by Peter Styles
“Shut up,” I growled.
“Hey, Jason,” he continued, his voice going even higher. “Could you take a look at my arm? I think I pulled a muscle during that last set. You’re a doctor, right? That is so badass.” He fluttered his lashes. “Did I mention I have a really long driver?”
“You’re drunk,” I said.
Jolene laughed. “He’s been sucking down those IPA’s like they’re going to disappear.”
“IPA’s?” I asked. “What are those?”
Mark held up his beer bottle and showed me the label, which I could barely see in the low light. “India Pale Ale. It’s pretty good.”
“Imperial India Pale Ale,” Jolene said. “It’s stronger than regular beer. Higher alcohol content.”
“Oh, no wonder.” Mark stared at the bottle as if it had tricked him in some way. “I don’t drink very often anymore. In college, I could drink and fuck all night, but now… I guess I’m getting old.”
Jolene turned to me, her expression a mix of amusement and concern. “As you can see, the good doctor is pretty toasted. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say the word fuck before.”
“Play tennis with him, and you’ll hear it plenty,” I said.”
”Well, maybe so. But still… you should probably call a cab for him and make sure he gets home safely.”
“Why does that task automatically fall to me? I’m not his keeper.” I was trying to play it cool. Trying to pretend that I wouldn’t do anything at all to keep Mark Johnson safe, or to spend more time with him. I was a fool for him, but Jolene didn’t need to know that. No one did, and especially not Dr. Perfect himself.
“I’m standing right here,” Mark said indignantly. “I can hear you talking about me, and I’ve gotta admit, I don’t feel very flattered.”
“I’m sorry, Mark,” Jolene said, patting him on the shoulder. “Look, I need to get back to my date. It’s getting close to midnight, and I want to make sure I get my kiss before he turns into a pumpkin.”
“A pumpkin?” Mark asked with an amused smile.
“Yeah, I met him on a dating site. They all turn into pumpkins eventually.”
“Maybe this one will be different,” I said hopefully, but she was already gone, making her way across the crowded room on those towering heels. “How the hell does she walk in those things?” I muttered to Mark.
He glanced back over his shoulder and watched her progress. “Very carefully, I hope. I’d hate to have to treat a broken ankle at the hospital New Year’s Eve party.”
He smiled at me, and I smiled back, and then we stood there in awkward silence. It was rare for us to have nothing to say to each other, but most of our interactions had to do with work or tennis. This was different. It felt weird, like when you meet an attractive stranger in a bar and have to pretend to have something to say.
I sighed into the silence between us. “God, we’re workaholics, aren’t we?”
Mark looked up, surprise etched on his handsome face. And then his features softened into a genuine smile that was so perceptive, so knowing, it took my breath away. “You feel it, too, huh? We’re so used to calling orders in the ED or talking shit on the tennis court, it feels weird just to be like this. Just the two of us with… I don’t know.”
“Nothing between us,” I said. “No patients, no hospital politics, no games.”
He grinned. “Yeah. No games.”
I’d been referring to tennis, but it felt almost like he was talking about something else. What the hell was happening here? Why was he saying things that sounded like innuendo? To me? I looked at my empty champagne cup. I must have drunk more than I’d thought. How many was that? Three? Four? Maybe even five. I’d spent a good time sucking down liquid courage at the open bar before I’d decided to mingle.
“You’re drunk, too, aren’t you?” Mark asked.
I shrugged. “Yeah, I think so. It’s been so long I’d forgotten how it can sneak up on you. One minute you’re saying I’ll only have a couple, and the next your head is glued to the carpet, and some frat boy is taking a picture of you and posting it to Facebook.”
“Instagram.”
“What?”
“I think that’s what’s everybody’s using these days. Either that or Snapchat.”
I waved a hand dismissively. “It’ll change in a month or two, anyway. I’ve given up trying to keep up with the trends. Not that I ever did in the first place. I was pretty much a nerd in school.”
