Nope. The last thing you want to do is never see Curtis Clarkson again. And by “see”, you mean explore every inch of his big, rugged, hairy bod—
“You going to tell me, dude?”
Rhys blinked. Frowning, he shot a look into the front of the Audi just as Josh’s bodyguard dropped into the front passenger seat, slammed the door and nodded at the equally burly man behind the wheel. “Where’s Caitlin?”
“Cooking you breakfast. She’s all about cooking at the moment. And cleaning cupboards, for some weird reason. And yes, I told her you would have pigged out on the plane, but it didn’t matter. I left her making French toast, blueberry pancakes and some kind of frittata that involved roasted sweet potato, bacon and capers.” Josh squinted at Rhys as the Audi pulled away from the kerb. “Do you like capers?”
Rhys shook his head.
Josh grunted. “Me neither. Who does?”
Rhys laughed, even as he sat in his seat as if on the edge of a girder high above the ground, waiting…
That old familiar contentment of being in his best friend’s company warmed him. And yet, it was different.
Not as…nerve-wracking and oppressive.
What? Not like the way you feel when you think of Curtis now, you mean?
He shifted on the seat some more, wriggling his butt against the leather as he stared out the window, watching the sludge of traffic beyond the Audi as they drove away from the airport.
So, your heart’s not going crazy, you’re not finding it difficult to breathe and, for the first time in how many fucking years, you don’t want to throw your best mate onto the floor and fuck him silly? Is that what you’re saying?
If that was the case—and it sure as shit seemed like it—what the hell did he do now?
Celebrate?
Or curse Curtis Clarkson for messing with a mental state he’d existed in, a physical state he’d accepted, since he was fifteen?
Something hard thumped his shoulder. Hard enough to detonate a hot burst of pain in his deltoid.
“Earth to Rhys.” Josh laughed beside him. “Come in, Rhys.”
Swinging to face the grinning rock star, Rhys rubbed his shoulder. “That hurt.”
“So it should. I’ve been talking to you for the last ten minutes but I may as well have been talking to myself. What gives?”
Rhys frowned. Opened his mouth. Shut it. Shook his head. Opened his mouth again.
Josh’s eyes narrowed. He studied Rhys, his expression the same one he used to wear when trying to decide the best approach to a penalty kick back in his soccer-playing days.
A tight knot of the familiar desire Rhys had long harboured for his friend twisted in Rhys’s chest—there and gone just as quickly.
It seemed he really was moving on. Who the fuck would have thunk it?
“And?” Josh prodded, curiosity mingling with concern on his face.
“I think,” Rhys replied, considering each word forming in his head with uncharacteristic caution, “I’m having an existential crisis.”
Josh’s eyebrows shot up his head. “You’re what?”
“Okay, maybe nothing as sophisticated as that.” Rhys scratched at his nose, his gaze flicking about the back of the Audi with disconnected agitation. “What the fuck is an existential crisis, by the way? No, don’t answer that. It’s not important. What is important is, I think I may be falling in love.”
Josh froze. An unreadable tension filled his face. “With who?” he asked, his voice…wary.
Rhys burst out laughing. “Not with you, you egotistical wanker. With someone I met on the plane. I mean, someone I already knew but who was on the plane with me.”
Josh snorted. “I know not me. I thought you were going to say that UK tennis player you were dating a couple of months ago. ‘Cause I just saw on the Today program she’s been arrested for trying to break into Wimbledon while drugged out of her brain.”
“I ditched her last month.” Rhys shook his head. “You would not believe what she wanted me to do with a gold fish. I’m all for kinky sex, but not when it involves profound acts of animal cruelty.”
Josh held up his hand. “Okay, okay, thanks for the over-share. So, you going to tell me who it is? This “someone” from the flight? What’s her name?”
Rhys stared at Josh for a second—a micro-second. Long enough to contemplate what the next two words out of his mouth would do—and then said, “Curtis Clarkson.”
A beat of silence followed his confession.
Josh stared at him.
