Time Out (Dear Lonely Guy Book 2)

by Alison Hendricks

  I nodded, vaguely remembering meeting Tina at the Dungeons & Dragons thing. She was standing next to--

  "She said a friend of hers had an accident over the summer. Broke his leg in two places, compound fracture in the tibia. He's been having a rough time healing and an even worse time finding PT. You still doing home service? I know you picked that up for extra cash a couple years ago."

  I barely heard what he was saying. My mind was somewhere else. Back in the bed of my rusted-out truck, his mouth and body on mine. The culmination of everything I'd tried to ignore for years. The first time I felt like I was truly living.

  "Brendan? You okay?"

  I snapped out of my memory, forcing a smile as I looked at my friend. "Yeah, sorry. Mind just drifted a bit. Keith and I were... friends, in high school. ...She is talking about Keith, right?"

  "Yeah. Tall twink, good-looking but kind of a douchebag."

  I choked on what by that point was only half a laugh. Reuben wasn't wrong. He'd been... standoffish at Horizon, but I'd assumed that was because of me. Apparently there were things about my old friend I didn't know. Not surprising, considering I hadn't checked in on him beyond the occasional Facebook stalking to reminisce and see if he'd ever found someone.

  All I'd ever seen on Keith's page were vacation pictures, shots of volleyball tournaments, and other things that were completely innocuous. It was all pretty... sterile, and contrary to the person he'd been when I knew him. But considering he was a teacher, he probably had to scrub his social media squeaky clean to avoid getting calls from the school board.

  "I'm still doing it; I just limit my clients. You can give Tina my number if you want, and we'll set it up."

  I deliberately avoided telling him to give Keith my number, and I couldn't explain why. Thankfully, Reuben didn't ask. I watched him pull out my phone and, before I could second-guess things, it was done.

  I was going to see Keith Howard again. After almost fifteen years.

  And I had no idea what I was going to say to him.

  3

  Brendan

  That night, as I walked home from the complex, all I could think about was Keith.

  I picked up some sushi on the way home and climbed the stairs to my one-bedroom apartment, letting myself into the quiet space. I set my takeout container down on the counter and moved to the kitchen, pulling out a plate and chopsticks so I actually felt like an adult with a career instead of a starving college kid. I grabbed the soy sauce, transferred my nori to the plate, then moved myself and my dinner to the couch.

  I might have been an adult, but I still needed background noise.

  I flipped on the TV and loaded Netflix, just deciding to continue with Last Chance U. I barely listened as it played, my thoughts on a certain someone with piercing blue eyes and a smile that always brought me to my knees.

  We'd been best friends for as long as I could remember. We'd met in second grade, when -- according to Keith -- I'd saved him from a bully. I didn't remember anything like that, but it didn't matter. We'd been inseparable from then on, doing everything together during the school year and over summer break. Keith's house was a short bike ride from mine, so we'd been able to visit whenever we wanted. And because we were both boys, our parents had never questioned it.

  Even when things started to change between us.

  I first noticed it in eighth grade, when all the boys around me were getting girlfriends. Neither Keith or I had one and, while we weren't the most popular boys in school, we both got some attention. I'd decided I wanted to ask a girl out because that was what a boy my age was supposed to do.

  When I'd told Keith, he looked so stricken. It made me feel sick to see him like that and I think even then, I knew it was wrong. I went through the motions though, from eighth grade and all through high school. The few times I tried to hint at my confusing feelings, my dad completely shut me down and made it clear no son of his was going to be anything but hyper-masculine and straight.

  I'd been scared of my sexuality, scared of the feelings that kept growing for my best friend. Every time we hung out, my heart raced. When he was close to me, I just ached to touch him. I remembered one time when he was talking excitedly about something -- a concert, I think -- I just kept staring at his mouth, wanting so badly to kiss him.

