Six months after the fire and his third leg cast is removed . . .

Mason left their boss’s office at Ventura Security with a genuine smile on his face. These days, happiness was an unfamiliar emotion for him, but after spending some time with Fizzbo, and his boss, Victor, it felt like a hundred pound weight had been lifted off his shoulders. Maybe this was a turning point for him—when things in his life would finally start to click into place. Fuck, he hoped so. He’d never been one to waste a lot of time sitting around doing nothing, but after spending the last several months with his leg in three different casts, he’d had no choice but to lay low.

Not anymore. Last week, as soon as the doctor removed his latest and final cast from his leg, he felt like he was freed from his shackles, once and for all. It took a few days to get used to his leg completely bare and for the itching to stop, but now he needed a change of scenery beyond the four walls of his apartment. Victor had agreed to let him work a few hours around the office updating paperwork and organizing files; fuck, he hated paperwork, but a desperate man didn’t complain.

Mason rolled his eyes when he thought of his doctor asking him if he wanted to save the last cast. If anything, he’d want to have the fucking thing shredded. It represented an ugly time in his life. No way did he need anything else lying around his house to remind him of that nightmare any more than his dreams and the scars on his body already did. Jesus, if he could just get one solid night of sleep without reliving that fucking fire, it would be bliss.

Almost nightly, he woke up in a cold sweat from terrifying dreams of being stuck in that goddamned Berlin concert hall. Even after he was awake and knew he was safe, he swore he could still hear the flames crackling around him, smell the acrid smoke and feel it burning his lungs, but worse, see the terror on the screaming faces of helpless concertgoers. His weekly visits with a therapist were helping him work through all of that, but he still had a long way to go before he felt any sense of well-being that he’d possessed before the fire.

Mason stepped onto the sidewalk in front of the Ventura Security building. Adjusting the brace that now encased his leg instead of the cast, he used a cane to help himself over to the curb. Gingerly, he worked his way into the backseat of the cab he’d called moments earlier to pick him up. After giving the driver the address for the gym where he had an appointment with a physical therapist, he settled back into the seat for the ride across town.

Things really felt like they were shifting for him. They have to, he thought, as he leaned against the window of the taxi to let the sun warm his face. It could only get better from here because Mason would accept nothing less. He kept that exact attitude after he limped through the gym door and found himself surrounded by all the gym rats banging around the weight machines like monkeys waiting to swing from the same vine.

“Mason Foxworth,” he stated to the pretty receptionist. “I’m here to meet with a physical therapist.” He pulled out a small card from the pocket of his pants to read the name. “Bruce Bedford.”

“Please have a seat and I’ll let him know you’re here,” she said and excused herself.

A few minutes later, a man with a neck the size of Mason’s thigh came out of the back room and approached him with his arm extended. “Mason,” the man said a little too cheerily. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Bruce Bedford, but call me BB. Everyone around here does.”

Was that BB or DB for douche bag? Funny how easy it was to dislike someone based on nothing more than that first impression. Brad, Brent, or Bruce Lee; whatever the fuck his name was, he certainly fell into that class.

BB’s nearly shaved head added to his likeness of Mr. Clean. The tight, white tank top and low-riding, black athletic pants with the stripe down the side made BB a walking stereotype that Mason wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. Jokes like that were always funnier when left inside one’s own head anyway.

BB appeared to be the king of all the other gym rats, and Mason already had a knot forming in his gut because of it. Even at a hundred percent healthy, Mason would have to dig deep in order to keep up with guys like Bruce Bedford at the gym. It’s why he often exercised by himself at home. He ran, kick-boxed, and used the weights he had at his disposal in his den, which was by far a less judgmental place to be than inside of any gym.

Mason shook what felt like the hand of Hercules and willed himself not to grimace from the sheer strength of the man’s grip. In less than a minute in the presence of BB, he’d already decided he didn’t care much for him, but if he could help get Mason back on his feet and able to work again, Bruce might end up being Mason’s best fucking friend in the whole world.

Doubtful, Mason thought and chuckled to himself as he followed Bruce into the back room where the offices seemed to be. He was grateful to be away from the beady, prying eyes of the muscle freaks and sat with a whoosh in the chair in front of BB’s large metal desk—sterile and cold, just like everything else in the place.

