Fall Apart (18 page)

Jenny, Zane’s friend and agent, hopped up from her chair, her chest hopping right along with her, and introduced herself. She was in her late forties, he guessed, but she was a knockout. If he were the type to go for breasts, he’d have two great reasons to bark up her tree all night long. Alarik had already met her several times before, so he immediately teased and flirted with her, charming her by slow dancing her around the patio.

Damon liked the way Alarik’s eyes lit up when he was so happy like this. He liked the way his features were so expressive. From smoldering to serious, those eyes told such a great story—one that made Damon think about things like long-term relationships and other fairy tales.

Zane had to do a side step to avoid being flattened by Jenny and Alarik, and as he hopped out of the way, Damon noticed someone else standing off to the side, waiting to be introduced.

Damn. He’d never seen anyone like this man. Ever.

He was of Asian ancestry with high chiseled cheekbones and a narrow jaw. His hair was styled back away from his face in black and brown waves, wild yet perfectly placed at the same time—like superheroes look after they land on a rooftop. It was his eyes that made Damon do a double take. Golden brown, like tea with honey, with a thick brushing of dark lashes.

Even standing beside a guy like Zane Whitlow didn’t detract from his distinct appeal. He was striking. Rare.

The man sensed the attention and his head flicked sharply toward Damon who nodded politely in greeting. If he’d expected to receive a nod in return, a handshake, or shit, even a wad of spit at his feet, he was about to be disappointed.

The stranger’s gold eyes snapped over Damon from head to toe with no other reaction than blinking and glancing away when he was finished. Damon had the feeling he’d been weighed and found wanting in no time flat. If he tried to offer a hand to the other man, he’d probably pull back a bloody stump. Valerie would get along great with the guy.

“Excellent,” Damon mumbled under his breath. “Should be a great party.”

Alarik finally released Jenny, and still laughing, he turned, coming face to face with King Golden Eyes. His smile faltered and was hastily reconstructed, but it didn’t convince anyone. Damon had only seen Alarik this unsettled after their kiss in the parking lot, and the realization didn’t sit well with him.

“Max,” Alarik breathed the name, stunned.

Damon frowned and asked himself the question that was about to be on a running loop through his head for the rest of the night:
Just who the fuck is
this guy??

Max Hayama.

When Alarik first realized that he was truly seeing the man standing a meter from him, it was like recognizing the subtle shift of a dream into a nightmare. He’d become the specimen in a petri dish: Zane, Mark, Jenny, Damon, and Max were all watching him under the microscope, waiting to see how he reacted to this unexpected stimulus.

He plastered a wooden smile on his face and realized that Max was waiting for him to shake hands. His muscles fought each movement as he closed the distance, which didn’t really help ease the tension his unchecked reaction had caused.

Alarik couldn’t swallow. Mortification gripped him and he recognized the sweet lies he’d told himself about Max were flimsy and caving beneath a weight of reality. Unresolved emotions snapped awake, clawing around inside of him and doing their damnedest to leap from his throat.

You never understood what he wanted. You made the right choice and moved on. You had to.

The discomfort in knowing that everyone watching him would see his lack of control still wasn’t enough to snap him from his shock. God, he was making such a fool of himself.

As if everything weren’t painful enough, Max held onto his hand a fraction too long and spoke in fluent Finnish, asking him how he’d been and how his aunt and uncle were. Alarik automatically responded in kind, accustomed to switching back and forth between languages with his adoptive parents.

This was Max’s disarming way of reminding him that they’d shared many conversations like this, seemingly alone when surrounded by people. At the moment, it was an unwelcome prompt.

Adrift, Alarik dragged his gaze away from Max’s compelling stare, searching for Damon, only to find that his date was watching the action unfold with narrowed eyes, his focus shooting back and forth from him to Max.

The invisible chains on Alarik’s joints released and he quickly stepped to Damon’s side where he snatched his hand in a finger-squashing hold.

“I didn’t know about him,” Max admitted, still speaking in Finnish. “I wouldn’t have come had I known.”

Alarik tried not to wince because he knew Damon was reading his body language and feeling his response in their shared grip.

“Max, this is rude. I’m surprised you’re braving the attention.”

