by Ann Lister
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?”
Chapter Four
It shouldn’t have come as any surprise that the new frequent flyer at the coffee shop would be acquainted with BB from the gym across the street. Although the man didn’t look like the typical knuckle-draggers that he’d see go in and out of the gym on a daily basis, there wasn’t any other logical reason for a guy who looked like him to be in this area of town. Tessler was also smart enough to know the guy wasn’t coming to the shop for the awesome coffee. The coffee was average at best—not horrible, but certainly not a specially blended hybrid from the earthy-crunchy hippies of Seattle, either.
Another clue was that the man’s shirts weren’t busting at the seams with overly enhanced muscle mass like the other baboons at the gym, and he walked with a serious limp and the aid of a cane instead of the swagger of a body builder on display before a panel of judges. The new guy didn’t need an oiled body or cat-like prowl when he walked to be gorgeous. He’d certainly managed to catch Tessler’s attention with nothing more than his clumsy awkwardness and a killer smile that bordered on being shy.
Tessler knew BB’s special skills at the gym were in physical therapy, so it made perfect sense the reason the mystery man would be at the gym was for sessions with BB, and not for another six hour workout along with the others. He was there for BB’s help with whatever had caused his need for that cane, and then he’d be moving on. Tessler wondered if he’d ever get the nerve to talk to the guy before his sessions with BB were completed, or if he’d let another missed opportunity haunt his dreams.
There was too much at stake. At least, that was the excuse Tessler always used to keep himself hidden away in his Glendale, California apartment. To be honest, it was much larger than the typical apartment considering it was a remodeled factory. The building housed the coffee shop on the street level, his four thousand square feet of spacious living that occupied the entire second floor, and a loft that he had added to create a partial third floor. He had more room than most of the people living happily in suburbia.
His master bedroom was enormous with a trendy, king-sized bed that sat almost at the floor level and was covered with black sheets and a thick, black comforter and matching pillows. Two more spare bedrooms were part of the apartment, although he barely stepped foot inside them. Tessler spent most of his time in either his bedroom or the living room, which had a spiral staircase that led up to the loft and served as his writing cave. Another door in the far corner of his writing space allowed him access to a private area on the roof. There was also a sprawling kitchen off of the living room, boasting restaurant-quality appliances, which Tessler used on a regular basis to create lavish gourmet meals for himself to eat on the roof anytime the weather permitted.
But he had no one to share it with.
It was sometimes a lonely existence, but it kept him safe, and for the most part, he was happy. The most difficult part of his life was keeping all the various pieces of it as private as possible. With two well-known identities playing against each other, he wondered how much longer he could do this dance before the gravitational pull merged the three to become one. His goal was to eventually blend it all together, but that’d be much further down the road; he certainly couldn’t risk doing something like that now. But to live his life as himself while fully enjoying both the entities he’d created would be a dream come true. Perhaps one day he’d have it all, but for today he’d continue to work hard and live his life in the shadows, concealing his real identity in order to protect the other two. It was the only way it made any sense at all.
Tessler greeted the friendly, blonde barista with the candy-apple red lips at the counter inside the coffee shop. The twinkle in her eyes and the sexy lift of her mouth always gave away how badly she craved his attention. It would be so fucking easy for him to bring her upstairs to his bed, but his heart wouldn’t be in it. It wasn’t the touch of a woman he ached for, although he’d certainly gone down that route before when he needed to scratch an itch. His passion was elsewhere—with the rougher touch of strong, calloused hands stroking his body and beard stubble abrading his skin enough to leave it red and raw.
Even that guilty pleasure was left to rare and ridiculously over planned hook-ups and a yearly extended vacation to Key West, which he took around his birthday. It was several weeks of being his true self, not one of his alter egos, and having enough faceless, emotionless sex to last him the rest of the year. Every one of them would be nameless fucks, except for one man who was also the only repeat encou
nter Tessler had every year he’d returned to the tropical paradise.
There was something to be said for blending in and looking just like any other horny college kid on summer break. Although, he was far removed from that time in his life; maybe not so much in years lived, but how he’d managed to live those years. Sometimes it felt like he’d lived a thousand lifetimes in the twenty-six he’d completed, and soon he’d be marking number twenty-seven.
Hard to believe.
Tessler paid for his coffee then used the key that allowed only he himself to use the private stairway that led up to his second floor apartment. Hearing the deadbolt of the large, metal door of his home slide into the locked position felt like a warm embrace, and it made him feel safe. He scanned the living room of what he now considered to be his sanctuary as his eyes settled on the floor-to-ceiling windows with the arched tops. Dropping his keys onto a small, hand-carved table that sat in the entryway beside the door, he walked across the room to enjoy the view for a moment.
Tessler leaned against the original red brick wall that framed the windows and sipped his coffee, watching the traffic move along in front of the gym and down the length of the street below as pedestrians strolled about on the sidewalk. It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon in Southern California, and he’d be spending it inside working to meet his next deadline. Nothing about that made him feel bad, because in a little more than a week he’d be flying south for his nice, long sabbatical of debauchery.
The anticipation made Tessler smile. He really needed this vacation, so much so, his skin burned with need at the thought of his body being manhandled and doing the same himself. The only thing standing between him and being pressed beneath a hot, sweaty man, or kneeling behind one, was finishing up the final edits to his next book. He was used to working sixteen hour days while he was in writing mode. It made no sense to stop when the words were flowing like water. Sometimes, he’d work straight through the night and catch a few hours of sleep during the day. Other times, he’d go to sleep at night, only to wake an hour or so later with another idea for the story and get up to work some more. He hadn’t gone into this profession thinking it would be a normal gig. Truth was, he hadn’t gone into this at all; the job had found him, and once it latched on, it never let go. No sense in complaining about the sleep deprivation. Writing books had earned him more money than he ever expected to see in his lifetime, and it would keep him financially comfortable for a long time to come, too.
