“It’s fucking great,” Deion said, as he broke off an oversized bite with the edge of his fork and inhaled it. “I don’t know how to cook shit.”
“Which is something I’ve never understood, with your baking show obsession. I can’t believe you don’t actually cook anything.”
“I watch it to unwind, and because those girls were funny as shit. But I never had time to get into the actual cooking. Guess I do now,” he said, sounding melancholy.
Benji looked at him with big, soft eyes Deion avoided, as if he didn’t want sympathy.
Carlos knew the feeling. It was what it was. He excused himself to go to the bathroom, but their voices followed him down the hall.
“Does Carlos cook?” Josh asked, as if Deion might just happen to know, which was no fucking cover for a question Carlos didn’t think Josh had any reason at all to be asking if he didn’t suspect something was up.
But as a distraction from feeling shitty and like a poorly thrown spiral tumbling through the air, unstable instead of tightly focused, it was a pretty good effort.
Great. Now you’re even thinking in football metaphors. Talk about obsessed.
“I don’t think so. Remember how eager he was to put together that bookcase for us after I offered to make brunch?” Benji answered when Deion didn’t say anything.
“Oh yeah. Did you know Carlos is an amazing carpenter?” Josh asked with innocence in his voice. “I mean, his play stuff is great too”—the understatement of the year as far as Carlos was concerned—“but the stuff he does at home? I mean, he was only putting together IKEA crap for us because we almost murdered each other the last time we tried that, but I’ve seen the furniture he’s built for himself and it’s awesome, man. If you move to Miami, maybe you could hire him to build you some one-of-a-kind pieces. I know you like that shit.”
Jesus, these two. Acting like they were having a casual chat, as if they weren’t dying to bring the subject around to why Benji’s friend and Josh’s friend were making like a couple of school kids with playdates on the agenda.
You may be reading too much into this.
Thinking about it was for sure making him crazy, though. Were they, weren’t they . . . ? Whatever the fuck they were thinking, he didn’t want to know. The whole thing with Deion felt like some kind of soap-bubble magic, a slowly expanding sphere of wanting and happiness and orgasms with each day bringing new experiences . . . and a higher risk of the inevitable pop of reality breaking through the magic.
Benji and Josh, continuing the magic, coincidentally were too busy with work to join them on the kayak trip. When they dropped that fact casually into the conversation over a “dessert” of vanilla yogurt and sliced bananas with honey drizzled over them, Carlos tried not to look at Deion with a secret, congratulatory grin. Tried and failed, only to bust Deion pretending not to shoot him yay! messages with his eyes while Josh and Benji did their own couple-on-a-shared-wavelength silent communication thing.
Four people, all zapping secret messages back and forth across a crowded table was a recipe for a helluva mess. Carlos was only too aware of how fragile this unspoken agreement was that seemed to have sprung up between the four of them not to talk about how much time he and Deion were spending together. He didn’t care.
He had more alone time with Deion coming. And that was all that mattered.
* * *
“This is pretty amazing.” Deion’s voice carried easily over the water as they watched the sun set, the smell of salt and seaweed filling the humid air. “Thanks for bringing me.”
“You’re welcome. I really like kayaking at dusk, especially on the ocean. It’s really peaceful, you know?”
It was. Deion had felt all kinds of stress simmer out of him in the rhythm of the ocean and the saturated colors of a Miami sunset. “Do you do it a lot?”
“Nah. I always mean to do it more, but I don’t own my own kayak, so it’s a matter of needing to plan in advance, coordinate with people if I’m going with friends, all that kind of stuff.” Carlos shrugged, his kayak rocking on the rose-tipped ink of the ocean. “Life gets in the way. And then I realize I haven’t been on the water like this for a year, and I’m bummed that I’ve let so much time pass.”
Deion knew how that went. He’d given up most of his life until this point to football, a sacrifice he didn’t regret for one single moment. But there were always things he was telling himself he’d make time to do. Later. Only now later was here and he wasn’t sure where to start. Or with whom. Or how to make the choices that would keep him competitive and happy—two emotions that went hand-in-hand for him—and away from the all-too-common pro athlete spiral of injury, depression, and even drug addiction from constant pain medication.
