Fucking fuck. I can’t believe Brewer fucking ducked when I told him not to. I’d punch him again for good measure if I didn’t feel like complete shit already.

I pull into the closest possible parking spot at the hospital. I unbuckle my seatbelt and glance at Brewer, who’s suddenly gone white as a ghost.

“Are you okay? Are you feeling dizzy or anything?”

“We really don’t have to go in there; I’m fine,” Brewer protests weakly.

“Nice try. We’re going in there so I can ease my conscience. Deal with it.”

I get out of the car and stride around to his side to help him out. I don’t know why I think he needs help, but whatever. Brewer’s jaw is tense as he climbs out of the car, still clutching the ice to the fist-shaped swelling.

I walk a few steps behind Brewer into the hospital, and for a second, my eyes roam down to his nice, round ass. If he hadn’t flinched, I’d be balls deep in that ass right now. What a shitshow this day turned out to be.

I follow Brewer through the automatic doors into the lobby of the hospital. He heads straight for the triage desk, and I make my way over to the waiting area and ease into a seat.

The cheap wood of the chair groans under the strain of my large frame. A man a few chairs away coughs loudly without bothering to cover his mouth, and I shudder. A few other people are waiting as well, all staring absently at the television playing some daytime talk show.

I glance over at Brewer again and notice he’s talking to the nurse behind the desk. He’s smiling and gesturing wildly as the nurse laughs. A twinge of irritation zings through me. Everything comes so easy for him. It must be nice to just make friends everywhere you go and have life hand you everything you want.

The nurse finally hands Brewer a clipboard and a pen, and he makes his way over to me. Without acknowledging me, Brewer drops into the chair beside me and starts to fill out the forms while I cross my arms over my chest and try to watch whatever dumb shit is on the TV.

“What are you pouting about, grizzly bear?” Brewer asks without looking up from his paperwork.

“I’m not pouting,” I grumble.

“You’re pouting, and now you’re growling. What’s upset the big ol’ bear?” Brewer pokes me in the side with his pen, and I clench my jaw against another low grumble, knowing that will only give him ammunition.

“I should’ve punched you harder.”

“There’s always next time,” Brewer deadpans.

“You were pretty chummy with that nurse. You into chicks now, too?”

“What do you care?”

Good question, why do I care? “I don’t,” I huff.

“I know her,” Brewer mumbles after a second.

“Micah, what are you doing in here on your day off?” another nurse asks, approaching us with a smile.

I raise my eyebrows at Brewer. I guess Micah kind of fits him, but I can’t think of him as anything but Brewer. I’ve never wondered anything about Brewer—other than whether he got tested frequently enough for how often he fucks around— but I find myself curious how he decided on his porn name. Or did Bear pick it? But his porn name needs to go on the backburner, because right now I’m trying to work out what she meant by “on your day off.”

“Do you work here?”

Brewer’s face flushes bright red.

“Work here? Micah is the best CNA we have. You should see this guy subdue an intoxicated patient or calm a scared kid. He makes our work almost too easy,” she praises him, and his blush deepens.

“I’m only here because this big idiot accidentally knocked me out when we were goofing off. I’m sure I’m fine, just a little bruised cheek and a conk on the head,” Brewer cuts off the praise as he stands and hands her his clipboard of forms.

The nurse frowns. “You’d better come on back so you can be assessed for a concussion.”

Brewer follows her, and I sit trying to reconcile everything I know about Brewer with the man she just described. The only Brewer I’ve ever seen is a guy who doesn’t take anything seriously. A man who flits from man to man at the club and rarely goes home alone. The Brewer I know is a complete screw-off.

So, who the hell is Micah? Some kind of nurse with a penchant for calming patients? And why do I care so much?

Thirty minutes later, Brewer returns.

“What’s the verdict?” I ask.

“Minor concussion, nothing to worry about. And no broken bones, just some bad bruising.”

