by Sabrina York
Pathetic, perhaps, but there it was.
When he flexed his fingers, Jagger’s cocktail list crackled in his hand. A great weight lifted from his chest, and Martin realized he hadn’t been left to his own devices after all. Relieved now that he knew where he needed to go, and what he needed to do, he donned his sunglasses and headed outside to one of the resort’s more popular bars.
Glad he’d opted to dress casual today—Sperry deck shoes would fare sooo much better at the beachside cabana than his usual wingtip Oxfords—he followed the sand-dusted wooden path. The tropical sun warmed his skin, making him wish he’d worn short trousers. His blood had thinned so much down here, once he returned home he’d have to wear his heaviest pullovers.
A vaguely familiar steel-drum tune danced in the air around the Tiki structure. Strings of colorful lights hung from the thatched roof along with tin signs advertising different beers and that it was five o’clock somewhere. Martin did a quick count of barstools—seven. He would have to suggest Jagger add an eighth so there would always be a set of two in the mix for a couple. Straight men always left a vacant seat beside them.
The deep rumble of laughter drew him toward the side of the bar where a guest chatted like an old friend with the Latino bartender, Carlos.
Over a pint, sudden friendship springs. Whether in America, the Caribbean, or back home, the old adage always proved true.
While he’d enjoy nothing better than joining them, he kept his head down in the way of straight men, indifferent, no eye contact, and took the empty stool two seats over.
“I’ll find you some new beers to try tomorrow,” Carlos said.
“Or I’ll have to switch to Scotch,” the guest joked.
That caught Martin’s attention, and he glanced over at the man. Sandals, worn, but well-fitted jeans, and a snug, white T-shirt—the deep V-neck revealing a perfect amount of chest hair. Approximately Martin’s height, five-tenish, but with a more solid build, his short-brimmed cap in army-green covered shaggy, dark curls. With his thick-rimmed glasses, he looked smart rather than sloppy. As if he didn’t have time to spend on frivolous things like trimming his week’s growth of beard or getting a haircut. While Martin prided himself on his fastidious personal grooming, the Bahamian style this chap sported had serious sex appeal.
Chuckling, the bartender left to tend to his other patrons, and the attractive guest fixed his attention on the bottle in his hand, peeling off the gold label in one piece. Martin watched him work, his strong, masculine fingers performing the delicate task with ease. The beer was Medalla Light, a Puerto Rican brew he’d sampled more than once with Jagger and Daniel. The man set the torn-off label beside several others and Martin wondered what he planned to do with them. It was anybody’s guess. Tourists did such queer things.
The sexy stranger lifted his head, piercing, green eyes peering out from his glasses and warming Martin all over. He jerked his face away, cursing his fair complexion as it flushed. What was the matter with him, ogling hotel guests?
Playing it cool, he nodded toward the stranger’s beer and retrieved Jagger’s list. “Good beer.”
“Yeah, it’s decent.” He spoke in a sultry, confident American accent. “Decent color and body. A bit sweet, if you like that sort of thing.”
So he knew his beer. Riiiight…. Definitely straight.
Tamping down his disappointment, Martin said, “You should try Prestige. It’s sweeter, almost herbal.”
The man picked up the red-and-blue label of the Haitian beer Martin had suggested. “Too much corn, though.”
He sniffed in agreement. “Right.”
A chat with a nice fellow, gay or not, would be a pleasant way to pass the time. One of the best things about Scotland had always been its friendly neighborhood pubs. Anytime he indulged in drink and conversation at a local watering hole during his travels, it reminded him of home. A longing to visit the Ormelie back in the ’burbs of Edinburgh filled him, although he hadn’t been there in ten years.
Hell, he hadn’t been home in ten years.
“Hello, Mr. Baird.” Carlos’s greeting snapped Martin out of the vast, sweeping hills of his homeland and back to the Caribbean.
He must be lonely if thinking about Scotland made him sentimental.
“I am officially on holiday. Please, call me Martin.”