  That night in my truck, laying in the middle of an empty field, staring up at the stars... it'd been everything I hoped for. I responded to Keith in a way I hadn't responded to any of the girls I'd dated. I wanted him, deep in my soul. If my dad hadn't shown up, I would have crossed whatever line he was comfortable crossing. It felt like the easiest thing in the world to do.

  But my dad had started to suspect there was more between us. He forbade Keith from coming over after he found us wrestling in my room. That was the first time I'd felt his erection. I'd wanted even then to do something about it, but I was too scared. After that, we'd had to hang out at his house, or just go someplace else. I buckled down and focused on school and college applications, knowing my future was already written out for me.

  I'd been so afraid of my dad back then. Afraid of disappointing him and ruining everything he'd worked so hard to give me. No one in our family had graduated college before me. I was the first, even with a Bachelor's degree. It wasn't the pre-med he wanted for me, but sports medicine was the kind of field that fit what I was "supposed" to be.

  Now, almost everything had changed. My interest and career in sports medicine hadn't, but everything else was different. I barely spoke to my dad. Only at Christmas, and only for my mother's sake. He'd essentially disowned me after I came out, refusing to acknowledge me as his son or even a valid human being.

  I wasn't afraid of him any longer, because I saw him for what he was: A scared, bigoted man who was still living under his own father's prejudices, despite the fact that he'd been dead for years.

  He was still my father. He would always be my father. I knew when he died, I'd feel it. I'd cry at his funeral. I'd mourn the relationship we could have had, if he'd decided to love me like his son and support what I wanted out of life.

  I'd mourn what he'd been to me when I was younger, but I wouldn't mourn what he'd become. I didn't mourn it now.

  My life was good. I loved my career, I had friends who were there for me, and I was an out and proud gay man. I just... hadn't found anyone I wanted to share my life with. I'd barely found men I was comfortable sharing my bed with. In the ten or so years since I'd started hooking up with men, I'd slept with a small number comparatively. Hookup apps just weren't my thing, and the bar scene wasn't sustainable.

  I couldn't help wondering now if I wasn't just making excuses for myself. Once I realized I wanted Keith in that way, I knew I wanted my first time to be with him. I wanted us to bumble through it together. To explore each other's bodies and figure out what we liked. I'd never really had that experience. My first time was with an older man who was nice enough, but was obviously just there for some younger dick. It'd been over fast and I barely remembered it now, beyond the fact that I'd been so scared of hurting him when I pushed in. I'd used so much lube my cock just slipped out at one point. That and I hadn't been fully hard at the time, when he wanted to move things along.

  My whole adult life was just a series of those experiences. Some better than others. Some way worse. All of them missing something.

  In my heart, I suspected that something was Keith, but he hadn't exactly greeted me with warmth the last time we'd seen each other. Not that I could blame him. I'd let my dad control what I did; let him tear us apart. I'd always hoped he knew it wasn't my choice, but maybe he didn't. He could barely look at me, let alone talk to me.

  Should I even sign on as his therapist? It was probably asking for trouble. He could want nothing to do with me, though deep down I hoped at least our friendship meant more to him than that.

  Setting personal feelings aside, I realized that he was in a bind. He needed to get that leg strong again, and he just wasn't going to find a go
od place to help him do that any time soon. He needed a personal therapist.

  He needed me.

  That thought was enough to push aside all the other baggage. Grabbing my phone, I texted Tina back and told her I'd do it.

  4

  Keith

  The physical therapist Reuben recommended was on their way over, and I looked like ass.

  Considering how stacked Reuben was, I could only imagine what someone he worked with must look like. Probably some Adonis with an eight-pack, and here I was lazing around in yoga pants and a t-shirt that had some sort of stain on it from who knew when.

  It wasn't like I was expecting this physical therapist to waltz in here, pull down his pants, and order me to suck his dick as part of my healing process. That would've been nice. If I could heal a broken leg by sucking dick, I'd have the thing all sorted out by now.

