Groomzilla (5 page)

“Human contact.”

“I have you.”

“Human contact and orgasms, Daniel.”

“Bleh, gross.” Daniel clapped his hands. “Hurry up. I want a burger and like seventeen beers.”

Ander sighed as he hooked his bag over one shoulder, his glance pitying and practiced. “Our lives would have worked out much better if we were attracted to each other, my love.”

Daniel made a face. A terrible, terrible face. “Bleh, gross.”

They had tried when they were sixteen. Room sharing, life sharing. Convenient, an ease to the lonely/horny state they both perpetually lived in.

What could go wrong?

The kissing went okay. Weird, but okay. Then Ander touched Daniel’s dick, just a warm palm over his jockeys, and he flinched so hard at the wrongness of it that he fell off the bed, hitting his head against the nightstand while knocking the lamp to the floor.

They quickly came to the conclusion that sex just wasn’t in the cards for them, at least with each other.

Maybe it was because they both needed a brother more than they needed a lover.

Not that Ander waited long at all after that—he lost his virginity ten days later to the visiting college-sophomore brother of the guy down the hall.

Daniel was jealous, not because it was the guy and not him, but rather because it was Ander. After that something had changed, as if scared and sad Ander had discovered a superpower. A magical elixir that brought boys to his doorstep, panting and eager, throwing open so many closet doors that Daniel took to referring to his best friend as the Pied Piper of Dick. Ander’s confidence exploded, leaving Daniel alone in the room more and more, waiting to sneak Ander in after curfew.

So yeah, maybe it would have been easier.

“THIS IS
going to be marvelous,” Victor said as Naomi cleaned up the debris of their meeting. He leaned back in his chair, a loud and obnoxious creak becoming the soundtrack of their assistant struggling under the weight of the tray.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Owen jumped up to grab the tray from her hands and then shot a nasty look at Victor, who shrugged in return.

“Congratulations, Naomi, you just got the rest of the day off,” Owen snapped.

“Stop, it’s fine. I’m used to his chauvinistic ways by now,” Naomi said lightly, patting Owen’s arm. “But you can take that into the kitchen for me—no protests at all.”

Owen muttered under his breath as Naomi trailed behind him, holding a few napkins and the empty coffee carafe. He knew he was overreacting—they were both used to Victor’s less than exemplary behavior—but the meeting with Ander and his wedding planner had left Owen unsettled.

The reality show business had never been his first choice. Victor as his business partner—never a blip on the radar. Once upon a time he’d been found on a blustery March day someplace warm and sunny, lying on a rock and having his picture taken for some jeans company paying him six figures to be half-naked and wet.

But that was a very long time ago, a life that almost felt like mythology at this point.

“What’s gotten into you? Your shoulders are up round your ears.” Naomi guided his hands down so the tray was on the small table in their kitchenette. He didn’t even remember getting in there.

“Victor….”

“Mmmm, try again. It’s been seven years. You know him.” She rested against the countertop, hands folded on top of her baby bump. “What’s wrong?”

With a heavy exhale, Owen dropped down in the café chair, his long legs kicking into the other chair across from him. “I don’t know. Victor seems oddly interested in Ander. He doesn’t usually spend this much time with our couples.”

“A meeting and a few dinners? That’s standard,” Naomi said, a teasing hint to her tone.

“You didn’t see him.”

“Neither did you,” she laughed. “Not with spending most of the meeting fawning over the wedding planner.”

“Daniel Green.”

“Aaaaaah.”

Owen wrinkled his nose in her direction. “‘Aaaaaah’ because I know his name? That’s just good manners.”

Naomi put her hand over her mouth and giggled obnoxiously.

“He seems quite nice,” Owen recited, redirecting his gaze to the tiny window and a view of brick wall.

“And attractive,” Naomi added, hands back on her bump. She began to massage one side, which meant her muscles were starting to hurt.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said boldly, chin up.

Naomi snorted. “Nice, attractive. Single?”

Owen shifted in his seat and played with his pocket square for a moment. “I think so, given some of the things he said. I didn’t ask directly.”

“When you have dinner with Mr. Valios and his fiancé, you should ask, and then you should give him a call.”