“You?” Mark feigned shock. “Not hip young Dr. Whitham. I can’t imagine you ever being a nerd.”
“Fuck you, Mark.” I punched him in the arm. I’d done it plenty of times on the way to the locker room after tennis. Punching him, shoving him, getting shoved back. But it felt different tonight. More intimate. “And, by the way, I don’t think the word hip has been used since my grandfather was in grade school. You’re not as edgy as you think you are.”
“Edgy.” He laughed. “Is that what you are, Jason? Edgy? What does edgy Dr. Whitham do in his downtime? You and your one-eyed cat.”
“Okay, that just sounds wrong coming out of your mouth.”
“What, one-eyed cat?” Mark’s eyes narrowed, and there was a wicked gleam in them. “Do you stroke the one-eyed cat when you’re home alone, Jason?”
My face went hot. “Um… I think you mean the one-eyed monster.”
“I was just talking about you petting your cat, but I like where you’re going with this. Is that what you do, Jason? Do you stroke the one-eyed monster?”
My face got hotter.
“Set the stage for me,” he continued, that gleam still in his eyes. “What do you do? Take a nice hot shower, turn the lights down low, find some good gay porn?”
“I—” My words froze up. The scene he was painting was dangerously close to the truth, except sometimes—no, a lot of the time—there was no porn involved. My imagination could serve up perfect images of Mark doing wonderful, terrible things to me.
“Cat got your tongue?” Mark asked with a grin.
“Would you quit bringing my cat into this? I’m disturbed enough as it is.”
His eyebrows went up. “Does sex talk make you nervous?”
“Jesus, how much have you had to drink?”
“Just enough,” he said. “Maybe you need to have a few more. Loosen up that tight ass of yours.”
At my shocked expression, Mark’s face colored. I’d never seen him blush before, and it was fascinating as hell.
“That didn’t come out right,” he said. “I only meant that you’re uptight and you should relax a little. God, that was so embarrassing. Just forget I said anything.”
I still couldn’t wipe the shock off of my face. Dr. Mark Johnson—Vandy’s favorite golden boy—was actually flustered. I felt like I should call the Guinness Book, because holy hell that had to be a first.
His embarrassment gave me a surge of confidence because for once I could take the upper hand. Might as well have fun with it. See if I could make him blush again. I gave him my best flirtatious smile and took one step closer. “No need to be embarrassed, Mark. My ass is really tight.”
His mouth dropped open, and my confidence surged even higher. I’d rendered him speechless, and it felt good. Really good. Better than anything had felt in a very long time. I dropped my gaze to his slack, open mouth, and my dick started to get hard imagining all of the things I could do with that mouth. All of the things that mouth could do to me.
I wanted to reach down and adjust myself, to give my dick a little nudge in a different direction, but despite my discomfort, I managed to keep my hands still. Maybe no one would notice. Maybe Mark wouldn’t notice.
We stood staring at each other, neither saying a word, neither moving until Dr. Alex Trevayne showed up and ruined the moment. I had never hated him more, and that was saying a lot. Dr. Trevayne was one of Vanderbilt’s most respected surgeons, and he made sure no one ever forgot how brilliant he was.
“Good evening, doctors
,” he said, enunciating the syllables in his pretentious Ivy League cadence. “What are you two doing over here all by yourselves? Don’t you see enough of each other working the ED together? I’d think you’d be sick of each other by now.”
Mark turned a huge smile on Alex that made me jealous as hell. “Alex, I didn’t know you were here. I figured you’d be somewhere much fancier than this for New Year’s.”
“I could say the same about you,” Alex said. He cut his eyes over to me, then back to Mark. “Actually, I did get invited to several other events, but I thought I should at least make an appearance here. It’s good for morale to let the others see that I’m a team player. That I’m not too good to attend work functions.”
Oh, brother.
Normally, I would have just walked away, but I still had a little bit of that unexpected confidence surging through my blood. Just enough to get me into trouble, probably. “So, you decided to slum it tonight with us peons. How magnanimous of you, Dr. Trevayne.”
