“It’s a real tough life you lead, HK,” Hayes said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. He occasionally called Oliver by the initials of his last name, Hoyt-Knight. And there was something about that that I found old-boy-ish and sexy.
“Yes, well, someone has to do it. And I brought three books, and I intend to crack at least one. Which I am sure is a hell of a lot more than those blokes are doing in South Beach.”
Hayes glanced at his watch. “I’m guessing they’re about three mojitos in, apiece. And they’ve got ten models with them.”
“Where are they staying? Soho House?”
“Yeah. Watch.” He pulled his iPhone from the pocket of his shorts and began texting. “How. Many. Models. Do. You. Have. With. You. Right. Now.”
“We have to do something absolutely mad so we can prove we had more fun.” Oliver flicked his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger. Charlotte tossed me one of her exasperated looks.
“I am having more fun,” Hayes laughed.
“Really?” I turned to him. “You wouldn’t rather be with ten models in South Beach?”
He looked at me for a moment, not speaking, one eyebrow raised. And then finally: “Do you not know me?”
“I do. I was just … teasing.”
He leaned into me so that the others could not hear. “I wouldn’t rather be anyplace else. Than here. With you.”
“Ditto.”
His phone buzzed in his hand. “Eleven!”
“Fuck!” Oliver laughed.
“Yes, I don’t know how you’re going to have more fun than that,” Charlotte said, straight-faced.
Oliver furrowed his brow, snuffed out his cigarette, and then pulled her onto his lap. “Charlotte, you know me. Models are like toffee. They often seem like a great idea, especially on holiday. But once you get them in your mouth, you remember that they’re cloyingly sweet and they stick to your teeth. Plus they’ve no nutritional value whatsoever … But they’re certainly very pretty in the window.”
It is likely I had never heard anything more perfect.
We laughed for a long time.
Hayes excused himself at some point and went inside, and when he reemerged five minutes later he had a bottle of Scotch in one hand and two glasses in the other. He was laughing to himself as he traipsed across the patio.
“What?” Oliver asked.
“Simon sent another text. He said, ‘We had eleven models and seven of them just left with Rory.’”
“Ha!”
“Wait, I have to read it to you,” he snorted, placing down the Scotch and pulling out his phone. “‘Liam was totally gutted and I had to remind him that he only has one dick … He thinks it might be Rory’s tattoos and now he’s considering getting one.’”
“Tell Liam he mustn’t forget where he comes from.” Ol smiled. “And to not fret if his type is not appreciated in South Beach, because it still has value in Courchevel.”
“‘We are this close to becoming a joke.’”
“How old is Liam?” I asked.
“Nineteen. God, that’s priceless.”
“Only two glasses?” Oliver sat up and began pouring the drinks with Charlotte still on his knee. Laphroaig 10. Neat.
“My hands are only so big, and I didn’t want to break Mrs. D’Amato’s crystal. Just double pour it and we’ll share.”
“Mrs. D’Amato?” Oliver mocked him. “She’s like in her forties, mate.”
“Great,” I said.
“Sorry,” Oliver said.
“But she looks like a Mrs. D’Amato. You don’t look like a Mrs. D’Amato,” Hayes explained.
“What exactly does a Mrs. D’Amato look like?”
“Like she’s done stuff to her face.” He gesticulated. “She’s like frozen things and puffed things up. Your face isn’t anything like that. Your face—”
“Your face is perfect,” Oliver interjected.
It was more than a little awkward.
“Thank you.”
Hayes spun to look at him. “Yes, Oliver. Thank you … And your face is perfect as well, Charlotte,” he added, pointedly.
Charlotte smiled, trying to make the best of the situation. “Thank you, Hayes. For noticing.”
“Bloody hell, I was just paying a compliment,” Oliver laughed.
Hayes held his gaze for a moment and then shook his head, as if he did not know what to make of him. “All right,” he said, grabbing one of the glasses, “we’re going for a walk. Don’t follow us.”
We trekked down across the lawn to the far side of the pool and installed ourselves on one of the lounges.
“I’m sorry about that. That was weird, right?”
“No weirder than Liam only having one dick.”
He laughed. “God, I love your humor.”
“I love hanging out with you. Thanks for inviting me. I’m glad I came.”
“I’m glad you came, too. And it is perfect … your face.”
I kissed him then. “Yours, too.”
We lay there for a bit, side by side on the lounge, kissing, and it felt like high school, innocent and pure.
He stopped at one point, reaching for the Scotch and taking a long sip before offering it to me.
“I’m not really a Scotch person…”
“How do you know? You weren’t a boy band person either, and now look at you. You’re like knee-deep.”
I laughed at that.
“You’re worse than knee-deep. You’re like up to your chin.”
“Fine.” I allowed him to serve me. It was hot going down, smoky, like all the goodness of the first fire lit in winter, bottled and put in my mouth. And suddenly, that night at the Crosby Street Hotel came rushing back. The nervousness of it, the newness, the postorgasmic freak-out.
“Well…?”
“It reminds me of you.”
“That’s good enough.” He placed the glass down and rolled me on top of him.
“I love this face,” I said, tracing my thumbs over his eyebrows. “I love the proportions of it. I love the symmetry. I love that it reminds me of a Botticelli cherub.”
He smiled. “I’m pretty certain I’ve never heard that before.”
“Can I tell you a secret?”
“Do.”
“That first night, in Las Vegas … I distinctly remember thinking, ‘God, I just want to sit on this kid’s face and pull his hair.’”
“What?” He began to laugh. “You thought what? That you would compare me to art and then consider desecrating it in almost the same breath is a little unnerving.”
“Sorry to have unnerved you.”
“And yet you made me beg you for a date…”
“I wanted to have sex with you, I didn’t want to date you.”
“I’m going to pretend I’m not offended by that … What made you change your mind?”
“What makes you so sure I have?”
He stopped laughing then and grabbed both my wrists, tight. “What are you afraid of? Right now, what are you afraid of?”
I didn’t say anything, but I knew it was written on my face.
“Yeah,” he said. “Me, too.”
*
Oliver and Charlotte turned in shortly after, and Hayes and I resumed our high school make-out session, which led, as high school make-out sessions are wont to do, to the inevitable blow job. There was something about it that was terribly amusing to me. Because I could not remember the last time I’d snuck through someone’s backyard on a balmy summer night to suck a dick in the dark. It felt almost nostalgic and it made me laugh.
“What’s so funny? Why are you laughing?” he asked, his hand on the top of my head.
“I’m too old for this.”
“No, really, I can assure you, you’re not.”