Since he first laid eyes on Michael Phelps as a teenager, young Beau has longed to be an Olympian; the better to sleep with as many other Olympians as possible. Too bad he's a flop at every sport he tries.
An offhand reference by his European mother reveals a family connection to the world of competitive shooting, and a quick -- if not wholly truthful -- email nets Beau an invitation to Luxembourg to train with Marcel, a dashing rifle champion. He jumps at the chance, and, when he learns they aren't actually related, at the champ.
Sparks fly, but Beau’s never exactly been what you’d call a one-man man. Will Beau’s smoldering desire for Marcel burn hot enough to keep the torch of his Olympic dreams aflame?
“I already told you what I want in London,” I said.
He turned to face me. “Still?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Marcel. Geeze, I’m just trying to joke around here, lighten the mood a little bit. I’m not trying to start a fight. Probably there are gonna be a ton of hot guys there, and we both know I’m not gonna shoot my way to victory.”
“So you’re gonna flirt with all the other guys? Sleep around?”
“Hey, at least I’d have a shot at a medal in that event.” I winked.
Marcel was not in a joking mood, and I hurried after him when he fled the kitchen, catching the brunt of the slamming bedroom door with my shoulder.
“Marcel, honey, I was just teasing.”
He was turned away from me, trying to snuffle back his tears. “It’s funny to you? You’ve been using me this whole time just to get, what? A swimmer? A fucking gymnast?”
That’s what I wanted at first, but things are different now. I love you. Forget those guys. All fine choices of things to say. Certainly all superior to what I did say, which was, “Marcel, I told you that up front,” after which things deteriorated significantly, and with some alacrity.
Eventually he spat at me, “What a waste of my time.”
That set me off. “Oh, I’m sorry,” I groaned. “I’m sorry I’ve wasted your precious time, although I have no idea what the hell else you have to do all day. I’m sorry I’ve been such a pain in your ass. Maybe I’ll just go back to L.A. and leave you in peace. You know what? I’m sorry I ever came into your life.” Take that!
I’d been landing wide all morning, but that one hit the target. Dead center. Marcel half sat, half fell back onto the bed, as if he’d been knocked on his ass by a wrecking ball. I knew I’d gone too far, but dammit, I was mad, too.
Eventually he rallied. “If you even halfway mean that,” he whispered, “then yeah, maybe you should go.”
I dropped to my knees beside him. “Marcel ...”
He turned away from me, saying only, “Go.”
Fine. Whatever. We were both mad, so I stormed out of his room and into mine, slamming the door so he wouldn’t think he was the only one with a right to be pissed off. That we were both pissed off at me was beyond my grasp at the moment, and in a fog of I’ll Show Him, I actually started shoving my shit into my suitcase. I made something of a production of it, obviously, slamming drawers and rattling hangers, so Marcel would know to come and stop me, but he didn’t.
Fine. Whatever. I called a taxi, knowing that when it pulled up in front of the house, Marcel would come out of his room. Don’t go, he would say, and I’d think about it, like Maybe I should, and he'd beg me to stay, send the driver away, and take me to bed. My butthole began to tingle at the mere prospect. I let the taxi honk a few times, just to drive home the point that I was, in fact, departing, but Marcel's door stayed stubbornly closed.
Fine. Whatever. What did a taxi to the airport cost, anyway? Twenty bucks? He'd follow me and run dramatically through the terminal, catching me at the ticket counter just before the agent handed me my boarding pass for Amsterdam. He'd declare his love, she'd smile knowingly, and we'd saunter off into the sunset. That was worth twenty bucks, I supposed. The farther away he let me get, after all, the grander the gesture would be when he came to stop me.
I had an open-ended return ticket to LAX on KLM; who knew they were so easy to cash in? I had my boarding pass for the next flight to Amsterdam in my hot little hands before Marcel so much as screeched to a dramatic halt in front of the terminal, as well as a window seat for a five P.M. connection to L.A. Time was a-wasting; hadn't he ever seen a romantic movie? Where the hell was he?
