“Hmmm….” Elle nestled into his shoulder. “Maybe.”
***
Caleb lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling he’d contemplated for so many nights the past two years. He sighed and absently put a hand over his cock, keeping one arm behind his head. It was both a relief and terribly depressing when he realized Tarkan had not been one hundred percent on his mind for about a week now. He so desperately wanted it to stop hurting—wanted to live on some sort of normal level again—but the fact that the man’s dark face was actually fading from memory alarmed him.
Suddenly, Tarkan’s laughter filled his brain. The moment they’d discovered that the “young kid” Elle had obsessed about for months was actually Tarkan’s own twin brother, Emre. Caleb smiled at the memory. She’d sputtered and ranted and raved at him, but had finally agreed to go on the semi-blind-date setup known as 1Night Stand, to get him “off her back” and to “forget about Emre” whom she claimed was too young for her. But Madame Evangeline’s exclusive service knew what it was doing. The encounter at the Kempeski Hotel, a romantic former Ottoman Palace converted by the Castillo family as part of its resort chain, had indeed been magical. Elle and Emre were meant to be together. Madame Eve merely arranged things so they could be.
Christ!
Caleb threw an arm over his eyes. He couldn’t win. He was either miserable and barely functional or depressed because he might actually function again? Would anything ever be the same? He sighed and rolled over, reaching for the phone. Thanks to his screw-anything-on-two-legs philosophy from the moment he’d come home from the funeral in Turkey, he had an endless supply of new “contacts.” Any one of the men attached to those numbers would be right over to help him out, fuck or suck him silly so he could forget for a while. He looked at the phone, pondered his options and threw the damn thing, taking perverse pleasure when it shattered against the far wall. He flopped back onto the pillows and pulled one over his eyes, yelling the name of the one man he had loved, who’d left him alone.
Chapter Three
Elle tapped her foot impatiently. Caleb sat in her office and rattled off the agenda for the upcoming shareholders meeting, confirming all details smallest to largest. When he looked up at one point, stylus poised over his notebook computer, his face was puzzled.
“Elle, why in the hell is there a blocked off week on my Google calendar?”
She smiled her most innocent smile.
“Because you are on vacation then.” She busied herself with the various sales charts showing an amazing growth curve for the year, thanks to a bunch of new patents on painkilling drugs and one touted as female
Viagra
. He glanced down at the shared calendar program.
“Damn it, would you stop trying to—?” He jumped up and paced the large office. “Being pregnant is making you insane. I’m not going. Why won’t you listen to me?” He stared at her, real anger in his eyes.
Elle stood. “I may be insane, but you, my dearest friend, are going back to Turkey and going on this date.”
“Shit, Elle, it’s not a date! It’s a goddamned vacation. That’s…not feasible. Who the hell is going to agree to that? Some kind of psycho, that’s who.” He tore off his reading glasses. “No.” He glared at her.
She glared back. “Yes. And it’s not a psycho. It’s a man who has applied for something similar, that’s how this thing works, remember? He…oh hell, forget it.” She sat back down and groaned. “You can’t even humor a poor, insane pregnant woman, your oldest friend, fine.” She put her chin in her hands and let tears form. They were legit.
The panic she felt over this huge shareholders meeting next week, when all she ever wanted to do lately was put her feet up on a stool and eat huge bowls of ice cream, was very real. In spite of how badly she’d wanted it, and how long she’d spent convincing Emre that Ayla needed a sibling, this baby was going to be the death of her. She put a hand on her swollen belly and let the tears trickle down her cheeks, knowing full well how they’d affect Caleb. He sighed, capitulation in his blue eyes.
“I’ll think about it, you manipulative bitch.” He walked out of her office without a backward glance. Elle smiled at his broad retreating back.
***
Caleb cranked up the speed on the treadmill. Hard rock music blared in his ears, sweat poured down his face. He glanced at the monitor and saw he’d crested the six-mile mark, his usual wall. But he felt energized, powerful and thought if he stopped, he might give into the emotions pressing against the back of his eyes. On the second anniversary of Tarkan’s death, he was approaching the exact hour he’d seen the television broadcast at the airport. The shooting pain in his chest was brutal but not paralyzing like it had been the year before. He’d spent that day drunk, hiding in his condo, ignoring all attempts to rouse him.
