By the time the second shoot is scheduled, I still haven’t contacted Tank. It’s not that I haven’t thought about it, because I have. I’ve simply been busy, like I always am. The new semester will start in ten days, so I’ve already started preparing by reading ahead for BioChem and Physiology, two classes that have massive books I have to work through. I’m also taking an Intro English Lit class, but I have no idea yet what the assignment for that one is.

Plus, I did try to come up with any plausible reason to contact Tank, and the result was absolute bupkis. Tank and I can’t stand the sight of each other, so what reason could there possibly be for me to hang out with him? If there is one, I haven’t been able to think of it. Him and me, we have zero in common, except for the fact that we’re both gay and happen to work for the same porn company. That’s it. I don’t know what to use as an excuse to text him and make it believable.

The script for the next shoot is fucking brilliant again. My feelings for Rebel are equal parts admiration for his genius in this and pure hate for setting this up. Dammit, I wish I had been in a position to say no to this, but for that amount of money, there’s a not a whole lot I won’t do. Including getting my ass ravished once again by Tank.

Admittedly, it wasn’t too bad last time. I wasn’t even that sore the next day, not more than I usually am after a shoot. My throat can get a little achy after a rough blow job, but that’s nothing tea with honey and Dutch licorice won’t cure. I had an exchange student give me that shit once, and it’s the best thing ever. I order them online now from this Dutch store and make sure I always have a few bags in my room.

I still prepped well, but it’s not the fucking I’m most concerned about. It’s the interaction Rebel has come up with before we actually fuck. It’s utterly brilliant, but, at the same time, scary as fuck. I can only hope and pray his faith in Tank’s skills is justified, because he could seriously hurt me in that exchange.

When I enter the locker room, Tank has just finished showering. He’s toweling off his massive body with rough, quick gestures.

“Hi,” I say, not wanting to ignore him.

“Hey.”

I drop my bag in my locker and start unbuttoning my shorts. “Why do you always shower right before a scene?” I ask.

He looks at me as if to determine if I’m yanking his chain in any way, but I’m honestly not. I’m curious, because as far as I know, he’s the only one who does this. Most of us shower afterward, if only because we’re covered in cum, but why do it twice?

“Courtesy to my partner,” he says in a gruff voice.

“Even when that partner is me?” I dare to ask.

He hesitates, then shrugs. “Force of habit.”

We don’t say a word until we’re both dressed and ready to go. We almost walk into each other at the door, and he suddenly looks me in the eyes. “Don’t duck,” he says.

I frown. “What?”

“You have to trust me and don’t duck or flinch. If you do, I may hurt you.”

He’s talking about the scene and that crazy thing Rebel put in there. He seriously expects me to trust him? I guess he does, because he’s clearly not jesting. His face is dead serious, his eyes drilling into me. I merely nod, unable to come up with any kind of verbal answer right now.

Holy hell, this is a lot he’s asking. Especially with him. I mean, if it had been Rebel or Campy, I wouldn’t have had any doubts. But with Tank? Am I really to believe he wouldn’t use that opportunity to get back at me?

Rebel is waiting for us, the studio once again transformed into a construction site. “You guys ready to do this?” he asks.

I merely nod as I put the yellow safety helmet on, my brain still wrestling with whether or not to trust Tank in this. It seems I have little choice, but dammit to hell, I don’t like this at all. I hate it when things are outside my control, especially when it involves a man like Tank who so clearly hates my guts.

Rebel is saying something about our exact positions so both cameras catch us, and I nod again, though I haven’t heard a word he said. I take a deep breath. Show time.

Rebel retreats, and Tank and I take our places. He’s pretending to look at architectural drawings, leaning against the scaffold. He looks menacing in a pair of tight worker jeans, black safety boots, and a black tank top, but I can’t deny he also looks sexy as hell. I mean, if he wasn’t such a major dickwad, I’d totally let him fuck me. Well, I’ll let him do that anyway since that’s what I’m getting paid for, but I won’t like it.

Probably.

“Hey, boss-man,” I start as soon as Rebel gives me the action sign, and I saunter into camera view.

Tank looks up from his drawings, his face darkening. “You’re late.”

I check my watch. “By five minutes. Chillax, man.”

He visibly grinds his teeth. “Don’t tell me to chillax. What’s your reason for being late? It better be a good one.”

I step in closer as the script says, then shoot him a cocky smile. “I was banging your brother. You know,” I say, taking another step as Tank’s face starts to resemble a thunderstorm, “David is a great fuck. Unlike you. That is one sweet ass, I gotta tell you.”