“I try,” he said with a shrug, and I balled my fists against the urge to punch him in his perfect mouth.
Mark glanced at me, and there was a flicker of something on his face. Embarrassment? Shame? Worry? It was impossible to tell with the lights so dim. Then, just as quickly, it was gone.
“My father had a thing,” Mark said brightly. “I thought about going, but his parties have gotten so stuffy lately I just didn’t feel like dealing with it. Talking endlessly with boring politicians and businessmen is not my idea of a good time. All the nodding and shaking hands makes me want to shoot myself.”
Alex chuckled. “Oh, I don’t know. I subscribe to my father’s way of thinking. You haven’t been to a real Nashville party until your hand is raw from all the handshakes.”
“Handjobs more like it,” I muttered under my breath.
Mark must have heard me because he shot a subtle smirk in my direction, but Alex seemed completely oblivious.
“Would you like to join me for another beer?” Alex asked, clapping Mark on the back. “This IPA is decent.” He held up a bottle that matched the one Mark had been sipping on.
“Thanks, but I’m slowing down on the drinking. This will probably be my last one.”
Alex frowned. “We don’t have to drink. We could—”
“We’re leaving soon,” Mark said, then glanced sheepishly in my direction. “I mean I’m leaving soon. Not sure what Jason’s plans are.”
Alex didn’t even acknowledge me. “A raincheck, then?”
Mark nodded. “Sure.”
As Alex sauntered through the crowd of revelers, nodding to each like he thought he was the king of Vandy, Mark turned back to me. “You want to get out of here? This crowd is only going to get worse.”
He nodded toward the big-screen TV at one end of the large conference room, where the ball in Times Square sparkled on the screen. The digital clock superimposed on the scene read eleven-forty-nine. In less than fifteen minutes, it would be a new year, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted this one to end. Not when I had Mark Johnson all to myself.
4
Mark
The party had gotten downright stifling, especially after Alex Trevayne had made an appearance. Normally, I enjoyed talking to Alex. Enjoyed seeing the lust in his eyes as they roamed my body when he thought no one was looking.
Alex Trevayne was a force to be reckoned with. He was a brilliant surgeon, Ivy League educated, and backed by a wealthy family of doctors. Just like me. Alex was a good ally to have in my line of work, and it didn’t hurt that he was easy on the eyes. He was like some larger-than-life TV doctor, with pale blond hair, intelligent blue eyes, and a strong jaw that said he meant business.
And he was gay. The perfect mate for me.
Even though I wasn’t out, I had to believe that my eventual coming-out would go a lot more smoothly if Alex were the one I took home to meet the folks. Figuratively speaking, of course, since my parents already knew Alex well. They had been close friends with his parents for many years. I knew they wouldn’t oppose a joining of our families, mainly because they had started randomly dropping Alex’s younger sister’s name into conversations—in a suggestive way I recognized all too well.
Ariel Trevayne has grown into a lovely young woman, they would say. And, someone had better snatch Ariel Trevayne up before while she’s still available.
The girl was only twenty-two years old—too young for me—yet it seemed my parents were trying to push me in her direction. I’d even overheard my father and Alex’s father, Lionel Trevayne, discussing a possible union over lunch at the country club. They’d immediately changed the subject when I sat down, but I’d heard the tail end of their conversation and seen the conspiratorial looks on their faces. They definitely wanted me to marry Ariel.
I wondered what they would think if they knew Alex was more my type.
I’d spent my entire adult life trying to blend. Flirting with women, talking about women, attending events with the most eligible single ladies on my arm. I was twenty-eight years old, and I’d never so much as hinted to anyone—outside of other gay men—that I didn’t play for the home team. If I came out as a single man with no prospects, my parents would likely disown me, and it would be just as bad if I were dating someone who was socially inferior. Or, God forbid, one of those gay men who attended Pride parades and proudly flaunted their rainbow status.
