20. Derek

I'm in the hot tub watching as Wyn completes his complicated bedtime routine. It's dark out and light inside, so I can see everything he gets up to. He's locked himself in the toilet room twice and made three runs back to his luggage to get more of those little zip-up bags he has in it. I can't quite make out what his process is.

Is he trying to see how much ground he can cover?

It's a puzzle I can't make heads or tails of, but one thing's for sure, the little bags seem to play an integral role in it.

He comes out at last, face shining as the moon glints off it. He's wearing the shorts with the perverted puppies, and it's all I can do to stay seated. It takes everything I have not to jump up and rip those shorts off him. Shred them. With my teeth.

I spread my arms out on the edge of the tub, trying to escape the hot water and steam, hoping it un-fogs my mind too.

"Do you need anything, Mr. M—Derek?" He purses his lips and then relaxes them. His puffy bottom lip juts out slightly, forming a perfect cushion for his top lip to rest on. His face is open and earnest. He looks pretty and sweet. Sinful too.

"As a matter of fact, there is something I need."

He looks pleased and happy to help. "What can I do for you?"

"You can get on your knees and blow me." I don't think it through. I don't censor myself. I've been doing that forever, and I'm tired of it. His pale eyes widen and his lips part, so I quickly add, "How much? How much for you to suck my dick?" to soften it.

He blinks hard and tenses, stepping back into the shadow of a palm tree. His voice is soft, a feathery whisper as it finds me. He sounds nervous and uncertain. I know before he speaks that I will accept any number he gives me. Any number. "One d—"

"Done!" I smile, hardly able to believe my luck. "One thousand dollars it is."

Water splashes and then levels as I lift myself out of the tub and sit on the edge, legs still in the water. The weather is balmy, warm, and still. The temperature in the tub and out of it are almost the same. The LED lights in the tub change color from electric green to yellow. Wyn's skin glows gold where the light touches it. He's standing still, one hand clasped in front of him, low down, like he needs to rearrange himself but isn't fully aware of it yet. I brush his hand aside and worry the pale-pink tie. I ask the question with my eyes, and he nods and moves his hand out of the way. I untie it slowly. My hand is steady, but I'm shaking inside. The tie comes undone, loosening and offering me the access I long for. My fingers splay out on his stomach and his breath catches, skin pebbling under my touch. I watch as he pushes his shorts down. It takes forever, a split-second, a lifetime. His dick is half-hard and rapidly growing, gold like a statue. A sculpture. I watch, transfixed, as it thickens and juts out from his body.

I like what I see in a way that's hard to explain. It's one of those things that just makes sense to me. It feels right to see his dick now and it felt right to hold it earlier. And God, it felt right when it exploded in my mouth. It felt so right that if my own cock weren't straining in my swim trunks, insistent and needy, I'd retract my offer right now, get four hundred and eighty-two dollars out of my wallet, and beg Wyn to take it.

Things being what they are, I hold out my hand and guide him as he lowers himself into the water. He kneels on the bench seat between my legs as I peel off my trunks. His hand is wet and warm when he touches me. He slides it up my shaft and then down again, circling me firmly at the base and angling me toward him. I feel it everywhere. Cock. Balls. Brain. He's barely touched me and a pit of pure pleasure has already formed at the base of my spine. I blink, and a ragged breath fills my lungs as I try to push my orgasm back.

No!

Jesus, no. Surely, surely to God, I can't come from that. He's hardly touched me.

He pauses, and when I go still, he sinks his head down. He takes me lightly, gently swallowing my head, teasing me with puffy lips and lashings of tongue, and then releasing me again. He must sense that I'm close, that I'm lost, that I have dynamite running through my veins because he waits until I've recovered before doing it again. He takes a little more each time he leans down, and by some miracle, I survive it without losing my mind or dissolving completely. His head bobs up and down and there's something impossibly sweet about how he looks, almost like a good boy at prayer. He has the base of my cock in both hands now, holding it reverently as he devours me. His eyes are closed. The lights in the water change from yellow to orange. My heart rate skyrockets.

Soft, helpless moans escape me and make new homes in the palms and the ferns around us. Wyn keeps working. My dick thickens and strains beyond anything I've ever felt. I'm helpless, a weapon, a bomb, a vessel full of nothing but pleasure.

