Against Fate: A Prince Castle Novel

by Damian Bloom

  Mia used to eat this garbage up, and some good it did her…It didn’t even make her think twice before throwing our so-called love story out the window. If she believed in all this idyllic bullshit, how could she trample on four years of marriage like they meant nothing? She told me she loved me and vowed it would never end, but if that was love, what was it that pushed her into the arms of that rich asshole?

  If that was love, why did it hurt so badly that I still stiffen remembering the pain after all these years?

  Perhaps some questions will stay unanswered forever.

  I pick up a random paperback and skim over the blurb. This one’s a love story between two men. Good to know there’s a market for gay romance, too. And a prosperous one, at that. The back cover promises a lot of heartfelt moments, interspersed with steamy sex scenes that will allegedly make you blush. It wouldn’t hurt for me to learn how to write one of those. Although I haven’t yet fully planned out the Emma-Stephan storyline, it’s already an undeniable fact that my readers expect something to happen between them. And I must find a way to deliver.

  I think back on my little anti-romance rant. For the hundredth time, I regret not shutting my big mouth.

  I still stand by everything I said. Romance, to me, is delusional, unrealistic-to-the-point-it’s-harmful drivel. But I shouldn’t have said that in front of a budding novelist.

  Regret gnaws at me, and, on the spur of the moment, I fish out my phone and send Luis a text. What’s your favorite book?

  I don’t have enough time to push the phone back into my pocket before the reply comes. You’re gonna make fun of me.

  No, I won’t. I promise. I’m not being an asshole today.

  Today? Are you fasting?

  Yes, I’m on a diet. I can only allow myself to be an asshole once a month. Unfortunately, you happened to catch me right on that day.

  “Uh-oh,” Mrs. Bertha says. My eyes shoot up, and I find her staring with an ominous sort of satisfaction on her face. I realize how widely I’m grinning, and I try to regain control of my expression. But it’s too late. “Are you finally seeing someone, Adam?”

  The phone buzzes with a new text.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, Adam, dear. I’ve been around long enough to know that smile spells trouble of the best kind.”

  I scrunch up my nose. “It’s nothing like that; trust me.”

  The old lady purses her lips and nods, but it’s clear she doesn’t believe a word I say.

  I check Luis’s text message. “Uhm, Mrs. Bertha, do you have a novel called, uh, The Notebook around here?”

  Her eyes grow even wider, larger than the narrow lenses of her glasses. I regret ever asking this question. “Oh, Lord.” An elated hand flies to her chest. “Is that wedding bells I hear?”

  Two small lamps subtly light up the room from opposite corners. My eyes glued to the computer screen, I’ve been resting my hands on the keyboard without pressing a key for at least ten minutes.

  Something just bothers me about the last sentence I wrote, but I can’t put my finger on it.

  I reach for my coffee, but the mug is empty. Maybe I’m just too tired to think.

  I’m debating between continuing to push myself and chilling for the rest of the night when my phone pings. A picture from Luis. In it, a quarter of his face pokes out from behind the copy of A House at Midnight I gifted him. Almost halfway through, the caption says.

  I amble over to the couch. Okay, so maybe a break wouldn’t hurt. How do you like it so far?

  I love it.

  My chest puffs up with proud satisfaction.

  I bet you say that to all the writers.

  He’s a fast replier, which I like.

  Nah, I mean it. I’ll probably have to sleep with the lights on tonight, though.

  Don’t worry. It only gets scarier.

  I grab a beer from the fridge, which is the official sign that writing is over for the day. I picture Luis lying in bed, in nothing but his briefs, reading my book, and it’s one of the most sensual things I can think of.

  Does he sleep naked?

  Shouldn’t you rush to sleep, though? If you learned anything from the book, you should know that terrible things happen at midnight.

  Oh, God, don’t say stuff like that.

  The image develops further in my mind: Luis cowering under his blanket, his nimble body naked and tender.

  You all alone?

