Page 18 of Waiting for a Prince
The marquee near the Yacht club was packed as the people crowded in to watch the band perform. Mark loved live music. The Hamsters were an eclectic bunch of guys, some sporting long beards like the guys in ZZ Top, and the lead singer resembled nothing more than an aging hippie. But when they sang, the hairs stood up on Mark’s arms. Man, they were fantastic. The band launched into a set of Jimi Hendrix numbers. The strains of Purple Haze had the crowd joining in with enthusiasm.
“They’re good, aren’t they?” a voice yelled near his ear.
Mark turned to find Sam next to him, dressed in a T-shirt with a Union flag emblazoned on the front and a pair of tight jeans. In his hand was a pint of beer. Sam’s short dark hair was gelled and spiky. Those brilliant blue eyes regarded him. For a second, Mark went weak at the knees.
God, he looks good. Then he did a quick reassessment,Good? More like downright fuckable. No sooner had the thought occurred to him, he pushed it aside, berating himself.
Stop torturing yourself. It ain’t gonna happen.
In the past week, he had come to look forward to Sam’s texts and calls. Every night there’d been something from him. Mark had to admit it—the man always made him feel good.
Sam’s face lit up in a wide grin. “You been here long?” He raised his voice to carry over the sound of the band.
Mark shrugged. “About forty-five minutes.” He held up his phone and stared pointedly at Sam.“Oneof us was on time.” His lips twisted into a smirk.
Sam’s face fell. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was on the phone to Rebecca. She was busy arranging to meet up with her friends. Looks like they’re all going to be here, too.”
Mark glanced around, curious. “So… where is she?”
Sam’s neutral expression made him even more curious. “She told me to wait here for her. She’ll be here in a minute. Her Dad is a member of the Yacht Club and she’s meeting him there.”
Mark let out a long whistle. “Yacht Club? Is Daddy loaded, then?” Owning a yacht was not a cheap hobby.
Sam gave a nod. “A fact she reminds me of constantly.”
His whole demeanour was puzzling. Did he notwantto have Rebecca as a girlfriend?
I just don’t get it.Mark frowned. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask his new friend what was going on—until a loud voice broke in.
“Sam, who is this?”
Mark bristled at Rebecca’s tone. He turned to face her, taking in the casual clothes he felt sure had come with a not-so-casual price tag. She looked down her nose at him, and that raised his hackles even more.
You’re not even trying to hide your disdain, are you?
His assumption of a week ago that she’d been having a bad day flew out the window.
Mark had a feeling Rebecca was like this 24/7.
Sam jumped in hurriedly. “This is Mark. You met him last Saturday when you were having your hair done. Remember?” Sam rubbed the back of his neck, his fingers gripping the plastic pint pot containing his beer.
Rebecca wrinkled her nose. “Oh yes—the tea boy.”
Mark’s nostrils flared, and Sam laid a hand on his arm. Mark could just about make out the almost imperceptible shake of Sam’s head. He took a deep, calming breath.
“Sam, Dad wants us to join him at the club.” Rebecca barely gave Mark a passing glance. “We don’t want to keep him waiting, do we?”
Sam gave Mark an apologetic look, although his words were directed to her. “No, I guess not.” He dropped his voice lower. “Sorry, Mark. I... I’ll call you tomorrow, all right?”
And that was apparently the end of their evening together.
Well fuck.
Mark nodded, giving him a reassuring smile. “Go on, have fun.” The expression on Sam’s face made that doubtful, however. Rebecca pulled Sam’s arm impatiently as she edged her way through the crowd toward the Yacht Club, Sam glancing back at Mark just once before he disappeared into the throng.
It was official. Mark didnotlike Sam’s girlfriend.
He drained the last of his pint and looked at his watch. The fireworks weren’t due to start until nine thirty, but the encounterwith Rebecca had taken the shine off his evening. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to stay around to watch the display.
