QUESTION
MARK
S.E. CULPEPPER
Copyright 2012 S.E. Culpepper
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION
To my little sister, Sam. You are brave, kind, and true. The best kind of person in this world. There aren’t words that fit who you are to me, so…LOVE.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Without the encouragement and support of friends when I’m feeling bogged down, I wouldn’t be able to write. So, thank you, Dale, my dear friend. Without you this book wouldn’t exist. Much love.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
OTHER TITLES BY THIS AUTHOR
PROLOGUE
Mark Newland slipped away from the hospital room quietly, a guilty weight on his chest and his stomach churning, hollow and expectant. Puking was a distinct possibility. All he could see was the way his ex-boyfriend, Rafe, had looked past him and into the eyes of his new guy, Jeremy. It was like Mark wasn’t even in the room anymore. He knew that Rafe felt bad about everything that happened between them, but Mark really thought they had a chance together this time. Turned out that once again, he’d gotten it all wrong. Making poor choices was his gift.
How many years had he been chasing after this guy? How many people had he hurt or turned away trying to get closer to Rafe who never felt the same way about him? They lived together for a year and this was the way things ended? It was a blow not only to Mark’s ego but to what was left of his romantic nature. It really truly sucked. Mark was walking away for the last time, conceding the victory, and it was more ball shriveling than he would’ve thought. Plus, the conversation that was supposed to provide some damned closure hadn’t actually provided any at all—for Mark at least. Rafe probably forgot about him the second he left the room with that blond around.
A sudden surge of pressure in Mark’s throat made him realize how close he was to making a complete fool of himself. His imagination rushed to carry out his ruin: The nurses would find him closed up in a supply closet, hugging bed linens and whimpering mournfully. If Mark managed to avoid sobbing, then it would only take a couple more blurry-edged memories before he’d be sulking behind the steering wheel of his Ford and listening to Def Leppard. The perfect way to cap off the evening.
“Bringin’ on the heartbreak…”
Very healthy.
Mark swallowed down the lump in his throat and sneaked past the nurses station. Visiting hours were over and he didn’t feel up to a lecture from whomever owned the squeaky shoes he kept hearing in the halls. He had to come visit though. There was no way he could hear about what happened to Rafe today and not make sure his ex was okay. Hostage situations with gunfire, deaths, and serious injuries didn’t qualify as a no-news-is-good-news situation. He had to see that Rafe was going to make it with his own eyes.
Plus he was a sucker for punishment. A bitter queen looking for a fix.
Mark found out just how good Rafe was when he ran into Halliday outside the hospital room, and then again when he gathered the courage to go in the room and check on him. There was no mistaking the look in Rafe’s eyes. He was head over ass in love and Mark wasn’t the object of his affection.
Funny. It was weird to see his own testicles on a platter like that. Bing! Order up!
Even after a year and a half of wishing, aching, praying, and fighting tooth and nail for a relationship, Mark was listening to whispered good-byes. All a part of the royal kiss-off.
So…
What was he supposed to do now?
Mark was seriously considering the benefits of wallowing; really rolling around in the disappointment for a few days. He’d call in sick and become best buddies with his couch cushions. But in the end, all that got him was a chafed ass and an emotional hangover that he could do without.
He could go on like a good soldier, or he could get it on with a good soldier—that might numb the pain for a night or two—yet he’d realized that all these months of chasing an “ungettable get” had made him touchy and a pain in the ass to be around. He hadn’t been all that likeable for a solid year and Mark was finally admitting it to himself. He didn’t want to be this ugly version of Mark Newland anymore.
Lovelorn and bitter sort of put him in the unpopular category. Most of the “friends” Mark had left were straight, family men and if they did know gay guys, they probably wouldn’t set them up with him, especially since he knew they’d describe him as “catty.”
Mark was exhausted with himself and as much as he wanted to unload a shipment of Woe Is Me on Rafe’s driveway, he wanted to move on even more. He couldn’t heal fast enough.
He walked through the automatic sliding doors to the parking lot and with the mild night air on his skin, he made his decision.
Reinvention.
Somehow he’d lost track of the good stuff about himself and became the guy that he used to make fun of: the guy who wouldn’t let go. The sap. The clinger. Well, no more. Every inclination Mark had to hang on to the past, he was going to force himself to do the opposite and move on. It was time and even if it felt like he was lying to himself now, he had to believe that he had a chance at happiness and grab it, letting go of the things holding him back.
No wallowing. No suppressed anger. No sick days. But a vacation…? That would be perfect.
CHAPTER ONE
The resort shuttle boat pulled up to the dock and Mark watched through dark sunglasses as two men wearing identical uniforms of khaki shorts and red polo shirts tied off to the pier. They were like twins in everything they did, their routine like a well-oiled machine—a good-looking well-oiled machine. The benefits of busting ass in the tropics must be ample.