So, I considered Alex; how could I not? It was true that the two of us would make quite the power couple. But I had no real feelings for him, and I suspected he had none for me, either. He definitely wanted me physically, but beyond that, I wasn’t even sure Alex Trevayne had the capacity for deeper feelings.
He had discovered I was gay completely by accident one summer break when he’d been home from college. Since our parents were close friends and members of the same country club, Alex and I had spent some time together over the years. When I was in high school, he had treated me like an annoying little kid, but on this particular summer—when he was twenty-five, and I was twenty-one—he’d looked at me differently. He’d invited me out drinking with him and his friends on multiple occasions, and his family had accompanied my family to our lake house for a week.
During that week, Alex and I spent far too many hours drunk and alone with each other, and it didn’t take long before things got out of hand. On our second night there, we’d sat together on the dock sharing a bottle of whiskey pilfered from my father’s liquor cabinet, and Alex had leaned over and kissed me. By the end of the summer break, we’d shared much more than a bottle of whiskey and a kiss, though we never went all the way.
The thing with Alex had seemed like a dream come true for a guy like me who was used to hiding. For once, I didn’t have to rely on random hook-ups to get what I needed. But when Alex returned to school, whatever feelings I’d thought were blossoming between us had gone with him, and our plans to stay in touch soon fizzled out.
Over the years, we had still seen each other on holidays and at social events, especially after Alex returned to do his residency at Vanderbilt and eventually became a staff surgeon. There had been a handful of blowjobs, but nothing substantial, and eventually Alex had started seeing someone.
They’d stayed together for several years, but when they broke up about a year ago, Alex had suddenly set his sights back on me. I had remained aloof, though. As tempting as it was to be with a handsome, successful man whom my parents would possibly approve of, something was missing.
There was also the problem of Jason Whitham. Ever since he’d shown up, the thought of settling for anything less than everything had become unbearable. He was out and proud and didn’t give a good goddamn if everyone knew it, and being around him had changed me in some fundamental way. He made me feel ashamed of my pettiness, and even more ashamed of my cowardice. Something in his Caribbean-blue eyes seemed to say, If I can do it, why can’t you? I didn’t have an answer to that question, but Jason made me want to figure it out.
Tonight, whe
n I’d spotted him at the New Year’s Eve party, my heart had stuttered in my chest. I’d seen him in scrubs a million times, and I’d spent hours upon hours ogling his trim hips and strong thighs on the tennis courts. But the way he was dressed tonight—well, this was something new.
He wore sleek gray dress pants that hugged his ass like a second skin, caressing it as he walked like I wished my hands could do. His silk button-up shirt was patterned in a fine blue-and-gray check that brought out the blue in his Caribbean eyes. His ash blond hair, normally wash-and-go, was slicked back with a light sheen of pomade. He exuded a level of sophistication I’d never have thought possible. He’d officially gone from adorable to hot in the space of a few hours, and the sight of him took my breath away.
“So where do you want to go?” he asked, uncertainty clouding his eyes.
“What?” I swam up from my haze of beer and bitter memories and stared at Jason. Had I just asked him to leave with me? Jesus, how much beer had I drunk?
“You said you wanted to get out of here, right?” The uncertainty in his eyes deepened, and the corners of his mouth dipped into a frown.
What on earth was I doing? All this time I’d pushed down my feelings for Jason, and now here I was, drunk and stupid and making a move. This was the worst idea in the history of ideas because Jason wasn’t the hook-up kind of guy. He was the dating and moving in and marrying kind, and I couldn’t offer him any of those things. That’s why I needed to walk the fuck away.
But his face… his damn gorgeous face was like a blinding beacon of innocence. He was idealistic in a way I could never be. We didn’t fit; we were practically two different species. I was a social animal, and he was… real.
The thought of Jason Whitham moving in the same circles as me—as my parents—was absurd to the point of comedy. Jason wasn’t marrying material, not for Arthur Johnson’s son. If I’d ever shown up to an important social function with him by my side, my father would have died of a heart attack and then rolled over in his grave. Twice.