“You got it.” Carlos winked and smiled. If Martin didn’t already know they “played for the same team,” the bartender’s mannerisms would’ve given him away. “What can I get for you, Mr. Baird?”
He contemplated saying, “Mr. Baird is my father,” but he’d never been very good at flirting. While Carlos was very attractive—toned, Latin, and lovely—it was inappropriate for management to flirt with those beneath them. And if he had to conjecture, Carlos preferred to be the one beneath his men, not the other way around, which wouldn’t suit Martin’s tastes at all. The one time he’d fooled around with another bottom, they’d just stuck fingers up each other’s arses then wanked.
Not exactly the most memorable shag.
Carlos cleared his throat and Martin’s cheeks warmed, as if his thoughts were being played out on a screen across his forehead for all to see.
Order a bloody drink and quit daydreaming about sex!
Ever since Jagger had mentioned getting tied up and screwed senseless, Martin had been able to think of little else. Scanning the list, he selected a random drink. “I’ll have a Rosin Bag Martini.”
The beer drinker gave an amused chortle.
Having never heard of the beverage, he realized it sounded somewhat illicit with the word “bag”—and most definitely a “poof” drink. He tried to share the other fellow’s amusement. “Who comes up with the names for these drinks, right? They all sound so absurd. Sex on the Beach or a Sloe Comfortable Screw.”
The sexy man in glasses spun in his stool to face him, a big grin cutting through his face and bright green eyes sparkling.
Shut up, Martin. Shut your bloody, fucking mouth.
But like a fool, he kept talking. “I’ve heard people order Leg Spreaders and Blow Jobs. Even Buttery Nipples. Honestly,” he let out an awkward laugh, “a Rosin Bag Martini? What is that, anyway? Sounds positively filthy, right?”
“The drink’s named after a cloth bag of powdered rosin that baseball pitchers and bowlers use to increase grip,” the American explained, still smiling.
“Oh, right,” Martin muttered, face now in flames.
“Not sure if I know how to make that, Mr. Baird,” Carlos interjected.
Helpless, Martin examined the list again, though there were no recipes or descriptions to rescue him. “Well, I….”
“It’s whipped cream vodka and a splash of cream, shaken and served straight-up with a cherry.”
Martin stared at the American, stunned. Did he work here? Or was he having a go at him? “How do you know that?”
The man winked and if possible, he looked even more gorgeous. “I invented it.”
Chapter Two
Garret Fischer had been told his one-night stand would show up today, but he hadn’t expected him to be so goddamn adorable.
The man—not too tall and a little on the skinny side—had dressed way too uptight for the cabana, however, and he wore a Castillo Resort nametag, which seemed odd for his prearranged date. Garret longed to mess up his perfect, dirty-blond hair with its tips lightened by the sun then rip off his fitted tropical shirt and well-tailored chinos to see if the dusting of freckles on his face and arms went all over.
Fuck. Garret had always had a thing for freckles.
Having spent years perfecting his gaydar in the Motor City, home of blue-collar rednecks and city white-trash conservatives, Garret could always pick out a gay man when one wandered into his family’s sports bar, The Fourth Base. Pegging Martin Baird had been like shooting fish in a barrel.
Garret had refused to rescue him from his inadvertent, yet endearing, rambling of dirty cocktail names, since they mirrored everything he pl
anned to do to him once he got him alone.
Martin’s demeanor shifted to serious—the one crack in his confident façade a nervous twitch of his hand against his thigh. Something only a Dom would recognize as significant.
“Do you work here?” Martin asked.
“Nope.”
In his mind, Garret began to change their plans, the romantic candlelit dinner at his beach house, the strawberries and champagne—all off the agenda. This guy needed to loosen up, get outside of his box as bad as Garret needed to get into Martin’s box.
Oh, the night was going to be amazing. His blood warmed with arousal just thinking about it.
“How is it you know our drink recipe when it isn’t even on the menu yet?” No haughtiness occupied Martin’s tone, not a stitch of rudeness, either. While that direct stare might quell an underling, Garret was an “out” gay man who ran a sports bar that served team members of the Detroit Tigers and Lions.