And then squeezed his eyes shut, balled his fist and let out a jubilant “Booyah!”
Rhys frowned. “Okay. Not what I was expecting.”
Josh laughed. “Dude, I knew the day you fell in love it would be with someone totally controversial and unconventional. Someone completely and, quite possibly, out of your reach.”
Rhys’s frown deepened, drawing dangerously close to a pout. “And you’re laughing because…?”
“Because,” Josh leaned toward him, “the fact you admit love even exists means no matter how out of reach Clarkson may be, you’re not going to give up.”
The words, offered with a smile of open warmth, turned Rhys’s chest to a clamping vice. “Not going to give up?” he croaked. “No matter that the guy isn’t gay?”
Josh chuckled. “Dude, when has something like that stopped you getting what you want?”
Rhys closed his eyes. Let out a breath that was part snort, part grunt, part…sob.
“What are you going to do?”
At Josh’s question, he opened his eyes and stared at the man he once thought would be the only person he’d ever want. “Check into a hotel.”
Josh blinked. “Okay. Not what I was expecting.”
With a shake of his head, Rhys slumped back into the plush seat and let out a ragged sigh. “I need to…get my head around this. I need to be alone for a bit. A couple of days at least. I never thought this would happen to me.” Twice, he finished wordlessly.
Josh studied him. Concern filled his friend’s face where only a moment ago happiness had danced. “You sure? Caitlin and I can give you some space at home if you—”
Rhys chuckled, the sound wry. “I’m sure. With the way I’m feeling, I’d just work out my frustration by eating everything Caitlin puts in front of me, and my stomach—and personal trainer—would never forgive me if I did that. It may be off-season, but I really shouldn’t devour everything in your house just because I’ve suddenly turned into a mopey, love-sick teenager.”
He almost added again. Almost.
Josh studied him with that same silent contemplation Rhys recognised from the soccer field. This time, however, there was no tightening of Rhys’s chest. Instead, he found himself thinking about the expression Curtis wore when he was about to send a fast ball down the cricket pitch. An expression of menacing purpose and lethal resolve.
Huh. Who knew you already had a catalogue of Curtis Clarkson images in your head, McDowell?
He chuckled once more. Mopey, love-sick teenager indeed. If he wasn’t careful, he’d start writing love songs, just like Josh.
Flicking Josh a look, he nodded. “I’m sure, dude. Drop me off at the Park Hyatt. And tell Caitlin I appreciate the pancakes and shall eat every last one of them when I finally get my shit sorted out.” He grinned. “Which hopefully will be by this evening.”
Josh laughed. “Deal.” Leaning forward, he told his driver their new destination and then settled back in his seat, directing a wide smirk at Rhys. “Now, tell me about Curtis Clarkson and the Love Plane.”
Before Rhys could answer, Josh burst into a depraved version of The Love Boat’s theme song, replacing boat with plane with tonally exquisite perfection.
And for the first time ever, Rhys laughed at his best friend’s woeful humour without aching to kiss him at the same time.
It was a wholly new experience.
And a wonderful one.
Chapter Six
I can’t believe
I’m fucking doing this.
Curtis looked at the heavy glass foyer door. On the other side, lay luxury and terrifying uncertainty.
A steady stream of pedestrians flowed past him, their zeal for reaching their destination the kind only found at six p.m. on a Friday when the working day was done. If there were a soundtrack to TGIF, it would start with the hurrying footfalls of those leaving work for the week.
The sound surrounded Curtis now, along with harried car horns, screeching breaks and the catcalls of taxi drivers hovering in front of the Park Hyatt, hoping to snatch up a high-tipping fare.
No one bothered with him.
He stood on the footpath, a baseball cap and sunglasses hiding his face, his stare fixed on the hotel’s entry.
According to the text Logan had sent him an hour ago, somewhere in one of the one hundred and fifty-five rooms, there was a soccer player who’d completely thrown Curtis’s life for a spin.
