Harrisburg Railers Box Set 2

by R J Scott

  I smiled widely at him and got a grin in return. Oh hell. My God, he was gorgeous when the shadows left his eyes. What a stunning man. My stomach knotted as I stared at him, willing him to keep smiling. Of course, he couldn’t sit there grinning like a fool all night.

  We did manage to talk, though, of things other than hockey that made him less rigid in his chair. By the time we’d polished off our food and were contemplating dessert—fine I was the one contemplating—Bryan was close to downright relaxed. His gaze lingered on me as we talked, mostly about my past, since he seemed unwilling to talk about much unless it was music or hockey.

  “You sure you don’t want some ice cream or something?” I asked while trying to decide on what decadence to indulge in.

  “No, thanks. The burger and fries were heavy enough. I’m going to have to put extra time in on the treadmill tomorrow to burn off all those empty calories.”

  “Yeah me too.” I furtively checked out my stomach, then tossed the dessert menu to the table. “Tina? Check, please.”

  We ambled out into the night, Bryan chattering away about an old KISS album he used to own. I turned to catch his eye.

  “You’re talking about KISS Alive. I have it, on vinyl, signed by Gene Simmons.” I looked left and right and then leaned in close enough to be able to pick up the woody scent of his soap. “I might have been a member of the KISS army since…” I coughed into my hand.

  He laughed softly, the sound as beautiful as his smile had been visually stunning. “That long huh?”

  “Yep. We can go to my place and give it a listen.”

  And there it was, the first move from me to turn this business meal into something entirely unprofessional. Maybe I should’ve retracted that invitation. I mean, I never invited Stan up to my place above Hard Score to listen to my scratchy old records. Yeah, this was probably not a good—

  His phone rang. “I have to take this. Hold on.” He held up a finger, then turned from me, his phone to his left ear. I nodded and waited, grateful for the call because I’d been about to cross a line that I shouldn’t. Probably. Should I? No. Why not?

  Bryan spun to look at me, his face now tight and dark. “I think we should go to your place and listen to KISS.”

  “Oh okay, fine.” I motioned him to cross the street. I walked at his side. All the softness and good humor that I’d been seeing had gone. His jaw was set again, his gaze on the ground, and his shoulders were up by his ears. “We just have to go around back.”

  I led him to the stairs at the back of Hard Score. I went up first, not saying a word, Bryan’s heavy footfalls following mine as they bounced down the alley. The door opened with a soft purr of rusty hinges, and I reached around to flick on the light. It was a small place, homey enough, thanks to Jess and her affinity for painting everything she could slap a brush over. The walls were honey yellow, the large round area rug bright red, and the furniture shades of blue and green.

  “This is colorful,” Bryan said as he stood in the doorway.

  “Jess, my niece, likes to throw color onto everything. Come on in.” I tugged off my backpack and jacket, tossed them to the table behind the sofa, and walked to the shelving unit that held a ton of books and my stereo system.

  He slowly entered my apartment, closing the door softly as if he feared waking someone. There was nothing below us but an empty tattoo shop. His edginess worried me. I wished he would open up a bit; maybe talk about the issues that had made him so wary, but I doubted he would. Not tonight anyway. But perhaps someday down the road a bit…

  “So, take off your coat and join me,” I called, pulling out a long drawer on the bottom of the custom-made bookshelf, a trade from a skilled carpenter for a full-sleeve tattoo, then waving at the massive record collection.

  Bryan did as asked and then knelt down beside me to flip through the classic rock albums. He had long fingers. They flicked each album gently. He paused at the KISS albums and tenderly lifted my copy of the live double album released way back in nineteen seventy-five.

  “How did you get Gene Simmons to sign this?” he asked in a hushed sort of reverent tone that I loved. You could tell the kid was awed by the autograph of a heavy metal demon god of thunder.

  “That’s a long story. Want a beer?”

  He nodded, so I stood, lifted the album from his hands, and pulled one big disc out. Within a moment we were up to our metal-loving ears in Deuce recorded live. I ambled off to find a couple of beers in the fridge. When I returned to the living room, Bryan was standing by the record player, eyes closed, lost in the utter bliss of Ace Frehley’s guitar riffs.

