Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
I can’t think of a better solution. And Asher seems to have a plan as he rattles off details about DJ Drake.
“Okay. Let’s go. But I’ll drive.”
“Fine. I’m going to change. Meet me out front in ten?”
“I’ll be there.”
Miami twinkles magnificently as we cross the causeway again in the dark. Warm, salty air blows past my face. But I am not relaxed.
It’s still sinking in that I just turned down sex with Asher St. James. But that was so far outside my comfort zone. I've been with one person for seven years. I don’t even remember how first kisses work. There’s no way I could pretend to be cavalier about his offer. I’d probably go in for the kiss and break his often-photographed nose or something.
Where is my sex spreadsheet when I need it? But I know for certain that none of the items on my sexual to-do list read: Make fool of self while naked with a professional athlete and underwear model.
Strangely, Asher is quiet in the passenger seat. He doesn’t seem drunk at all, though. I might have been wrong about that.
So, what the hell was he thinking? And why did I shut down the conversation before I got to hear more?
Because he was flip about it, I guess. And because I was angry that he’d extracted a truth about myself that I’d chosen to protect.
Not that it’s a state secret. My family knows, and they don’t care. My ex has always known. I’ve been out to her from the start. Valencia is aware too. But that’s the whole list.
Now that I’m single again, it’s more relevant. But divorce is humiliating. I haven’t discussed my sexuality with other people in my life, because I’m a little sensitive about people’s speculations about my marriage. Sometimes a guy needs some time to sort himself out in private.
And everything with Asher St. James is very exposed.
Including my attraction to him.
Waze tells me to turn left, and that my destination will be in one hundred feet.
I do as told, and pull into the parking lot, then check out the colors on the sign. Another thing that’s very, very exposed?
The clientele at this club. There are all manner of toned, tanned hot guys in twos and threes outside. They’re smoking, laughing.
Kissing. Letting loose.
Suddenly, I’m aching to go inside, and that desire has nothing to do with finding a new DJ.
I want to let loose for once in my damn life.
I want to get out of my head.
No—I need to.
14
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.