by May Archer
Living fearlessly had resulted in me getting an erection under the worst, most humiliating circumstances possible, sending my serial killer slash new best friend fleeing into the night like my hard dick was a match that might light him on fire.
And now I was spending yet another night alone in my hotel room, which was way less comfortable than my old apartment, overthinking things, as usual, but now with the added bonus of sweating my ass off while I did it.
This morning being Monday, I’d officially opened the new medical center and seen my first Whispering Key patients… and if I hadn’t been firmly committed to a career in medicine and firmly indebted to the bank that owned my student loans, I might have seriously reconsidered going back to my college barista gig, because these people were certifiable.
I’d trooped up the stairs to the old meeting rooms in the Whispering Key Rec Center where my new assistant Taffy and I had spent all weekend organizing a bunch of secondhand furniture and office supplies into something resembling a clinic, only to find thirty-four residents already crowding the makeshift waiting room, all insisting they’d gotten there first, and poor Taffy nearly in tears trying to corral them all.
It had only gone downhill from there.
Mrs. Lorenna McKetcham, aged seventy-eight, had started out the morning asking whether I planned to give out free condoms to advocate safe sex on Whispering Key, and if so, could she take some to share with her mahjong friends who’d be assembling down the hall later? “We get pretty wild after our game nights,” she’d admitted with a terrifyingly girlish giggle. Then she’d bit her lip. “We’re always looking for new members, Doc. You could stop by if you wanted to.”
I’d thanked her politely and given her a large bag full of condoms, but I had not stopped by. If her group had found a way to make mahjong into foreplay, I did not possess the mental fortitude to know about it.
Gloria Frye had come in shortly after that, sporting a different floral dress and a pair of very bruised, heat-swollen feet stuffed, once again, into too-tight pumps. “Used to happen to my mother, too,” she’d sighed. “Does this mean I’m getting… old?” She’d only come because Mr. Goodman had insisted, she said, but she’d been grimly satisfied when she’d stepped on the scale. “Lowest weight since I graduated high school, and it’s all thanks to my miracle pineapple bread. Loaded with so many antioxidants that it improves your mood and burns calories while you chew it!”
I’d tried to explain that this was highly unlikely, but she’d just pinched her lips, looked me up and down, and told me in a cheerful voice that she’d bring me a loaf—or maybe two—which was so perfectly passive-aggressive, I couldn’t feel anything but admiration.
Gerry Twomey, aged forty-seven, who had the most unnaturally smooth skin I’d seen in my entire life, stopped by to have me check out his hip, which he was fairly certain he’d injured by dancing. “It was all a blur once the party kicked in. I bet you know a thing or two about partying, Mason—do you mind if I call you Mason? I’m always up for a good time.”
I’d prescribed rest, an anti-inflammatory, and a follow-up in a few weeks. I’d also kinda wanted to suggest he check out Mrs. McKetcham’s group, down the hall… but then I’d thought better of it. Getting Gerry Twomey together with the Whispering Key Mahjong Society might create a public safety hazard.
Leticia Irvine, at least, had made no bones about why she’d really come to see me. After I’d examined her aching shoulder and prescribed some medication, she’d settled herself on the old couch at the front of the room and given me a searching look like she was assessing my vitals, rather than the other way around. “So, new doctor. You speak Spanish? No? Hmm. What brings you to the key, patojo?”
I’d stammered something about wanting a change and a fresh start, and she’d responded with a nod and a very long, very solemn, very sigh-filled string of Spanish.
“I’m sorry,” I’d said, spreading my hands. “I didn’t understand a word… or was that the point?”
She’d pushed herself to her feet, grabbed my chin, and nodded firmly. “Bien chispudo. You’ll do okay. Come to the Concha for your lunch. I’m making tapado. You’ll love it.”
I’d had no idea what that was either, but I’d nodded, because I was already getting that you didn’t argue with Lety Irvine, and there was comfort in the idea that at least one of the incomprehensible things on this island didn’t want or expect me to make sense of it.