  What if I invited myself over? Would he say yes? Would he be okay with a one-night stand? Despite my deepest desires, that doesn’t seem to match the good boy impression he’s left me with.

  No, I live with my brother and my best friends. House full of older men. I think I’m safe.

  My shoulders deflate.

  Not from my murderers, I type. I’m the only one they listen to.

  Damn it. Your book should come with a warning, then.

  Hey, you’re luckier than most of my readers. You can personally benefit from my protection.

  My cock twitches, swells up in the confines of my boxers. I try to imagine what it would feel like to encircle Luis with my arms, feel his back pressed to my chest.

  Are you offering to watch me while I sleep?

  Something like that…

  I don’t know the guy well enough to tell whether he’s flirting back or he’s too innocent to understand what I’m getting at.

  My balls feel heavy and full, and I paw at my crotch, trying to alleviate the tension.

  To make matters worse, my head thumps with a dull ache. Today was one of those days when writing’s a chore.

  I’ve learned that some scenes practically write themselves. It’s like they lurk right at the surface of my brain, waiting to surge through my fingertips into the computer. However, it is just as true that other scenes are stubborn. They cling for dear life to obscurity and, as if in labor, I need to push and push and push, strain myself for hours on end, to even come up with a few hundred words. Today, everything I tried to write seemed to be of the latter type.

  It might have something to do with the fact I’m writing my first sex scene. On top of that, the characters supposedly love each other, another wholly unexplored topic in my stories.

  I smirk, shooting a look in the direction of the computer. I have to admit it wasn’t all torture. At some points, I even got turned on.

  What would Luis think of the scene? I wish I could see him reading it. Would he blush over the words, the moans, the filthy desires? It might be nothing he hasn’t already read countless times in his romance books.

  You mind giving me some feedback on something I wrote today? I think it might be your area of expertise.

  Don’t tell me you wrote a love scene.

  I push the mouse to bring the computer to life and skim over the steamy paragraphs.

  I don’t know if I’d call it that, but it should lean more toward your genre than mine.

  I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m sending exclusive, unpublished material to a guy I don’t even know. But smart decisions were never made by one’s dick, and that’s the head I’m thinking with at the moment. I take a shot of the screen and send him that, after checking that it’s readable. While I wait for him to read it, I also try to see it with fresh eyes.

  I wouldn’t call it romance, comes his reply, but wow.

  Good wow or bad wow?

  There’s a slight hesitation before he starts typing again. Uh…good. Hot. For someone who doesn’t read romance, you can write a hell of a sex scene. I think I need a cold shower after that.

  I grin. The image of Luis showering is a welcome addition to the collection of thoughts I should not be having about the guy. You know what they say…write about what you know.

  Oh really? BJs in haunted houses are a common occurrence for you?

  I wouldn’t turn down a blowjob anywhere.

  Truly a romantic.

  Told you that’s not my forte. But I do make up for it in other ways.

/>   I can’t stop myself. As much as I might tell myself I shouldn’t flirt with this guy because he’s too inexperienced and drunk on his grand ideas of love, I’m like a dog tugging at its leash. If he said the word, I’d drive over to his place right now.

  To my disappointment, it doesn’t seem like Luis will.

  Are you taking feedback? he asks.

  Sure.

  There’s no emotion.

  Hmm.

  You put a lot of detail in what they’re doing and how it feels on the outside, but I have no idea how they feel on the inside. Are they supposed to like each other?

  Yeah, they’ve been growing closer over the past two books, since Stephan was introduced. They really like each other, and they’ve been waiting for this for a while.

  There’s your problem. Right now, it’s hot, but that’s it. Just sex. Forgettable. You need to amp up the feelings, the angst, and the suspense. And you know what you need for that, don’t you?

  Romance?

  Bingo.

  The conversation kind of fizzles out after that, and I decide it’s wisest to let it.

