Worst Men: An Enemies to Lovers Gay Romance Read online

  “Why can’t you make--”

  He groaned from under the pillow.

  “Fine,” I said. “Sweet dreams.”

  I got up and got some clothes out of the dresser. He shifted on his bed, burying his face even further under the pillow. I knew he was doing that to get as far away from me as he could, while still being in the room. It was pretty insulting. If we had to be stuck together, the least we could do is make polite conversation. But no, if Mr. Sensitive Artist was too tortured to talk, I guess he had to have his nap, like a big baby.

  I thought about summer camp, how we’d get a bowl of warm water and set a sleeper’s hand into it, so they’d wet the bed. I halfway wanted to try it, but then, I wasn’t eleven anymore.

  He could have the room a while; hell, I wasn’t going to miss my chance to explore, even if he was. Who got to a resort like this and promptly went to bed? I’d been up for hours thanks to my late flight, but was too buzzed to rest.

  With my clothes in my hand, I paused. I felt a little ridiculous, but I didn’t want to dress in front of Sergio. Was that stupid? At the gym, I had no trouble dropping my towel and pulling on my clothes. Same thing at the lockers at the restaurant. But the idea of him seeing my ass just made me uncomfortable. He’d just seen my cock, and even though I had nothing to be ashamed of in that department, it made me feel weird inside, like maybe he was judging me.

  When I went to the gym, it was for strength training, flexibility, agility. I didn’t care very much how my body looked, as long as it functioned. My favorite exercise was the box jump--getting into a near-squat, then exploding up into the air, landing on a tall box. It wore me the fuck out, but I knew I was doing something good for my body.

  Sergio was different. You could tell he was very focused on how he looked. The way his collar opened, letting you see his carefully-developed delts, told you all you needed to know. Rich, pampered, entirely focused on the impression he made. Is it any wonder I was reluctant to change in front of him? So I put my stuff on in the bathroom, then came back out.

  “All right,” I said. “You have your little beauty rest. I’m going out to the cliffs.”

  “Be careful not to fall off,” he said from beneath the pillow.

  I didn’t go to the cliffs right away, though. At first I was tempted to go downstairs and try to get another room. It’s not that I was being a big diva or anything, but who wants to waste a week stuck in a room with someone who doesn’t like you? But if Sergio couldn’t get them to change things, how could I? It’s not like I could pay for a private room. Hell, I couldn’t even afford a cheap motel in the bad part of town back home. So instead, I went to Nat and Owen’s room.

  “Dude, what were you thinking?” I asked Nat. They were out on their balcony which overlooked the beach, sipping on mimosas, looking relaxed and happy, with that smug joy couples get when lonely single people wander into the perimeter.

  He took another sip of his drink. “I swear we didn’t know! The rooms were so hard to work out, because some of the guys are married, some are seeing someone seriously, some we know are on the verge of breaking up...logistics are hard. So we basically just gave the hotel a list of names, and they worked it out.”

  “I’ll never understand why you don’t like Sergio,” said Owen. His Boston terrier, Mr. Thurgood, was sitting in his lap, staring at me with a quizzical look on his face. “He’s always been a good friend.”

  “God, don’t bring up the topic,” said Nat. “If I have to hear about their big fisticuffs one more time, I’ll leap off the balcony.”

  “It’s not just the fight,” I said. “That’s ancient history, really.”

  “Good,” said Nat. “Then there’s no problem.”

  “It’s just--”

  “Oh, here we go.”

  “--ever since then, he has been such a dick. He thinks he’s better than everybody, with his hair and his money and his clothes.”

  Owen said, “He’s not like that at all!”

  “But I mean, the money, and the sculpture, and--”

  They both laughed. “You know, any of our other friends would be happy to bunk with a wealthy artist for a few days,” said Nat.

  “He closed the curtain!”

  “Shocking!” said Owen.