And as it turned out, the seafood stew had been really fucking good.
But then Beale Goodman, who’d once again driven me the mile or so from the motel to the town center that morning and back home that evening, as sweet and good-natured as ever, had shown that he was a little bit odd as well. I’d noticed him favoring his shoulder, and he’d explained that he’d somehow sprained it while trapping a wild creature, which was… as valid a hobby as any, I supposed. But when I’d offered to treat it, he’d said he was already treating it by wearing a bracelet made of “white quartz crystals, which heal nearly everything, Doc.”
Seriously, between the crystals and the ferrymones, it was amazing these people were still alive.
At least Beale had agreed to let me show him some stretches, proving he was odd but reasonable—
A door slammed outside, indicating that Fenn Reardon was home, after another day of successfully avoiding me.
—unlike his cousin, who remained provokingly unreasonable.
I was absolutely not going to chase the man. Hell, no. I’d tried to go after him the night he’d left, but he’d driven off in his stupid car. I’d spent an hour knocking on his door one day when I knew he was in there, and he hadn’t answered. I had no clue why he’d overreacted the way he had, and if he didn’t want to accept my apology for my… overenthusiasm, I wasn’t going to humiliate myself further by obsessing over it.
That was that.
Over and done.
Moving on.
Except… I wasn’t.
Because tonight, like the last three nights, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from remembering every single moment of our interaction Friday, from the minute Fenn had appeared in the bathroom like a white knight who knew where the shutoff valve was, to the second he’d fallen on top of me—which should not have been amusing or comfortable given what a behemoth he was, but had actually been both until it was neither.
I… just… really… liked the guy.
There. I admitted it.
We had fuck all in common, he was a total asshole, and he wasn’t nearly as amusing as he thought he was, but he’d bought me a freakin’ night-light and some yummy dinner, so I was pissed at myself for ruining things.
And even weirder, how the fuck had I gotten aroused for a man when it fit precisely zero patterns?
Unassailable medical fact: most guys got erections all the time—doing sportsball things, or in the aftermath of danger, or when the fucking breeze blew too hard. And by the law of averages, sometimes other guys happened to be around when that happened. So, it could be possible that I hadn’t been hard for Fenn, I’d just been hard near him—an accidental erection caused by endorphins, or adrenaline, or simple friction.
Correlation versus causation, right?
The only flaw in this logic was that I had never really been the sort of person who popped wood all over the place, not even as a teenager. I didn’t have a problem getting an erection, with the right amount of effort, I just tended not to get them when I didn’t need them, and I fucking did not need one last Friday.
You’re not a passionate person, Mason, I heard Victoria saying, like it was incontrovertible fact.
So why, why, was I suddenly passionate about the man formerly known as Serial Killer Guy, of all people on earth? My whole body flushed with embarrassment.
Maybe I needed to try Beale’s healing crystals on my brain.
I pushed myself off the bed and went to tinker with the air-conditioning unit under the window for the seven hundredth time in the past couple of days. The
dial was set as cold as it could go, the blower was turned up to eleven, and the machine was making a racket like it was crushing ice for a margarita or preparing to launch the whole island into space, but exactly nothing happened, just like the other six hundred ninety-nine times I’d done this.
I turned around and sank down to the carpet with my back against the wall, resting my elbows on my bent knees and letting the thin stream of barely cool air wash over my sweaty skin. It had to be over a hundred degrees in the room, and I was roasting, even wearing nothing but boxer briefs. It didn’t help that I had every incandescent bulb in the place glowing and the windows firmly shut, but there was another goddamn storm blowing over Whispering Key, whipping the palm trees next door around in the moonlight, and there were worse things than a little heatstroke.
Like thunderstorms. And darkness. And thunderstorms in the darkness.
It’s not a phobia if you can handle it, I reminded myself. It’s a concern.
But then a bead of sweat ran down my forehead, and suddenly I was right back in that shower with Fenn.
Fenn, who’d bought me a night-light that wasn’t quite bright enough.
