Heat Stroke (Beach Kingdom 2)

“Pop is bringing a pizza. The Mets are on.”

This was how he would die. From a brutal case of blue balls. Couldn’t a man get some peace and quiet to rub one out to a guy he was pretending he didn’t want to fuck more than life itself?

He didn’t even know how to fuck a dude.

Like, he understood the logistics, but it had been a solid hell no every time he suggested the back entrance to a girl. No help there. And if what happened on the train with Jamie was any indication, sex with him wouldn’t feel remotely close to being with a girl anyway.

Marcus cursed when he realized his dick was getting hard again.

He banged his head against the door.

“You okay in there, bro?” Joey asked. “Not for nothing, but you’ve been acting a little weird lately.”

“Weird?” Marcus’s head shot up. “Weird how?”

Joey laughed at Marcus’s too fast-question. “You’re never around, you avoid me on the street. What’s up? You got girl trouble?”

Marcus turned and leaned back against the door, glad he could finally answer a question truthfully. He sucked at lying. To everyone but himself, apparently. “Nope. No girl trouble.”

“Maybe you need a little in your life,” Joey said dryly. “I was already divorced by the time I was your age, man. You’re way behind.”

“I like being single.”

“Single means dating. When is the last time you were out with a woman? Or got laid?”

Christ. Same conversation every time. Not only with Joey or his old man, but with his friends at the gym. Been out with any girls? You talking to anyone? Look at this girl I met on Tinder. You’d hit that. You know you’d hit that. It never ended. The pressure never ended.

“Grab a beer,” Marcus said quietly. “I’ll be out in a second.”

A long pause. “All right then.”

The longer Marcus stood there in the dark, the more something became obvious.

He needed to stop this phony bullshit with Jamie. Right now.

Not because he wanted to stop hanging out with him. God knew that wasn’t it. His best memories so far of this summer involved the middle Prince brother. Walking with him toward their chairs on the boardwalk, just talking. Occasionally arguing. Watching Jamie work at the bar, making sure no one hassled him. The bets.

The train.

“Christ,” he whispered, twisting his balls to keep his erection down. “Don’t think about the train.”

He needed to stop the nonsense because he was doing Jamie a disservice. Jamie deserved someone who wouldn’t pretend his feelings weren’t real. Or that he wasn’t attracted to him. Marcus couldn’t even admit to himself that Jamie meant more than a friend to him. The idea of bringing Jamie around his family made him break out in a cold sweat. It wasn’t fair.

Jamie deserved better.

And Jamie might have been tightlipped about whatever had happened in his past, but even Marcus could deduce that Jamie had been down this road before—and didn’t want to go there again. That was his right and Marcus needed to stop foisting his infatuation on Jamie. There was even a possibility that Jamie’s hesitation to be around Marcus had something to do with the incident, which frankly, was something Marcus couldn’t even think about without wanting to commit murder.

Jamie had asked him several times to stop hanging around.

He finally needed to listen.

With a bowling ball in his stomach, Marcus unlocked the bathroom door and, ignoring his brother’s look of concern, went to go drink his first of many beers.

CHAPTER SIX

Everything was off.

It was Tuesday morning and Jamie stood in front of his locker, waiting for Marcus’s paw to grip his shoulder and shake him. Bring over one of his juice concoctions. Or shout, “Go ahead and check me out, Jamie Prince. I know you wanna.” Jamie was waiting for anything really. It was so quiet in the Hut, you could hear the metallic zing of his hoodie being unzipped and hung on the hook. The other lifeguards chatted among themselves, but it was as though they could sense a disturbance in the force.

Marcus was being quiet.

The loudest motherfucker in the beach hadn’t said a word since he walked into the Hut and there should have been a gospel choir singing praises inside Jamie’s head. Instead, all he could hear was the rapid thudding of his own heart.

Jamie stripped off his shirt, folded it and placed it neatly on the top shelf of his locker, tossing the silver whistle around his neck. He’d been doing a pretty good job so far of acting like he wasn’t shook over Marcus’s sudden, monk-like presence, but he couldn’t stop himself from leaning a shoulder against his closed locker and frowning over at the silent giant. Look at me.

If Marcus heard Jamie’s mental command, he gave no indication. No, he performed his usual routine of doffing his sweatpants, revealing red trunks beneath. He kicked off his flip flops, losing his balance a little in the process and catching himself with a hand on the bench, before sniffing and lifting his chin like he’d meant to do it.