Stop being so fucking morbid and enjoy the moment, dude. This is vacation. Decision time comes after the fun stuff.
“Coolest place you’ve ever kayaked?” he asked, determined to lighten his own mood.
Carlos’s eyes lit up. “Have you ever been on a bioluminescent tour?”
Deion shook his head.
“Ahhh, it’s so fucking cool. We should go—” Carlos cut himself off without finishing the sentence, frowning. “I keep forgetting you’re only here for a few more days.”
Deion too. And ignoring the dip in his stomach every time he revised his shrinking count of the number of hours he had left before his flight on Monday was taking more and more willpower every day.
Not thinking about that now. La la la. Not thinking about that at all.
“Is there somewhere you can do that in Miami?” he asked instead, forcing his mind away from that echo in the back of his head. Four more days. Only four more days.
“Yeah, but the best place I ever did it was in Puerto Rico,” Carlos said, dipping his paddle in the water to correct his drift and keep his kayak close to Deion’s. “There’s this amazing bioluminescent bay on Vieques, this little island off the coast of Puerto Rico. You can do kayak tours there too, or boat tours. If you don’t have any mosquito repellant or leftover sunscreen or whatever on your skin, you can even get in the water and swim.”
“Really? And do you, like, glow in the dark?” He tried to picture it, but everything he imagined looked like sci-fi space alien stuff. Carlos’s face was glowing with happiness at the memory, and Deion’s chest ached.
There were so many things he wanted to do with his life. Which was a strange feeling, because for so many years—for all of them, it felt like—the only thing he’d wanted to do was play football. But somehow, in the lonely months of rehab and watching games he should have been playing, memories of things he’d wanted to do and had shoved to the side had bubbled up until he couldn’t ignore them. And, lately, every time he added something else to the list—for “someday”—he was picturing Carlos right there with him when he did it.
11
Carlos wasn’t sure he’d ever seen anything more appealing than Deion getting all excited at the idea of going swimming in a bio bay.
“Yeah. You totally glow in the dark,” Carlos said and smiled, remembering how mesmerized he’d been by the slow sweep of his arms through the water, glowing neon blue with ever-widening explosions of brightness in the water every time he moved. “It’s pretty amazing, actually.”
“Wow. I’ll have to try and go some day. In Vieques?” Deion asked, fumbling the pronunciation a little bit, but trying to mimic Carlos’s accent.
“That’s right. There’s a little . . . I don’t know what you’d call it. A hotel? A vacation spot? Anyway, there’s a place you might like. It’s called Hix Island House and it’s this really beautiful . . . place.”
“Yeah, man,” Deion snorted. “You’re really selling it to me.”
Carlos laughed and flicked water at him with a paddle blade. “Fuck off. I don’t know how to describe it. This couple runs it. They built the whole compound of, like, four or five buildings. The husband’s all into this poured concrete Japanese architecture style called wabisabi and the wife makes
, like, whole grain breads they leave in your refrigerator with juice and milk and fruit, and she teaches yoga too. And there are, like, outdoor showers and no electricity, and everything’s really beautiful.”
“Man, you’re gonna take me on vacation and make me shower outside? What kind of buuuullshit is that?” Deion’s kayak rocked in the water as he snorted and chortled and generally laughed his ass off at Carlos’s inept description.
“Fuck you. It’s a luxury outdoor shower.” He flipped Deion the bird. “Besides, you’re the millionaire. What makes you think I’m taking you?”
“You’re the one who knows Puerto Rico.”
“Man, my dad’s the one who knows Puerto Rico. I know Miami and Chicago.”
“Hey, you’ve been to Puerto Rico before. You’re definitely taking me there,” Deion said and threw him a wink.
And Carlos’s heart sank through the floor of the kayak and got lost in the big, dark rhythm of the ocean.
Oh, fuck.