  Eventually, I crash into bed, spent. Today felt…strange. Luis’s bizarre omnipresence invaded the day, which has now left me with the bluest balls I’ve ever experienced. As I slip my hand into my boxers and stroke my half-hard cock, I briefly think of what he said. It’s just sex. Forgettable. I wish he’d give me a chance to show him just how unforgettable sex can be.

  My cock hardens to its full size, and I push the boxers down to my knees. I grind my hips against my hand, imagining I’m thrusting into Luis. I can almost hear him moaning and panting as I pick up the pace, drilling into his warmth.

  The images switch quickly, as if there’s so much to get aroused by and not enough time: Luis’s head between my thighs, bobbing up and down, mouth and throat full of cock. Luis riding me like a cowboy, my hands squeezing the tender, round meat of his ass. Luis pinned under me, gasping for air as I mercilessly fuck him into the mattress. A cacophony of Luises that ultimately pushes me over the edge.

  This guy is starting to take up too much space in my mind. Once the orgasm dies down, I decide I’ve got two options: I either make my move on Luis, sleep with him and get him out of my system, or drop it altogether and do something productive with my time. God only knows there’s plenty of work to focus on.

  But now that my horniness has subsided, my common sense makes a partial comeback, and I start to see what a bad idea it is for anything to happen between Luis and me.

  I can’t imagine him going for casual sex. Even if he would, I’d give it two fucks, tops, before he’d catch feelings.

  No, definitely not, I decide as I trudge to the bathroom to clean myself up. I need to stay away from Luis and force him out of my mind.

  Sex aside, he seems like a really nice guy, and I refuse to break his heart.

  7

  Luis

  Keith finds Peter and me sitting at the kitchen table, sharing an omelet. He stretches his arms over his head, eyes still sticky with sleep. “Morning, everyone.”

  I wave an absent hand but don’t pry my eyes away from the book. Racing toward the end, my breath hitches in my throat and my pulse drums in my ears, as if I’m right there with poor old Mrs. Donague, running from the mysterious shadowy figure.

  I barely notice that Keith sits down on my brother’s lap and wraps his arms around his neck like a boa. “What’s he reading?” He asks. “He looks like he might pop a vein.”

  Peter shrugs. “Some horror book or something.”

  With every page, I sit a little bit straighter, my breath a tad shorter. My heart knocks at my chest.

  And then, out of nowhere, the ground is snatched from under my feet. Everything I thought I knew was a lie! “You must be kidding me,” I say as I jump to my feet.

  This gives Keith a good jolt. “What happened?”

  Man, what a plot twist.

  “He killed them,” I shout.

  Keith blinks up at me with bemused eyes. “Who killed who?”

  I reach for my phone. I can’t believe you made the sweetest character a murderer, I text Adam. I almost had a crush on Samson!

  Keith turns to Peter. “Do you understand anything he’s saying?”

  “I’ve given up on trying to understand him when it comes to books.” My brother carries a lazy fork full of omelet to his mouth, but before it can reach his lips, Keith snatches it.

  Ah, so you finished the book, Adam writes. Did you like the ending?

  Liked it? I freaking loved it. Man, what a ride!

  Now that I’ve finished the book, I get ready for work in a rush. It hurts to work on the weekend and see everyone enjoy their free morning. Especially while you run around like a crazy person because you couldn’t part with a novel, and now you’re late.

  I can’t believe I have to go to work today. But as soon as I I get off, I’m running to the bookstore and buying the rest of the series.

  Glad you liked it that much. It’s always nice to hear from a pleased customer. Your satisfaction is my number one goal.

  He throws the wink emoji in at the end for good measure. Yesterday, my suspicion that Adam was a huge flirt was confirmed. Some of the texts he sent me made me blush, and it really felt like he was coming on to me. However, I never like to assume when it comes to these things, for fear I might make a fool of myself by reading the situation wrong.

  What do I care, anyway? Is Adam the one? Pfft. I scoff at the thought. Absolutely not. I can’t think of a person that would be less right for me.

  To be entirely honest, I haven’t even managed to form an opinion of him. I have no idea whether I like him or not, but I suspect he’s a nicer guy than he seemed when I met him.