“So, Mason, how’s the leg feeling now that the cast is off?” Bruce asked. He opened up a file and began to study the information on the papers inside.

“Stiff and weak, but the leg brace helps,” Mason answered.

“That’s normal stuff,” Bruce commented. “Your break was fairly significant, so I think the best course of action is to take things slow with you. We’ll start out with massage and water therapy and see how you progress with that. Then, we’ll build up from there and add exercise options to your routine as you regain strength. How do you feel about two or three times a week to start?”

Mason honestly didn’t know how he felt. The one word that kept creeping into his head was intimidated, and he doubted the ‘roid-robot seated on the other side of the desk wanted to hear anything about that. The mere mention of the word would probably have Bruce demand he drop and give him fifty. He groaned to himself at that. He didn’t think he’d be able to drop, never mind drop and give Bruce so much as one push-up.

I’m fucked. Truly and completely fucked. For the first time in a week, Mason was wondering if being in that cast wasn’t so bad after all. It felt a whole lot safer than where he was right now.

He finished up with Mr. Universe, then hobbled back outside and into the sunshine again holding a sheet of upcoming appointments, which he was already dreading. In the forefront of his thoughts, he seriously considered the option of canceling. He’d never been a quitter. It was that very trait that got him through basic training with the Marines. But this? The constant, dull ache he had in his leg was sending up red flags left and right. Maybe it was too soon to consider physical therapy even though his doctor had cleared him to do so.

Mason sighed loudly and spotted a coffee shop across the street. He slowly made his way to the cafe, calculating every step he took, and opened up the door. The effort to make that short walk was lost on everyone walking around Mason, but to him it felt like he’d just run the Boston Marathon.

As soon as he stepped over the threshold, the delicious aroma of coffee swirling around greeted him, and he heard himself moan. This place smelled far better than the fucking gym, that was for damn sure, which made it an easy decision to find a seat and stay in Mason’s book.

He waited his turn for the barista, ordered his large black with one sugar, then hobbled towards the only remaining empty table at the back of the room. Sitting down right now sounded ridiculously gratifying with exhaustion biting at his heels just from the short walk across the damn street. How was he ever going to keep up with Schwarzenegger’s spawn if he had difficulty finding the stamina to walk a few hundred feet?

You’ll get there, he reminded himself. Working the lower half of his body was new for him ever since the removal of his cast had freed him to do so. He’d managed to keep up a reasonable routine of weightlifting for his arms and shoulders, but everything from the waist down was still tender with healing skin and bones that up until now had been resting. As he slowly began to reengage his lower extremities, all the nerves were sparking to life, and the sensations were less than pleasant.

He almost had his ass over the seat and ready to drop down onto it when his cane got tripped up on the leg of the table and so did he. With the grace of an elephant, Mason crashed landed onto the floor in a heap. He wanted to curl up into a ball and cry, but anger felt like a better option and came with a slight edge of adulthood, too. He kicked the chair out of the way with his good foot and sent it skittering in the opposite direction. A moment later, warm brown eyes, almost concealed beneath the visor of a black ball cap, beautiful tanned skin, and a killer set of lips appeared from above, all belonging to the man who now stared down at Mason. The sight of him also took a little bit of the steam out of his urge to lash out at someone.

“Jesus! Are you all right?” Brown-eyes asked him. He already had an arm looped under Mason’s armpit and was starting to lift when Mason tried to shove him off.

“What the fuck?” Mason said with embarrassment. “I can lift myself, for chrissakes.”

Brown-eyes held his hands up as if surrendering and took a step back while Mason continued to struggle. He finally released the clip that allowed the leg brace to bend easier and was able to roll onto one knee to heft himself into the chair. Once he did, he realized he’d gathered a small crowd around the table—all of them watching with that pitiful look on their face that made Mason want to throw up his lunch. He swore under his breath and wished he could disappear into thin air. How had his life been reduced to this? He felt like the shell of the man he once was, and others seeing him in a weakened state like this—as he imagined they did—crushed his soul.

