No Place That Far

Sometimes you only get one chance at a second chance.

The Distance Between Us, Book 5

Still finding his footing after a long-overdue divorce, Marcus is looking forward to some mind-numbing drinking while ogling the grooms at Chris and Julien's wedding. He never expected his attention to be diverted by the gorgeous best man.

One of Julien's French Foreign Legion buddies, Timur doesn't speak much English, but language is no barrier to Marcus understanding exactly what the huge Tartar wants—a one-night stand.

Except that one night turns into two, three, then more, which puts Marcus on edge. After Timur is done house-sitting for the honeymooning couple, he's headed back to the Legion for another five years. Like it or not, once Timur gets on that plane, the fling is over.

Unfortunately, Marcus forgot to tell his heart not to fall in love. And this time, if history repeats and he makes another wrong decision, he may never see his tattooed Legionnaire lover again.

Warning: Contains a soldier who makes up for his lack of English by using his hands to read his lover's body; a chef-turned-bartender who no longer believes in love; a length of paracord that probably wasn't meant to be used this way; and a couple of newlyweds who are game for some four-way play.

No Place That Far

L.A. Witt and Aleksandr Voinov

Chapter One

Marcus had had a crush on both grooms for as long as he'd known them. Well, okay, that had only been a few months, but still. Chris was smoking hot, and his French-accented fiancé Julien was…yeah.
Hot.
So Marcus had come to the wedding with every expectation of ogling the two men getting married.

What he hadn't counted on was the best man. One of the best men. The one standing behind Julien. That one.

Jesus fuck, that man.

The ceremony was the same script as every ceremony—
Do you? Do you? Let's eat cake
—so it wasn't like Marcus needed to hang on every word. And he'd helped the guys with their vows, so he'd heard them already. Which was good, because he spent the entire ceremony completely focused on that guy standing behind Julien.

For one, he was built—the kind of tall and broad-shouldered that required an expensively tailored suit to look smooth, though the rent-a-tux shop had done a good job matching him up, despite his height and wide shoulders. Black hair, shorn at the sides, just slightly longer on top. And although he was built like a guy who could take a truck apart with his bare hands, his demeanor was sweet and attentive, watching over the couple like a very big and devoted dog. A gentle, unflappable presence that shouted calm and reliable, rather than aloof or arrogant, and Marcus was a sucker for the type.

He'd been distracting enough during the ceremony, the receiving line, the speeches and all of the usual
this is a wedding so we must do this, just play along
crap that Marcus
so
loved. Not that he was bitter or anything about how this all had reopened the rather raw wound left by his divorce.

But now the music was blasting, and everyone was crowded onto a dance floor that was probably meant to hold about a third of this particular group. Marcus stood back and watched, hoping to God they didn't do the chicken dance like everyone seemed insistent on doing at weddings these days. It didn't annoy him—well, no more than it annoyed anyone—but that irritating upbeat music reminded him a little too much of how Ray had, during the same dance at their wedding, taken advantage of the loud tune to whisper in Marcus's ear the things he had planned for their honeymoon suite that night. Damn it. He was probably the only one on the planet who got teary-eyed hearing the goddamned chicken dance.

It hadn't been played so far tonight, though, and he hung back, drinking a whiskey sour that was a little weaker than he would have mixed it, but strong enough to make his head pleasantly light. He watched, laughed at some of the drunken antics, and, in spite of the sting of being a too recently divorced man at a deliriously happy wedding, he was having a pretty good time.

“You don't dance?”

The bizarre accent should have tipped him off. French? Some Eastern European accent? A mix of the two? Nothing he'd ever heard before, anyway. Which meant it shouldn't have surprised him when he turned his head and saw…that guy.

“I…” Marcus cleared his throat. So he hadn't imagined how green the best man's eyes were. Holy Christ. They were even more surprisingly intense because he hadn't expected that color with almond-shaped eyes. “I'm, uh. Not much of a… I have…” C
ome on, come on. Speech. English. You know this!
“I have two left feet.”

The guy cocked his head, genuine confusion furrowing his brow. His gaze flicked down toward Marcus's highly polished shoes, then came back up. “Two left feet?”

“Yeah, you know.” Marcus nodded toward the dance floor. “I can't dance.”

“Because you have two left feet?”

