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“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”
I felt rather sure that he would have plenty to say after I got my cock to deflate.
Chapter Seven
Phil
Sweet Virgin Mary.
What the hell just happened?!
I stood at the tool bench with my own version of a steel-hardened center punch in my boxers, trying to get myself together, and stared back at Henry and Barney as they conversed. I shot a fast glance over my shoulder, hands busily relining the already tidy socket wrenches, while they talked about dock inspectors. Henry was as stiff as a white cedar log, his jaw so tight it was a wonder he could speak. Balls aching, I returned to the wrenches. Both men left a moment later, no goodbyes, no thanks for the makeout session, no nothing.
Knowing it was safe to do so, I reached down to adjust my dick and then threw the dust cover back over the tools. Good tools, top-of-the-line ones, all sitting here unused. Which I totally got now. Henry had been fiercely protective of the Cabriolet. It had been his father’s, and hey, if anyone understood that connection, it was me. What I didn’t understand was why the hell I’d been all over him like a cheeky monkey. Sure, it had been a few weeks. Maybe a few months. Whatever. I was horny. There, I’d admitted it. And yeah, Henry was pretty. Damn pretty. Sexy vampire sultry bite me hard then suck me dry.
“Shit,” I grunted as my cock throbbed with need. “Okay, mind on something else.” I spun from the workbench as the golf cart sped off. A dark pool of hurt opened up in my breast. Why I was feeling shunned, I didn’t grasp. I didn’t even really like Henry, and he sure as hell did not like me. So why feel cast aside? “It was just a kiss, Phil, just a kiss. An angry kiss. Instead of throwing down the gloves, you kissed him. Happens all the time on the ice and off.”
Uhm, really? When was the last time you saw two men on skates playing “find the tonsils” during a game?
“Shut it,” I told myself as I padded out to my car to take a moment in the sun. The heat felt good. It burned off the sultry shaded memory of the cool, dark confines of the garage. “I need other people. That’s all. Just need to speak to normal folks who don’t wear cologne that smells like sandalwood and ginger.” I do love ginger snaps. And ginger brandy. And stir-fry pork with ginger. And men that smelled of ginger. “Ugh, stop it, brain!”
I really needed some space from Henry. How in the name of peanut butter and jam would I ever be able to face him over that huge dining room table? Shit. I had really screwed up things. Me and my dick. Honestly, this penis was a recipe for disaster. What was it thinking? We didn’t go for snooty blond men in shiny loafers who looked far too hot when they were fired up. And man, did he look fine with that head of steam. His pale skin had been flushed, his nostrils flared, his eyes burning. Kind of how he probably looked when he came.
When he came?
“No! No, stop it. Blessed Saint Simeon Salus, saint of the holy fools, grant me some reprieve from being such a putz! Amen. Oh, and if you could spare a blessing, give one to my cousin Pinky over in the Bowery. He’s been having some troubles with the local hot dog vendors that chased him all the way to Chatham Square, where he had to hide out for three days in the back of Po Pop Noodle Shop. Not sure what he did to piss off them hot dog vendors, probably added some mayo to his wiener when the world knows mustard is the only fitting condiment for a beef frank. Anyways, Pinky is a bit of a fool, like me, only he don’t make out with stuck-up men. Least I don’t think he’s into guys. Although, he did bring Po, the owner of the noodle shop, to Cousin Leah’s baby girl’s baptism, which got all kinds of looks. ?Course, Po did look good in that bright pink summer floral with matching pumps, so maybe they was checking out his outfit and not—shit!” A fat bumblebee bounced off my arm, which made me jerk around for a second. Okay focus, Phil. “Amen,” I hurried to tack on and then made my scattered brain pan work.
I thunked my brow and began scrolling through the team chat. Most of the guys were gone, back home with family, but maybe—yes!
Two of the Gladiators were in town. Bean was since he lived over in Gang Mills with his man Criswell, and Liam, who had returned to the Glen with Tarcy. They’d been stock car touring all summer together, and now they were rolling into Watkins Glen. I assumed Liam would be staying while Tarcy would be heading off after the race to run the next race, wherever that may be. Life on the road is tough, we all know that, but with both in the relationship having conflicting road schedules, it must be killer. Guess DJ was lucky there. His man was here in the Glen, tending to his flock and holding down the fort until DJ came back from his visit with his family.
I hit up the chat thread like my life depended on seeing someone other than Henry. And maybe it kind of did because if Henry was mad about me trying to swallow his tongue, then he could boot me out, and my place was not ready for people to live there. The landlord was harder to track down than Richard Kimble. I suspected things were not going well, and that was why he was playing coy, the shitter.