Because he could see it. Could see the arguments about how many different outfits one human being could possibly need to take on an island vacation. Could see the list of relatives his abuela would insist on them visiting, squinting her eyes at them as she remembered who was going to throw a fit about Carlos visiting with Deion—a mainlander and his boyfriend, all strikes . . . handsome and a millionaire and an above-average dancer with ministers in his family, all wins—and who was going to welcome them without blinking. Could see them sleeping under the mosquito netting of the beds at Hix Island House after eating a dinner they’d made, leaving the tea-light candle lanterns burning on the concrete slab dining room table, light flickering against the marbled pattern of water stains on the concrete from the daily rains as it dimmed and died and left them in silent darkness to move over and around each other until someone, until both of them cried out in the night. He could see it, and it scared him. Because so much of his fantasy depended on how many people would welcome them and how many would refuse, and there was just no way of knowing unless he came out and told them everything.
Deion didn’t look at him and when he spoke, his voice was quiet, the water carrying his words to Carlos. “I wish we could go there.”
Jesus. Time to lighten the mood. This was getting way too fucking serious, and Carlos was skating way too fucking close to the edge of saying some shit he had no business saying to a guy who’d agreed that the whole experimental sex thing was the extent of their connection. Time to shake these sticky feelings off. He forced himself to laugh. “I may have forgotten to mention one thing that would make you slightly less enthusiastic.”
Forced cheer lifted Deion’s voice to a register that matched his own. “Oh yeah, what’s that?”
“That bioluminescent bay?” Deion lifted his eyebrows. Carlos grinned. “It’s official name is Puerto Mosquito. Mosquito Bay. Part of the trade-off for the magic is getting eaten alive.”
Deion dipped a paddle in the water, swinging his kayak around on that pivot to face Carlos. “Good thing I’m not allergic to mosquito bites.”
Carlos choked on air. “Wait, you’re . . . what?”
Butter wouldn’t melt in Deion’s mouth. “Not. Allergic. I don’t get mosquito bites.”
“That’s . . . that’s . . .” He couldn’t think of words to describe how the universe had betrayed him. Carlos laughed, because of course. “I don’t think we can be friends anymore.”
“I take it you’re allergic?” Deion asked, tipping his head toward the rest of their group as if asking if they should catch up.
Carlos nodded and started paddling. “Dude, I am crazy allergic. Like, I don’t get mosquito bites. I get welts that last for two weeks and don’t stop itching like mad the entire time.”
“Man, that sucks.” Deion’s paddling picked up speed until he was nudging out in front of Carlos, who wasn’t about to let that happen. He’d been kayaking, even if not frequently, since high school. Deion was a paddling virgin. No way was Carlos getting beat in a race.
He hadn’t counted on the competitive instincts, natural athleticism, and driving power in those big muscles.
Deion smoked him like a fine Cuban cigar.
“You lose,” the man whose dick he’d sucked with enthusiasm the night before crowed as Carlos finally caught up to him
“It wasn’t a race,” Carlos said, a little annoyed with himself for getting suckered into turning it into one. He loved Deion’s competitiveness, but not when it made him feel foolish for trying to keep up.
“Oh, man. Sorry,” Deion called out, spinning around the paddle he dug into the water like a kayaking pro until he was facing Carlos. “I have a bad habit of turning everything into a competition. Hazards of the job. Didn’t mean to be a prick about it.”
“I get it.” Carlos made a real effort to let his irritation go and felt his smile return, a genuine one. It had been impressive as hell. “You’re fucking amazing in that thing. Most big guys aren’t. I’m totally impressed.”
Deion flashed him a grin and a wink. “I’ll make it up to you later, one prick to another.”
Even a bad joke about promising blowjobs deserved a laugh, because hey . . . score.
“I’ll hold you to it,” he said, lifting a hand to shade his eyes as he stared into the fading glory of the sunset’s painted sky. Then he caught a glimpse of their kayaking guide waving an arm toward the beach. “Looks like we’re heading in. Come on.”
It didn’t take them long to skim across the calm waters at the tail end of the tour and ride the gentle waves back onto the beach. Deion traded teasing insults and more sexual promises with him all the way, and Carlos was pretty sure some of that was going to show up on Twitter the next time they were arguing best RWBY episodes with Josh and Benji.