“And I’m not surprised that your words still have bite.” He smiled and his warm eyes crinkled at the edges. It made Alarik’s gut ache to see it. “Before you go tonight, please speak to me alone.”

Alarik shook his head, his lips tightening as Damon squeezed his hand again.
“I can’t.”

“
Please do me this favor.”
Max’s voice was earnest and Alarik found himself succumbing to the tone. The man had to have something important to say if he was willing to press about it. He was strictly professional, respectful, and reserved even at his worst. Talking like this in front of others was probably a blow to his pride.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Alarik answered, trying not to meet Max’s eyes. “I’ll talk to you, but only within his sight.”

Max gave a slight bow of his head and turned to Zane, the effect of which pulled everyone from their trance. Zane had been glued to their performance as much as anyone, and with a sudden yelp, he dashed to the grill and lifted the lid. When he wiped his brow in relief that the food had survived, Mark very politely tried to steer the conversation to neutral ground.

“What language was that?” he asked, glancing between them.

“Finnish,” Damon and Max said at the exact same time, then turned scorching stares on one another.

“Really?” Mark offered up cheerily, doing his best to pretend they were all best mates.

Max’s lips tilted in a microscopic smile. “I don’t get many opportunities to speak the language these days. My mother’s family is European; she taught English in Japan. It’s how my parents met. Learning a few other languages was inevitable.”

Mark’s face was alight with curiosity while Damon’s was hardening into stone.

“What other languages do you two know?” Jenny jumped in eagerly, not realizing that her question excluded Alarik’s date from the conversation that much longer. Mark passed out more beers and Alarik watched how Damon’s hand energetically twisted off the bottle cap like he was popping off someone’s head.

“Japanese and English are easiest for me,” Max continued modestly. “My Finnish is high-school level at best, and my German and French need a lot of work.”

Alarik shrugged when Jenny turned to him, waiting for his answer. “Just English, Finnish
y un poco Español
for me.” His smile was shaky, but he managed to hold onto it.

“Isn’t that because you dated a couple male models from Venezuela or something?” Mark teased.

“Colombia!” Zane called out with an awful accent. “Y España, right Alarik?”

“Sod off,” Alarik grumbled, too scared to look at Damon’s face. Things were getting worse with every second. Judging from the twinkle in Zane’s eye, his friend knew that Alarik was hoping to
get somewhere
with his date tonight and he couldn’t let that happen without making things awkward first. The luxury of those already in a stable relationship was to make life more difficult for those trying to get laid.

Max was aware of his discomfort and took mercy on him, walking away to speak privately with Zane while the rest of them settled around the patio. Alarik was taking some comfort from the fact that Damon’s hand firmly held his own, but until he’d completely composed himself, he wasn’t going to say too much.

Jenny asked Damon a lot of questions about himself, which ended in a long conversation between him and Mark about hiking trails, mountain climbing, and other activities allowing them to spit in the face of death.

Max was staying well out of the way, but Alarik was hyper-aware of his presence. The whole scene made him want to grab Damon and flee, but the questions he knew were cropping up would multiply rapidly if he suddenly leapt to his feet and ran off into the upscale streets of Sherman Oaks.

He’d settled into a fragile calm by the time Zane asked Mark to bring out the rest of the food and, along with Damon, offered some assistance. Max overheard and immediately turned a loaded look on Alarik, silently asking him to stay behind.

“
Not now,”
he mouthed the words.

The scowl he received in return told him that before the night’s end, Max would insist.

***

Damon waited until Mark and Jenny bustled out of the kitchen to do what he’d been waiting to do for an hour. When they’d first arrived at the house, he’d spotted the washroom on the first floor, and in one decisive move, he snatched the plate Alarik was carrying from his hands and let it clatter to the counter top. He grabbed hold of the other man’s upper arm and led him none too gently down the hallway, snapping the door shut behind them. In that second, it didn’t matter that this wasn’t his home, or even that the place belonged to the most rich and famous man he’d met.

A surprised protest cracked in Alarik’s throat as he was unceremoniously slammed against the bathroom door and Damon’s body pressed against his. Bracing both arms on either side of Alarik’s shoulders, he moved in until only a breath separated them. Gray eyes, bright with uncertainty, and maybe a little fear, met his own.

