. You don't remember." His eyes shine like two pure jewels in the semidarkness of the room.

I let some time pass returning his intense look. I'm in a hotel room in the middle of the night with a hunk so hot I struggle to keep my lust at bay, and now he's telling me he crushed on me twenty years ago. Judging from his long silence, there's more, and it's difficult for him to talk about. I wait, having completely sobered up.

He speaks up after a moment of twining his fingers. "What if I say we went to a party once, at a friend's house. In April 2003 or something. His parents were out."

I rack my brain. A party? There were several at the time, but at a friend's house? "What was his name?"

"Alex, I think. We were all a bit wasted. At least, I was high enough to get up the courage to talk to you when I stood in line for the bathroom and suddenly you came along."

Alex, my garage band drummer... Images come back to me. Of beer, loud music—it must've been Pantera or System of a Down—everybody thrashing and head-banging and growling their hearts out. The place was a mess. I can't believe his parents dared to leave the house to a bunch of dickheads.

Speaking of which. Another memory hits me. "I was so pissed, I tried to drink from an uncorked bottle." I chuckle.

"So, you remember?"

"Yeah, sorta. But it was a rock metal party. Why would you be there if you were a nice boy attending dance class?"

He ignores the tease. "'Cause some pals wanted to go. And I knew you'd be there. So when you came to the bathroom and there was just you and me left in line, I asked you if you wanted to hang with me."

"Hang, like...?"

"Hang, like go out with me. Like, date."

I swallow. He'd asked me out. It must've taken a lot of courage. "And?"

"You really don't remember that part?"

"Dude, there were so many people, and I was drunk out of my wits. How could I—"

"You laughed and then you said..." He pinches his lips.

"What? What did I say?"

His hesitation tells me it had to be bad.

Aw, shit. Now I see it. Me laughing at the face of some guy in a hallway. Was it him? I'd thought he was a little weird. Effeminate. I'd needed to pee bad, and he'd stood before me in the line. I'd just wanted him out of my way—like today, when he stopped my car—so when he'd suggested something totally insane, I'd used scorn to get rid of him. I'd spat, "I'm not a fucking fag," then shoved him out of my way snickering and gone to the bathroom. Never saw him again, and I know why now.

How could I forget about this incident? And Jesus, how could I bully him in such a nasty manner? Poor guy... An ache spreads in my chest. Of guilt, of remorse. My view troubles. I look down at my hands. Man, this breaks me. I never meant to hurt anyone.

The mattress moves. He sits beside me and puts light fingers on my arm. "You okay?"

"I remember," I grunt.

"Oh." Just that, no comment.

"But I don't understand how I was able to behave like that. It's not in my blood. I resent the notion of bullying."

"You were drunk, pal."

Don't make excuses for me.

I guess I was high on myself, maybe I wanted to be cool and impress my friends. But such despicable behavior is unforgivable nonetheless. I peek at him, eyes stinging. "I'm really, really sorry. I don't know what else to say to make it right."

He smiles. "It's okay."

"Yeah?"

A nod. "The heart forgives, you know."

Well... His grand gesture helps ease my guilt. And to think I'm the one who's attracted to him after all these years! I wasn't homosexual back then, but I'm definitely bisexual now.

Should I tell him? Can I let the cat out of the bag? I draw a deep breath. "Okay, I've got a small confession to make. I've changed since those days. I'm actually bi—"

A rap sounds on the door, eerily spooky and startling both of us.

He gets up and reaches for the handle.

The door opens with a plaintive creak, a platinum-colored head poking in. Mira-Me, with mascara leaks under her sleepy eyes. "Zane, we should be going. We got stuff to do tomorrow." Her gaze widens as it trails to Robin's broad, naked chest, then down to his stone-chiseled six-pack before ending at the towel around his waist, tied tightly enough to reveal the outline of his cock. The young girl's mouth forms a silent, Whoa, of admiration.

I grin. I was right about him. He's the hottest stuff to walk the surface of planet Earth, and I'm going to make him mine.