  Sure, my thoughts trended a little... porny. I wanted to make sure I looked good just in case this guy was worth flirting with. Mainly I wanted to make sure I didn't look like the lazy, out-of-shape loser I felt like I'd been for the past month.

  So I hobbled to my bedroom with the aid of my crutches and leaned against the dresser, pulling out a pair of cargo shorts I had stashed way in the bottom of a drawer. I preferred jeans -- skinny ones, the tighter the better -- but that wasn't happening with this cast. I couldn't get anything other than yoga pants on over it, and even those mostly bunched up around the top.

  Tossing the shorts on the bed, I grabbed a clean V-neck from the closet. Putting that on wasn't much of a struggle, but I definitely had issues with the shorts. The wide openings were the only thing that saved me, and I immediately hated this "summer douchebag" look I'd created. No time to change it now, though. Especially when I heard the doorbell ring a good fifteen minutes before the guy was even supposed to show.

  "Just a second," I called, hurrying my busted ass toward the front door as fast as I could go.

  I opened it up without checking the peephole. Probably a bad move, but this was one of the safest apartment complexes I'd ever lived in. And I was a young white guy living in Gainesville. Aside from the whole being gay thing, there wasn't a lot for me to fear in terms of axe murderers standing outside my door.

  When I pulled the door open, though, I almost would have preferred the axe murderer. Standing there was a face I'd seen so many times in my dreams; a face I'd tried to cut out of my memories. Older now. More filled out, with a few lines that hadn't been there before, but still the same cerulean blue eyes that crinkled in the corners when he was happy. The same smile that had stopped and restarted my heart a thousand times.

  The same man who'd broken that heart into a million pieces.

  "What are you doing here?" I asked immediately, barely able to breathe. "Who gave you my address?"

  "Tina did. Is something--"

  My heart dropped into my stomach, churning as nausea began to well in me. Tina. She didn't know the extent of what happened between us, just that Brendan Newell and I were… something to each other once. Yet she'd given him my address. Probably told him to take the first step in making amends.

  "Wait, did she not tell you?" he asked, his face growing paler.

  "Tell me what? I'm waiting for a physical therapist, and--"

  It suddenly clicked and I felt like the world's biggest idiot. I knew Brendan was at Horizon because of Reuben. Of course they worked together. Reuben probably said that at some point, but I'd been too shocked to hear him.

  Fuck.

  "Oh. Right. You work with Reuben at the college. I guess I just thought it'd be... someone else."

  He stood there awkwardly, out in the little breezeway outside my apartment. The sun was cutting in from the side, lighting up his golden features. He'd always had that farmer's tan, despite never working a field a day in his life. His skin was warm and rich with it, but not damaged by it. Still smooth, even after all this time, that baby face looking slightly more rugged now, thanks to the neatly-kept beard. It was a darker blond than his hair, which showed signs of being sun-bleached. He looked more like a surfer than a good old southern boy, but he always had. The curly hair especially sold it, though he'd apparently managed to tame it over the years.

  He still looks good enough to lick, I thought bitterly, forcing myself not to get a look at his physique which I was sure had improved even beyond what it was when he'd played football.

  "If you want me to just give you a recommendation, I can do that. I... don't want to make you uncomfortable," he said, chewing on his lip briefly before he caught himself.

  Dammit. Why did he have to be so sexy? It'd driven me to distraction way too many times in high school. Now it was just making me more and more annoyed.

  Telling him to leave felt like conceding something, though. I wasn't the one in the wrong. He was.

  "You're here already. Might as well come in and do whatever you're going to do."

  I knew I was being an asshole, but as I stepped aside to let him into my home, I felt... vulnerable, for the first time in over a decade. Brendan was one of the few people who could truly hurt me. All it would take was a few words. Even just an absence of words. Being a dick to him seemed like the best way to protect myself from that inevitable pain. At least that way, I had some control over it.

  "This initial visit won't take too long," he said, adopting a voice I hadn't heard before. I guessed it was his 'professional' voice. "I just want to do an initial consult, see what your range of motion is, find out a few things about the initial trauma and make a treatment plan with you."