He sighed and bit back a smile. This vacation was shaping up to be damn fine already. His flights went off without a hitch and the ride to the dock was no problem. Bora Bora was absurdly beautiful and the sight of the clear, crisp water made him want to stretch out on the pier and soak up the sun. He thought the pictures online were amazing, but they were nothing compared to being there surrounded by the real thing. All that trip research paid off.
Mark searched the internet for days to find the perfect location—gay friendly, but not the giant orgy atmosphere he’d seen on a couple other trips he’d been on—and he splurged on one of the lower end vacation packages. Lower end and still expensive!
He had wanted to avoid that feeling that he’d stumbled onto a set of Queer As Folk with sudsy bubble parties and steam rooms where some old dude whacks off as younger men saunter by in next to nothing…or just plain nothing. Wind-surfing l
essons, fishing trips, swimming with sharks—not on his agenda—and just about anything else he wanted to try was available to him here. He was more excited and comfortable in his own skin than he’d felt in ages and it only made it better that he didn’t know anybody. For now, anyway. Give him three hours and he might start to regret that he didn’t invite his brothers.
He was on vacation and determined to do it right. The end result would be a renewed Mark with the bits of him that he used to like coming back full force. Gone was the sulking, bitchy, negative guy that had taken over. And gone was the Mark who let other people use him. He was smart enough to know when he was getting dicked around, but he’d allowed it to happen anyway. He couldn’t continue setting himself up for stupid shit. A real, loving and fun relationship was what he wanted. It likely wouldn’t start here on vacation, but he was open and that was the most important part.
One of the twins from the boat crew hopped onto the dock and smiled pleasantly as he reached for luggage. Mark was the only passenger at the moment and he followed the crewman onto the boat and settled himself to wait either for more passengers or for the ride to start. Stretching out his arms over the bench seat back, he finally let loose with the grin that had been teasing at the corners of his mouth the whole day.
Happy, he thought. I’m happy.
A commotion at the far end of the dock had Mark’s head turning and he squinted to see what was causing all the noise. Three men were headed towards the shuttle boat and the combination of their laughter and the clacking wheels on their luggage practically vibrated Mark off of his seat. He began to turn away when something about the guy bringing up the rear caught his attention.
God, he looks really familiar, Mark thought.
The man was wearing loose linen pants that fluttered around his legs, but failed to hide the strong muscles beneath, and his button up shirt was open low enough to reveal a tanned expanse of chest that had Mark’s brows shooting toward his hairline. It was actually the way the man carried himself that was bouncing around in Mark’s brain though. Where? Who? How did he know this guy?
He turned back around in his seat and waited for the men to trundle alongside. They each had a polished, California-type air with their summery clothes and sun-lightened hair, white teeth flashing as they laughed and ribbed one another. Each of them tipped the scales on handsome, even though the one leading the way was sporting a conversation piece black eye.
When the first two finally hopped aboard, tossing a casual hello his way, Mark got his first close look at the man he thought he recognized and he almost snorted. Of all the shuttle boats in all the world…
Zane-effing-Whitlow. The Zane Whitlow of Fractured Dawn, The Mercenary, and his latest multi-bazillion dollar box office smash: Innuendos. He was also gay, which hadn’t seemed to impact his success in the least. Sort of like with Neil Patrick Harris’s career, but in the action, hot-as-a-pepper market. Mark wasn’t entirely sure, but this guy might’ve only played straight dudes, too—almost impossible to get away with in the film industry when you’re out. He could name five or six starlets alone that he’d seen Whitlow make out with on the big screen. On the gay stereotypes list, Zane didn’t match up.
And how in the hell was Mark remembering this stuff? He wasn’t the type to follow a famous person’s life simply because they shared the same sexual orientation. Mark didn’t really need an icon to function in his day-to-day, though admittedly, it wasn’t like he hadn’t been self-absorbed and busy with his own shit lately. Icons were sort of on the back burner.
He couldn’t help that bit of breathlessness that seeing the actor caused.
Whitlow was a heartthrob. A corny description, yes, but it was the one word that honestly fit. He was a six-three, brown-haired, blue-eyed member of the Washboard Abs Club. He probably did crunches and plank pose in his sleep. And there he was, climbing aboard a shuttle boat just feet away; the kind of perfect that made him look like he was followed by an air brushing crew.
Hot. Damn.
Mark actually just read an article about him in a magazine he bought at the airport in L.A. and thank the powers that be it was crammed full of editorial photos. Drool worthy didn’t even begin to describe it. The article had focused on Whitlow’s performance in Innuendos, which was apparently garnering a lot of attention. He played a skeevy dude who spent all of his free time stalking a woman he worked with. Mark hadn’t seen it yet, but the previews gave him the creeps in a good way.
