More Than My Words

by Ann Lister

  Movement by the front door of the gym caught his attention. Tessler looked down in time to see the man with the cane limp out onto the sidewalk. He carefully hobbled to the curb and then stopped to wait, probably for a cab, and that afforded Tessler the opportunity to simply stare at the man. When he stood up straight, he appeared to be close to six feet tall. Hunching over the cane made him somewhat smaller and less formidable. Tessler loved his sandy-blond hair styled almost into a military buzz-cut, but longer on the top. It made him curious to touch his head and feel the prickly texture of the sides on his palm, his cheeks, or if he were truly lucky … his inner thighs and balls. Tanned skin peeked out from beneath his shirt sleeves, and Tessler could see a hint of ink on both arms where they were concealed by the shirt. His mind dragged him to thoughts of the man’s skin beneath the clothing. Would it be as smooth as his arms appeared the day he’d spied him at the coffee shop, or was he covered with a layer of coarse body hair, which would offer him additional resistance if he were to grind against him? How many tattoos did he have? Where were they located on his body? The idea of tracing them with his tongue had Tessler moaning.

  Tessler’s cock began to thicken inside his jeans, and he pressed his palm on it to give himself a little bit of friction. It was as if the man could sense he was being watched because as soon as Tessler’s hand cupped to squeeze his cock and balls, his gaze lifted up to the windows and held.

  “Fuckkk!” Tessler said and damn near dropped his cup of coffee. He spun away from the window and leaned against the brick wall to gather himself, then he walked over to the spiral staircase and went up to his loft to work. Tessler’s desk also overlooked the street out front as well as the gym, but in a more discreet way, with tinted glass that was meant to defuse the sun. When Tessler looked down at the gym again, the man he’d been watching was gone, and for some strange reason that made him a little sad.

  Tessler opened up the lid of his laptop and stared at the book file waiting for him. Pages and pages of final edits, sent from his editor earlier in the day, were ready for him to weave into the story. Tedious work that would require peace and quiet for most authors—except for him. Something so boring and monotonous was made easier with commotion moving around him.

  White noise.

  That’s exactly what he needed, and without another thought, Tessler packed up his laptop and power cord to return to the coffee shop on the first floor. After locking the door behind him, he stepped into the bustle of the cafe and looked for a spot to sit. His usual table was occupied, so he aimed for the empty one beside it. Halfway across the room, he realized the man he’d been watching was sitting in his seat. Tessler had to bite his bottom lip to prevent a gasp from escaping his mouth. His first thought was to turn around and go back to work in his actual office, but the man had already seen him, and walking away now would seem cowardly and rude.

  “Do you want your seat back?” the man asked Tessler.

  “There isn’t assigned seating here,” Tessler scoffed, even though sitting where he was now would make it difficult to concentrate for several reasons—only one of them being the fact this didn’t feel like his seat.

  “But you always seem to sit here,” the man added. “I don’t mind changing with you.”

  Tessler waved him off as if it were nothing, but inside, he wished he’d accepted the man’s offer, even if it made him appear a little crazy. Instead, he fidgeted in the chair for several seconds while trying to get comfortable. The entire time he could feel the man’s eyes on him, watching his quirky movements. “You’re working with BB?” Tessler finally asked, then wondered if that was too personal.

  The man nodded. “He’s good. I can already see some improvement.”

  “That’s all that counts,” Tessler stated and began to arrange his things on top of the table the way he liked them.

  After another brief moment of awkwardness between them had passed, the man finally turned slightly in his seat. “I’m Mason,” he said as Tessler noticed his hand was extended for him to shake. He looked at the hand first—wide palm with long, thick fingers which sent a rush of heat through Tessler. Then he lifted his gaze to meet the man’s vibrant, green eyes before he reached to clasp his hand, but as soon as their skin touched, Tessler’s brain stopped functioning.

  “Nice . . . to meet you,” Tessler said almost on a sigh, adding in those last three words to try and smooth out his statement. “I’m Ga—” he started to say, then the words died a quick death on his tongue.

  “Gah?” the man asked. “Is that short for something, or is it just Gahhh?” His face morphed into a spectacular smile that went straight to Tessler’s balls.

  Where the fuck did that just come from? He hardly ever came that close to giving away something personal of himself to anyone, so why this guy, and why now? Tessler pulled his hand free and sat back in his chair to stare at his laptop screen. “You can call me Tessler.”

  Mason must have sensed his irritation and softened his stance in his seat before he finally turned away from him again. Tessler wasn’t annoyed with Mason at all. He was pissed off at himself for being so close to revealing something he never exposed to anyone. Himself.

  “I’m sorry,” Mason said. “I’m not trying to bust your balls.”

  Mason seemed to be collecting his things as if to leave, and Tessler decided to try and change that. “You apologize a lot,” he said.

  “Excuse me?” Mason asked.

  “The other day, you apologized when you fell and then did it again the next time I saw you, too.”

  “I guess I say and do stupid shit when I’m nervous or embarrassed,” Mason explained with a distinctive tightness to his voice.