  “They’re amazing,” Bryan said when I tapped his elbow with a cold bottle of Miller.

  “They’re damn good. Want to sit down?” I waved my beer at the sofa. He inclined his head, the stress lines around his mouth a little less pronounced. He didn’t move though, stood there, cold beer in hand, staring at me as if I had a starfish dancing the Macarena on top of my head. “We can sit down,” I offered once more.

  He said nothing, only leaned in and pressed his mouth to mine.

  To say I was shocked would have been the understatement of the year. I blinked and let him do what he wished to do because I wasn’t that shocked that I was going to push him away. His eyes shut. He applied more pressure, his breath warm as it fluttered over my cheek. The drums and bass guitars folded into white noise as the kiss lingered, his lips soft against mine. Then I opened my mouth wide enough to flick at his bottom lip with my tongue. A low growl in his throat told me that he was into this, so I did it again. Maybe, in retrospect, I should have pulled back and asked why he was kissing me. Maybe, be a good man about this instead of a horndog.

  But no, I let my stiff dick lead the show. I lapped at his lips wantonly and touched him on the side. Just a touch. Not a lecherous grab, a mere fluttery pass of my fingertips over his ribs. He jerked back violently, his beer sliding out of his fingers and falling to the floor.

  “I can’t…” He pushed by me and left in such a rush he was out the door before I could think right.

  Again, I pounded after him, but this time, he was gone. I sat on the bottom step leading up to my place and stared at the empty alley. A cat crossed a few minutes later, his dark coat sleek and sexy in the flickering light of a streetlamp.

  “What the fucking hell?” I asked the stray cat. He leaped onto the lid of a trash can that belonged to the occult bookshop next door and stared at me with golden eyes. “If you’re a familiar or something, can you give me some help? Maybe some magical powers that will ensure that my cock does not lead my actions?”

  The cat started licking his balls. Nice.

  There’s your sign, stupid.

  “If I could do that, I wouldn’t need a man in my bed.” I sighed, pushed to my feet, and climbed back to my apartment to mop up beer and ponder on what it was I was getting myself into and why. The why was obvious. Bryan had begun to worm his way into my flesh and, to an extent, into my heart. He was wounded, that was obvious, and I wanted to be the one to heal him if I could. That smile of his should’ve been seen hourly by the world at large. The what, though? There, I was stepping into was a cloudy mass of uncertainty. While I had a few ideas, I had nothing concrete and so would have to wait until the beautiful yet jumpy goalie came back for his coat. Or I could take it to him tomorrow?

  “Or you could go take a cold shower and let the man be.”

  Right. Yeah, that made sense because if I went after him too soon, he’d just balk again. So, I turned off Paul, Gene, Ace, and Peter and got into the shower. I nearly leaped out of my skin when the rushing cold water hit my balls, but it served its purpose. Climbing into my big king-sized bed alone sucked. I threw the spare pillow around, punched it and then tucked it into my belly and spooned it. As I used to spoon Rex. Before I became the equivalent of a Schnauzer in his eyes. The fucker.

  Tossing and turning, I played out this Bryan thing. I resolved to never see the kid again. Then I vowed I would try my
best to help him out of the dangerous situation I feared he was in. Then I called myself an ass-carrot and rolled to my belly. And then, around two-thirty, I slid out of my tangled bed, pulled on some sleep pants and an old t-shirt, and went out to sip on a beer and listen to Yes. Their Fragile album seemed to fit my restless mood as well as it fit the tender young man I was slowly finding myself falling for. My eyes got heavy as I let the music seep into me.

  Sleep finally took me around three, and thankfully I got to sleep until eleven or so since my shop opened later in the day. Even with the sleep, I was haggard. I mean, I was no spring chicken, but I looked even older than usual, and I felt it. My heart was heavy with worry about a man who did nothing but run away from me whenever we got close. Why did everyone in my life run? I tugged open my door, and there sat the black cat. He hissed and spat, then dashed down the stairs and out of sight.

