Indulgence (267 page)

Nicco kept his head down. Parker removed his hand, but
gulped when the man moved fast, gripping his wrist and standing so their bare
chests had mere inches between them.

“Don’t,” Parker had whispered, drunk with desire and wishing
for nothing more than Nicco to read his body language and ignore his single
word of denial. Nicco’s exotic face with its huge chocolate-brown eyes, strong
nose, and firm jaw loomed, as if pondering the options.

Then he stepped away, let go of Parker’s wrist, confusion
and unhappiness back in his expression. “I mean….” Parker’s arm remained
suspended in the air as though Nicco still had hold of him.

“No,” Nicco had said, spinning on his heel and heading back
to his locker. He yanked out street clothes, dressy, as was required of them.
No jeans or sweats or slouchy appearances allowed when entering or exiting the
Black Jacks’ facility—they all agreed to this in their contracts. He kept
muttering under his breath in Spanish while Parker stared frozen with
indecision.

“Wait,” he’d said, furious for sounding like such a dork but
no longer caring.

“No, you wait.” Nicco had rounded on him, tucking his dress
shirt into his pants over his un-showered skin. “You…just wait,” he growled,
stepping over to Parker again, glowering, breathing heavy. “Wait for someone
better, young Parker. I am no good for you. As tempting as you are.” Parker
flushed red again as Nicco raked his gaze up and down his near-naked and
obviously aroused form. “I need to get out of here,” he muttered, raising a
hand as if to touch Parker’s face then spitting out a curse and stomping out.

Parker sank to the bench, then rose to take his shower, put
on his own dress clothes, and left in a daze wondering what he had nearly done.

Now, he sat here warring internally over a recent
experiment. He’d located an exclusive, private, tropical club catering to the
“man who requires discretion and has the money to afford it.” A gay vacation
club—because he needed to do this thing. He needed to have sex with a man and
get past it. To stop building it up in his head as this perfect...thing. It was
just sex, for Christ’s sake. Pleasant, for a few moments, then over, a release
of tension, nothing more or less.

So he had submitted an application, nervous and terrified
someone would find out but relying on the “discretion guarantee”, especially
once he paid their jaw-dropping fee.

His scalp tingled at the sight of a new email appearing that
instant confirming his reservation. He was invited to “enjoy the casual,
relaxed and completely private atmosphere” four weeks from today.

His hands shook. He clenched them together in his lap and
spent a few moments regretting ever laying eyes on Nicco Garza. This was not
Nicco’s fault. Parker had suspected his own homosexual leanings for years but
had never acted on them. So, now he would, if five thousand dollars’ worth of
travel and discretion guarantees were to be believed.

His phone buzzed across the table next to the computer. He
glanced at it, his face heating up at the sight of Nicco’s name on the screen.
How in the hell did the man always manage to call him at the wrong moment? He
shoved the thing to the floor, cursing and already regretting the money spent,
the move to Detroit, the breakup with Christie, and the flagrant nose-thumbing
to his parents.

He should be in medical school right now, done with year
one, and likely in the midst of a wedding planning month. Not sitting here
contemplating how Nicco’s lips felt that night, how close he had come to kissing
him in the locker room, and how much he yearned for his touch.

He glared at the soccer news page again. If expansion teams
qualified for playoffs, they’d been in them now. For now, their first season
was over with only a few injuries and his pondering running from the team.
Nicco had come out, made a publicly gay declaration and would no doubt weather
the storm with little backlash. God knew his entire career had been nothing but
one long gossip column.

Parker himself had been named to an infamous “Fab 5” hottest
new footie men on a notorious, but very well-known, European soccer fan blog
debuting at Number Three. The lady bloggers’ obsession with soccer player
torsos, asses, and legs embarrassed the shit out of him. He’d done the
requisite interview, his face beet red the entire time, and had been dubbed
“baby boy Parker” by the crew, which now stuck fast with his teammates.

His body ached from the past months of daily torture, but
his heart hurt worse. He’d give anything to be playing right now, finishing off
an amazing season with a run at a championship designation. The team management
had been assured next year there would be such a thing. Parker relaxed and
forced himself to look at the email again.