“I really am sorry, I had it planned to a T, if you’d just trusted me…”

“Yeah, well, you can’t exactly blame me for not trusting you not to hit me.”

A rumble starts low in my chest, and I know Brewer is about to call me a grizzly again, but I can’t fucking help it. Sure, I can’t stand his entitled ass, but I’ve never been a violent person, and I don’t like him seeing me that way.

“Whatever, I’m just a big oaf who solves his problems with his fists.”

“And I’m just a fuckboy who doesn’t take anything seriously.” He levels me with a look that punches the oxygen out of my lungs.

“It’s probably easier if we just keep our perceptions of each other as they are.”

“Works for me, grizzly bear.”

“And don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone you have a serious job and actually care about something, fuckboy.”

Brewer nods, and we head to his car with our silent understanding hanging between us.

Heading back to the studio to get my bike, I realize if Brewer has a concussion he probably shouldn’t be driving and he shouldn’t be left alone all night, either.

“Where are we going?” Brewer asks when I make a left turn.

“Back to my place so I can keep an eye on you tonight.”

“I’m fine; it's a minor concussion,” Brewer argues.

“If you die in your sleep, that’ll be on my conscience the rest of my life, and that’s the last thing I need. Your annoying ass would probably fucking haunt me.”

“My ass wasn’t annoying when you were fucking it last week.”

“That’s true. But when my dick isn’t crammed in there, your ass is annoying as hell,” I quip with a hint of a smile, surprising myself before I fix it back into my usual scowl.

I manage to find a parking spot for his car a few blocks from my apartment, and we make the short walk to my place.

My stomach is a jumble of nerves with Brewer at my back as I unlock my door. I’m trying to picture how I left my place this morning before I ran out for the shoot. Did I leave dirty underwear or my Fleshjack out from a few days ago? It’s not like I ever have anyone over, so I don’t usually worry too much about what I leave lying around.

It would be particularly embarrassing if he spotted my Fleshjack, because a few months ago at the porn expo we went to in New York, I bought one on a whim. And it just so happened to be the Brewer Sensation Fleshjack that’s supposedly shaped exactly like his asshole. And now that I’ve had both, I have to say they did an excellent job with the design. I wonder how they do that. Maybe I’ll have to ask Brewer someday how they take a mold of one’s asshole.

I’m not sure why I bought the Brewer one; it was just the one I grabbed randomly out of curiosity. It didn’t mean anything.

“You know we’ve been standing here a really long time,” Brewer points out.

I grunt in response and push my door open. I do a quick sweep of the place for anything embarrassing out in the open and sigh with relief when I don’t spot anything.

“You were worried you’d left sex toys or something out, weren’t you?”

“No,” I lie.

Shaggy stirs from where he’s sleeping on my bed and I hear a thud on the floor as he launches himself off, yipping excitedly as he barrels toward us.

“Oh my god, you have a dog?” Brewer squats down and offers his hand to Shaggy.

“I just adopted him, so he’s still settling in,” I explain. “His name is Shaggy.”

“Aw, that’s so perfect. He’s adorable,” Brewer coos, plopping down on his butt and letting Shaggy crawl into his lap. He laughs as Shaggy licks his face enthusiastically for a few minutes. Then, Shaggy decides it must be time to eat, because he hops off Brewer’s lap and bolts for his food bowl in the kitchen.

Brewer stands and brushes his pants off, still smiling after Shaggy.

“It’s not a big deal— the sex toys, I mean. If I took you to my place, you’d see my sex swing out in the open, and I wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

“You would have a sex swing,” I grumble.

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t know you fuck around a lot?” I challenge.

“So what? I’m single, I don’t owe it to anyone not to have fun. Maybe you should fuck around more. Maybe then you wouldn’t be such a miserable asshole.”

“Fuck you.”

“Why do you hate me so much?” Brewer asks in a taunting tone.