  “Typical,” I mumbled, grabbed Bryan’s coat from the sofa, and carted myself and the thick parka down to the shop to face the day. I was in no way prepared to face my older brother waiting for me on the run-down sofa in his tight collar and dustless suit. I knew I should never have given him a key to the shop. Did I need this today? “If you’re here about banking or retirement, you can shove it all up your prissy ass.”

  “Thinking about what you plan to do when this shop closes is hardly something I’d call prissy,” Garrett mumbled loudly enough to be sure I heard him.

  Ugh. I so wanted to throw a tattoo gun at his head just to ruffle his neatly combed hair. Had I even combed mine? Shit. I didn’t think I had.

  “You look like someone ran over your dog.”

  “Rough night.”

  I pushed the privacy screen to the side and walked into my little area of solitude. Oops, not today, because Garrett came in not a second later.

  “Is this foul mood over a man?”

  I threw a dark look in his general direction, then spun in a circle, wondering where my glasses were. Fuck sake, how did I lose them all the damn time?

  “It’s not a man,” I lied, then paused to squint at Garrett standing by my desk. “Remember when you used to say I had to rescue everything and everyone. Do you still think that’s true?”

  “Truest words ever spoken by anyone on Earth.” I rolled my eyes. “Do you want me to list all the animals you brought home during our childhood or the men that you had to save from themselves or the big cruel world around them? Dare I mention Rex, the not quite fully recovered abuser of alcohol whom you swore you'd save on sheer determination, love, and willpower?”

  “Okay, bringing Rex up was totally unnecessary.”

  “I rest my case, but if you need proof, I do have a list of all the animals.” He gave me a quirk of an eyebrow. Chucking that tattoo gun at him sounded better and better with every passing second. “I’m sure we can gather the data for the ruined men list as well given a day or two to remember them all.”

  “Fuck. You.” I reached up to run my fingers through my hair in exasperation and found my glasses. I yanked them off my head and shoved them onto my face. “Okay, so it is a man. A young man, and my God, Garrett, but he is a haunted human being. I can sense something dark hovering around him, but he’s just so skittish.”

  “Gatlin, you really need to get over not being able to save Gina.” He laid his hand on my desk; his gaze was pained. “You cannot possibly rescue every human in dire straits.”

  “This man has nothing to do with Gina!”

  “Everything you do has to do with Gina,” my brother said with a sigh, gave me a clap on the shoulder, and left before we got into another knock-down fight.

  The bell over the front door chimed as he left the shop. It filled me with happiness to know he was gone, mostly because the bastard was right about that one point, anyway. Everything I did went back to my baby sister and how it was my fault she died.

  Seven

  Bryan

  The tap on my helmet snapped me back to reality so fast I yelped and stumbled backward, shoving at whoever was in my space, then grabbing a jersey and pulling them with me.

  “Shit!” the skater shouted.

  “Fuck!” I added to the mix and released my hold, skating back a little, then placing my gloved hand over my heart.

  Ten was bent at the waist, his stick across his knees, breathing heavily, and I realized I must have lashed out with my blocker and caught him on the chest. Fuck. Shit. Not Ten.

  I immediately approached him, my hand on his shoulder, and realized we’d attracted a small crowd of guys in the white practice shirts.

  “You okay, Hotshot?” Connor asked Ten, stick tapping his ass.

  I should’ve asked Ten that, but I was struck dumb by the sheer stupidity of what I had done.

  I’d been so lost in thoughts about the crap fest that my last week had been that I’d drifted into a daydream.

  Getting a call from Aarni, just before I’d gone up to listen to music with Gatlin had been what I needed. I felt attracted to Gatlin and hearing Aarni's voice would have stopped me acting on it. But it wasn't Aarni, it was some guy, taking the phone from Aarni and slurring as he told me he was balls deep and did I want pictures? Of course, Aarni had taken the phone back quickly, but he was out of breath and laughing and acting as if it was fucking nothing.

  He was wrong. It was something.

  Anger drove me to kiss Gatlin. Temper mixed with pain and disappointment welled up in me and spilled over, making the worst mistake of my life. Then Gatlin had deepened the kiss and touched me, and Aarni was in my head, saying I was a cocktease, demanding that I leave.