"Wyn." It's my voice, but it's broken. "Wyn, Wyn." He hears my call and answers, eyes tracking lazily up my body until they meet mine. "Wyn," I say again. It's the only word I remember. The only word I still know.

He releases my cock with a soft, filthy pop and rubs his face all over it. This cheek, that cheek, lips, nose. I reach down and card my fingers through his hair. Words, all of them, come rushing back. "You're so pretty," I say, broken and drunk now. "You're so pretty and sweet, and you're mean, and you're sexy, and you have"—he takes me back into his mouth—"audacity…the audacity…you have all of it. All of it's yours."

I groan like I've taken a fist to the solar plexus as my insides clench.

Wyn jumps up, quick as a cat, one hand on my chest making me arch back, the other holding his dick and mine in a sure, steady grip. The light changes from orange to red. The water is lava. An inferno. Wyn's body is painted red, his features crimson and hot. The temperature spikes. His dick, slick and wet and hard, God, so hard, snakes against mine. I howl at the first contact and the second. And the third. I don't stop until pleasure hits, and even then, I don't stop. I cry out as I drown, as I fly, as I die. I cry out until I'm lying back on the paving, twitching and shaking, as Wyn cleans our mess with his tongue.

Later, I'm in bed. Wyn's breathing softly beside me, and I'm waiting for gravity to find me. It always seeks me out after an intense release of emotion. I feel heavy, but not like usual. I feel aware of my body. My hands, my feet. I can feel my heartbeat, steady and slow, and I'm aware of my chest rising and falling. I feel strangely present. Comfortable in my own skin. I feel other things too. Excitement. Joy. Relief. It's not unexpected. I expected to feel a lot. I knew I would. What is strange, what I didn't expect at all, is the complete and notable absence of the two emotions I thought would pull me under for good. Two emotions that have ruled me. Emotions I dread and fear more than any others.

Wyn gurgles in his sleep. It's not a laugh exactly, but close. It's a laugh stuck in his chest, unable to find its way out. I roll on my side to face him so I can see his eyelids fluttering gently. He's dreaming.

A beautiful boy with beautiful dreams.

A beautiful boy who's taken my guilt and shame away.

The light wakes me, baking hot and bright, bold mid-morning daylight, not the weak offering of early hours. It's been so long since I woke at this hour that I find it a little disorienting.

I'm alone in bed, and I find that disorienting too.

I find a coffee, slightly cooled but still decent, and a bowl of granola with yogurt and fruit on the bistro table. I eat and get ready at leisure, peaceful and more relaxed than I've felt in years.

The peace is shattered by a drawn-out "Derek" that somehow manages to be sharp and a purr at the same time. Barbara Anne and Sage join me as I walk down the path to the venue.

"So, tomorrow's the big day, huh?" Sage says rather unnecessarily.

Barbara Anne sighs and nods as though he's said something deeply profound. "It is."

It's not that I mind Barbara Anne being with someone else. It's not even that I mind Sage, diaper pants notwithstanding, per se. For years, after a bad day between Barbara Anne and me, I'd lock myself in my study and fantasize about her leaving me for another man. It felt like a perfect solution. She'd be the bad guy, but she'd finally be happy. I wouldn't be the one who broke up our family, and I'd be free.

So no, it's not that I mind that she's moved on. What I mind is that I know she wants to upset me. To one-up me. To beat me. To win. We've played like this for years. I take her pawn. She takes my knight. She attacks. I retreat. It's been a long, endless game. A game that's gone on for years. We've chased each other around and around the board, and I'm tired. I'm so tired.

Barbara Anne and Sage are to my left, holding hands and leaning into each other, unable to walk like normal people, as we enter the venue. There are flowers and people everywhere, an army of people, and they're moving at speed. Their general is a man of short stature, wearing an earpiece in lieu of a helmet, a notepad clenched to his chest instead of a shield. Still, leagues quake as he directs them.

He turns as I approach. Slowly, almost as if I said his name upon arrival and he heard me. He taps his earpiece roughly, ending the call he's on, and breathes in my direction. Time slows and drags out. The ride I've been on comes to an abrupt halt. Things aren't black and white. It's the earth beneath me, not a big checkerboard. This isn't a game. It's my life.

There's a soft ripple when our eyes meet. A quiver of lips. A deep flicker and then a shadow. Pale-blue swirls and turns to water.