“Yeah, I—” Oh.
Oh.
Right. Accent meant he came from somewhere other than the States, and there was a good chance English—especially American slang—wasn't his first language. In fact, now that Marcus had a chance to look at him up close, it occurred to him that Julien's best man must've come from wherever Julien himself had come from before shacking up with Chris. French Foreign Legion, wasn't that what Chris had said? Well, whatever the case, there was no way this guy had acquired
that
tan in Seattle.

Marcus shifted a little. “It's just an expression. I'm, um, not very coordinated. Can't dance.”

The stranger looked him up and down, but not in a teasing, flirting way, then cracked a smile. “You're not drunk enough.”

Maybe not. Though Marcus preferred to stay in control of his senses and emotions while in this kind of mood. “I still have to drive.” He lifted his glass. “This is as much as I'll drink.”

Marcus had braced himself for ribbing or mocking—after all, the alcohol was free, and what was a party without getting shitfaced—but the guy just nodded to him. Silence settled, three seconds, four, five, hitting the point of
say something or find a reason to turn away to keep face
. And maybe he should have turned away, though the man did intrigue him, partly because of that strange, steady calm so at odds with the other laughing, partying guests, and partly because he looked like nobody Marcus had ever seen.

“I'm, um, Marcus.” He extended a hand.

The stranger took it—strong hands, calloused, warm and dry. “Timur. I'm Julien's friend.”

“I figured.” Marcus was happy for him to keep his hand a little bit longer than a handshake warranted. “I hope you don't mind me asking, but you're from the Legion too?”

“Yes. Between contracts. Promised Julien to come over for his marriage.” He turned around, seeking out Julien in the crowd. Julien and Chris were posing in front of the rainbow-colored wedding cake for photos with Julien's vast family. His expression was hard to read—maybe part bemused confusion and part wistfulness.

“This whole thing must look strange to you.”

Timur looked back at him and lifted his wide shoulders, and the whole tux lifted with them. “Not expected, no.”

Marcus reached out for a passing waiter and plucked a fresh glass of rum and coke off the tray, offering it to Timur. They both weren't drunk enough for this, apparently. Timur took it, lifted it and smelled it, then took a mouthful. Every one of those movements was a little tentative and awkward. Yep, fish out of water.

“Your first time in Seattle?”

Timur nodded. “First time in America.”

“Do you like it?”

Timur lifted his shoulders again. “It's different.”

“Where are you from?”

Timur gave a quiet laugh, one that disappeared into the background music, and lifted his drink to his lips. “That's a complicated answer.”

“Is it?”

The man rolled a sip of rum and coke around in his mouth for a moment, subtle, smooth motions of lips and jaw that had way too strong a hold on Marcus's attention. Timur was clean-shaven, but Marcus caught himself wondering if that was as normal for him as the tuxedo. Something about him convinced Marcus that this man's natural state included at least a few days' worth of stubble on his sharp jaw and down onto his throat.

And suddenly Marcus's drink was not nearly cold enough, despite being comprised almost entirely of ice. When the hell had he drunk the majority of it? And where the fuck was that waiter?

Timur swallowed, somehow managing to make even that into a mind-bending action. Marcus wasn't usually so taken with the way a man's Adam's apple moved, but, hell, he was drunk and hoping to God no one played that stupid song—what was it again? He'd completely forgotten—because he was the only man on the planet who'd get misty-eyed over it. Obsessing over a stranger's Adam's apple wouldn't be the weirdest thing he'd done tonight.

“Ukraine.” Timur shook his head, another of those quiet laughs escaping his barely parted lips. “Been many years.”

“So you haven't been home in years?”
No shit, Sherlock.
Marcus cringed. Conversation wasn't usually this much of a challenge for him. For God's sake, he was a bartender. Had been for the last few months, anyway. He made his living conversing with men who were drunk off their asses. That was almost the same thing as talking with someone who didn't speak the same language. And a lot of those guys were hot too—guys who trolled for tail at Wilde's weren't exactly scraping the bottom of the barrel.

But Timur… Fuck.

Apparently oblivious to how stupid Marcus had suddenly become, Timur shrugged. “No reason to go back.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Why?” Another shrug, this one even more casual. “Leave places. Go to new places.”

“Oh.” Marcus shifted his weight, staring into the glass of melting ice and completely at a loss for what to say. He doubted this guy was keen on rehashing whatever life story had driven him to leave home and never look back. It seemed like guys who joined the Legion were prone to exceedingly sad backstories. Or maybe that was just Julien. For some reason, Marcus didn't imagine Timur as being an ex-Mormon missionary who'd faked his own death after a legionnaire orgy, though some four-on-one sex did sound like a pretty persuasive recruiting technique.