Emre and a few of his other friends had pounded on his door, demanding to know at least if he was okay. Elle finally used her key, stalked into his dark bedroom, yanked open the blinds, and pulled him out of bed. He’d thrown up in the shower, but let the scalding hot water pound on his body, easing some of his misery. She’d made tea, brought it to him when he’d emerged, sat with him without talking for over an hour. He’d never been more grateful for her presence.
He pressed the button again, going from fast jog to hard run. This year was different. Not easier, really, but different. When he hit twelve miles, his legs started to give out and he eased off the speed a little, letting the fans in the nearly empty room cool him down. Wiping tears and sweat from his face with a towel, he slowed to a walk, then a standstill. He gripped the edges of the machine and leaned his head forward, catching his breath. Ear buds dropped onto his shoulders. He allowed himself one sob then stood back up and sucked in a deep breath.
Enough
. Caleb took a hard look at himself in the wall-sized mirror. A tall, sweaty, blond man, with a week’s growth of beard stared back at him. Damn her, but Elle was right. It was time to move on. He owed it to himself. He’d expect the same of Tarkan. And he did love Turkey. He draped the towel around his neck and stepped off the treadmill. She knew what he wanted—a real relationship, a man he could love, have a life with, raise kids with, grow old with. She was forcing him back toward that. He ran a hand over his face, gathered his keys, and headed out into the near midnight, home, to plan his vacation.
***
Adem Broussard gazed out over the deep blue Mediterranean, views of which filled every window at his restaurant. The pink-streaked sky turned the inside of his minimalist blue and white space into a rainbow of light and color. He watched the carefully trained hostesses guide tourists and locals alike to the perfect table. The place was full of them. No one sat near the kitchen, or the bathrooms, or the front door. He’d designed it that way.
Kursuruz Masa
meant “the perfect table” in Turkish and it was the name of his upscale eatery, located inside an exclusive resort in Antalya. His dream. Made possible when his parents died in a car accident and left him everything.
He put his small coffee cup down and sat back, sinking into the shadows, observing his staff at work. A demanding boss, he paid well to retain the best, another part of the master plan he’d developed in his years as a cook for the largest blue cruise agency in Turkey. His phone buzzed with an email. He took a look at it long enough to ascertain that his application for the exclusive 1Night Stand agency had been accepted, and he’d been matched up for the vacation date he’d requested.
Adem sighed and turned the phone off. He ran a hand over his face. Not proud that he’d been reduced to this, he was glad the deed was finally done. He’d been singularly unsuccessful finding any real companionship beyond the occasional hot vacationer. Being a gay man in a tourist town in a ninety nine percent Muslim country frustrated him. Times about a million. He hated faking it and many times wished he’d opened this restaurant in France, his second home. But Turkey compelled him, had a hold over him, so he opened his place with inheritance money and stayed, keeping his real life hidden from most.
This “date” he hoped would yield him a break, maybe some fun and a few days of companionship. He’d been a little surprised that Madame Eve had agreed to such an unorthodox request, but apparently she had another man requesting the same thing, hence, the e-mail. He stood and stretched. Waving to a few regulars and speaking perfect Parisian French with some of the tourists, he made his way to the kitchen, the one place he felt happy these days.
The stress of running a successful restaurant that used only fresh vegetables, fish, and locally- sourced products was immense. But Adem loved it and what it meant for his creative side. He let himself get caught up in the drama, the needs of demanding customers and highly-strung employees helping him forget for a moment how lonely he was. He’d spent eight years as a chef for Blue Cruises. Those private gullets, two-masted wooden sailing vessels rented by parties of two to fifty provided him some of the most amazing experiences of his life and had yielded some good friends and a few fantasies. It had been hard leaving life on the sea.
He fell into bed around three AM after rebuffing one of his regular fuck buddies who’d shown up at the kitchen door before he left. Adem was simply not in the mood, and the boy was exactly that—a boy. He wanted a man, like himself, successful, driven, and with a little life experience. His cock twitched; that part of him displeased that he’d passed on a perfectly decent night of fun. But he rolled over on his back, let thoughts of his perfect man drift through his head as his body reacted, and his shaft hardened further.