"Wyn!" I rush to him, knocking into an errant chair and sending it skidding across the floor. "What's wrong?" I reach for him and take his face in both hands. "Tell me."

"It's the photographer." Soft, puffy lips crumple. Tears start flowing, tracking down his cheeks in hot, salty tracks. "He isn't coming."

I don't even think about it. I grab him and pull him toward me. I wrap my arms around him, and he not only lets me, but he goes soft and melts into me. His face is buried in my chest, one hand knotted in my shirt and the other around my waist, as he clings to me. I'm instantly activated. Heightened. In a murderous rage that anyone would dare upset him and, at the same time, weak with relief and honored, grateful to whatever deity or dumb luck threw us into the situation that led to us being here. To Wyn being in my arms. To me being in a position to hold him and make him feel better.

"It's okay, baby," I whisper into his hair. "It's okay. I've got you. I'll take care of this."

"What did you say?" It's Ryan. He and Miller have just arrived, and let's just say he doesn't sound happy or remotely relaxed. "What did he say? The photographer isn't what?"

Miller is at Ryan's side, as always. He has a hand on his shoulder and is making soft, crooning sounds like he's trying to tame a wild animal. It isn't helping. "Ry's feeling a little on edge," Miller's voice is unnaturally calm, and he shoots a warning glare at Wyn and me. "I brought him here to do a walk-through so he could see that everything is under control."

"I'm sorry," wails Wyn, unleashing a fresh wave of tears. "I'm so sorry. I've tried so hard. I've done everything I could, but he says he's not coming. Said something about stomach flu and terrible diarrhea and…"

Ryan omits a strange, guttural squawk and tries to spin out of Miller's grip. Barbara Anne doesn't hesitate. She seldom does. She steps in and takes hold of Ryan's other shoulder. Her smile is sweet, but her grip is steel.

"The pressure of planning a wedding has got to you, dahling. And it's fine. It's completely understandable. Happens to the best of us." Ryan flails at her words, but she holds firm, chin dropping in determination. I've known Barbara Anne for a long time. I know her well. Her strengths, her weaknesses, I know them all, and let me tell you. When she gets this look on her face, there isn't a man alive who can stop her. Whatever she says next is going to happen. "Tell you what, Ryan. Why don't you go with Sage for a while? He's not just a naturopath, you know. He's trained in acupuncture and homeopathy, and he's a Reiki master. He's really quite gifted."

"Yeah, baby," says Miller, eyes burning bright with concern and something that looks suspiciously like amusement, "why don't you go with Sage for a bit?"

With that, a very reluctant Ryan is led off by Sage. He pauses to look back once, giving Miller a blazing look that throws daggers all over the room. Miller's face creases into a million pieces as he tries not to laugh. "Love you, baby! Have fun. Can't wait to marry you."

I can't help but smile. Maybe I shouldn't, but I've always found it deeply entertaining that Miller is like this. Incorrigible and completely unapologetic about it.

"Don't encourage him, Derek." Barbara Anne rolls her eyes, but there's a smile at the back end of my name. Not a smile exactly. Her face is neutral. Perfect and unmoved. It's there, though, the smile. It's hidden under deep layers and the many masks she uses to disguise herself. I search her eyes to see if it's still there, a message for me, and to see if I can still decipher it.

I can.

"We need to fix this,"her eyes say.

I nod without moving my head. "I agree."

She raises herself up slightly and puts her shoulders back. She understands. She can still read me too. "Who do we know…?"

"…And who owes us something big?"

"Paul de L—" she says aloud.

"Hard work. Won't take direction." I shake my head. "Claude—"

"No. High fashion. Might make"—she tilts her head in the direction Ryan just went—"feel scrutinized."

She's right. Claude Vonn would definitely get in Ryan's face, and I doubt the outcome would be good. I wrack my brain and draw a breath when it hits me.

Barbara Anne is already nodding. "Perfect, Derek. He's perfect."

"And he…"

"…I know, and don't think I'll let him forget it. I'll make the call."

"Go soft," I say for a laugh. For old times' sake. I don't need to say it. We could perform this routine in our sleep, Barbara Anne and I. She takes the first run. She always does. Softening them up, buttering and tickling them, making them think they want to help us. I take the second. My approach is far from soft. It's hard. Formidable even. The irony is, and always has been, that the only thing more formidable than me on the attack is a tiny blue-eyed blonde woman with a face like an angel.

