Page 17 of Taste

But I was a fraud. I pretended to hate him when all I could think of was his skin against mine. I played the part of someone completely in control, yet one tiny flick of his wrist had me succumbing to whatever game he was playing.

For a minute, his face changed, his cheeks creasing with the tiniest smile as his eyes twinkled with a rare moment of light.

“I like you so much when you’re like this, when you just let your guard down and I get to see you. The real you. Because he’s in there, isn’t he? This playful, cute, lovely man that…”

His demeanour changed again, probably in response to how my whole body tensed at his words. His stupid, stupid words.

“There’s never going to be an us, if that’s what you’re insinuating.” My anger was on the rise again. “This, whatever this is, is a mistake, an error of judgement, a stupid game that I have no interest in playing.”

“I’m not playing. I’m hoping… Fuck, Finn, I just want to have something. Something real.”

“It’s not real. There’s nothing sustainable here. Nothing to build on. Too much history.”

“History? A half-hearted blowjob in the changing rooms? You call that history? You call thisnothing? That, was…” He let go of me, splashing his palms into the water in sheer frustration while I clung to him like a fool and another truth hit me like a brick to the chest. He was truly that shallow and seemed to have no idea of the trouble he caused or the trail of destruction he left behind. Mark Quinton just ploughed through life leaving nothing but darkness in his wake and tossed-up fragments of humanity that meant nothing to him.

“You get off on playing games,” I accused and went on before he could challenge me. “But those games, Quinton—they destroy people’s lives.”

My rage got the better of me, and I bit his lip, mauling him almost. I could taste him now, all of him, every alluring flavour that pulled me under, mixed with the heady taste of copper and anger. I tugged at his arms, scratching his skin as he flipped me around, the water sloshing with every kick of my feet, every movement too slow and too bloody sluggish as he slipped and pulled me under. Our kiss plunged deep into that silence where nothing else mattered. I held my breath and he held his, clinging to me as we sank, our feet gently pushing off the bottom of the pool as if we were dancing to a well-rehearsed choreography.

Finally, we broke the surface again, my hands in his hair, his in mine, our lips fused in a perfect fit where I took his breaths like they were my own. For a second, we had something; I had to admit to that. Those crosswires were sparkling, and my temporarily muddled brain could see only the brightness of the future we would never have. Then reality came flooding in—the disappointment and heartbreak that something like this would inevitably give birth to, never mind that we’d both be out on the street within days, having broken every single employment rule in the Clouds Hotel employee manual.

I pushed him off me and scrambled out of the pool, no longer giving a toss about the way I looked or the clumsiness of my steps. Standing on the edge, my suit clinging to my wet, miserable self, I stared down at his naked chest and the myriad of inked designs, the quirkiness he so proudly displayed in his choice of attire effortlessly repeated on his skin.

Even now, I felt the draw of him. He was like a siren or enchanted merman, and I took some solace from the way the water rippled with the tremble of his hands as he tried to regain control. My gaze tracked back to his face, and I drank in the sight of his lips—lips that must have stung as much as mine—and his eyes…

The blackness in his eyes frightened me.

I should have stayed. Even as I took a few tentative steps backwards, I knew I should have helped him out of the pool and asked him to sit down with me and talk. We could fix this, straighten out all those crossed wires that caused these insane moments of sheer and total madness. We could be friends. Surely, we could work professionally without all this stupid childish behaviour thrown in the mix. I could absolutely live without ever kissing him again, feeling his skin against my own, drowning in the scent of him.

I was a manager with people skills, supposedly a responsible, functioning adult, yet I could barely speak, my teeth chattering with cold and anger. So, I did the only thing I could. I turned and walked out of the pool room, leaving a ridiculous wet trail behind me as I stomped along the corridor, my shoes squelching with every step. I left him there and didn’t even glance back.

I wanted to go home to my sterile modern studio flat, where everything had its place and my life was simple and straightforward. I wanted solitude and peace, a few hours’ sleep to calm my frazzled nerves. I wanted my life to go back to the normal baseline where I could simply exist. I didn’t need reminding of those things I no longer had and would never have again. It wasn’t worth it. Nothing was worth those ugly memories that were forever etched on my brain.

Standing outside the spa entrance, I fished my master key from my pocket and violently jabbed the lift button, cursing under my breath when another realisation hit me. With difficulty, I dug into my trouser pocket and extracted my clearly deceased mobile phone. I nearly dropped it, not that it would’ve made any difference. My heart was racing, my breathing was shaky and too fast, and I was shivering so violently, my radio, which had until that point miraculously stayed attached to my belt, hit the floor with an alarming clunk. It was dead, oozing water.

That was the final straw. Before I could stop it, an embarrassingly loud, crazy-sounding roar exploded from me.

Fucking Quinton. Fuck him. FUCK HIM. FUCK FUCKING EVERYTHING.

MARK

Yes. I should have known better. I should have chosen some well-worded phrases to calm the tension between us. Instead, I had behaved like a prat. Humiliated him. Made him detest me even more than he already did.

Yet he’d let me kiss him, and he’d kissed me back, there was no doubt about it. He wanted parts of this as much as I did, and he was just as confused as me. I’d seen it in his eyes. The fear. The anger. That terrified look when you want something so much you can almost taste it—before it’s taken away and your life dissolves into puddles of shit.

I got out of the pool and shuffled around on an oversized towel, mopping up the water—his footprints—and leaving the area in the same pristine state I’d found it. Next, I showered and washed my hair and wrapped my makeshift swimming trunks—underpants—in a hand towel, contemplating getting dressed.

I couldn’t be arsed. My temper was flaring again, bouncing erratically between flutters of laughter and sheer despair. What was the point, anyway, when I was only going to strip off in a minute or two to get comfortable wherever it was I would be sleeping? Knowing Christensen, he was already in bed with his back to the door and the light off. There would be no talking, no cheerful summarising of the day. Nogood night, sleep tightcrap.

Son of a bitch and his fucking mouth. He drove me crazy, in the worst possible way, hot and cold like a faulty appliance, one minute lighting up my world, the next cutting me off and making me feel like I was less than an inch tall.

The towel around my waist felt better than the restrictive clothes I’d gathered in my hands, so I shook my hair out, chucked the other used towels in the basket by the door and gave the place a once-over to ensure I’d covered my tracks before I hit the light switch with my elbow and left.

Barefooted, with my shoes dangling from my shaking hand, I scurried down the service corridor. I would be less likely to encounter an unsuspecting guest that way—not something I was up for since I was wearing nothing but a towel. I pressed the button for the service lift, hoping none of the staff was around, although they would no doubt just shake their head and laugh at me. They all knew I was a little wild. No inhibitions. Always the one to pull pranks and test the boundaries.

In all honesty, I didn’t feel very wild and wacky right now. I felt angry. I felt sad. I once again felt overwhelmingly alone. At my age, I should have been in a stable relationship with a family of my own, yet I’d always seen myself as the single guy who was happy like that. No partner and 1.4 children like a chain around my neck as I dragged a money-guzzling car and a dog in my wake.

At the grand old age of thirty-five, I was resigned to the future I’d so carefully sold to anyone who would listen. I wasn’t relationship material. I wasn’t interested in a partner. I wanted to be friends with people I could occasionally have sex with, preferably colleagues, it seemed. As stupid as those thoughts were, the truth was, I wasn’t reliable or stable or even capable of being monogamous or faithful. That just wasn’t me. Yet those words sounded hollow and pointless now, because loneliness was a tiresome bitch, and she was currently putting all her weight on my worn-out shoulders.

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