A long buried memory of a client, one of the men who’d taken a cruise a few years ago filled his brain. Tall, blond, and American, his usually exposed strong torso dusted with golden hair, bright blue eyes nearly always snapping with laughter. Adem sighed and gripped his cock, running a hand over the head, then down to the base. He’d been part of a couple, his partner a tall Turk. Adem had snuck around and watched the two men a couple of times, drawn somehow by the brute strength of the blond giant. He had obviously been deeply in love with the equally handsome Turkish man. Their two bodies fit together as if they were meant for each other—light to dark; bulky and muscular to lithe and trim. Adem’s hand increased its rhythm. His breathing deepened and he groaned at the memory of the handsome American’s long cock, sliding in and out the darker man’s body, easy, beautiful, and exploding with eroticism.
The Turkish man had it good, no doubt. But he knew how to use his mouth, and Blond Viking loved nothing more than a great blowjob. Adem smiled and his hips jerked as he felt warmth spreading from the base of his spine up, and outward, making his whole body flush with heat. He let his mind wander back. When he’d sat outside their window, listening to their sounds, watching the darker-skinned man between his lover’s thighs, licking, sucking, using his hands all over the other man’s incredible body. Sighing, he reached out for the memory of the beautiful man’s ass as he fucked his lover, his strong, defined muscles flexing and stretching with the effort. The love sounds and kisses and finally the rings they’d exchanged—it had been intense.
Dear God, but what he wouldn’t do for that. Adem grunted and came, letting it coat his bare stomach, his whole body spasming with the effort. He drifted off, wishing someday to find such a love, such a man.
Chapter Four
Caleb rushed into the kitchen and grabbed his keys, afraid he’d be late for his flight. He’d been passively aggressive about the whole 1Night Stand thing from the beginning. But the time had come, the moment of truth, to climb back onto a plane and let it carry him to Istanbul once again. He tried hard not to be angry at Elle. She’d pulled off a very successful shareholder meeting last week, standing for hours, talking for the same. That huge, pregnant belly sticking out in front of her turning more than one seven-figure executive into a moony-eyed sap. She’d endured no end of belly rubbing. But finally after the third day, he’d commanded her off her feet, worried about the dark smudges under her eyes and strange pallor of her skin.
The doctor at the hotel took one look at her, shot Caleb a murderous glare, and sent her home. He didn’t bother telling the guy he wasn’t her husband. It was too hard to explain. He’d called the driver who’d brought them up to San Diego and accompanied her, more than a little stressed about his friend’s gaunt face and moans of pain every time she changed position. But he and Emre had helped her into their house, installed her in a lounge chair in the living room, and all seemed to be well according to her own doctor.
“You know, I have no business leaving right now. You could have this kid any minute.” He’d called one last time yesterday to check on her.
“Nice try, Caleb. But I don’t need your help, remember? I’ll be fine. See you in a week. Go, have fun, do what you need to do. Please go already!”
So he’d packed, found his passport in the jumble of papers he’d ignored for the last two years, and let the company driver drop him off at the airport.
He tried like hell to quell panic on the plane. He finally gave up and took the pill the doctor had prescribed, waking with a jolt when the plane skidded to a stop on the tarmac. His eyes felt sticky and idly wondered if this was how the inside of a kitty litter box would taste. He slouched into the terminal, unwilling to acknowledge what had happened the last time he’d made this trip. Tarkan’s funeral. Caleb had been like a zombie—when he wasn’t drunk. He squinted into the bright light after emerging from the baggage claim. The driver stood, holding a card with his name on it. He nodded and followed the man out to the withering heat of a late summer Turkish day.
Leaning his head against the window, he watched the once familiar landscape rushing by on his way south to the dock where he would catch his Blue Cruise boat and meet his date. He sighed.
This is insane
. What in the hell was he doing back there? It was no longer the stuff of agony. Memories of Tarkan were fading, leaving mere traces of happiness and residual passion. It was maddening really. He remained out of reach now, somehow becoming transparent, his deep mocha eyes and dark skin becoming ever more difficult to recall.