  “I mean, the sun was coming in--”

  “Oh god, Marcus, are you really going to make me do something about this now?” asked Nat. “It’s my wedding. I invited you out here for a nice time, because we’re friends, and because I want you to take part in this important milestone in my life. Can’t you just get over this grudge? At least for a few days?”

  He was right. Of course he was. I might as well be here complaining about what color my room was painted. Nat had laid out an incredible amount of money for the people who couldn’t afford to fly out here themselves--like me. What kind of ingrate was I?

  “You’re right,” I said. “I shouldn’t bug you with this stuff.”

  “It’s a gorgeous place,” said Nat. “Lots of places to go where you don’t have to be near him, if you don’t want to be. Or hell, maybe you could take the opportunity to make amends with him.”

  “You could knit the raveled sleeve of care!” offered Owen, but when I scowled in incomprehension, Nat shook his head at Owen, and I realized that was one of the literary references they were always throwing around, that I never got. That didn’t make me feel any better.

  “All right. See you guys later,” I said.

  “Marcus?” said Nat.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m serious about this. You’re on a beautiful island. You can’t throw a rock without hitting a hot guy. Yet you’re so tense you look like you’re about to snap. Relax and enjoy yourself.”

  I nodded. “I’m going to do that.”

  “But be back in time for dinner tonight!”

  3

  Sergio: Declined

  Seeing Marcus here was like a punch in the gut. I mean, I knew he was going to be here at the wedding. But in the same room? I would’ve put it down to Owen playing a prank on me, if I hadn’t known any better.

  I couldn’t sleep, obviously. I’d listened to Marcus getting dressed--very carefully keeping my eyes closed, not wanting any accusations that I was staring at him. After he left, I’d gazed at the ceiling, then rolled over and stared at the curtain, but now my mind was fully awake, synapses firing away. So I put my shoes back on and walked down to the bar by the pool. It would’ve been nice to go for a swim, but of course my suit was back in the continental US. I saw all these people with tropical drinks, full of juice and sugar, and ordered a gin and tonic. The bartender pushed it in front of me, and I looked out over the people at the pool.

  Mostly families were there right now, and nobody I knew. I assumed everyone was flying in over the next couple of days. And if anyone was here, they were doubtless down at the beach rather than at the pool, with its ostentatious artificial waterfall and mosaic tiles.

  It didn’t matter. What, was I going to see a cute guy and flirt? Was I going to hook up with someone? Nonsense. Staying single, staying unattached, that was the sensible course of action.

  Harris, my ex, had ruined me for other guys. Why had I let him get under my skin the way he had? He was so manipulative, so eager to toy with your emotions. We’d been broken up for quite a while now, and yet I still couldn’t imagine trying to trust someone again. How could I? A man I thought I’d loved had spent his whole time gaslighting me, making me think that I was being distant and cold, as he skillfully pushed me away. It was always my fault, my problem, my lack of openness.

  It hadn’t come as any big surprise that he was after someone else the whole time. Not a shock. Just that sinking realization that I had spent a couple of years with someone who used me up until the point he lost interest in me.

  I sipped my G&T. Surely there was no one else who could be sitting at a tropical resort being this miserable and alienated.

  Seeing Marcus had set off a lot of bad memories.r />
  Back when Harris and I had been happy together, before all the trouble, before the manipulation, he’d told me about Marcus. I don’t want to sound mean, or like I think someone has to make six or seven figures a year to be a good person. But Marcus was a waiter who believed he could sleep his way to success. Harris told me about how Marcus dreamed of landing a sugar daddy who would pay his way. I hated stuff like that. Maybe it was because I was afraid of being that kind of person. A lot of the people I knew were like that--inherited money, trust funds, no responsibilities, content to let their parents’ money smoothe their way through life.

  I realize that being a sculptor isn’t like being a garbage man or a maid, but it is hard work. You have a vision, and your job is to wrestle with clay or wood or marble, a substance that has no interest in your vision, that fights you all the way. If you’re lucky, after enough time and effort, you make something close to what you saw in your mind. Then it takes even more luck, more skill, more networking and planning and work, to sell it to someone.