Letting out a slow breath, he tried not to think about Logan’s response to his request—five hours ago—to find out exactly where Rhys McDowell was in Sydney.
It wasn’t censure or disappointment that flicked in Logan’s eyes when Curtis asked if his phenomenal tech knowledge could locate the man, but curiosity.
It wasn’t curiosity that danced in Bethany’s eyes at his question. Logan’s wife had always had a unique ability to discern what was going on in the hearts and souls of those she loved. He’d witnessed it more than once.
The fact she seemed to discern something in his heart and soul that he couldn’t yet bring himself to ponder only made standing here on the footpath outside the Park Hyatt all the more…terrifying.
Jesus, was he really about to do what he thought he was about to do?
Would you have come all this way, opening yourself up to the questions Logan and Bethany were no doubt itching to ask, if you weren’t?
His gut clenched.
When he’d boarded the plane in London bound for Sydney, he hadn’t planned to be questioning his very choice of lifestyle by the time he landed in Australia. Hadn’t pondered the notion he might be gay. Sure, he’d fooled around with guys before. Twice, in fact. But gay?
And yet here he was, considering that very idea.
No, considering it wasn’t the right term.
There was nothing powerful enough in the term considering it to cover the consuming, inescapable, overwhelming ache he’d experienced for Rhys McDowell since watching the guy flee the Sydney International Airport.
Nothing.
So yep, he’d asked his best mate to find the guy. Had refused to answer any questions why. And then had jumped into a taxi the second Logan gave him the info.
Ridden in that taxi here to the Park Hyatt.
Chewed on his thumbnail the whole way.
Even as he tried to ignore the heavy, throbbing pulse of anticipation in his groin—and the warm sense of excitement blooming in his soul.
Both sensations still claimed him.
Grew more pressing. Insistent.
Impatient.
“Fuck it,” he muttered. “Let’s do this.”
With a ragged breath—his third since climbing out of the taxi—he crossed the road, heading for the hotel foyer.
A single camera flash detonated to his right as he approached the door.
Shooting the photographer a quick sideways glance, he bit back a muttered “fuck”.
Carl Holston, Australia’s most notorious paparazzo, was stalking the establishment.
“Who you here to see, Clarkson?” the repugnant man shouted.
“Who you here to see?” Curtis shot back, slowing to a halt.
The paparazzo flashed a sneering grin. “Rhys McDowell’s in town and the rumour is he checked in here a while ago.” He took another photo of Curtis before lowering his camera. “You wouldn’t want to find out for me, wouldja?”
Curtis laughed. “No.”
He continued forward, crossing the threshold into the hotel’s foyer. The automatic doors closed behind him, turning Holston’s shouts outside to muffled noise.
Two steps into the hotel and the concierge hurried over to him. “Mr. Clarkson?”
Curtis nodded. So much for his baseball cap and sunglasses. Recognised twice.
The concierge offered him a beaming smile. “How can the Park Hyatt help you today? Would you like to check in?”
Are you really doing this? Are you really?
“I’m here to see Rhys McDowell.” Christ, how did he manage to sound so calm? So relaxed? “Can you let him know I’m here, please?”
The concierge’s smile didn’t falter. Nor was there any hint of curiosity in his face when he bowed his head a tad. “Of course. If you will give me one moment.”
He strode back to his counter with the peculiar gait of someone trying to move quickly but without appearing to rush. Lifted the hand piece of his phone, dialed a number and waited, smile still in place. What felt like a lifetime later, he spoke into the mouthpiece.
Curtis stood frozen, watching him.
Seriously? You’re really doing th—
The concierge smiled wider at Curtis and waved him over. “Mr. McDowell would like to speak to you.” He handed Curtis the phone.
Mouth dry, chest tight, Curtis took it. Raised it to his ear. “McDowell. Mind if I come up?”
“Only if you’ll let me go down.”
The reply sent a hot lick of instant lust to Curtis’s groin. And drew a soft chuckle from him. “Think we can nut something out.”