  He’s pretty funny. And absolutely gorgeous. He definitely turns my knees to mush in a way no other man has ever managed to.

  But he’s also the most non-romantic person I’ve ever met. Not only are the views he’s expressed on life and love depressingly dark and cynical, but the same sort of attitude seems to seep out of his writing.

  I’ve never realized just how much you can learn about a person through their writing. It’s an open door into their mind, and Adam’s, while entertaining, is a somber, depressing place I wouldn’t want to spend too much time in.

  Have fun at work, Adam texts me just as I exit the bathroom. I’ll go back to struggling with that scene and hopefully add some feeling and romance to this sloppy joe.

  He seems to enjoy bringing up sexual topics. Normally, I’d be put off. But with him, I’m captivated.

  I almost walk into Tanner as I hurry out of my room.

  “Who’s got you all flustered?” he asks.

  I touch my cheeks. They’re as hot as smoldering embers. “I’m not flustered.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re as red as a fire engine.”

  I slip the phone into my pocket. “I just took a hot shower.”

  Tanner’s eyes narrow down to suspicious slits, but before he can further grill me on the topic, I make an escape.

  But it’s true. Adam does get me flustered. After all, I’m a gay man with needs, and I’m not immune to gorgeous men. Besides being devilishly good-looking, he’s also a highly skilled novelist, which I can’t help but admire.

  The scene he sent me last night made me tingle and think of him until I drifted off to sleep. So far, it’s been the most sexually intimate experience I’ve had with anyone, and I’m still dazed by it. All night, my head swarmed with thoughts of what Adam must be like in bed. If that sex scene was anything to go by, he’s most likely a force to be reckoned with.

  The car behind me honks, and it jostles me back to reality. Mind on the road, mind on the road.

  I turn the volume up on one of Peter’s playlists. The dancy rhythm puts me in a good mood until I pay closer attention to the lyrics.

  Kill the lights and touch my body, a cheery female voice sings. Close your eyes, you can see me by the way that I feel.

 
When thoughts of Adam steal my focus again, I sigh and turn the music off. In the silence, I consider the possibility that Adam truly is flirting with me.

  What if I’m not imagining it and he actually is interested in me? How will I respond? Do I flirt back, give in? Or do I do what I’ve always done—the smarter, responsible choice—and get a hold of myself? There’s no debate. Not when I listen to my body, in which every cell buzzes with the knowledge that Adam is trouble.

  At the cafe, I go through my tasks as if in a daze. Lena comments on it, but I pretend I’ve got no clue what she’s talking about.

  The past few days have put a bit of distance between me and Grandma’s warning. It still surfaces whenever it seems like I might run out of reasons to worry, but I don’t obsess over it every single second like I used to.

  However, today, as I refill the pastry case with fresh croissants, I think about it with renewed interest. Could Adam be, a silly question arises, the man who breaks my heart?

  I almost feel embarrassed considering the option. For all intents and purposes, Adam is still a stranger. One I most likely will never see again. But, I tell myself, the same way you would suspect every single character in a murder mystery, I’m in a position where everyone’s worth treating like a culprit.

  I gnaw on my lip hard enough to hurt.

  No, Adam would fit the part too well. After all, even in murder mysteries, it always turns out the murderer is an innocuous character—like the ingenue, doe-eyed girl. Never the snickering ex-con, twirling his mustache in the shadows.

  Stunning and charming, effortlessly sexual, and not romantic in the least, Adam might as well have HEARTBREAKER tattooed across his forehead. Which is why I should be absolutely brainless to allow him to hurt me.

  Suddenly, Lena pokes my shoulder, pulling me out of my reverie. I wouldn’t even know where to begin decoding the look in her eyes. “This guy specifically asked for you to take his order.”

  I glance over my shoulder, and my breath catches in my throat. There he is—piercing eyes, smug smile, broad shoulders—leaning against the counter like he owns the place.