  Tessler glanced at Mason and their eyes connected. Jesus, there was something about this man that just got under his skin like no one else he’d ever known. Close up, Mason looked a little older than Tessler, maybe his early thirties? It was hard to tell because there was a shadow in his eyes that eluded to the fact his life had several telling stories to it, much like Tessler felt about himself, and those life experiences could age a person. He wondered if that was the case with Mason, as it was with him.

  “Marines?” Tessler asked.

  “Former,” Mason answered, then added, “No longer on active duty.”

  “Because of the leg?” Tessler ventured. “I mean, is that why you said former?”

  Mason bowed his head and sighed. “I fucked up my leg during a personal security job in Germany. I fell through the floor of an old theater while it was on fire and busted it in several places.”

  “Jesus, were you also burned in the fire?” Tessler asked.

  Mason absently touched his leg and nodded. “The place was in flames when we fell through the floor, and some of the shit that landed on us was still on fire, which lit up our clothing,” he described. “The burns were the least serious of my injuries; there were others who were burned a lot worse than I was.”

  “Are you talking about the fire in Berlin that trapped the members of Black Ice and Ivory Tower?” Tessler asked.

  Mason was slow to nod. He wasn’t supposed to mention the names of the people who he protected. He’d signed the non-disclosure forms and fully understood what the words on the documents meant, and for that reason, he wouldn’t give specific details of who he was with.

  “Hey, I understand more than most do about confidentiality agreements,” Tessler said. “You don’t have to say anything more about who you were with. I get it.”

  “Doctors wanted to amputate, but I declined their kind offer.” Mason said. “They didn’t expect me to recover enough to walk without being in excruciating pain and thought it would be best if I lost the leg,” he explained. “So, the fact I can even hobble around with this ridiculous cane is kind of a miracle.”

  “I can’t believe you went through that,” Tessler said in disbelief.

  “Frankly, neither can I, but I did and still am, several months after the fact. It’s been a far greater he
ll than Afghanistan ever was.”

  Tessler didn’t know how to respond to any of that. Thank you for your service? Even that seemed grossly inadequate for what Mason had been through in his life.

  “Are you writing for work or for fun?” Mason asked after another pause in their conversation.

  Tessler looked at Mason again and melted from the soft smile curling his lips—lips he wouldn’t mind tasting. “I’m an author, so this is definitely work.”

  Mason nodded. “I’ll let you get to it, then,” he said and started the process of rising to his feet.

  “You’re not bothering me, if you’d like to stay,” Tessler said, hoping it didn’t sound as desperate to Mason as it did to his own ears. Why hadn’t he just begged the man to stay? That might have been the less obvious thing to do.

  “Can I take a raincheck on that?” Mason asked. “BB kicked my ass today, and I really need to head home and put some ice on my leg.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Tessler said and fluffed it off as if he wasn’t disappointed. “I’ll see you around.”

  “I really hope I do,” Mason grinned and stuck his hand out again. “It was nice to finally have a conversation with you, Tessler.”

  The pink color rising up Mason’s throat to heat his cheeks told Tessler the man was just as unhinged as he was, and damn, it felt nice knowing he wasn’t the only one out of sorts. Tessler took Mason’s big hand again and gently shook it before he offered him a smile—a real smile that he actually felt all the way to his core. When was the last time that had happened? Tessler couldn’t be sure of that. All he knew was he wanted to feel this emotion again. Soon.

  Chapter Five

  He grinned the entire time he rode in the backseat of the car Victor had hired to take him to and from all of his appointments from now on. A car and his own driver, Mason chuckled to himself. It almost made him feel like a celebrity except for the busted up leg he could barely move around on and the endless number of medically related appointments he had scheduled each week.

  Mason assumed this was Victor’s way of trying to make things easier for him. After all, this injury was something that had happened on a job—a job he was doing under Victor’s employment. Maybe that was more the reason Victor was helping him out to the extent he was? Nonetheless, he was more than happy it was offered. Taking a taxi everywhere he went was getting expensive, and it would probably be a while before the doctor cleared him to drive a car.

  If he were being completely honest, the smile on Mason’s face had little to do with being chauffeured around in a vehicle nicer than any he’d ever owned. He could blame this unfamiliar feeling running through his system like a new drug solely on Tessler.

  Tessler.

  He tried the name out on his tongue several times like an empty-headed teenager experiencing his first crush. What was next, writing their names together on the front of his English notebook with a big fucking heart around them? Jesus, he needed help with this, but he wasn’t sure he could properly articulate this to anyone, including his therapist. Besides, he wasn’t sure he wanted help with something that made him feel this alive. That’s what this was: a brand new surge of life he hadn’t felt in far too long, even before the fire had knocked him on his ass.

  Mason was still grinning when he limped into the therapist’s office the next day. His therapist, Stacy Cutler, was an older woman, probably close to sixty, with a long list of letters that followed her name, which told Mason she was highly educated and knew what she was doing. That’s what Mason had hoped when he met with her that first time, and he’d been happy with her ever since. Her head was covered in thick curls, and wire-framed glasses complimented her compassionate eyes. She watched him closely as he approached the couch before she leaned back in her leather chair to begin their session. “You look different,” she offered. “Is the physical therapy going well?”