  I can’t respect someone whose idea is just, pay me because I’m pretty. When Harris told me that about Marcus, I found myself a little sick looking at him. And later, during a big fundraising party we were at, Marcus had his sights set on Harris. Harris told me how Marcus had hit on him, how he was trying to pull Harris away from me. So when I saw Marcus taking a break in the parking lot, I had it out with him. It was rough. Naturally he had denied everything, because he was a liar on top of being a boyfriend-thief. Ever since that fight, every time I see Marcus, it makes me a little queasy. Who tries to steal your boyfriend, to make some money off of him? How is that any better than prostitution?

  He’s just a gross person, and now I was stuck with him.

  Well, for a while. I was sure I could get another room. Then I wouldn’t have to think about him at all, the big dumb ape.

  You know, even his body showed what he was all about. I’ll admit I spend a lot of time in the gym, but I find it relaxing. Sculpting is hell on your back, and I’d known several people develop spine issues from being hunched over their work all the time. The way to handle that is by making sure you get in lots of exercise for different muscle groups, lots of stretching and flexibility. It lets you be toned and well-balanced, without being all muscle-bound.

  But Marcus was clearly in it for his looks. I’d seen him at various restaurants over the past couple of years, always with his sleeves a little shorter than everyone else’s, showing off his bulging biceps and triceps. His shirts were always a little too tight over his chest and back. And to see him strut around in a towel earlier! I could tell he thought the world of himself. Who has an ego like that?

  “I’d say penny for your thoughts, but from the look on your face, that’d make me an accessory after the fact,” said Cal, one of my friends from back home. I hadn’t heard him approach, but he had a beer bottle in one hand; he clapped me on the back with the other.

  “Ah, it’s nothing,” I said. “When did you get here?”

  He groaned. “About an hour ago. Awful flight. There was this big thunderstorm tossing us all around. Edgar is back in the room looking green around the gills, but he told me to go live it up and tell him about it later.”

  It took me a minute to file away the fact that Cal and Edgar were together again. They’d broken up at least three times in the past few months, and while everyone was getting a little tired of the drama, we all wanted them to just settle down and work things out. Maybe they’d be able to do so on this trip. At least if they broke up here, they couldn’t ask me to help them move to new apartments.

  “How’s your room?” I asked.

  “Love it. I wish I could say it overlooks the ocean, but instead we just see the town. But that’s all right, it’s not like we’re going to be spending much time there, if Edgar can recover soon enough. What about you? Good room?”

  “Oh, the room’s not a problem. It’s who I’m sharing it with.”

  He laughed and sat at the barstool next to me. “Yes, we heard. Your dear friend Marcus. No wonder you look like you’re failing at trying to relax. Is there no alcohol in that drink?”

  “Not enough,” I said, and gestured to the bartender for another. I hoped he wasn’t going to prod me to talk about what was on my mind. The best thing to do would be to clear my mind, not talk about it.

  “The thing about Marcus--”

  “Cal, come on, don’t try to defend him. I don’t want to hear about his good character, or how he has worked hard, or--”

  “I was just going to say, he’s extremely hot, and you could do worse than a romp with him.”

  I groaned. “Don’t even.”

  “If you’re going to be that tense, you should go for a swim,” he said. “Water always makes people feel better. Works out the kinks, puts you in contact with nature.”

  Shaking my head, I said, “My luggage hasn’t reached the island yet.”

  “Oh come on. It’s a resort, Sergio. There are stores. You have money. Go buy a swimsuit. If you decide to just sit at the bar and look foul all week, none of your friends are ever going to want to talk to you again.”

  I was setting a pile of shopping bags on my bed when Marcus came in. I had such a sinking feeling in my gut. I wanted a little while to be alone here, without being around him.