  "Yeah, sure," I said coolly, closing the door. I made a sweeping gesture to indicate the whole apartment. "Where do you want me?"

  My teenage self probably would have blushed while saying that. He probably would've been thinking about making out with Brendan on the couch. Kissing and groping, with maybe a bit of dry humping thrown in as a treat.

  Of course, that made me think of it now and I silently cursed myself even as my gaze strayed down to the firm curve of Brendan's ass.

  "Wherever you'd be most comfortable," was all he said.

  The horny devil on my shoulder told me I'd be most comfortable straddling his lap with my ass grinding against his dick. The passive-aggressive angel on my shoulder told me I'd be most comfortable if I never had to see him again.

  "Couch it is," I answered, hobbling over there.

  I felt his eyes on me, but it was in a clinical way. Nothing sexy about a diagnostic glance as he tried to get some idea of just how fucked I was when it came to my leg.

  Setting my crutches to the side, I sat down on the couch and then turned to swing my legs up on to it, assuming he'd want the leg out straight.

  He pulled out a phone and approached, crouching down to examine my leg. I'd hoped he wouldn't remove the compression tape they'd told me to keep on it, but he started pulling gently at the end until the whole thing unraveled, revealing my weirdly skinny, shriveled, hairless leg.

  "I'd like to take some pictures to document everything. Is that okay?"

  "Knock yourself out," I said, pretending like I didn't care in the slightest.

  I even pulled out my own phone and started fucking around while he did it. I didn't want to see his reaction; didn't want to feel his judgment.

  "Reuben said you had a zip-lining accident? That must have hurt a lot."

  I gave him a flat stare over my phone, but he was still looking at my leg. "Not really something I'd recommend, no."

  "Never been zip-lining, myself. It looks fun, but I don't do well with heights. Never have."

  I wanted to scream at him that I knew this. We'd been best friends. I hadn't suddenly forgotten that he'd puked off the side of a water tower and I'd had to practically hold him as we made our way back down because he was terrified.

  "I guess you probably knew that, though," he said sheepishly, glancing up at me.

  I shrugged. "Been a long time. I barely remember anything from high school."

  I instantly
regretted my words when I saw his expression fall. There was hurt in his blue eyes; hurt he tried to hide by looking at my leg again. His posture straightened, every line in his body suggesting he was going to be operating with professional courtesy from here on out.

  I should have been glad for it. It would make things easier. Instead, I felt like I'd lost something; closed off a door I didn't want closed.

  "I need to move it to see the range of motion. I'll stop when I feel resistance, but if it hurts before that point, let me know."

  I just nodded silently, holding my breath as Brendan crouched down. The second he touched me I felt a thrill race up my leg, connecting with my spine and going all the way up. I suppressed a shiver, but only just barely. I didn't manage to suppress the sudden surge of annoyance.

  My body was betraying me. I shouldn't have a response to him still. Not with what he did. It wasn't fair.

  As he worked, I thought of everything but how warm his hands were, how firm his grip was, how I wanted to feel those talented hands on every part of my body. At one point, I did feel pain, but I let him continue because at least it kept me from thinking about how close he was.

  It seemed like an eternity before he finally stopped. He'd moved my leg into every position it could go in, and that meant moving from one side of the couch to the other, then at one point leaning fully over me so I could smell the scent of soap and sweat. My cock twitched in my cargo shorts and I closed my eyes, biting my tongue hard enough to draw blood.

  The absolute last thing I needed right now was a fucking erection.

  "Sorry, did I hurt you? Your range of motion isn't bad, but I can tell some positions are still too much."

  "Funny, guys don't normally say that to me," I said dryly.

  His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but Brendan schooled his features and stood back up.

  "I think you're in a good spot for therapy. I'd recommend once a week, at least. Ideally twice, if you have time for it. Thirty minute sessions should be good, but you may need to ice it after, so set aside about forty-five minutes."