Chapter Three

The fresh air felt like a godsend once he limped out of the gym and onto the sidewalk. His eyes spotted movement across the street at the coffee shop, and he wondered if he dared to risk another visit there or just go home to lick his wounds from the humiliation of the panic attack. Moments ago, he was vowing to push through these challenges and now, here he was, already considering an easy trip home to escape something difficult over putting aside his pain and doing something to engage in life.

Fuck this shit. The pity party officially ends today. 

He drew in a deep breath meant to fill himself with self-assurance, then stepped off the curb in the direction of the cafe. The honking horn of a taxi cab nearly sidelined his momentary confidence and sent him tumbling, but he did his best to hold his balance and squared his shoulders. His fingers curled over the smooth handle of the cane, which he had cradled in his palm, and he pushed on.

He stepped through the door to the cafe, and his eyes quickly scanned the occupants. The counter help looked familiar but none of the patrons did, and maybe that was a good thing. He glanced in the direction of the table where he’d first seen Brown-eyes and noticed it was empty. The table beside it also sat unoccupied. Mason moved towards the counter and placed his order of a ham and swiss panini with his usual black coffee with one sugar, and instructed the same pretty barista where he’d be seated after he paid his tab.

He zig-zagged his way through the maze of obstacles with more ease than he had the first time and sat in the very same spot where he’d been just a couple of days ago. He removed his phone from the pocket of his running pants and began to scan his messages while he waited for the barista to deliver his food and coffee. The entire time he kept a watchful eye out for Brown-eyes, then scolded himself for doing so. Just because he’d seen the guy in the cafe once didn’t mean their paths would ever cross here again. The odds of that happening had to be fairly slim, right?

The girl brought over his food, and he ate in silence. No one bothered him, and Mason didn’t attempt to engage in conversation with anyone else, either. He had finished his meal and had just a few more sips of coffee left in his cup when he heard the jingle of the bells above the wide, wooden door of the shop. Mason almost choked on the coffee he had in his mouth when his eyes landed on the same beautiful man he’d seen here the last time.

Brown-eyes.

He wore a tight fitting t-shirt that was so faded Mason couldn’t quite tell what the original color of the fabric might have been. The logo and words on the shirt were just as much in the same condition that Mason didn’t even bother trying to read it. The same ball cap was pulled down onto his head, shadowing his face, but Mason could still get enough of a visual of the man’s features.

The jeans is what drew Mason’s attention. How was it that denim looked so fucking good on him? The way they hugged those narrow hips and thighs stole Mason’s breath—until Brown-eyes turned himself a bit to face the counter and pay his bill, which completely put his ass on display. This time, Mason did actually choke a little bit on his coffee but was able to disguise it with a soft cough and watched the exchange unfold between Brown-eyes and the baristas.

“Hi Clark,” Brown-eyes greeted the counter help like they were good friends. “Hi Ginny.”

“You want your usual?” Clark asked.

“Yes, please. I’ll be in my office,” Brown-eyes said with a laugh.

“Coming right up,” Ginny said with enthusiasm.

Mason watched Brown-eyes tuck his wallet into the back pocket of his jeans after putting in his coffee order and start to walk his way. He quickly wiped his mouth off with a napkin and desperately tried to think of something intelligent to say.

“I bet you didn’t expect to see me here again,” Mason said. The small smile Brown-eyes had lighting his face faded when Mason’s words registered. That’s when Mason realized what he’d said made him sound like a total douche.

Epic fail, asshole.

What was it about this fucking guy that completely rattled him? No one rattled him—especially a dude, but Brown-eyes wasn’t like any other guy he’d met, and for some strange reason, Mason couldn’t seem to let that go. He ran a hand over the top of his head and sighed loudly. “That sounded really weird,” he mumbled. “Forget I said anything.” Jesus, this was almost as embarrassing as splaying himself across the tiled floor at the guy’s feet like he’d done the last time.

“No worries,” Brown-eyes answered. He offered a quick smile before he sat down, but the emotion didn’t remain on his face for long. Mason watched as something else floated over Brown-eyes’s face. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it was very clear the man had just put up an invisible wall around his table that screamed “don’t bother me.”

Mason had no choice but to respect that. He crumpled up the paper wrapper that held his sandwich and prepared to leave. From the corner of his eye, he saw Brown-eyes pull a laptop out of a padded nylon bag and set it up on the table to work.

“See you around,” Mason offered. All he got in return was a cordial nod that barely came with an acknowledging lift of his eyes from the laptop screen, where his gaze seemed to be glued.

Mason shrugged it off and limped slowly towards the door to leave. There was no way there’d be a repeat of the scene he gave everyone the last time he’d stopped in here. He especially wouldn’t give Brown-eyes the satisfaction of seeing him fall again. Just before he stepped outside, he glanced one last time towards the table. To his surprise, his gaze connected with Brown-eyes. Briefly. And then the moment was gone without so much as a simple wave or a smile. No, it felt more like a dismissal, and if Mason were to be honest, that fucking stung a bit.

Wow, so you’re beautiful, but you’re also a dick. Wonderful. I sure know how to pick my obsessions, don’t I?

The same ridiculous routine played out two more times that week: Mason would finish up a physical therapy session and then head across the street for coffee afterwards, all with the bonus sideshow of watching Brown-eyes work while having very little interaction with anyone around him. Sometimes Brown-eyes would already be at his table when Mason arrived, and other times, he’d stroll in later as Mason was preparing to leave. It varied little, and their conversation remained almost non-existent.