Mason angrily rubbed at his short, military style hair. There hadn’t been a day in his life when he’d felt “less than,” and now every day he seemed to struggle with that emotion. How much more humiliation would he have to bear before he had his old life and his body back? He risked a glance at Brown-eyes seated at the table next to him. Their gazes briefly connected; Brown-eyes nodded, and then went back to working on his laptop. Mason looked in the opposite direction and noticed everyone heading back to their own seats. Relief came as he realized people were no longer gawking at him.

A moment later, a waitress delivered his coffee. Mason removed the lid and took a cautious sip of the hot beverage. He needed to get the fuck out of this place, but he was still too fatigued from the process of getting inside to even consider leaving.

“Fuck me,” Mason mumbled.

“Excuse me?” Brown-eyes asked.

Mason smirked, knowing that Brown-eyes had overheard what he said, but managed to hide it behind the rim of his cup. He removed his phone from his shirt pocket and punched in the number for a cab. It made no sense to hang around here, and the sooner he could get his aching body and bruised ego home, the better. The problem with leaving was that it meant he had to get up off the chair and navigate his way through the clusterfuck of tables and chairs to get to the door and out onto the sidewalk. Funny how moving around while wearing a heavy cast and using crutches felt a lot easier than trying to walk with a bulky brace and cane.

Mason let out a heavy sigh at the thought of his “exit strategy.” It seemed like more work than he was ready for at the moment. Maybe he could just sit here until the place closed and then ask the owner if he could stay overnight? He was being ridiculous and he knew that, but exhaustion made you think and do crazy things.

“Welcome to my life,” he grumbled. He slid the half empty cup to the center of the round table and started the process of standing up—and it was a process—one that required careful calculations for every movement.

“Do you need a hand?” Brown-eyes asked. “It’s no trouble.” He removed his cap and set it on the table beside his laptop, revealing his entire face to Mason for the first time.

My god, you really are beautiful, Mason thought. Dark brows framed his expressive eyes, and his thick, walnut-colored hair sat perfectly messy on top of his head, like he’d been running his fingers through it for hours, while the sides were cut short. He seemed younger than Mason in years but had an edge about him, making him appear somewhat more mature. The sincerity in his expression did strange things to Mason’s gut, and that never happened—not with a man. Sure, he’d had a few hot flings with men through the years, but it always felt more need-driven than lust, or simply a means to an end—and even that hasn’t happened in years.

Mason tried to smile but wasn’t sure he’d succeeded. “I’m good,” Mason said, “and I’m sorry about … before.”

“No worries, man.”

Brown-eyes offered a small wave, and Mason did his best to shake off the knowledge that his new friend was currently watching him as he attempted to leave the cafe. He needed to do this, not only to prove to the gorgeous man beside him that he wasn’t a total, useless cripple, but to himself that he could still function like a man.

He gave himself a final push to get the cane under his palm and himself back up onto his feet; adjusting the leg brace, he clicked it into a straight position and prepared himself to move forward. As carefully as he could manage, he proceeded to shuffle between the tables until he reached the door. The triumph that came along with that felt like he’d just had a gold-fucking-medal draped around his neck for first place in a triathlon. All he had to do now was make it to the curb and find himself in the backseat of a taxi headed home. What had started out as a pretty damn good day, simply hadn’t ended that way at all.

It took a bit of work, but Mason was able to get into the back of the cab without splattering himself onto the pavement. He gave the man his address and settled into the seat for the ride across town. Pulling out the piece of paper from his shirt pocket, he glanced over the physical therapy sessions listed, one after the other. The schedule looked daunting, and he had to fight the urge to crumple up the paper and leave it in the cab. The idea of working so closely with King Kong for weeks and weeks on end made his skin itch. Too bad Brown-eyes wouldn’t be working with him. Although, with the reaction his body had from being near him, that situation might be worse than having to work with Mr. Olympia, but for completely different reasons.

Mason closed his eyes and thought about the guy at the coffee shop. He felt his cock flex inside his pants and pressed down on the thickness with his hand. The visual he had of Brown-eyes came into focus and he saw warm, dark eyes staring at him, watching every move he made. Mason wondered what the man might have thought of him at the cafe, or if he’d given him any consideration at all beyond the spectacle he’d made of himself when he fell onto the floor.

