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Ethan
Anyone would miss the mansion at the end of the cul-de-sac if they weren’t looking for it. The glass and concrete box, set far back from the front gate, fades into the perma-gray sky. My gate code works, so I pull my trailer up the long drive. There’s an imposing Bentley parked to one side with the engine still warm. According to my instructions, I’m supposed to hit the backyard, re-shape the hedges, clean up the edges of the lawn, and leave again.
The salty air feels tight and breathless, like something important is about to happen. Like it matters that I’m here. I chug the butt end of whatever energy drink Scooter left in the cupholder and drag my wagon full of tools around the house.
Even though it’s wrong, I stop and look through the windows at the cold, slightly threatening mid-century modern furniture and abstract paintings. I can’t help it. There’s no way the universe would bring me here, like this, and not give me at least a glimpse of the man whose poster I used to lean against and talk to about my problems. Sure, I ripped up the poster after he got ejected and stuffed it into the trash, under the dog turds and moldy leftovers, but part of me has always believed that he’d redeem himself and come back better than ever.
This is my chance to find out.
The backyard slopes toward a boat house on the lake, framing the brooding Seattle skyline on the far side. He hasn’t given up swimming, because there’s a black-tiled pool behind the house, surrounded by cedar-colored composite decking. Keeping far away from the water, I tackle the untidy topiaries under the back windows.
But my eyes don’t stay on my work, and the first window I look into isn’t an office or a kitchen. It’s a massive wet room of veined, off-white marble, divided in half by a clear pane of suspended glass. Victor Lang stands wrapped in a spray of shower water, back arched and hands deep in his messy, blond hair. His toned ass sports a blatant speedo tan, like that’s all he wears. I don’t even know how you get a tan like that in the Pacific Northwest.
I must be gaping like an idiot when he turns around. My eyes don't travel any lower than the toothbrush hanging out of his mouth before I scramble backward like a dog with its head stuck in a paper bag.
The pool makes a terrific splash when I hit. To most people it would be just a mishap, a few strokes to the ladder, climb out, apologize. But I haven’t been in the water since the day at Chelan with my mom and Danny and the end of the world, and my whole body just shuts off and becomes a block of concrete that unfortunately has my soul tied to it.
I’m coming, Danny.
When a muted shockwave hits the water, my first feeling is disappointment. I’d rather the world didn’t know that I got hard for my landscaping client’s showering ass. Then a hand grips the back of my t-shirt and yanks upward.
Air rips my lungs apart like glass. I snort water and cough until I’m dizzy and my sinuses are burning. The lip of the pool appears in front of me and I cling to the concrete, wheezing and trying not to throw up.
My apathetic dream state burns away in the sun and all I can see is Peyton sobbing as they ask her to identify my body with its pathetic rigor-mortis hard-on, and worse, the way she would have to tell my mom the news again and again until the pain is too much and they let me become a picture in her album that she points to and asks “Who’s he?”. I start shaking uncontrollably.
Big, long-fingered hands grip the wall on either side of me. One of the middle fingers has a signet ring I recognize—the dragon-bird hybrid from the Lang family crest. ESPN did a segment on it between commercials during one of the world championships. I can feel a breath on the back of my neck, the churn of water around my legs as he keeps himself afloat. I wanted to see him, and here I am. This is the part where I pray he won’t get me fired.
When I turn around, Victor lets go of the wall and floats low in the water, staring at me as tiny waves lap at his lower lip and his arms make lazy circles. People claimed that hisGQcover was photoshopped, that no one has such pale eyes, but I can see clearly that they’re wrong. He has chameleon eyes, colorless until they take on the hue of whatever’s nearby. Right now, it’s a bruised purple, like the dark circles beneath them.
His face is all angles and warm skin, flecked with spots of sunlight reflecting off the surface. He has thick brows and a mess of half-curly hair that looks well past the point of needing a trim. Water trickles down the sides of his lean nose and gathers in the corners of his mouth, which turn up slightly when he catches me looking.
“Who are you?” It’s the exact mesmerizing, slightly bored voice I heard so often on my TV, but it sounds ragged around the edges. He takes a mouthful of water and spits it out again, waiting.
“Thank you.” I’m still struggling to breathe. “I’m so sorry about this. It was an accident.”
He cocks his head like a puzzled animal. “You’re a pervert, aren’t you?”
“I’m your landscaper,” I protest, trying to keep my hold on the wall.
His smile is wrong, disconnected from the rest of his face, not the dazzling, camera-ready grin I remember. “Uh-huh. Tell that to your cock.”
One of his hands slips suddenly under the water and cups the bulge in my pants, fingers wrapped up under my balls, hefting me as I make a strangled sound. My knee jerks up reflexively and he catches it with his other hand, huffing a soft laugh.
“I really need to cover the pool. I hate cleaning out trash.”
Then he’s gone, lifting himself out of the water in a long, easy motion that rains droplets across the deck. He must have come straight from the shower, because he’s completely naked. I fix my stinging eyes on the wall in front of me and wish I could get the fuck out of here. But he crouches down until I look at him.
“What’s your name?” He rocks back and forth slowly on his toes.
“Ethan Lowe.”
“Why are you in my pool, Ethan Lowe?”
“I was cutting the hedge and I tripped.”
He scrunches up his face, glancing across the garden toward the lake. Then he starts prying my fingers off the wall.
I slap his hand away, heart still going a million miles an hour. “Stop it.”