He didn’t intimidate easily.
“Like I said, I invented it,” he answered, guessing Martin required elaboration, but preferring to let him sweat.
In his wildest dreams, Garret hadn’t expected the 1Night Stand service to know him so well. When his buddy John brought home his twinky partner Travis from this very hotel, he’d explained Madame Eve had known what he had wanted even before he did. So Garret had omitted his penchant for dominance as a test to this mysterious woman.
Somehow, she’d known anyway.
“Would you still like the drink, Mr. Baird?” Carlos waited patiently for his answer.
But Martin didn’t reply or even look at the man. Instead, he kept staring at Garret. Enjoying the warmth in the brown depths of his eyes, Garret willed him not to turn away. The longer they stared at one another, the more he could see Martin’s walls melting—a brick of chocolate in a warm pan, losing shape and spreading to reveal the submissive underneath.
Did Martin even know?
“Well?” Garret prompted, adding enough sexual heat to his tone to melt the last bit Martin’s control. “Do you want the drink or not, Marty?”
Flinching, his hand brushed over the nametag he wore which read: Martin Baird—Head Concierge. His brows furrowed, and Garret figured he didn’t like being addressed as Marty.
Tough.
He was Marty now. Garret liked the sound of it.
“Yes,” Marty answered, the unspoken “sir” just loud enough for Garret to detect. “But it’s Martin, if you don’t mind.”
Ignoring the last remark, Garret stood. “Don’t worry, Carlos. I’ll make it for him.”
He hadn’t made a request, simply stated his intentions.
Carlos turned to Marty for permission to allow a guest behind the bar.
Discombobulated, he nodded.
Of course he did. A guy like Marty never said no to a guy like Garret.
With his date’s attention locked on his every move, Garret lifted the divider and stepped behind the bar. When he glanced over, the man’s expression was filled with confusion, worry—and desire.
He could reassure him, let the uptight guy know he’d take care of things from now on. However, something that intimate in nature should be addressed later. Maybe Marty didn’t even understand what had happened during their subtle exchange. Maybe he’d never been submissive to anyone. Fortunately, Garret could always pick up on those who craved control, needed his influence. But he would take it slow, for Marty’s sake.
After retrieving a martini glass from the ceiling rack, he placed a scoop of ice inside it to chill the glass while he made the cocktail. “Whipped cream vodka?” he asked Carlos.
“Don’t have any here, but we can check in the back.”
Garret frowned. Shouldn’t Madame Eve have planned for all the ingredients to the drink his date had been told to order? Whatever, he could ad-lib if he had to. Before allowing Carlos to lead the way into the storage room, he tossed a wink at Marty.
The man sat up straight, appearing shocked, pleased, and embarrassed all at once, his face blushing crimson.
Fuck, he’s cute.
Being in his own environment behind a bar and tending to Marty calmed any unease Garret had been experiencing over this whole one-night stand business. Not living a celibate life back home, he’d nonetheless been intrigued by the way 1Night Stand offered more than a fantasy fuck, er…date—Madame Eve’s word choice and no doubt a legality. The clever broad had to know if two dudes signed up for this, they were after sex. Yet 1Night Stand represented more than just a chance to get his rocks off. Garret knew of two honest to goodness couples who’d met because of Madame Eve.
That was why he called.
Turned out, the bar didn’t have the ingredients so he would make do with regular vodka, whipped cream, and a dash of simple syrup to make it a bit sweeter. If he had to guess, Marty wouldn’t like it too sweet, and he’d know if Garret used well vodka. Best to opt for the Belvedere.
Exiting the storage room, he stopped dead in his tracks at the sound of an unexpected feminine voice. “Martin?”
“Miss Witzler!”
Garret recognized John’s sister Grace at once. And where she was, her gorgeous husband, Jake, wouldn’t be too far away.
Figures. I travel thousands of miles to run into someone from home.