  Hell, I’d left so fast there was no way Gatlin could have caught up, even if he’d tried, which he probably hadn’t. I was lucky that Aarni saw past the mess of social awkwardness that was me and to the man underneath. I’d scared off every other man from sex or friendship.

  But I’d left my damn jacket at Gatlin’s. Which meant getting it back. And what about the helmet design? I’d have to meet him again and see the disappointment in Gatlin’s eyes that he even had to waste time with an idiot like me.

  Cocktease.

  “Earth to Bryan. You okay there?” Connor was talking to me, and I snapped back to the here and now.

  Adler was chirping Ten, “Jeez superstar, if you can’t take a blocker to the face, then how you gonna take a full check to the boards?”

  “Fuck you, Lockjaw,” Ten said and straightened. I expected him to lose his temper right then, to tell me what a fucking idiot I was, but all he did was grin and pat his chest. “That’s some right hook you got going there, Bry.”

  I peered down at my blocker hand and held it up.

  “Left hook actually,” I managed to say, and everyone laughed. Not at me, but with me. “Sorry, Ten.”

  He clapped me on the shoulder. “My bad for creeping up on you.”

  “You didn’t creep. I mean, I was thinking, is all.”

  “Well, whatever you were thinking about, it was dead serious.” The others had skated away, leaving Ten and me alone, and my usual clumsy social skills came to the fore.

  “I left my coat at Gatlin’s place,” I blurted out.

  He gave me a look I was familiar with. One of not quite understanding what I meant but being too polite to actually call me on it.

  “Okaaaay,” he drawled and skated back to the group. “Anyway, you're up.”

  I hurried over to the net and turned my back on everyone, placing both hands on the net and bowing my head. Thank goodness they would likely put my idiocy down to some weird goalie thing. After all, they were used to Stan. What I needed though, was just a few moments to still my heart’s frantic beating and to forget the fact I’d zoned out completely, thinking about things I shouldn’t have been thinking about.

  I couldn’t get the kiss out of my head. Seven days, and I was lusting for another taste of Gatlin or at least another meal at the bar where we could talk music. He’d actually listened to my opinions and seemed to find me interesting until I’d fucked up th
e whole thing.

  Aarni had called me to explain who the stranger was with his phone. A friend over to visit. That was all. The reason was real, and I accepted his regret, all the while consumed with guilt.

  Maybe I should just stay away from Gatlin. I had enough money to buy a new coat, and I could find another artist for the helmet.

  But I want to see Gatlin.

  I owed the man one hell of an apology for forcing myself on him, and my lame explanation text the next morning had gone unanswered. I was still kicking myself over what had happened.

  One stupid phone call from Aarni and I’d lost control. Spiraling to become a desperate man who used his height and weight to force a kiss on a man who might not even like men.

  You’ve seen the way he looks at you. You’ve seen the rainbow tattoo on his wrist. You’ve felt him touch you in a familiar way.

  Tension shot through me, and I felt ill, nausea climbing inside me, and God help me, I thought I was going to be sick.

  Someone moved up on my side, and I knew it would be Stan. He’d hovered over me the last few days. We’d played another preseason game against Boston, and I’d blown it so badly I was surprised I still had a contract. Ten minutes on the ice, five shots on the Railers’ goal, and every single fucker had gone past me. I was like a sieve out there, and Coach called me off the ice, sending Stan back in.

  Mental strength was vital for a goalie, and my raptor-sense had failed spectacularly.

  Stan tapped the pipes. “Good pipes, like talk.”

  I peered into the warm eyes, saw the mask resting on his head, the Railers’ logo right there, in gorgeous swirling smoke, Gatlin’s work, and something gripped me hard in my chest.

  “Touch,” Stan ordered and poked at the net, and instinctively I did as I was told, patting as Stan did and pasting a smile on my face. “Is good in head,” he added and then skated back to the opposite end of the rink right up to Coach Gagnon. What was he saying to the goalie coach? Was he explaining that I was fucking up?