Later when he was alone with his thoughts and a bottle of lotion, it wasn’t Thor or any of the other sweaty hard bodies from the gym he’d be thinking about while he pleasured himself. It also wouldn’t be the pretty barista at the coffee shop. Nope, the scene he had in mind had Brown-eyes in a starring role. That same repeated scene was still running in a loop in his head when he slid into bed that night, and for once, Mason wasn’t desperate to chase a visual from his brain. Instead, he embraced it.

Mason was using the urinal inside the bathroom at the coffee shop. Lost in thought, he didn’t hear the door open and close behind him, but a moment later, he sensed movement and glanced over his shoulder. Brown-eyes stood there with a heart-stopping smile that lifted his lips—the same ones that had been keeping Mason up at night. Jesus, how he wanted a taste of those fucking lips!

“I’m glad I caught you before you left,” Brown-eyes said in a velvety voice that actually made Mason shiver.

Mason finished pissing and tucked his cock back inside his boxer briefs. When he looked up again, Brown-eyes was standing right beside him. Up close, Mason could see beautiful, honey-colored flecks around the onyx pupils. He watched as the black discs blew wide open and almost swallowed up the brown pigment of the iris’s.

“I was about to leave,” Mason said softly.

Brown-eyes dragged two fingers up the bare skin on Mason’s arm, leaving a wake of heat that spread throughout his body and pebbled his skin. He stepped closer and his fingers slipped under the hem of Mason’s short sleeve.

“Why’d you put it away?” Brown-eyes questioned with a tip of his head. The grin on his face never faltered.

Mason had trouble drawing in his next breath. There was no question what Brown-eyes was talking about, but still he found his fingers shaking as he tried to reach inside his open zipper.

“You really want to see it?” Mason asked.

“See it?” Brown-eyes laughed. “I want to do a whole lot more than see it.”

Mason’s cock was so hard now, he had trouble pulling it out of his pants. When his hot flesh hit the cooler air inside the bathroom, it made him moan. Brown-eyes held his gaze while he wrapped his fist around Mason’s thick cock and pulled off one painfully slow stroke.

“I need . . .” Mason stuttered.

“What do you need?” Brown-eyes asked.

“A taste,” Mason whispered. “A taste of your mouth.”

Brown-eyes undid his own pants. Mason saw him lean in with parted lips. Hot breaths bounced between them, and Mason shifted his feet, closing the last slip of space that separated them. When their mouths connected, sparks exploded like foil in a microwave oven. Their tongues stretched to taste at the same time Brown-eyes pressed his shaft against the backside of Mason’s. More fireworks detonated when Brown-eyes began to fist their hot lengths together.

Holy shit! It wasn’t going to take long for Mason to reach his finish line. Not with the perfect amount of friction Brown-eyes was creating, along with the twisting strokes on his cock. He felt the fire in his stomach spread. The tingling raced to every corner of his being before circling around inside his balls to draw them up tight to his body, and then working out towards the tip of his cock.

The entire time Mason was unraveling, Brown-eyes continued to fuck his mouth with his tongue. There was nothing pretty about the synchronized dance of their tongues. It was much more like a raunchy pole dance at a sweaty nightclub with all of the eroticism but without any finesse. Combined with the wrist action, Brown-eyes was about to send Mason to heaven without much effort at all.

Mason saw a flash of white light a second before his entire body went rigid, then a tidal wave of bliss washed over him as the most intense orgasm began to blast from the tip of his dick. It was the best kind of nirvana … until it all crashed and burned and Brown-eyes faded into the opaqueness that swirled around inside his head.

“Wait! Don’t leave,” Mason called out in the darkness. “I wasn’t done with you yet.”

Mason felt himself jackknife up in bed. His skin was damp with sweat and his stomach was smeared with … spunk? A fucking wet dream? Are you kidding me right now? Mason growled his frustration and reached for a box of tissues sitting on top of the table beside the bed to clean himself.    

Jesus, he needed to get himself laid, and no amount of physical therapy, jerk-off sessions, or even another wet dream would lessen that need. Before he could even consider fucking someone, he needed to get strong again and healed enough to walk without looking like he was a hundred years old. Right now, that felt like it was so far off in the distance, he wasn’t sure he’d ever make it back to that point again.