He wanted to say a lot of things, some of them brutal and demanding, like
Who the fuck is that asshole?
and
You think I don’t see how you look at him?
But, the longer he stared at Alarik, the less important it became.

Damon’s hands trailed from Alarik’s neck upward into his sun-kissed, ash blond hair. God, it was so soft. He tightened his fingers until the strands gathered and pulled taut and the other man’s head naturally tilted back. Very gently, Damon ran his tongue over Alarik’s bottom lip before catching it between his own and tasting it. Alarik responded hesitantly at first, then his breathing kicked up a notch as an aching moan escaped. His hands lifted to grip Damon’s shoulders, deepening the kiss, the pressure increasing as they clung to one another.

The sound of his seductive groan awakened the animal in Damon and somehow Alarik ended up with his feet off the ground, held tightly around the waist with one arm and beneath the ass with the other. They couldn’t get close enough and Alarik’s hands were everywhere: on Damon’s neck, face, curling through his hair and kneading the muscles of his shoulders. Their breaths were heavy as they moved against each other, banging into the towel rack and the sink as they fought to deepen the kiss. At one point Alarik nearly tore the mirror off the wall as they blindly fumbled around, intent only on the mystery of one another’s mouths.

Damon abruptly released him and pushed him back against the wall, forcing him to stay at an arm’s distance. He looked like he’d been three-quarters fucked. His lips were swollen and his cheeks were high with color. Alarik’s composure after seeing Max was questionable, and after this private game in solitude, he seemed to be surprisingly easy to lead.

Alarik reached towards Damon, wanting more, his chest heaving in a broken pattern. Damon flicked his head.
No.

“Remember this in a few minutes when that guy’s staring at you,” he said, his voice ragged. “I
won’t
share you.” Alarik steadied himself, thinking that over as Damon put even more distance between them in the small bathroom. “If I have to say that to your old
friend
in Russian or fucking Urdu, I
will
.”

“Damon, I’m—”

Damon gave another negative headshake. “I just wanted to make myself clear.”

“You did,” Alarik answered, beginning to straighten his clothes. “You were quite clear.”

Damon’s hand shot forward to stop Alarik’s wardrobe adjustments. “Don’t,” he whispered. He liked the look of those swollen lips and that messy hair. “Leave it,” he ordered, probably sounding like an overbearing asshole.

Alarik stilled beneath his touch before letting his hands fall to his sides. The familiar smirk flashed over his features as he took a quick look in the mirror. “I see,” he chuckled. “You want me to look like the innocent servant girl who’s lost her knickers to her master in the broom cupboard.”

Alarik’s confidence was returning and Damon wanted to believe that he deserved the credit for it. He knew that his own bout of territoriality was no match for this man’s wit at full power.

“You’re always surprising me, Mr. Wright. It’s refreshing…and arousing as fuck.”

“A reminder can’t hurt.”

Alarik glanced in the mirror again and left his clothes and hair untouched as he opened the door. “Reminders like that
never
hurt.”

When Alarik stepped back onto the patio, Mark’s brows shot to his hairline. Damon made it a point to observe everyone’s reaction, but the jolt of satisfaction at the sight of Max was exactly what he needed. Hayama’s expression darkened and his gaze lingered on Alarik’s just-kissed lips in a way that told Damon his territoriality was warranted. He wished he could beat on his chest like Tarzan.
Ohhh-ahh-oh-ah-ohhhhh!

Take that, you gorgeous SOB, he thought.

Zane noticed Mark’s expression and turned to take in Alarik’s wild appearance. He grinned and snorted, hiding his face in his beer until he’d stopped laughing.

“Everything okay, boys?” he eventually managed. “You were gone for a few minutes.”

“We’re good,” Damon answered, holding out Alarik’s chair, which was directly across from Max. “That’s a nice bathroom you have. Italian accents?”

“You got that close a look, did you?” Zane laughed and Mark disguised his own smile behind a bowl of salad greens. Jenny’s shoulders were shaking as she inspected her skirt for imaginary lint. Only Max was silent—a storm cloud at the end of the table.