Page 46 of Knot Just for Show

“Bathrooms and stuff if you gotta change from the pool, are through there, and on the opposite wall.” He sweeps his open hand to a door just visible outside the bounds of the video game projection. “There’s a little eat-in kitchen with a fridge and snacks and stuff in there. All three meals will be served in there, so you can start eating with your prospective packmates—if you like.” He wraps up his spiel by stepping back and giving me a little salute. “Any questions, feel free to grab me or another member of the team. Good luck!” He shakes a little wave, and then he’s off—leaving me to explore the cavernous common space on my own.

It takes so long for me to be joined by anyone else that before the next visitor arrives I have managed to scour the fridge, peruse the video game selection, peep the specs on the gaming PC's, squirrel a nut brown ale out of the mini fridge behind the swim-up bar, and set myself up on the steps of the swimming pool—the legs of my worn jeans rolled all the way past my calves, my feet soaking in the lukewarm water in the shimmering underwater lights.

“Hey, welcome to the party.” I call to the new arrival as Timmy drops him off a few paces away from me.

“Uh, hi—I’m Lysander.” He reaches a hand out to shake.

Both of us take a heartbeat to size one another up—literally and figuratively.

Right away, I’m forced to grapple with how short he is. I’m not an ent or anything—I barely scrape by at six foot flat, but I have to look down at him, lowering my hand from its initial trajectory so that I’m not reaching so close to his damn face. He’s 5’5” at the absolute most.

“Lysander,” I repeat his name, trying out the three elegant syllables on my tongue as we shake hands, his grip firm—a gold signet ring filled with filigree and a shield of suns, stars, and crescent moons winking in the dreamy light of the pool area.

Despite being short, he’s athletically built—like a jockey or a gymnast, and his face is one of the most beautiful I have ever seen. Full, plush lips and fine, high cheekbones and a delicate celestial nose the color of pale marble—cold and beautiful. The effect is only amplified by his chestnut waves, swept back from his face like a prince from an animated family film. It’s like shaking hands with a Caravaggio painting.

“Well, that sounds fancy, more fancy than ‘Ronan’ anyhow.” I raise my bottle to him. “Can I get you a beer? Something else? This thing’s stocked —and I’m not bad at mixing a drink,” I offer.

“Ronan,” he repeats, laughing quietly to himself as his eyes drop to the wet pavement beneath my feet.

I’m not sure what’s so funny, but before I can ask his big brown eyes fix on me with startling intensity.

“I think I might like a drink…but I wouldn’t know what to ask for,” he levels with me, squirming a little under the weight of his own honesty.

How old is this kid? He looks fresh, young, green…but I suppose I’m not one to talk about ‘boyish good looks.’

“Well why don’t we start with the basics: wine, beer, or cocktail?” I ask, grabbing a cushion from a nearby pool lounger and tossing it to the tiled edge of the swimming pool steps, motioning for Lysander to take a seat.

Did someone say, ‘acts of service’? Couldn’t be me.

“I’ll have a cocktail.” He clears his throat gently, looking between the pool and the cushion a few times before tentatively kicking off his expensive looking loafers.

“Ok, you want something more spirit forward or something more sweet?” I step down the few poured concrete stairs into the pit behind the swim up bar, already reaching for a large pool-safe plastic tumbler.

“Uh—is it uncool if I ask for something sweet?” he asks too earnestly, popping his head up to eye me cautiously from his awkwardly bent pose, rolling the legs of his perfectly tailored trousers up toward his knees.

“I mean, I think that only assholes make a fuss about what another guy is drinking. Might help root out any douche-bags,” I laugh easily, but I can see Lysander turning over the idea in his mind. His apprehensive expression tells me that he’s not entirely sure how he feels about being the guinea pig in this situation, but that his pride won’t let him fully back down.

“I guess so,” he finally concludes, delicately taking his seat at the water’s edge—slipping his feet beneath the rippling surface with visible trepidation.

“Alright then, a littleHollywood on the Rocksfor Mr. Lysander.” I scoop ice into the plastic tumbler and begin building the simple vodka drink in the cup.

I’m about to ask him what he does for a living when Timmy re-appears at the edge of the patio, another participant hot on his heels.

“As you can see, Ronan and Lysander have already started getting settled.” Timmy’s voice carries across the pool area, and both Lysander and I offer an awkward wave.

“Well, I’ll leave you boys to it! And don’t forget—you can access any of the lounges you’ve been given access to 24/7.” Timmy hands not one but two plastic room keys to our latest arrival before bailing once more.

The sunny words of welcome dry on my tongue as I realize that I know our newest addition.

“Mavren Renard?” The name leaves my mouth as a question, but I most certainly know this man.

6’3, all lean muscle and glowing dark brown skin, traced with the severe black lines of tattoos that creep up and down his arms, climbing the sinewy cords of his neck; the long cables of his tidily twisted dreadlocks pulled back from his bright, regal face.

“Holy shit—Ronan?” He shakes off the layer of incredulity, stumbling down the few steps into the pit of the bar and reaches for me—pulling me into an unexpected hug.

“Hey man, I had no idea you were here.” I blink, my brain struggling to reconcile seeing part of my outside life in this surreal place.

“Are you kidding, dude? I never in a million years would have thought I’d be in a place like this. I think we’re both allowed to be shocked right now,” he laughs, reaching past me for a bottle of cheap whiskey and a vessel loaded with plenty of ice.

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