  Mason sat heavily onto the couch adjacent to the therapist and set his cane beside the arm of it. He cleared his throat, then ran his hands down his thighs before he spoke. “I’m definitely seeing improvements with my leg since I started working with BB,” he said.

  “Does the look on your face have anything to do with BB?” she asked. The sound of her tapping pen on her notepad sounded like a dripping faucet in Mason’s head. Drip … drip … drip. Like it was some sort of torture to get him to pour his soul out all over the floor.

  “I’m still not a huge fan of BB as a person,” Mason said. “But professionally, his tactics to get me strong again are working, and I can respect him for that.”

  “Any more panic attacks or nightmares?” Stacy questioned.

  “No more attacks since the one with BB,” Mason admitted, “and just two bad dreams this week. I’ve been doing the breathing you showed me, and I’ve been able to calm myself enough to fall back to sleep both times.”

  “That’s very good, Mason. I’m glad to see the breathing techniques we’ve been practicing are working. I guess that explains why you seem to be more … rested.”

  Mason slid a little lower on the couch and looked at the ceiling. “I met someone,” he said softly, and after what felt like a ten minute pause, he added, “It’s not much at this point, but I find him really interesting.”

  “Is this something you think you’d like to pursue on a romantic level, or is this more of a new friendship?” she asked.

  Mason met her steady gaze and blinked several times. “That’s your first question after I just admitted I was interested in a man?”

  Stacy smiled her typical knowing smile. “Mason, I work with people who identify as all types of sexualities,” she explained. “I’m not especially concerned with who you’re expressing an interest in, but more the fact you have an interest in anyone at all. That shows growth to me since we first started meeting. However, your own response to your statement tells me you’re not as comfortable with the ‘who’ as I am, so why don’t we start with that? Have you had relationships with men before, or is this something new?”

  Mason shifted uncomfortably on the couch. “I’ve hooked-up with a few guys but haven’t had a relationship with any of them, and I’m not implying that’s something I’m considering even now.”

  “What about women?” Stacy asked. “Have you been in a long-term relationship with a woman?”

  “Twice.”

  “Then, you identify as bisexual?” she asked.

  Mason nodded. “I guess so.” He exhaled loudly in frustration. “Labeling myself isn’t something I’ve ever given any thought to, and I haven’t been with a man in a long time. Actually, I haven’t been with anyone in a quite a while.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “I’ve either been busy working or deployed in the Middle East, and for the last several months, I’ve been recovering from this leg injury,” he said and shrugged.

  “Is it possible you’ve been avoiding relationships or intimacy in general?” Stacy questioned.

  Mason opened up his mouth to answer and then changed his mind. He thought about Stacy’s last question and wondered how much truth was hidden behind her words. Had he really been avoiding relationships? Was work just another excuse for him to shut everyone out? He really had been too busy, hadn’t he?

  “What about your family, Mason? Do they know you’re bisexual?”

  “No,” he answered simply. “I moved out at eighteen, and it was after that when I … hooked-up with a guy for the first time.”

  “Do you think they’d approve?”

  “Not sure,” he said. “I’d like to think they wouldn’t care all that much about who I was with. I know they have a few friends with kids who are gay, so … I don’t know. I haven’t really given it a lot of thought. Maybe that’s because I haven’t met anyone yet—guy or girl, who mattered enough to care what my family might think of them or the fact I’m with them.”

  “Do you think this new man would be open to a relationship?”

  Mason chuckled low and deep in his throat. “We barel
y know each other,” he said. “It’s ridiculously premature to even consider this turning into anything at all—even a friendship. It took three weeks before he’d even talk to me or tell me his name.”

  Stacy smiled at him. “And yet you’re still interested, which tells me you’re feeling something,” she said and pinned him with her clear, blue eyes. “Why don’t you tell me about him.”

  Mason took a long moment to collect his thoughts, then finally he leaned forward and set his elbows on his knees. “He’s so … different. Young. Jesus, he seems so damn young,” Mason scoffed at his last word and rolled his eyes.

  “You’re not that old yourself, Mason,” Stacy countered. “You’re thirty-three, correct?”

  “Thirty-four, which is almost halfway to forty,” Mason elaborated, “and he’s … well, he seems to be in his early twenties, but there is something about him that tells me he’s what you’d call an old soul.”

  Stacy smiled and asked, “What’s his name?”

  “Tessler—just Tessler. Apparently, he doesn’t use a last name,” Mason mumbled. “He’s an author.”

  “I’m familiar with him,” Stacy said.

  “You are?”

  “My husband reads a lot of science fiction, and there are several of Tessler’s books on our shelves at home,” Stacy added. “I’ve been told Tessler has an enormous following similar to that of the Star Wars fan base, so your new friend has managed to accomplish quite a bit in a relatively short amount of time.”