“Your travel itinerary to La Luna, our exclusive resort in
the Maldives is included. As a new member, you will be paired with another
newbie for the first night. If it works for you guys, great! If not, we will
gladly make the necessary room changes. However, we match carefully and are
very rarely proven wrong! See you soon.”

He noted the flight details then went for a run, coming up
with a million excuses not to go and one reason he had to. Nicolas Garza. He
had to dislodge the man from his psyche. If it took an exotic week of fucking
some strange guy until he couldn’t walk, then so be it. He’d go, get his man
love cherry popped, and be over it pure and simple.

Nicco sat in a soft chair, fresh-squeezed orange juice in
one hand, feet up on the railing, enjoying a soft ocean breeze. He tried to
relax and to keep his heart from pounding out of his chest. This had been such
a stupid idea. Almost as epic as the one he’d made a few weeks ago, barging
into Rafe’s office and declaring himself ready to be the guy, the one who came
out as a pro athlete.

He’d dumped the crazy bitch with the sex parties and the
coke addiction after waking up one morning in a tangle of arms and legs and God
knows what else, his head pounding and his heart yearning for one thing—Parker
Rollings.

That morning he had gone home, taken a shower, and stared at
himself in the mirror for a solid thirty minutes before driving down to the
Black Jacks complex and making his pronouncement to the assistant coach.

“Okay,” Rafe had said, leaning back, his son strapped to his
chest in some sort of contraption. “I’ll alert the marketing department. You
know you have my personal support, right?”

“Yeah,” Nicco had said, nervousness running up and down his
spine like rats’ feet. “So what happens now?”

What happened came quickly and included a solid month of
interviews up one side and down the other by every sports, news, and gossip
channel. He’d gone on late night talk shows, mid-day women’s shows, you name it
he’d been there, declaring his extreme gayness to the world.

He still didn’t quite understand why. Actually bi-sexual,
but unwilling to explain how it gave him double the opportunities, he left that
part out. A sick sort of publicity web got woven around him, thanks to his own
words and actions. He got a shit ton of hate email, texts, but none of it
bothered him. Because the one man he wanted to be out for would have nothing to
do with him.

Parker and Ashley remained the happy, pretty, and perfectly
hetero couple. He had no one. As the gay-boy darling of the press, the brave
man who’d risked his career to declare truth to the world or however the
marketing department was spinning it, he decided he deserved a vacation. To a
ridiculously expensive and far away gay club where he could fuck his way
through as many handsome, wealthy men as he wanted.

He’d heard of La Luna but had dismissed it as excessive and
unnecessary. He had all the sex he wanted, until now, of course. So he paid
their extortionist fees, and here he sat. Since he was now a minor celebrity,
he got priority booking it seemed.

His team had been supportive up to a point. He’d known
better than to pull this stunt during the season. His shrink had called him
because Nicco had skipped his last two appointments, worried about his
“motivation for such an announcement.”

Nicco had laughed and told him he’d never felt more free,
more unencumbered, albeit a little lonely. The man had sighed in his ear, made
noises about “negative motivations” and “more talk therapy” so Nicco had hung
up on him.

Then he’d dropped to the floor of his condo and let tears
slip from his eyes, finally succumbing to real chest-heaving sobs. He cried
like a woman—for Leandro, and for Parker before he fell into exhausted asleep
right on the hardwood.

The fallout had been immense but mostly in a positive
direction, which had shocked him. A month after the fact, Nicco stood,
ensconced in the public eye as a celebrity, a hero for the gay athletes
everywhere. Handsome, mature, fit, successful, rich, and homosexual, forever
and ever, amen.

He sighed then startled when the door in the suite behind
him rattled and swung open. His chair tipped too far back, dumping him onto the
terrace floor. “Shit, mother fucker goddammit!” He scrambled up, rubbing the
back of his head, and found a towel to wipe the juice off his brand new linen
shorts. His face burned and the acid in his gut bubbled up another notch. Why
in the hell he’d be nervous when he faced nothing a week of screwing, then back
to life as usual, escaped him.