“Because, you don’t take anything seriously. Life is like some big goddamn joke to you,” I grit out.

“No,” Brewer argues with the most enraging smirk on his face. “I think that’s why you want to hate me. But, it’s not why you really hate me.”

“Oh, yeah?” I step closer, backing Brewer into the wall and caging him in with my body. “Why don’t you enlighten me then, asshole. Why do I hate you?”

Brewer stares me right in the eyes, pulling himself up in an attempt to match my height. My body vibrates with a mixture of anger and something else as he leans in. His breath tickles my neck and ear, but I refuse to show any reaction, even if my cock is hard as steel in my jeans.

“You hate me because you want me, and it’s driving you insane,” Brewer whispers with an edge of teasing. His hands come to rest on my hips, turning the attempt at an intimidating gesture into something intimate. It makes my blood boil.

“I’ve had you, hot shot,” I point out, matching his tone. “Or have you already forgotten how I filled your throat until you couldn’t breathe? I know you remember the way I tore your ass in two last week.” I grab his ass cheek in my palm and drag his body against mine.

Brewer chuckles, and it’s so fucking condescending I could punch him.

“Plenty of men have had their dicks inside me—although I’ll grant you that yours is damn impressive. But that doesn’t mean any of them have had me.”

“Semantics,” I huff.

“No, it’s not. You’re mad because you want to claim me, own me, drag me back to your cave and call me only yours.”

My jaw is set against the emotions raging inside me from his words.

“You’re an arrogant prick, you know that?” I growl before knotting my fingers in his hair and dragging him to me. I crush my lips against his, hard enough to bruise.

Brewer gasps against my lips, and I take the opportunity to shove my tongue into his mouth. His wet tongue slides against mine inside his hot mouth. I drag my hand from his hair and over his face when he winces and pulls back.

“Oh, shit,” I mutter when I remember Brewer’s swollen cheek. “Sorry, that was a dick move.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize you were capable of being so self-aware. Maybe you can be housebroken after all.”

“There really is only one way to shut you up, isn’t there?”

Brewer smirks and slips under my arm to escape from my grasp. He saunters around my apartment like he owns the place, picking up and touching everything in sight. When he reaches my dresser with my Lego models, I rush forward.

“Don’t touch those, please.”

He pulls his hand back apologetically.

“I’ll make up the couch for you, okay?”

“Yeah,” Brewer agrees. “Can we watch a movie or something?”

That throws me off. I never imagined hanging out with Brewer in my apartment like buddies. “Sure, whatever.”

“There’s a good grizzly bear.”

I scowl, and Brewer chuckles before we settle on the couch to pick a movie.

“You know, I was just thinking since you know my real name now, it’s only fair for me to know yours.”

I cast a sideways glance at Brewer. Telling him my real name feels like giving him something to hold over me. But I also don’t think he’ll let this go unless I tell him. “It’s Peter.”

“Peter? Like a penis?” He chuckles.

“Fuck you.”

“Ooo, what a grouchy Peter,” Brewer teases. I growl, and he laughs harder. “I’m sorry, I’ll stop. It’s a cute name, I just didn’t expect it. Tank fits you. Peter? Not so much.”

“Yeah,” I agree.

Shaggy jumps up and settles on Brewer’s lap. Traitor.

I pull up my Prime account and immediately regret it as my list of recommendations comes up first.

“Does your mom have access to your Prime account or something?”

I feel my face heating at Brewer’s question. “Uh, no,” I mumble. “I like classic movies.”

“Really? That’s cool. I don’t think I’ve seen many of these,” Brewer says, stealing the remote from me and flipping through my list.

“You’ve never seen Casablanca?”

“No. I usually like movies where shit blows up.”

“You would.”

“Are we doing this again?” Brewer challenges. “Pick a movie, broaden my horizons.”

I click on a Hitchcock film in my list and settle back, careful to leave a few inches of space between Brewer and myself.