  I had tried one more time at the front desk. The Presidential Suite had opened, they were happy to tell me. They described the lush, palatial appointments, the living-room waterfall, the rooftop garden. A helipad, if Sir required it. Helipad? Only the best, Sir. If Sir could just provide his card? I’d balked. I didn’t want to spend the week with Marcus, no. But was I seriously thinking about spending thousands of dollars a night just so I wouldn’t have to share a room with him. Why? Out of spite? Part of me was like, Hell yeah I’m going to spend thousands, because while Marcus gets things handed to him because people think he’s cute, I can’t even have a little space to myself. I couldn’t believe how immature I sounded, thinking that. I was as bad as he was. Sure, I’d like my own room. But I have my own room. It’s back home. And all I was doing was making things more stressful, acting like a big prima donna.

  I apologized to the manager for wasting his time, and went shopping instead.

  I already knew what Marcus thought about me; he’d made it clear so many times before. He thought I was a spoiled trust fund baby with no responsibility, that I could just spend my way out of all my problems. I’d show him. I’d prove I was no diva, that I could put up with being in a room with someone who didn’t like me. I could do it with grace and a sense of humor.

  Although, on my way up to the room I wondered how I was going to tell him. Oh, by the way, even though we can’t get along at all, I decided I’d stay here.

  It had been a relief to reach the room and find it empty. Maybe I could have a few minutes to myself. But no, here he was.

  I thought we’d done okay during our first conversation. We hadn’t come to blows, and the sarcasm had been minimal. I hadn’t realized how difficult it would be. We’d certainly squabbled a few times since the fight, but that was always around friends. Almost like there was a safety net keeping things from going too far.

  To be alone with him meant trying to be unfailingly polite. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of getting mad, of bringing up how distasteful I found him.

  Once again there was a towel around his neck. He was wearing tiny trunks that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. I felt like I could see every ridge and vein of his soft, thick cock, where it pushed against the stretched fabric. Then I realized I was staring, and quickly looked up at his face. “Thought you were going hiking,” I said.

  “I went to the beach instead. Whereas you...went shopping?” He shook his head.

  Calmly as I could, I began emptying the bags onto my bed. “Yeah, I need clothes, remember?”

  He came over to look. The heat radiated off his skin. I was so uncomfortable.

  “That many clothe
s?” he said. “Sweaters? Dress shirts? Dude, are you taking up residence?”

  The incredulity in his voice set my teeth on edge. Why shouldn’t I buy something to wear?

  “Do you have an actual problem with me buying clothes?”

  “I don’t have a problem,” he said. God, he was standing too close to me. “It’s just weird, is all.”

  “You know, you could stand to put on some clothes, instead of just standing there with your...your business out there for everyone to see.”

  Marcus glanced down, and he laughed. “My business? Pervert. Quit looking, if it bothers you.”

  “I wasn’t looking, you’re just waving it around in that ball-basket you call a swimsuit.”

  “Are you serious? We’re at a resort full of hot guys, and you expect me to wear...what, some baggy old-man trunks?”

  Just as he said it, I was removing my new swimsuit and setting it in the pile of clothes. The suit was...baggy. It came down almost mid-thigh. From a certain viewpoint, the tartan pattern might have seemed made for an older demographic.

  “At least in these I’ll look like I have some decency,” I said.

  “I don’t understand how you can blow that much money on clothes, and yet you buy something that would fit right in on the shuffleboard court.”

  “Not everybody is here to pick up a sugar daddy.” I said it as calmly as possible, but it was the first time I’d really broached that subject since the big fight.

  “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about picking up anybody in that. Pair it with a cabana shirt and you’ll be lucky to pick up anything but the early-bird special at the buffet.”

  I sat heavily on the bed next to my clothes. The rest of them weren’t as bad as the swimsuit. I’d managed to find some nice things, although the sizes weren’t perfect; the shop had offered a tailoring service, but it would take so long that my own bags might be here before then.