Fenn, who had well-formed abdominal muscles and nicely constructed shoulders.
Fenn, whose face had been poised above me, whose breath had mingled with mine, whose blue, blue eyes had been full of amusement and concern and just… fuck… appreciation…
Fenn, who wouldn’t talk to me.
My stomach ached like I’d been whacked in the solar plexus.
I jumped up and straightened the brand-new coverlet on my bed, then lay down on top of it again, this time with my arms and legs spread wide to catch any hint of a breeze the AC might decide to spit out. It was too hot to unpack anymore, and I was wary of the shower after the first disaster. I was too amped to read, and too tired to concentrate on puzzles. The television got three channels, one of which was local cable news, and another a Spanish psychic who reminded me a lot of Lety, so I’d picked the program I could ignore most easily—a truly annoying infomercial about an oscillating dumbbell that promised to amp up my workouts. I considered turning it off entirely and going to sleep, but flashes of lightning still lit the sky through the thin curtains, making that a Very Bad Idea.
Really, what kind of idiot forgot Florida was the thunderstorm capital of America when he was making his life plans? This fucking idiot right here.
Thunder boomed outside, and I grabbed my phone to see if there were any new jobs on MedLister, because getting off this island was my top priority.
There was one near Atlanta, which could be nice, if it paid more. Another was for a town in Iowa, which sounded a lot like O’Leary: zero adventure and exponentially more corn. But the one with an international charity organization traveling to impoverished third-world countries was a little too much adventure for a guy who couldn’t handle a broken shower knob. None of them seemed quite right.
Because you’re Goldilocks all of a sudden and have the luxury of waiting for something just right?
I rolled my eyes at myself, forced myself to apply for all three jobs, and sent Rafe Goodman an email that he should be expecting some phone calls from these places and the others I’d already applied for over the weekend. I was sure any potential employer would want an explanation of my two-minute stay here on Whispering Key.
Sadly, none of that process took very long at all. Less time than it took for, say, the sky to stop flashing. Or for some muscle-bound idiot to sell me a vibrating dumbbell.
Definitely less time than it took for me to stop obsessing over Fenn Reardon.
What if… what if… it had actually been sexual attraction that had gotten me aroused? Occam’s Razor, right? Shortest distance between two points was a straight line?
Except… ha… did that mean my line actually wasn’t so straight?
It didn’t seem possible.
Incontrovertible personal fact: I knew and loved dozens of gay and bisexual people, own brother among them. I had a Human Rights Campaign shirt stuffed in one of my suitcases that said Proud Ally. I was not a late bloomer. I was not stuck in a closet. I didn’t live a life where I’d never examined my sexuality.
Hell, I snorted to myself. My first kiss, back in high school? With. A. Guy. And the earth had not moved even a centimeter.
If I were bisexual, that kiss back in high school would have felt like puzzle pieces clicking together, the way Micah said his first kiss with a guy had felt. Or like the answer to a question I hadn’t known to ask, as my friend Toby put it. I liked to imagine it would have felt like all the heavenly angels singing a hosanna as a light from heaven burst down. Something completely unsubtle like that. It definitely would not have felt fucking weird and unpleasant, which was how it had felt.
If Fenn had stuck around, I would have explained all this to him. I’d have told him that I’d run the tests years and years ago and the diagnosis was really fucking obvious: I was straight.
At least, I had been… until I’d landed on the Island of Misfit Toys, where bread burned calories, and snakes lived in clothes dryers, and straight people suddenly found they weren’t.
And even now, when I thought about any other guy I knew, I got zero tingles. The thought of swapping saliva with Toby? Blech. The thought of fucking around with Constantine, even aside from the fact that Micah would beat me senseless if he knew I’d ever let the thought flash across my brain? Gross. The thought of Chris Pratt, who Victoria had always assured me was the hottest guy in Hollywood, doing anything on, around, or near my person? The thought of the muscle-bound guy from the Shake Weight infomercial right now on my television bringing his leering grin anywhere in my vicinity? Distasteful in the extreme.