“You are alone?”

“Hmm?” Marcus met Timur's eyes. “Alone?”

“Yes.” Timur gestured around. “Here? No…uh…”

“No partner?”

“Yes.”

“No.” Marcus pressed his lips together and glanced out at the wedding guests, wondering for the hundredth time today—and the millionth time this week—if coming to a wedding was such a good idea. “I'm divorced.”

“Oh.” Timur stiffened slightly. “Sorry.”

“Eh. It happens.” Marcus forced back the bitterness and shook his head. “We just weren't…” Oh, save it. He'd given himself the spiel enough times, and he didn't feel like breaking it down to someone who might not be familiar with phrases like “made better friends and lovers than spouses”, “business and marriage don't mix” and “I'll work with my husband but not for him”. He was exhausted just thinking about it, and especially in this setting, it hurt too much. More than he'd thought it would.

So much for being over it.

Timur sipped his drink and set the empty glass aside. “Never had a wife.”

Marcus laughed humorlessly. “Neither have I.”

Timur cocked his head. “But you are divorced?”

“Yes, but I—” He waved a hand. “Divorced from my husband.”

“Your… Oh.” Timur's eyebrows rose slightly, and Marcus wasn't sure what to make of his expression. It wasn't like the guy was homophobic—he'd just stood with a pair of men getting married—but something about Marcus's comment had given him pause. And he'd gone to “wife” rather than “husband” for himself, though all Marcus knew of Ukraine was that it was in the general geographic area where gays and lesbians were still getting their teeth kicked in by cops on a regular basis, so maybe that was a cultural thing. Or the whole fish-out-of-water air about him was that he was the only straight guy who wasn't a brother of a groom. And if he was straight, lusting after him was pointless. Well, and safe. Still, Marcus seemed to be the only guy who'd talked to Timur—there were glances from other guests, but nobody'd approached him, and Julien, his only friend in this place, was understandably busy with his other guests and family.

“So you've done all this…” Timur let his voice trail off and looked around to include all of the venue.

“Yep. Up in Canada, before it was legal here.” Which probably made him something of a gay-marriage hipster, but whatever. It also made him a gay-divorce hipster. Cut that thought right there.

Timur nodded. “It's nice.”

Diplomatic statement, or very restricted vocabulary? “Well, gay marriages are a boon for the hospitality industry and the overall economy. So, yeah, it's a good thing.” Yep, he could be bitter, though inwardly he was happy for Chris and Julien. They'd practically grown up together, so maybe they stood a better chance at making it work than Marcus and his ex had. He wished them the best of luck in any case. He tried not to become the type of miserable human being who ruined other people's happiness with too much reality.

Timur finished his drink. “How do you know them?”

“I work at the same place as Chris. I'm a bartender.”

“And you don't drink?”

“I try not to. It becomes a habit too easily.” And he would definitely not crawl back into a bottle to self-medicate. First, it didn't work; second, he was putting his life back together, not taking it apart. Speaking of which, the waiter passed them again, and this time he picked up two glasses. When Marcus handed it over to Timur, interestingly, their fingers touched by accident, but Timur didn't jump back or even twitch at the touch. Either not straight or supremely confident in his sexuality.

Maybe both, judging by the way he unflinchingly held Marcus's gaze while he took a drink. Which made Marcus wonder…

“And you?” Marcus gestured at the crowd. “Are you here with anyone?”

Timur shook his head. “Only know Julien.” His eyes darted toward the grooms, easily finding them in the mass of people, as if he'd known exactly where Julien would be at any given moment. “No one else.”

Was that a note of sadness in his voice? Marcus couldn't tell. Nor could he tell if “only know Julien” meant Julien was his only acquaintance in this room—hell, this country—or if he and Julien also knew each other in the biblical sense.

God. Wasn't
that
a hot mental image?

Marcus shivered.

“You are cold?”

Cold isn't the word I'd use, amigo.

“No. No.” Marcus glanced at Julien, gave himself a split second to ponder who'd be on top in that little arrangement, and then drained most of his glass in one swallow.

Timur laughed that quiet little laugh of his. “You don't drink, no?”

“Not often.” Marcus raised his glass, nearly unloading the ice onto the floor between them. Or rather, onto the man who he could've sworn hadn't been standing quite so close to him. “S-sorry. Almost got”—he lifted the glass again, with slightly more coordination this time—“almost dumped this on you.”