The insulting nicknames, not the sex promises. Duh.
On the beach, the tour company had set up tables with food and drink for their beach picnic and someone had built a bonfire. The heat was totally unnecessary, but some kind of caveman urge to stay close to the light kept them all close on their blankets, also provided. One of their guides liberated a guitar case from the pile of boxes and bags the Jeeps had unloaded on the sand and soon the mellow sounds of strumming filled the air, people singing along to the oldies.
He and Deion piled their plates high with classic picnic sides like potato salad and coleslaw, then threaded brats on metal skewers to grill on the fire.
At some point, the inevitable group sing-a-long to “Margaritaville” happened, because how could it not? The guitarist started taking requests, mixed with asking people where they were from—because of course the group was mostly tourists from elsewhere—and then surprising them with a song that mentioned their hometown or state or country. It was a fun trick and Carlos hoped that girl was going to rake in the tips at the end of the night.
Hell, he was going to tip her big himself, if only because he’d never heard Deion sing before, and it turned out Deion had a surprisingly light baritone and could sing harmonies without thinking about it. Which would have made Carlos want to tear his hair out with envy if he hadn’t been so fucking in love with this guy.
Hearing the thought in his own head made him flinch. Whoa. Now, hey there . . .
“What?” Deion asked next to him, noticing.
“Nothing,” he said firmly. Just me, being a fucking idiot. “This is great.”
No feelings. This is just for fun.
“Yeah, it is. Thanks for bringing me.”
The slow smile that spread over Deion’s mouth and made Carlos’s insides fucking wobbly let him know that nobody was buying his bullshit for a second. Not even himself.
* * *
Somewhere after they’d stuffed themselves with food and before the fire burned down to coals and the tour operators started packing up everything, Deion gave in to the fucking magic of this stupidly perfect evening.
“What are you doing?” Carlos asked, giving him a confused look as Deion started maneuvering behind him.
“Just . . . sit there. Hold on.” He scooted around on the blanket, trying to hold it down so he didn’t ruck it up and get sand all over it, until he was behind Carlos. Then he spread his legs, grabbed Carlos around the waist, and tugged him into the vee made by his thighs.
He dropped his chin on Carlos’s shoulder and stared happily across the fire at the guitar girl. She was singing old-school country now—Kenny Rogers’s “The Gambler”—and their fellow kayakers were all singing with her. “There. That’s perfect.”
For a moment, he wasn’t sure if Carlos was going to push him away. They hadn’t had any kind of conversation about being publicly together together around people who didn’t know them. All they’d said was that they didn’t want to deal with their friends talking, no matter how supportively or wildly enthusiastically, about it. And maybe that automatically applied to strangers too.
But everything about this night—the sunset kayaking, the beach bonfire, teaching Carlos how to grill over an open flame—felt . . . romantic. And as much as their whole thing was supposed to be about the sex, it turned out that maybe, accidentally, things were more complicated than that.
Maybe when he turned his head to deliver hopelessly ignored instructions while Carlos was trying not to set his bratwurst on fire, Deion didn’t just look at his high cheekbones and long, straight nose, the wings of his dark brows and the point of his sharp widow’s peak, and think about when they’d next have sex.
Maybe, accidentally, he’d thought about how he wanted to stay on this beach with Carlos for as long as they were allowed, talking and laughing. Singing and giving him shit for not knowing the words to “Sittin’ on the Dock of the Bay.” Trying to learn the words to the chorus of a song that Carlos, the guitar girl, and some of the other staff knew that Carlos said was by a guy named Juanes, Deion’s tongue fumbling the Spanish.
And maybe when Carlos told him what the words meant, the chorus to “A Dios Le Pido” hit a little too close to home, because Deion kept catching himself making prayers of his own, about shit he had no business asking for. And songs about feeling like you could die for love as long as you got to love that one person should not be sung in front people when all this romantic shit had just been rubbed in their faces, because that could give a guy ideas.
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