As soon as I posted a cheery Welcome back to Watkins Glen to Sunny and Bean, I got a reply from both. Seeing that made me feel better. Not fully better, but like half better, or a third better, or maybe an eighth better.
Leaning my ass against the hot front fender of my car, I began subtly testing the waters to see if anyone was free to hang out.
Looked like Bean was headed to the new gym in town. Liam wasn’t quite in Watkins Glen yet. He and Tarcy were racing at the Pocono Raceway tomorrow and then they’d be coming to the Glen. Everyone else was still in faraway places. Basky was spending the summer in Jakarta with his sister and some extended family and Fossie was up in Winnipeg, spending quality time at his camp way off in the woods. Doing what in the woods, I couldn’t hazard to say. Communicating with moose? Making passes at them sexy Mounties in the red uniforms? Fishing, hunting, doing outdoorsy Fossie Canadian stuff. Being a city boy, what I knew about the great outdoors was what I could eyeball while enjoying a chili dog on a bench in Weeping Beach Park.
After hearing Williams Wellness mentioned by our captain, I texted him to let him know I would join him for a workout. Maybe lifting weights would purge the horror of my reaction to Henry from my skull. Couldn’t hurt. I jumped in the car, licking my lips to wet them and picking up the taste of Henri on them. My eyes flared. Oh no. I was thinking of him as On-ree now.
Nope, no sir, no way, Doris Day. He could not become Henri. He had to remain Henry. Mild freakout in progress, I dug around in the glove box until I found a stick of peppermint gum. The wrapper was old. Maybe it had come with the car. Didn’t matter. I had nothing to gargle with, so the stick of gum from the mid-80s would have to do. It didn’t taste too bad, considering. It crumbled into small bits instead of smoothly wadding up, but I gave no shits. I would have chewed on the broken umbrella under the seat if it got rid of the amazing taste of a certain vintner on my tongue. Erase the taste, erase the boner, erase the memory. Simple.
***
Nope. Not simple at all.
I was still wound up in memories of that lip-lock when I parked around the back of Williams Wellness, the small lot nearly full I was happy to see. Good to have new businesses popping up. Grabbing a handful of clothes from the back seat—the dresser in my room wasn’t big enough for everything I owned—I shoved a T-shirt and shorts into a Gladiators quilted six-pack bag and then hustled into the new gym via the back door. Pausing just inside to get my bearings, I scanned the place, instantly pleased with what I saw.
The gym was modern but had an old time feel with boxing posters on the walls, many from the 50s upward. Several were of Cassius Clay aka Muhammad Ali, as well as some with George Foreman, Jack Dempsey, and Roberto Duran. Obviously, whoever owned the gym liked boxing. In one corner was a boxing ring, full-sized, with two men sparring. A cool addition that I approved of as I too was known for my pugilistic skills as well as my verbal repartee.
Men and women were riding stationary bikes, walking on treadmills, and using the weight room. A group of elderly folks were in a closed-off room doing aerobics to the thumping goodness of M.C. Hammer’s “Can’t Touch This” while wearing bright tights and even brighter sneakers.
There were big people, short people, skinny people, thick people, and people who were in-between. Older folks, younger folks, tall folks, and short folks. My sight was quick to pick up the rainbow decals on the windows as well as BLM logos. Tucked into a corner by a small juice bar was the sign-in desk staffed by a gorgeous Black woman with short dyed yellow hair and tattoos on her arms, neck, and shoulders. This gal was cut, and if push came to shove, could possibly take me in one-on-one arm wrestling. Maybe we would have to try it someday to see…
I padded over to the desk, gave the glorious woman with the nose ring my most charming smile, and introduced myself.
“Hey, I’m Phil Greco, but everyone just calls me Greck. I’m looking for Bean.” One thin eyebrow climbed up her brow. “Oh uhm, Carson Dries. Dries like in trees not dries like clothes on the line. First time I met Bean…that’s his nickname. All hockey players have nicknames, it’s in the by-laws, so his is Bean because he’s sort of vanilla. Great captain, totally embraceable guy, but he is a big vanilla bean.” Leaning an elbow on the glass countertop, my sight flickered over the two men in the boxing ring. “I named him that. I’m the official team nicknamer, which is a lot of responsibility because not anyone can just flip a name at a guy and have it work. Take my cousin Petrocci, for instance. His grandmother on his father’s side thought he looked like a mango left out in the sun when he was presented to her as an infant. Now, Grandma wasn’t too far off, and to this day, Petrocci does resemble a mango that’s been chucked to the curb on College Point Boulevard due to his large proboscis now being covered in black ink that he had to get to cover up a tattoo he got when he was drunk. So Petrocci somehow—”