“I
will
give him a call.” Owen looked her straight in the eye. “When we set up the schedule for filming. Because otherwise, that would be… highly inappropriate.”

“Victor slept with the last wedding planner and the groom’s sister,” she said with a shrug. “This wouldn’t be more inappropriate than that.”

Owen felt a weight in the pit of his stomach. He knew Naomi meant no harm with her statement; they were old friends, and she just wanted him to be happy—and she knew his happiness was in short supply these days.

But no. No. If it was something Victor would do, he wanted no part of it.

“I’m not Victor,” he said, the words barely out of his mouth before Naomi looked over his shoulder with widened eyes.

“No, you’re not, thank God” came a voice from behind him.

Owen turned in his seat to find Victor standing in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. He had a smirk that boded none too well for the rest of Owen’s day.

“Let’s talk about the wedding planner.”

“He’s a little short,” Victor said as they walked back to their shared office.

Owen trailed just a few steps behind, schooling his face into something bored and disinterested as years of modeling had taught him. “This isn’t the Rockettes, Victor. Everyone doesn’t have to be the same height.”

“Yes, but he’s also very… plain-looking. Too corporate. Ander is flash and drama, his husband-to-be has European flair, and then we have Tiny Ted the accountant in the background, picking out linens and sucking all the life from the shot.” He paused, then turned around, annoyance on his face. “It’s going to be boring as shit. I need someone to rev Ander up, not convince him to be sensible.”

“
Daniel
”—Owen put emphasis on the name—“is also Ander’s best friend and the best man. You aren’t going to get him replaced.”

Victor’s thin lips reformed into a grin. “I wouldn’t put my money on that. A few dinners with Ander, a little charm—we’ll be able to relegate Danny to the wedding episode and maybe a few background shots. I’ll call Rhonda at BlissMaker, have her on standby.”

A burst of anger shot through Owen, but he wasn’t going to raise his voice. He wasn’t going to throw Victor through the wall as every little thing built up to a rage he wanted to let out before it burned him up.

He wasn’t.

Owen swallowed his irritation and willed his voice to be pitched low and quiet. “Victor, you are not going to manipulate anyone. This is a wedding; this is a real relationship and real bonds of friendship. Let me… let me see what I can do with Daniel.”

Victor scoffed. “If he stays, he needs a makeover. And to be seen, not heard.”

Owen counted backward from fifty. “I can—”

“Make him pretty and keep him distracted. Let me decide what makes for good television. That isn’t your job or your strong suit.”

“This is my company too,” Owen snapped, then flinched as Victor’s face went splotchy red with anger.

“Thanks so much for the reminder,” he spat out. “Now give me a wedding planner I can work with or Ander suddenly finds himself wanting a new best friend.”

He turned on his heel and stomped down the hallway.

Owen watched him go, unclamping his hands from the fists they had formed.

Wanting to avoid Victor—and Naomi’s persistence—for as long as possible, Owen grabbed his gym bag. He took the elevator to the tenth floor, where a brightly lit room held treadmills, stationary bikes, weights, and yoga mats. No one was there—he thought he might be the only person who knew the gym existed—so Owen stripped out of his suit in the men’s room and into his shorts and sneakers.

A good run instead of eating lunch? An unhealthy go-to behavior he readily admitted to needing right now.

He set the treadmill for a punishing pace—10K in forty minutes—then set off. The warm-up done begrudgingly because Owen just wanted to get to the part where it hurt. Where the sweat stung his eyes and his legs felt like they were going to crumble.

The sweet spot.

When the pace picked up, Owen sank into it. His feet pounded, ratcheting up his heartbeat with each hard footfall.

The life he had left behind.

The life he had now.

Debts. So many debts to pay, one’s money couldn’t fix.

Victor and his anger.

Owen and his guilt.

He ran and ran, through memories and reality, until the beeping penetrated his brain and he realized the treadmill was slowing down.

Owen grabbed the bars, suddenly light-headed. Sweat coated his body, his legs like rubber and chest almost concave with the pressure of getting air into his lungs.

He blinked away the spots until he could see, then walked backward off the ramp. On weak legs he moved toward the bathroom, craving a shower and a gallon or two of water.

