Page 40 of The Best Men
But first, we’re going to hire a DJ and save this wedding.
In the parking lot, I slam the passenger door with a resounding thud, the music from the club seeping out before we even reach the entrance.
As we walk toward Edge neither one of us says a word, just like on the drive over.
I’m still trying to untangle the math problem of Mark Banks, so I can give him what he needs. So I can solve his equation.
Possibly with my tongue.
But I’m getting ahead of myself as the music grows louder, the electronic beat pulsing in the humid air. The neon sign above the entryway greets us, blinking bright in the South Beach night, and crystal clear. The name of the club flashes on and off, each letter cascading through red, orange, green, blue, and so on. Above the door, a rainbow flag with a triangle on the side billows in the breeze.
“So, you do know this is a gay club?” I ask.
Mark turns his head to me. “It is?” His delivery is so perfectly deadpan, it could go in the dictionary as a usage example.
“Just making sure you were aware,” I reply. He gives me a searing look, and it turns off my snark spigot.
Mark is the only man I know who can make me half-speechless.
“The neon rainbow signboard was kind of a clue,” he says, then grabs the door. “And since you just established I’m a friend of Lord Oliver, I think you know now I’m all good with that.”
But not with me?
Patience, I coach myself. It will happen in good time.And why the hell not?
The doors swing open, and a couple of guys spill out onto the sidewalk. A Latino guy in tight white shorts has his arm wrapped around a toned Black dude in a crop top. Behind them stream more men in barely-there clothes, and I’m suddenly overdressed in my shorts and button-down shirt, but at least my clothes are relatively tight, and show off my arms. Mark sticks out like, well, like a straight guy in khaki shorts and another one of those god- awful polos.
I bet those red briefs I caught a glimpse of in the dressing room were a fluke. It probably was laundry day, and those were from his . . . I dunno . . . Halloween costume drawer.
Bet he has on navy-blue boxer briefs.
Bet I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care.
Except, I’m dying to know.
Mark follows me through the door and into the club as we make our way along a dark hallway to a ticket counter. Dance music pounds, and a host with a white feather boa around his neck and silver skyscraper boots on his feet flashes a smile. “Hey there, hotties. There’s a twenty-dollar cover charge tonight,” he says to me.
“We just need to see DJ Drake about an event,” Mark says, coming up right by my side, and taking over.
Okay. That’s how he’s doing this.
But really, we should pay the fee even for a quick meeting.
The man with the boa gives Mark anaren’t-you-cute-you-preppy-straight-guysmile. “It’s still twenty dollars to get past me, hottie,” he says sweetly, but firmly.
I grab my wallet, and reach for my card. But before it’s even open, Mark slaps two twenties on the counter and says thanks.
“Drake is on his break for ten, so he’s in the green room.” The host points polished silver fingers behind him. “Go that way, then past the main dance floor, and turn down the hallway, and it’s at the end.”
With a crisp nod, Mark’s off, stalking down the corridor. Like he can’t wait to get this over with.
“You didn’t have to pay for me,” I say as the music grows louder and we turn into the main dance area.
I expect an eye roll. A zinger. Instead, his gaze lands square on me. “I know.”
And he leaves it at that. Just anI know. Like he’s fucking Han Solo.
And it’s just like when Harrison Ford said it to Carrie Fisher. It was ultra-hot then, and it’s ultra-hot now as I follow Mark Banks into a gay dance club in South Beach.