Tank leans back and then that meaty hand is coming at my face, and I don’t think. All I see is that fist and Tank’s furious eyes, and my head jerks to the side.

A second later, my face explodes in pain, and I stagger back. My eyes pinch shut as my stomach heaves with the blinding agony. My vision goes black, and the last thing I feel are two strong hands on my biceps.

When I come to, I’m on my back on the floor, and furious voices are stabbing my throbbing head. Motherfucking hell, what happened?

“We have to call an ambulance,” Rebel says, pure panic in his voice.

An ambulance? For who? Oh my god, why does my head hurt so much? Why am I on the floor?

Then I remember and my eyes fly open, causing another pain shoot in my cheekbone.

“He’s awake,” Tank says.

It takes a second or two for my eyes to focus, and the blurriness transforms into the concerned faces of Bear, Rebel, and...Tank.

“You fucking knocked me out cold!” I yell at him, then wince because dammit, that hurts. Yelling hurts. Moving hurts. Everything hurts.

“You ducked,” Tank says. “I told you not to duck.”

Tears form in my eyes because the pain keeps rolling through my head and won’t relent. “What would you do if you saw a furious guy swinging a fist at you?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“If we call an ambulance, this goes on the books as a work-related injury,” Bear says, his voice steadier than Rebel’s. “They’ll have to investigate, and they may shut us down temporarily, just because they can. We’re a gay porn studio; that’s two strikes against us.”

I sigh, keeping my eyes closed because that does seem to help a little. “I don’t need an ambulance.”

“He needs to be checked out.” That, surprisingly, is Tank. “I clocked him hard.”

“I thought you said you could do this, Tank, make it look like you hit him hard but not hurt him for real.” Rebel is mad, that much is clear.

“I would’ve, dammit, if he hadn’t moved his head! I told him to stay still, and he moved his head.”

“I agree with Tank. He does need to be checked out. Someone needs to take him to an ER and have his head checked out.” That’s Bear, calm as ever.

“I’m fine,” I say. “If someone can just give me a lift home, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll drive him to the ER,” Tank says.

My eyes fly open again. “No, you’re not. You’re the one who hit me, for fuck’s sake.”

“All the more reason why I should make sure you’re okay.”

I scowl. “You don’t even own a car. What are you gonna do, put me on the back of your bike?”

Tank crosses his arms. “I’ll drive your car.”

“If Brewer is well enough to argue with Tank, I think we can safely say he’s gonna be all right,” Bear says.

“It fucking hurts,” I mutter.

I didn’t even notice Rebel had disappeared until he comes back and hands me a Ziploc with ice cubes in it. “I need a towel,” I say. “You can’t put ice directly on your skin, not even with plastic in between. It’ll freeze and damage the top layer of your skin,” I explain when they all look at me like I’m crazy.

“Yeah, I think he’ll be fine,” Rebel says finally, but he obediently gets a towel for me and wraps it around the ice pack.

Before I can say anything, Tank crouches behind me, grabs my arms and slowly pushes me into a sitting position. Damn, that guy is strong. I want to push his hands away, but the truth is I’m a little woozy, so I appreciate him steadying me for now.

I gingerly touch my cheekbone to verify nothing is broken. It doesn’t feel like it, though I’m sure I’ll end up with one hell of a bruise.

“How does it feel?” Tank asks. I turn my head to see his face, not sure if he’s serious or not, but there’s only concern in his eyes.

“It’s tender, but I don’t think anything is broken. Icing it should do the trick.”

“You a doctor now?” he says.

I bite back my snappy response. If only he knew. But he doesn’t get to see that part of me. None of them do.

“I’ve had broken bones before,” I say as calmly as I can manage. “Pretty sure I’d be able to feel it if it were broken.”

“I’m still taking you to the ER,” he says.

“Rebel, can’t you—”

“Rebel and the studio aren’t gonna be anywhere near this,” Tank interrupts me in a voice that leaves no room for discussion. “If one of them takes you in, they may have to answer questions and either lie or implicate the studio. I did this, and I’m the one taking you in.”

It’s clear we’ve reached the point where arguing won’t help me, so I surrender to the inevitable. Truth be told, my cheek does hurt like a son of a bitch, even with the ice pack on it, so an X-ray is probably a good idea.

Rebel helps me change into my own clothes and hands my car keys over to Tank. I’m too strung out on pain to even bother making a conversation, and I don’t realize what hospital he’s taken me to until he makes the turn into the parking lot.

My hospital.

Oh, fucking hell. This is bad on so many levels.