Rhys laughed on the other end of the connection. “That’s a woeful attempt at being funny.”
Curtis grinned, part excited, part…terrified. “What can I say? I made my money from my skill with balls, not my skill with jokes.”
The sound of Rhys sucking in a sharp breath sent another lick of pleasure through Curtis.
“Get your arse, and your balls, up here now,” Rhys said, his voice stained.
Curtis’s heart smashed into his throat. “Room?”
“Forty-two.”
“I’m on my way.”
Handing the phone back to the waiting concierge, Curtis swallowed.
The concierge lifted the phone to his ear. “Mr. McDowell?”
Curtis heard Rhys say something and then the man was hanging up the call and smiling once again at Curtis. “This way, Mr. Clarkson.”
Without another word, he led Curtis to a private lift, swiped a security card through its reader and then nodded at him as the doors opened. “Enjoy your evening, Mr. Clarkson.”
He turned and walked back to the foyer, leaving Curtis alone at the lift.
The empty lift. The lift that would take him to Rhys’s floor.
So? When are you stepping into it?
With a dry grunt, he stepped into the small space, pivoted on his heel and watched the doors slowly shut.
He’d never been so nervous.
Nervous.
Him. Who’d more than once had the hopes of the cricket-loving population of Australia resting on his shoulders during more than one international championship.
He closed his eyes. Drew in a slow breath.
Drew an image of Rhys into his mind.
And smiled when the pit of his stomach tightened with an elemental physical response, and his chest tightened with a response beyond the physical.
Nervous or not, just the very thought of seeing the soccer player made him feel…happy.
His life may be on the brink of cataclysmic change, but thinking about Rhys McDowell made him happy.
And Curtis Clarkson lived his life to be happy.
At the soft chime of the lift arriving at its destination, Curtis opened his eyes.
He wasn’t nervous anymore.
The doors slid open.
Stepping from the lift, he strode toward Room 42.
He didn’t have to knock. Rhys was already standing in the open door.
Curtis studied him. His hair was damp; the dark strands a tousled mess aroun
d his face and shoulders. His jaw was still dark with the stubble of their long-haul flight. He wore a simple white T-shirt that emphasized the sinewy-strength of his upper body, and faded Levis that did the same to his legs. His feet were bare.
For some reason, the sight of his toes—not too long, with clean, blunt nails—sent a hot lick of something hungry through Curtis.
“So…” Rhys said, the single word a cautious, drawn-out query.
Raising his gaze to Rhys’s face, Curtis cocked an eyebrow. “So?”
Rhys shifted his feet. Levered his shoulder from the door edge and scrubbed his palms on the front of his thighs. “So I didn’t have sex with the flight attendant.”
The statement took Curtis by surprise. He blinked.
Rhys let out a frustrated noise. “I couldn’t get it fucking up. Didn’t matter how hot she was, or how dirty she talked, I couldn’t get it up. The only time my fucking dick stopped acting like it was a wet noodle was when I thought of you.” He scowled, even as he stared at Curtis. “You’ve gone and fucked me up for women, Clarkson. Kinda inconvenient if you ask—”
Curtis destroyed the small distance between them, tangled his fist in Rhys’s wet hair and crushed Rhys’s mouth with his own.
The contact triggered the concentrated lust and need for the man Curtis had been tempering since they first collided into each other in Heathrow. A lust and need barely scratched in the shower.
He growled, balling his fist tighter in Rhys’s hair as he shoved him back into the suite and rammed him to the wall.
He did not break their frenzied kiss as he searched for the door.
He did not relax his grip on Rhys’s damp hair as he slammed said door shut.
Rhys groaned a raw sound of capitulation, a heartbeat before lashing his tongue against Curtis’s and ripping his shirt open.
A rush of concentrated pleasure seared through Curtis. Followed by a gnawing need so profound, his knees trembled when Rhys pinched his right nipple. He moaned, grinding his cock—rigid and trapped in excruciating pain in his jeans—against the other man’s.
Balls Up Page 6