Of course, he did have to make a decision in between all the
fucking—about whether or not to stay in the States during the offseason. More
importantly if he’d exercise his option to stay with the Detroit project. His
agent had been screaming at him to get out of it. A couple of major league
soccer teams had been nosing around until his Big Gay Announcement. Right
after, his agent would only return every other one of his calls. Until the
positive media onslaught, which seemed to remind said agent of Nicco’s future
contribution to his agency’s bank account.

Nicco had developed a soft spot for the Motor City, and the
thought of never getting to see Parker again made him nauseous. Besides, he had
no choice. The BJ’s, as the Black Jacks had taken to calling themselves,
supported him, at least on the surface. He’d best stay where he could still
play. Because no matter what Oprah, Dave and the yammering idiots on the
American Sports Network claimed about a “fresh new open mindedness,” the fact
remained: Nicolas Garza had likely ruined his career with his little lifestyle
reveal.

Which was one of the reasons he’d chosen this ludicrous
setup. Maybe he would meet the love of his life here at this exclusive resort
dripping with good-looking rich guys hiding from the world. He sighed and
walked into the main sitting area of the luxury suite, prepared to meet his
newbie buddy for the first night.

His feet froze and his whole body contracted in response to
the man who stood in the doorway, thousands of miles from Michigan, suitcase in
hand, Ray Bans sliding down his patrician rich-boy, American nose.

“What are you doing here?” Parker spoke first, breaking the
moment. He glanced at the number on the door and on the key card in his hand as
if they held the answer. Nicco saw a drop of sweat bead up on Parker’s temple.
He ached to leap across the room, hold the obviously anxiety-riddled young man
until he relaxed.

How this had happened, he had no idea. His heart pounded in
a new rhythm, one of sweet anticipation.

Nicco stuck his hands in his pockets, determined to remain
nonchalant. “This is where I was told to come, for my, ah, rookie trip.”

“Well they’ve obviously screwed up.” Parker dropped his case
and frowned. Nicco’s mouth went dry. “I’m here too for …holy shit. And you are
a rookie at these things?” Parker’s voice cracked, which made Nicco want to
laugh, and cry and run away from him all at once.

He shrugged and tried to keep his voice neutral. “Yeah, so I
see. And as a matter of fact, I am a rookie at ‘these sorts of things.’” He
hooked fingers around the words, which felt lame and stupid.

“No. Hell no. No fucking way.” Parker started to back away,
but his foot tangled in his shoulder bag strap, and he landed on his ass,
cursing like a sailor. Nicco burst out laughing so hard he had to sit.

Parker scrambled to his feet and frowned; as Nicco kept
guffawing, the stress of the past months and the extreme surprise of seeing the
object of his lust at the door overwhelming him to the point of hysteria.
Finally Parker shook his head, unable to suppress a wide, innocent grin that
made Nicco’s heart hurt all over again.

I won’t do this to him. He’s too good for me.

Wiping his eyes, he rose and faced the tall, handsome
American, put his hands on broad shoulders, biting his lower lip to keep the
spasms of uncontrollable laughter at bay. “You’re right. This must be a
mix-up.” He put a palm to Parker’s rough cheek, something he’d been dying to do
for months and was surprised when the other man closed his eyes, and leaned
into it for a half second. Then his eyes sprang open and he stepped away, rubbing
his face as if scalded.

Nicco took a breath. “C’mon in anyway, have a drink. I’ll
call downstairs and get it changed.” Parker’s lean frame moved out to the
balcony as his own body started a long, slow dance of horny he was going to
have to work hard tonight to dispel with some lucky stranger. Keeping his gaze
glued to the man’s back, he picked up the phone and dialed the front desk.

After a thoroughly frustrating conversation Nicco figured
out what he already surmised—the resort service had somehow matched them. He
ambled out to the large terrace overlooking the perfect turquoise sea. Parker
had fallen asleep in a lounge chair, which gave Nicco some unrestricted
observation time. Before he did something rash, he put a hand on the man’s
knee, startling him awake.