If Mark were a star hound, he would have peed his shorts. Seeing as how he wasn’t—and that he was reminding himself of that every seven seconds—he decided to simply soak in the view and welcome the luck that got him an up-close snapshot of a guy that people would pay to be near. Besides, there was no guarantee he’d see him again, so Mark might as well look his fill.
Whitlow stepped easily into the boat, grinning at something his buddy mumbled over his shoulder and threw a quick glance at Mark. That’s when the white-wall smile hit with full force.
“How’s it going?” Whitlow asked and Mark barely refrained from chortling over the fact that he was hearing in person the same voice he’d heard say those famous lines from The Mercenary at least a hundred times.
Mark nodded a hello and went back to his ocean gazing. Only an idiot would roll around giddily on a shuttle boat when looked at by a dude like Whitlow, and Mark was no idiot.
The cool breeze ruffled Mark’s shirt and shorts and he stretched his legs out in front of him, loving the feel of it. He was glad for his sunglasses all over again because he was able to shoot discreet little looks at Whitlow and his friends without them knowing. And weren’t they the fascinating little bunch?
Mark would bet good money that the first two were straight. Granted, his radar had been off lately, what with the gigantic miscalculation concerning the cop that was now living with his ex-boyfriend… C’est la vie. The verdict came in for straight when Mark noticed the guy with the black eye miming the figure of a woman, paying extra attention to her…assets.
Whitlow was shaking his head and smiling and Mark blinked. The man was so pretty. It almost hurt to look at him and the magazine photos didn’t do him justice. He wasn’t one of those famous people you see somewhere and realize is about a foot shorter than you thought, either. No, he was the genuine article; sitting five feet away.
Yowza. Mark never believed this kind of thing really happened—seeing a movie star, having him smile back. Though, he once saw Christy Brinkley outside of a Mexican restaurant in L.A., but that was so different.
The twin resort workers shucked the baggage in the back and undid the lines connecting the boat to the pier. A little frisson of excitement went through Mark as one of them started the dual engines and bumped up the throttle. Mark thought Bora Bora would suit him just fine.
***
Zane Whitlow swore he was doing some of his best acting work ever sitting back in the little shuttle boat and pretending to listen to his buddy, Mikey, talk about one of the Tahitian women in the airport. He chuckled and smiled in all the right spots and even threw in a couple of teasing barbs, while in reality, he was completely distracted by the stranger on the bench across from them.
Where in the hell did this guy come from? Zane hadn’t seen him on the small shuttle flight from the big island and he wondered how that was possible.
He wished like hell that he had the balls to start chatting the other man up, but that wasn’t going to happen. People always figured he was naturally comfortable with attention and confident in situations like this when that was far from the truth. Zane’s alter ego was actually a giant, awkward nerd who wasn’t at all comfortable trolling for men. The last time he tried to hit on a guy, he accidentally spilled his drink down his chest in some kind of nervous seizure and it went downhill from there. He’d smelled like rum all night.
This guy, though… Hello!
He was the clean cut type with his dark hair cut close and his shorts and button up shirt in artful disarray. Zane
could tell he was taller than the other man, but the guy had a tight, athletic build that was making Zane’s synapses fire about half a minute late. Don’t stare. Don’t stare.
He wanted to know what color the guy’s eyes were behind those dark sunglasses—the possibilities were driving him mad. The second Zane saw him, he was kind of ensnared, if he wanted to be a homo about it—which he did. Zane was a recognizable person, thanks to Lady Luck, yet there wasn’t even a flicker of recognition or interest on the other man’s face; just a half smile and a nod before he looked away. What a sad let down.
Mikey and Greg noticed the man first and when Mikey mumbled over his shoulder, “Are you locked on target?” as they boarded the boat, making fun of one of his old movie lines, Zane forced a laugh. Of course he was. He just wasn’t sure why since he’d first seen the stranger only minutes ago and didn’t even know if he was gay.
Sure, the man was a prepped out ten stars in Zane’s book, but that wasn’t it alone. There was some kind of aloof thing he had going that made Zane want to sit up and wag like a puppy until he got some attention or a lot of heavy petting.
He rolled his eyes inwardly at that thought. He couldn’t allow himself to fall for another asshole or star chaser, though this guy wasn’t acting interested anyway. Zane didn’t have the time for dating, either, and he had to hold on to his self-respect. At times he felt like that was all he really had left.
Granted, he’d been single since…when was it? Oh yeah, the Paleolithic Era or thereabouts, but being careful who he trusted with his heart and in his bed was a foregone conclusion in his line of work. He never knew if a guy wanted him because he was Zane “The Mercenary” Whitlow, or because he honestly wanted something real. It made dating a big, sticky mess that he usually chose to avoid. Instead, he filled his time with making movies, promoting them, and at the moment, taking the first vacation he’d had in a while.
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