Page 11 of Party of Three

But the Japan lie had caught him so off guard, egress seemed like the best possible response. He’d been lured there under false pretenses, most likely so Buckley could mark his territory in some embarrassing way. On his way to the motor court, he’d even checked the lobby ceiling for the stray bucket of pig’s blood.

He’d never expected Mr. Mitchell to come charging after him like an aggressive thoroughbred slipping the bullpen. And those eyes. Those eyes had still blazed even after he’d been confronted with his deception. Most people hated eye contact, so Jeff always used it to disarm aggressive opponents. Buckley hadn’t blinked.

And calling someone a dick not three minutes after you’d met them? He wasn’t sure he’d call thatspine, but it sure as hell took nerve.

Now, as he found himself swept inside the resort’s sparkling marble lobby, Jeff felt bested. Once again, he’d underestimateda guy with a baby face, and when had that ever worked out for him?

The feel of Mateo’s arm around his shoulder sent chills rising down his arms. Marisol, Mateo’s sister, was lavishing them in excited descriptions of everything that awaited them inside the party. An authentic Sonoran caterer whose carne asada was to die for, a band that knew all the Mexican hits of their childhood. They even did a great rendition of Juan Gabriel’s famed live performance of “Hasta Que Te Conocí.”

His chest tensed. He was pretty sure that was the song that had played on Mateo’s wireless speaker when he’d danced them around their motel room on that fateful night that ruined everything, their swinging hips sealed together, chills racing up Jeff’s spine when the legion of trumpeters had joined in. Moments before Mateo brought his mouth to his and Jeff felt his orderly world fall away and a doorway to something forbidden and enticing open at the hands of a junior Marine he had no business dancing with, kissing with, falling into bed with.

What the hell was he doing here?

He was a forty-five-year-old man, a senior Marine with multiple combat tours, and he’d been bested by the pushy boyfriend of the man he shouldn’t love.

As they walked over the thick carpeting in the corridor between ballrooms, Mateo kept looking at him, arm clamped on his shoulders, joy lighting up his big brown eyes that could always convey emotions in hypnotizing pairs—devotion and fear, desire and hurt.

Breathe, listen, survey—a time-tested strategy for breeding focus in the midst of anxiety.

He’d never been to Sapphire Cove, so he tried to ground himself by focusing on the details. White walls with glossy wainscoting, light fixtures like upended coral formations.

Suddenly Marisol threw open a set of double doors. Guests surged toward them. Some of the faces were familiar, Marines he hadn’t seen in years because they’d either gotten out or been assigned to different bases. And that made it easier suddenly, that a crowd of folks rushed forward to say their hellos. Hands pumped, mildly tipsy aggressive half hugs all around. He made conversation as best he could, but Buckley Mitchell’s stare was a constant presence.

It was that hug, Jeff thought.That hug in the motor court did me in, and now I’ve got a target on my back.

The ballroom had been cut in half by a divider, and almost every song the band played was in Spanish.

Mateo stayed close. The two of them told Marine stories with old friends as if no time had passed, but it felt like a performance. A good while into the party, after the birthday cake, they ended up alone together. Their high-top table was next to an open set of soaring glass doors. Outside was a narrow band of lawn and a stone balustrade. Just beyond, the cliffs plunged to what he assumed was the hotel’s beach. Two glasses of champagne had dulled the edge, helping him conceal a hunger he was determined to keep hidden from the world after failing so miserably in the motor court.

Marine Corps master sergeants weren’t supposed to act like lovesick teenage boys.

Because he’d been dancing with Buckley earlier, Mateo’s wavy hair was rumpled, a couple black locks draping his forehead. And there was that eager look that had melted his heart so often over the years. A look that said everything they did together was an amazing adventure Jeff had made possible.

“What happened tochampagne is the cotton candy of alcohol?” Mateo asked.

“Special occasion.” Jeff toasted the birthday boy. “And I never said I hated cotton candy.”

Mateo laughed, took a sip from his own sparkling flute. “You know, you can tell me if you think I wussed out. I know I didn’t talk about my discharge with you before I did it…and I don’t know…”

“Since when is leaving the Marines wussing out? Not everybody’s cut out to be career military.”

“So that’s not why you went dark on me? You weren’t judging me?”

“I’d never judge you.”

“You judged me a little bit. Sometimes. In good ways.”

“I was your staff NCO. It was my job.”

Mateo smiled. “Yeah, but you also judged my surfing.”

“Your surfing required work in the beginning, that’s true. But as with most things in your life, it was about building up confidence through practice and routine.”

But the wordsurfingtook him back to that sunny afternoon on the beach at San Onofre, when he was still a gunnery sergeant and Mateo was simply another straight Marine he was mentoring. They’d been sitting on their boards looking out at the sparkling sea when Jeff had asked him how things were going with that girl he’d been chatting with on Tinder. Out of nowhere, in a halting, unsure voice as he plucked at the cuff strap on the right ankle of his wet suit, Mateo had said, “I don’t know if me and women are gonna be a thing, gunny.”

And Jeff had been forced to breathe and focus like he was scanning rooftops for camouflaged snipers. Never in a million years would he have allowed himself to get so close to a Marine as sweet, innocent, and beautiful as Mateo Cano if he thought the guy had been less than a hundred percent straight, and suddenly he was stuck.

They’d had a long, careful talk that day.

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