But the thought of putting my lips near Fenn Reardon, with his knowing looks, and his busted eye, and his childish insistence on not calling me by my real name was… was…
I swallowed thickly, suddenly sucked into an image of me, rubbing my lips against Fenn’s jaw, my cheek against his rough beard. My cock stirred in my underwear.
This was simply not right.
What was wrong with me?
Who the hell got all up in their feelings for someone not just despite the way they drove you crazy, but possibly because of it? Or possibly because there was honesty in their reactions, and they’d seen you at your worst, and you’d put zero effort into impressing them, but strangely enough, they’d seemed to like you anyway, for one brief, shining moment, even though you weren’t the sort of person who inspired true passion in others.
I grabbed a pillow and pounded it several times before shoving it beneath my head.
Fenn and I had nothing in common. We were completely incompatible. He obviously had anger issues. He wore cheap, plastic flip-flops.
“Goddamn it!” I told the ceiling. “This is unacceptable!”
The ceiling remained impassively silent.
Maybe there was a third possibility. A possibility somewhere in between the two. I hadn’t had sex with anyone since Victoria left over four months ago, and maybe I was suffering from some kind of sexual frustration that made my animal urges that much harder to ignore?
In layman’s terms… I was horny. And lonely, too.
And it didn’t take a medical degree to understand that the comorbidity of lonely and horny was only gonna make each condition worse, right?
Duh.
I closed my eyes and brushed a hand down my chest, toying with my nipple, and nearly snorted at the way blood rushed to my cock. One tiny motion and I was half-hard and tenting the front of my boxer briefs like I was sixteen again. Horny for real.
I spread my legs further, gliding my fingers along the edge of my waistband, letting the anticipation build, before I dragged them lower and gripped myself through the thin cotton.
Fuck. It had been too long since I’d done this. If two jerks through cloth got me fully hard, it was no wonder I was on a hair trigger and primed for any stimulus, no matter how ordinarily un-stimulating it might have
been.
I slipped my free hand under my waistband to cup my balls and let my mind wander, enjoying the sensation, letting the moment spiral out, pondering abdominal muscles and tanned smooth skin, a challenging smile and eyes like deep water and…
Fuck.
I opened my eyes with a gasp and sat up.
This was ridiculous. When you tried too hard not to think of elephants, all you could think of was elephants, right? So, when I told myself not to think of Fenn Reardon, was it really so surprising that his naked chest sprang to mind?
I flipped the pillow over to find a cool spot, grabbed my phone, opened a private browser, typed in a random porn site, and immediately felt much, much better.
Porn wasn’t always my thing—Yes, really. No, I wasn’t a prude. Much.—but today the porn gods smiled on me, because when I clicked randomly on the first video that came up, the woman on the screen was really, really pretty, with long brown hair, big brown eyes, and perfectly proportioned, perfectly symmetrical breasts that worked for me in all kinds of ways.
I bit my lip, gripped myself through my underwear again, and found I was harder than ever. Yeah, this was definitely working for me. I arched my head back into the pillow and groaned as I worked myself over while the woman on the screen climbed atop her partner and threw her head back in desire.
I frowned and yanked out my headphones, since the brunette’s fake sex noises were driving me crazy and not in a good way, then finally shut the phone off altogether. It was all too rehearsed. Too… wrong.
I spit in my palm and closed my eyes once more, conjuring an image of the woman from the video, her hair and her eyes and her beautiful breasts all poised above me. I stroked myself hard and fast, planting my feet flat on the bed and twisting my fist on the upstroke exactly the way I liked best.
Fuck. This was very, very good. Pure escapism. Pure release.
In my mind, the anonymous woman’s hair hung down around us like a curtain, obscuring everything except her eyes. Her fingers threaded with mine, and she used them for leverage as she moved against me. My fist flew faster and faster on my spit-slicked dick, and I was so close, so close, caught up in that Gulf-blue gaze and the heavy, solid weight of her…