“Do you work here now?” she asked Marty.
“I came down to help with their busy season.”
While interesting to see their interaction, Garret Fischer did not lurk in shadows. “Of all the islands in all of the Caribbean,” he began, “you two had to show up here.”
Grace turned in surprise—inebriated surprise if his bartender’s expertise wasn’t off. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Vacation.” A regular cougar in her red bikini and sarong, Grace’s long brunette hair had been tied back with a ribbon. If he swung her way, he would’ve asked her out, his buddy’s sister or not. He accepted a companionable fist-bump from her husband, one of the many ex-ballplayers who frequented The Fourth Base.
“Hey, G. Behind the bar already?” Jake said.
“Can’t help myself.” Bars had always been a part of his life. Growing up, he’d sat behind one doing homework, chatting with the daytime drinkers his mother waited on, while his brothers wrestled around and fought. The middle child, he often refereed their battles and would continue to do so his whole life. It felt right, taking care of others. With Mom and Dad divorced—her in Florida, and him semi-retired—Garret now ran the bar with his brothers.
Winking at Marty, he began to gather the cocktail ingredients he needed.
The wink didn’t escape Grace’s keen notice. Her eyes moved between Marty and Garret then she let out a bark of laughter, slugging Marty on the arm. “You old dog!”
He stared at her in shock before Jake stepped in to rescue him. “Forgive my wife, we’ve been rum sampling in the courtyard.”
The raspberry Grace blew at her husband got cut off when Marty seized her arm. “Wife? You got married? That’s brilliant.”
When Marty stood to give her a congratulatory hug, Garret took the opportunity to steal his first glimpse of the man’s ass. Good God, it filled out the fabric like two ripe melons begging to have a bite taken out of them. His mouth watered.
Damn, Garret loved his friends, but they really needed to hit the road.
“Give me all of the details.” When Marty dropped the hard E in the word “details,” it sounded like he’d said, “Awll the datails.” Not American, then. Canadian, maybe? Usually good at this, Garret couldn’t place his accent.
Just one more mystery he couldn’t wait to uncover about this Martin Baird Madame Eve had selected for him.
“Last week.” Grace held out her whopper of a diamond toward Marty, but spoke to Garret. “You should’ve come.”
“Had to work.”
“How do you two know one another?” Marty asked.
“Old friends,” Garret replied, not elaborating.
“You missed a good p
arty,” Jake said.
“John sent the pictures.”
“It was an intimate affair.” She let out a dramatic sigh. “Just me, Jake, and about four hundred of our closest friends, sponsors, and family members.”
“Jake used to play first base for the Colorado Rockies. American baseball.” Garret jumped in, seeing Marty’s obvious confusion. He wouldn’t allow the poor guy to appear ignorant in front of a former major leaguer.
Lips in an understanding O, Marty nodded.
Somehow, Garret knew his date didn’t follow sports, which suited him fine. He lived and breathed them every day at work. A whole world existed outside sports, and he planned to collect the stamps in the passport of his life to prove it. He’d hiked the Appalachian Trail, before that, surfed in Tahiti. He’d visited a monastery in Belgium last summer where they brewed dark ale, and during this trip he’d been sampling the local color of the Caribbean.
As Grace extolled the beauty of their wedding to a very interested Marty, Garret’s mind flitted over dragging him backpacking through the heather fields of Scotland, a vacation he planned to take in the near future. He could envision the lean, blond man wearing a kilt, laughing over a pint with him in some nameless Scottish pub, the fun they would have.
Damn, what was it about the guy? He hadn’t even kissed him, yet he could already imagine traveling together. Crazy.
“I have an idea,” Grace announced. “Let’s all go out to dinner.”
“No,” Garret said. “Marty and I already have plans.”
His date’s head shot up. “We do?”
“Yes. We do.”
“Um…right,” he agreed, his cheeks pinking.
Garret stared meaningfully at Grace, knowing damn well she could read the “beat-it-ya-cock-block” look in his eye.