"Is this a conversation?" Wyn's head flicks back and forth between Barbara Anne and me. "What's happening?"

"Joel, dahling, it's Barbara Anne." She's already on the call, phone pressed to her ear. She's off, explaining the situation and painting a dazzling picture of how she'd like it resolved. Soft. Sweet. Buttery. If you were watching from a distance, you'd feel sorry for Barbara Anne for being in this predicament, and you'd almost envy poor Joel for having her undivided attention. Sweet. Soft. Sweet. And then she's not. Her voice lowers and develops the slightest of edges to it. "I know it's short notice, dahling. I know. It's awful…" Her eyes light up, and she flicks her hair over one shoulder as she cocks her weapon. "Shall I put Derek on the line? He's standing right here… Oh yes, we still see a lot of each other… Let me put him on. He might be able to explain it all better than I have…" I step forward, hand out, ready to take the phone from her, but it turns out there's no need. "No? Oh, you understand? Oh, that's wonderful, dahling. I'm so pleased to hear it. You're an angel… Thank you. Can't wait to see you… Love to Leslie and the boys."

It's hard to say who steps forward first, Barbara Anne or me. Either way, we're facing each other, hands out, as if we mean to shake them. We both pause when we remember that this is now, not then. There's half a foot of sea air between us, but it may as well be a mile.

It's dumb. It's a silly ritual that started when Mills was ten or eleven. He came home from an away camp, pumped, and taught us a ridiculous, overly complicated handshake he'd learned. He made us both practice it until we got it right.

I'm not sure when or how we started using it to mark our victories, but we did.

I'm suddenly aware of a deep pang in my side. A missing. A homesickness that takes my breath away. Home. No, not home. Family. Barbara Anne was my family for decades, and before that, she was my friend. I'm looking into her eyes, and she's looking into mine. I see a mask drop, then another, and another. She looks the way she does in the morning when she's well-rested and there's nothing she wants.

"Oh, to hell with it," she says, swinging back and slapping her hand against mine. The sound of the crack triggers muscle memory, and I explode into action. A fist bump, a quick shake, backhand, forehand, a clenched fist on each of our hearts. Step back, step forward, spin around, and hip bump. Our timing is perfect. Our delivery impeccable. We both hit our marks with precision and end with a loud victory cry of a made-up word Miller insisted we use.

"Koorrwhyeee!"

Miller's eyes are watering, and he's cackling loudly at our ridiculous display. Wyn's mouth is pinched into a tight circle. He is the opposite of amused. If anything, his patience is being severely tested. I understand. He's a general headed for battle. He has an army to command. He doesn't have time for this bullshit.

"Let me give you Joel's contact details," I say, tugging my shirt down to straighten myself out and claw back a smidgeon of dignity. "We need to get him on the next flight out here."

"I assume by we you mean me." His tone is a little snippy, and he realizes it immediately. He tacks on a slightly breathy "h-honey," at the end.

I'm not sure if it's how adorable I find him or if it's actually funny, but that breathy honey creases me. It makes me want to double over and fall to the ground laughing. It makes me so happy that I can't resist sliding my hands into his hair, leaning down, and pressing my nose against the velvety tip of his.

"Thanks, bunny," I whisper. "I appreciate you."

"Really?" he says when we're out of earshot of the others. "You went with bunny? Bunny?"

"You left me no choice." I shrug. "It rhymes with honey."

That incenses him so much that I make a firm decision to call him nothing else for the rest of the trip.

His phone pings, and he looks down to check it. His face lights up. "The peach blossoms are here!" he cries.

"Peach blossoms?"

"Yes, from Australia, and the lemon and lime trees."

"Lemon and lime trees? Trees? Trees? You imported trees?" That explains why I nearly passed out when I got the bill for the flowers.

"Yup." He looks pleased with himself. His eyes glitter, the picture of innocence, but the smirk on his face comes straight from the devil. "Told you I'd go over budget."

There's a jaunty bounce in his step as he walks off. He must have been expecting today to be a workout because he's wearing a neon-green tank, matching shorts, and a pair of running shoes that look brand new. It's so different from his office attire that it confuses my senses. It activates me. Heightens me. Hungers me. Makes me want to spar with him. He just landed an impressive blow with that business about the budget.

I felt it. I liked it. I respond with one of my own.

"Hey, bunny," I call after him. "How much to teach me to rim you?"