The tiny stall barely contained his lanky frame. Owen stood under the steady stream of lukewarm water, face raised and eyes closed, until his body started to respond normally. He washed and rinsed and shampooed, concentrating on the movements of his fingers over his skin.

An ache of hunger twisted his stomach, but Owen ignored it.

Water, then work. Then, afterward, the gym at his hotel had a killer weight room….

FOUR BEERS
in, Daniel licked his fingers of burger grease, bits of bacon, and jack cheese, looked across the rough-hewn table of the pub directly at Ander—currently destroying a platter of fish and chips—and said, “Why are you doing this reality show? Be honest.”

Ander shoved some tartar-sauced fries into his mouth, shoulders rising and falling. Whiskey made Ander honest and melancholy, and beer kept Daniel sane enough to deal with it.

“Sven is going to keep me in the fashion ghetto until he marries his next anorexic, and then I’ll be thrown back onto bridal or belts or dog scarves or whatever she decides her pet project is. Because I’ll make it fucking amazing and he knows it. But he’ll never… I’ll never be anything more than his… what was that story about the chick who just kept making gold from straw?”

Daniel blinked. “No clue.”

“Anyway, that’s what I am. Making money for him and none for me.”

“I saw the contracts, Ander. The money’s good, but it’s not enough to launch a line. Unless you let Rafe….”

Ander waved away the words as soon as they were out of Daniel’s mouth. “No.”

“He has it; he’d give it to you willingly….”

“And then I would be his kept little husband, doing busywork while he’s off in London.” Ander’s face hardened, his eyes going dark and stormy. “That’s not what I want.”

“Okay. Still doesn’t answer my question.” Daniel leaned his elbows on the table, which rocked every time he moved and rattled the silverware. “Why the reality show? Why put yourself out in front of everyone that way?”

“The publicity is going to be fabulous,” Ander said, coming back to his trademark enthusiasm in a snap of his fingers. “The attention will be on me—wearing the clothes I’ve designed, the tuxes that are original Valios creations. Rafe wants me to succeed, but he knows I have to figure it out on my own.”

“So you launch your work through a reality show?”

“I showcase my work, get my wedding paid for, and I quit in a blaze of fabulous glory.” Ander’s smile grew until it looked like it might be painful. “Tell me that isn’t genius.”

Daniel leaned back with a thump. “And you couldn’t have told me that to start with?”

“I thought you’d figure it out, Ivy League.” Ander went back to work on another hunk of fried fish.

“I assumed it was because you wanted a big, splashy, attention-getting wedding.”

“Exactly!”

Ander picked up the check as Daniel stumbled down the narrow hallway to the bathroom. Jacket-and-tie-less, buzzed from the beer—
God, why don’t I do this every night?

Oh right. He checked the swell of his belly in the mirror as he used the toilet. Maybe when he woke up he’d do sit-ups or something.

Or maybe he’d eat Pop Tarts, like he actually wanted to do.

As he washed his hands, Daniel thought about Owen Grainger’s model physique. The guy probably lived on black coffee, energy drinks, and whey powder, with a solid five thousand sit-ups every morning before his kelp smoothie.

At that late hour, in the melancholy of beer number seven, Daniel considered Owen’s flirting earlier to most likely be his modus operandi—like Victor and his gold chain and charmingly affected speech. Because what the hell would a guy like Owen see in Daniel?

Daniel made it back to the table, where Ander was as sloppily put together as he allowed himself to be. The smile on his face, though—that was bright and animated.

“What?” Daniel asked as he reached for his coat.

“Rafe got a late flight because he missed me so much and he should be home by the time I get there,” Ander said, sliding out from the banquette. “So let’s get moving—I got a man to prepare for.”

“I’ll take the PATH.”

“Hush up. You’re drunk. I’m not letting you get molested on the train.” Ander grabbed Daniel’s arm before he was fully prepared and led him out with all the gusto of a man with a chance to get laid in the next forty minutes.

Ander kissed his mouth on the corner and tucked five twenties into the pocket of Daniel’s overcoat. “Bring me the receipt so I can expense this to Sven.”

“Given how many times you’ve billed him for going to Hoboken, he must assume I’m your piece on the side.”