The one positive outcome from that first week was that Mason could see and feel the physical progress he was making with Bruce at the gym. It wasn’t much, but every little bit forward was a good thing. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. The fact that Bruce could now touch the skin on Mason’s leg without him having a panic attack was definitely progress. He still couldn’t believe he’d done that in front of Bruce, but it had been the catalyst for Mason to keep the promise he’d made to him. He did, indeed, reach out to his therapist and made another appointment, with his first visit later in the week. Lately, all he seemed to do was see medical people, and he hated it. It made him feel like an old geezer, with nothing else going on in his life except for his next appointment with another doctor.

Mason arrived early for his first appointment the next week with Bruce. He slid from the backseat of the cab and froze when he saw BB talking to Brown-eyes on the sidewalk in front of the gym. The urge to climb right back into the cab and ask the driver to take him around the block was huge, but he refused to do it. Instead, Mason flung his backpack over one shoulder and walked straight for the front door.

“Hey, BB,” he said with a nod in Bruce’s direction as he passed.

“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Bruce returned with a flash of a smile, then continued his conversation with Brown-eyes.

So, the guy was actually capable of exchanging some dialog with another person? That was more of a shock to discover than Mason realizing his bisexuality ten years earlier. What the actual fuck? By the time Bruce came into their private room, Mason was tense with anger and really couldn’t understand why.

Bruce helped him up onto the massage table and began working the lotion into the skin of Mason’s good leg. They always started with a brief massage before moving on to other stretches, and then ending their sessions with either a longer massage or some time in the whirlpool tub. The massage wasn’t working today, and Bruce finally stopped moving his fingers.

“Jesus, you’re coiled up tight today,” Bruce commented. “Did you overdo it with the exercises I gave you for home?”

“No, I’ve stuck to the plan you outlined without deviation,” Mason grumbled.

Bruce grabbed a towel and began to wipe off his hands. “Okay, then what’s going on?”

Mason closed his eyes and considered whether or not he should ask the question that was screaming inside his head. He was being childish and petty, but damn it, it annoyed the fuck out of him for some stupid reason.

“The guy out front,” Mason mumbled. “Do you know him?”

“You mean to tell me, you don’t?” Bruce asked.

“How the hell would I know him?”

Bruce chuckled, which only dug under Mason’s skin a little deeper. “He’s kind of a well-known author,” Bruce admitted. “Everyone around here knows him, so I assumed you did, too, since you’ve been spending more time in the neighborhood.”

“An author?” Mason asked in shock. “He barely seems old enough to be out of college.”

“Yeah, he’s one of those elusive, eccentric types who’s always staring at his laptop screen as if he can somehow see the future,” Bruce laughed again. “He’s a little odd, but he seems nice enough.”

“Nice to you, maybe,” Mason scoffed. “Not to me.”

“Why? Did he give you the cold, aloof ‘dis’?” Bruce said and grinned as if he already knew the answer to his question.

“Big time … and more than once, I might add,” Mason countered.

“He can be very guarded like that sometimes until he gets to know people,” Bruce admitted. “Once he feels comfortable with you, he’ll talk. Give it some more time.”

“I guess I don’t make him feel comfortable,” Mason said, then thought about how stupid he sounded right now.

“Don’t take it personal. It took me a while to get him to talk to me,” Bruce said. “I think he saw me getting coffee at the shop enough times that he must have realized I wasn’t a threat to him in any way. After that, he started to talk to me.”

“It seems like he lives in that coffee shop,” Mason said snidely. “He always seems to be there.”

“Not quite, but close,” Bruce offered. “He owns the building and lives upstairs—he occupies the entire top two floors all by himself. From what I know, he claims to work better when he’s surrounded with noise and chaos. I keep telling him he should come sit inside the gym. You can’t get much louder than that, unless you go to see a band like Metallica perform.”

He owned the entire damn building? He couldn’t be much older than his early twenties. What the fuck does he write that would pay enough for him to afford ownership of an entire building at his age, he thought, then realized he’d asked the question out loud.

“That’s one thing you won’t hear him talk about at all and that’s his work,” Bruce said. “I Googled him and found out he’s done pretty well writing in the sci-fi genre. Not my thing, but I heard he’s got quite a cult following, and I believe that’s why he hides out here, where no one seems to bother with him much.”

“He doesn’t seem old enough for any of that,” Mason said.

“I read somewhere that he had his first bestseller when he was in college, and his following grew from there,” Bruce replied.

“No shit,” Mason said softly. “What’s his name?”

“He goes by one name, Tessler, and he doesn’t use a last name. Sort of like Madonna or Bono, and I highly doubt it’s his real name,” Bruce stated. “He doesn’t do public appearances, and you won’t find photographs or any personal information about him online … like his age, which only adds to the mystery of the man, I guess. It’s also probably why he does his best to keep his face hidden under a hat. That being said, don’t let him catch you taking a photo of him with your cell.” Bruce helped Mason sit upright on the massage table. “Like I said, he’s as elusive as they come and hyper-sensitive to anything he feels is an invasion of his privacy.”

“He sounds a little bat-shit crazy, if you ask me,” Mason said and then laughed.

“He’s probably a little of that, too, but aren’t we all?”