Chapter 1: Unmarked Longings
I sit on the edge of my bed, the dim light of my desk lamp casting shadows across the cluttered room that smells faintly of old books and despair. Rosie, my new puppy, nuzzles against my hand, her tiny whimpers a small comfort against the storm in my head. My fingers trace the soulmate tattoos on my wrist—JP in a messy scrawl, AM in neat, precise strokes. Two marks, two mysteries, and a lifetime of self-loathing to unpack. At twenty-two, I, Mitchell Beeman, am a mess of contradictions—chubby, pale, a little hairy, with blue-green eyes hidden behind blue glasses, and a mind that’s as tangled as my messy brown hair.
Downstairs, the murmur of my family’s voices—Mom, Dad, Grandma Leta, Aunt Terri, and Uncle Billy—filters through the floorboards. They’re all so damn eager for me to ‘find my person,’ as if my soulmate tattoos are a treasure map to happiness. If only they knew the truth. If only they knew that every time I look at JP’s initials, I see Joseph Pargoe’s face—those piercing blue eyes, that tanned, muscular frame that’s haunted my wet dreams since high school. But Joseph? He’s moved on. Got himself a Kylie and a kid, little Ryann, living the straight dream while I’m stuck here, drowning in internalized disgust from years of church sermons that branded my desires as sin.
I sigh, rubbing Rosie’s soft fur as my phone buzzes on the nightstand. It’s a text from an unknown number. My heart stutters—could it be? I open it, and the words hit me like a punch: *‘Hey, Mitchell. It’s been a while. Saw your name on the alumni list for the biotech conference at UDel. Thought I’d say hi. – JP’*
My breath catches. Joseph Pargoe. After all these years, he’s reaching out? I type a reply, delete it, type again, my social anxiety clawing at my throat. Finally, I hit send: *‘Hey, Joseph. Yeah, long time. Conference sounds cool. You going?’*
His response is almost instant: *‘Hell yeah, I’m in. Let’s grab a drink after the keynote tomorrow. Catch up. I’ve got questions, man.’*
Questions? My mind races. Does he know? Does he suspect? My cock twitches at the thought of seeing him again, and I hate myself for it. I’m a mess of horny longing and self-hatred, my palms sweating as I imagine his smirk, those broad shoulders filling out a tight shirt. I mutter to Rosie, ‘What the hell am I getting myself into?’
The next day, the conference hall buzzes with eager biotech nerds, but I’m a bundle of nerves, scanning the crowd for Joseph. Then I see him—taller than I remember, his dirty blonde hair a perfect mess, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my knees weak. He strides over, all confidence, and claps me on the shoulder. ‘Mitchell fuckin’ Beeman. You’ve grown into those glasses, huh?’
I force a laugh, my voice shaky. ‘And you’ve grown into... well, everything. What’s with the glow-up, Pargoe? Trying to make the rest of us look bad?’
He grins, a wicked edge to it. ‘Nah, just keeping up with life. You, though? You’ve got this quiet storm thing going on. I dig it.’ His gaze drops to my wrist, where my sleeve has ridden up, exposing JP. His grin falters, then sharpens. ‘Interesting ink you’ve got there.’
My face burns. ‘Yeah, well, it’s just... a thing. You don’t have yours yet, right?’
He shrugs, stepping closer, his voice low. ‘Not yet. But I’ve got my own theories. Wanna test ‘em over that drink?’
My heart pounds, my body betraying me as I feel myself getting hard under his scrutiny. I nod, unable to speak, following him out of the hall to a nearby bar. The air between us crackles, charged with unspoken questions. As we sit, drinks in hand, he leans in, his breath hot against my ear. ‘Mitchell, I’ve been wondering for years if I’m right about this. About us. You feel it too, don’t you?’
I swallow hard, my pussy-ass nerves screaming to run, but my desire—wet, dripping with need—keeps me rooted. ‘Joseph, I... I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I lie, my voice barely a whisper.
He chuckles, dark and dangerous. ‘Bullshit. I see it in your eyes. You’re panting for it, aren’t you? Let’s stop dancing around this.’ His hand brushes my thigh under the table, and I’m sweating, my control slipping as I imagine his touch lower, harder, everywhere.
I’m on the edge, ready to explode, when he stands, pulling me with him toward the back of the bar, where the shadows promise privacy. ‘Come on, Beeman,’ he growls. ‘Let’s see if these tattoos really mean what I think they do.’
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