clenched tightly on the worn leather circle. What was
he doing?
He wanted to pour his heart out to his best friend, but he'd
left her behind on the beach. Barring another round with Mia herself, he had
half a mind to go rant to Allison, but she would not likely appreciate the
interruption if she was still engaged with her beach bum. Or their fourth
Musketeer, Jeff, but it was Sunday, his day off. He probably had plans with
Greg.
The hell with it. Jeff would just have to deal—he
needed to talk to his friend, another guy, and if Greg was there, too, all the
better. Derrick didn't particularly relish the long drive to Jeff's place in
Hollywood, but this wasn't something he wanted to discuss on the phone.
Tromping the accelerator, Derrick shot down the last length
of the off-ramp and through the intersection, back onto the freeway. Pawing for
his Bluetooth, he gave the command for Jeff's cell and waited impatiently,
weaving through traffic, mumbling under his breath for Jeff to, "Pick up,
pick up, pick up, damn it."
Finally, a voice Jeff had spent years perfecting, as smooth
as melted chocolate, flowed from the phone. "Hola, mi amigo. Cómo
estás?"
"Where are you?" Derrick said, disregarding any
pleasantries.
"Hello to you, too, sunshine."
Derrick growled low in his throat, no words coming to mind.
"Testy, are we?" Jeff asked. "Fine. I'm at
Greg's, why?"
Good, that was closer. "I'll be there in twenty,"
Derrick said, and hung up before Jeff could protest.
He made it in fifteen, swerving into the driveway of Greg
Mitchell's sprawling two-story hacienda-style home in Diamond Bar. He slammed
out of the car and jogged up the front steps to pound on the arched black-wood
door, then stood, jiggling the change in his pocket impatiently and waiting for
Jeff to answer.
The door swung inward to reveal Derrick's closest friend,
aside from Mia. Jeffery Denton. Male-model extraordinaire and drag queen of the
universe, or so he billed himself. Mia and Allison loved to moon over his dark
hair and pale green eyes whenever Jeff allowed them to play at making him up, a
lazy-day activity the three of them enjoyed out of all proportion, in Derrick's
opinion.
They weren't getting near him with any of that gunk.
"You rang?" Jeff drawled, studying his perfectly
manicured, blood-red fingernails.
Jeff leaned against the doorframe in expensive black
trousers, his shirt hanging unbuttoned to expose his chest. The shirt looked
green to Derrick, but he was sure his friend had some fancy, highly specific
name for the shade. Turquoise Delight, or some such thing. At six-four, Jeff
might have Derrick by two inches in height and twenty pounds in solid muscle,
but he'd still be the one running from a spider or any sort of manual
labor—darling, my manicure—screaming like a girl.
Derrick wasn't sure where to begin until the words fell out
of his mouth. "I'm in love with Mia."
There. He'd said it out loud to another human being. His
heart pounded thickly in his throat, making it hard to breathe as he waited for
his announcement to evoke the expected shock and mayhem.
Jeff buffed his nails against the silk of his shirt,
studying Derrick with a bored expression. "And?" he asked, dragging
the word out so the single syllable became three.
Derrick stared at him. "What do you mean, 'and'? Did
you hear me? I'm in love with Mia!"
In answer, Jeff quirked an elegant eyebrow.
"You knew," Derrick said slowly.
"But—" He leaned against the coral stucco wall beside the door,
his head tilted back. "Shit."
"Sorry," Jeff said, amusement tingeing his words,
"was it supposed to be a secret?"
Greg's voice called from the depths of the house.
"Darling, who is it? Oh, hello, Derrick."
Derrick raised his head to smile weakly at Greg, still lost
in his own shock.
A slender blond with the face of an angel—according to
Mia and Allison—Greg Mitchell raised on tiptoe to wrap his arms around
Jeff from behind, stroking a finger lightly down the other man's neck
he doing?
He wanted to pour his heart out to his best friend, but he'd
left her behind on the beach. Barring another round with Mia herself, he had
half a mind to go rant to Allison, but she would not likely appreciate the
interruption if she was still engaged with her beach bum. Or their fourth
Musketeer, Jeff, but it was Sunday, his day off. He probably had plans with
Greg.
The hell with it. Jeff would just have to deal—he
needed to talk to his friend, another guy, and if Greg was there, too, all the
better. Derrick didn't particularly relish the long drive to Jeff's place in
Hollywood, but this wasn't something he wanted to discuss on the phone.
Tromping the accelerator, Derrick shot down the last length
of the off-ramp and through the intersection, back onto the freeway. Pawing for
his Bluetooth, he gave the command for Jeff's cell and waited impatiently,
weaving through traffic, mumbling under his breath for Jeff to, "Pick up,
pick up, pick up, damn it."
Finally, a voice Jeff had spent years perfecting, as smooth
as melted chocolate, flowed from the phone. "Hola, mi amigo. Cómo
estás?"
"Where are you?" Derrick said, disregarding any
pleasantries.
"Hello to you, too, sunshine."
Derrick growled low in his throat, no words coming to mind.
"Testy, are we?" Jeff asked. "Fine. I'm at
Greg's, why?"
Good, that was closer. "I'll be there in twenty,"
Derrick said, and hung up before Jeff could protest.
He made it in fifteen, swerving into the driveway of Greg
Mitchell's sprawling two-story hacienda-style home in Diamond Bar. He slammed
out of the car and jogged up the front steps to pound on the arched black-wood
door, then stood, jiggling the change in his pocket impatiently and waiting for
Jeff to answer.
The door swung inward to reveal Derrick's closest friend,
aside from Mia. Jeffery Denton. Male-model extraordinaire and drag queen of the
universe, or so he billed himself. Mia and Allison loved to moon over his dark
hair and pale green eyes whenever Jeff allowed them to play at making him up, a
lazy-day activity the three of them enjoyed out of all proportion, in Derrick's
opinion.
They weren't getting near him with any of that gunk.
"You rang?" Jeff drawled, studying his perfectly
manicured, blood-red fingernails.
Jeff leaned against the doorframe in expensive black
trousers, his shirt hanging unbuttoned to expose his chest. The shirt looked
green to Derrick, but he was sure his friend had some fancy, highly specific
name for the shade. Turquoise Delight, or some such thing. At six-four, Jeff
might have Derrick by two inches in height and twenty pounds in solid muscle,
but he'd still be the one running from a spider or any sort of manual
labor—darling, my manicure—screaming like a girl.
Derrick wasn't sure where to begin until the words fell out
of his mouth. "I'm in love with Mia."
There. He'd said it out loud to another human being. His
heart pounded thickly in his throat, making it hard to breathe as he waited for
his announcement to evoke the expected shock and mayhem.
Jeff buffed his nails against the silk of his shirt,
studying Derrick with a bored expression. "And?" he asked, dragging
the word out so the single syllable became three.
Derrick stared at him. "What do you mean, 'and'? Did
you hear me? I'm in love with Mia!"
In answer, Jeff quirked an elegant eyebrow.
"You knew," Derrick said slowly.
"But—" He leaned against the coral stucco wall beside the door,
his head tilted back. "Shit."
"Sorry," Jeff said, amusement tingeing his words,
"was it supposed to be a secret?"
Greg's voice called from the depths of the house.
"Darling, who is it? Oh, hello, Derrick."
Derrick raised his head to smile weakly at Greg, still lost
in his own shock.
A slender blond with the face of an angel—according to
Mia and Allison—Greg Mitchell raised on tiptoe to wrap his arms around
Jeff from behind, stroking a finger lightly down the other man's neck
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