3. Henry #2
Taking off my shoes, I slip them onto the rack beside the door, then quickly strip and take a fast, cold shower. Hot water in the building is sketchy at best, but at this time of night it’s entirely dependent on how much water is left in the tank, which isn’t usually much, if any at all.
Once I’m clean, I fold my dirty laundry and put it in the bag I keep beside the bed.
The apartment isn’t big enough to have a closet, so I keep my clean stuff in stackable totes in the corner.
My clothes aren’t fancy, but everything I have, I’ve scrimped and saved to buy myself, and I’m painstakingly careful not to stain or ruin any of them because I have no idea when I’ll have enough spare cash to buy myself anything else.
My home is painstakingly organized. When I left foster care at eighteen, I did it with little more than the clothes on my back and my schoolbooks. The things I have now might not seem like much to most people, but they’re mine, and I’m incredibly possessive of my meager belongings.
Since my brief stay with the Wilsons, sleeping naked will probably never be something I’m comfortable with.
So, I grab a pair of warm, fleece Christmas pajamas that I got from Target in January from one of the totes and pull them on.
They’re two sizes too big for me, but they were such a bargain that I brought them anyway.
I have to roll the waist so they don’t fall down and the top is enormous, but I don’t care.
They’re warm and comfortable, and I love wearing them even when it’s nowhere near Christmas.
Climbing into bed, I snuggle down beneath my comforter and close my eyes. An image of Anders fills my head, and for the first time, when I fall asleep, I dream of something different than kind and gentle.
Jolting awake, I cringe at the cold sweat that’s coating my skin, making the thick fleece of my pj’s clammy and damp.
The alarm on my cellphone is screaming loudly, but that’s not what woke me; it’s the vivid memories of my dreams that are stampeding through my thoughts and making my already hard dick pulse and beg for release.
I’m a twenty-two-year-old man. I’ve been waking up hard since I was a teenager, but not like this. Never like this. My balls are aching with the need to come, like I’ve been on edge for hours, and maybe I have.
As I try to forget all the dirty images that my mind conjured up last night, memories of my dream start to roll through my thoughts like a film.
Anders stripping my clothes. Anders demanding I present myself to him.
Anders grasping my cock and cupping my balls.
Anders sliding slippery fingers down my crease.
Anders, pushing his fingers into me. Anders working my cock while he stretched and opened me up for him.
Anders pushing between my legs and inching into me.
Anders, Anders, Anders.
Usually, my fantasies consist of nothing more than soft kisses, gentle caresses, and a sweet release with a faceless lover.
But last night was completely different.
Even now that the remnants of sleep are melting from me, I still feel hot and needy, my body anxious and prepped for a ravishment that I know won’t be happening.
In my dreams I felt the firm grip of his hand on my cock. I can remember the sound of the stern growl in his words when he demanded I comply. I can still feel the way he used me, like I was his to do with what he pleased.
None of it really happened, but I still feel…dirty and owned and like I want to beg him to do it all over again, even if it’s only in the space between awake and asleep.
When my cell phone starts to scream again, I drag my clammy self from the bed and strip out of my thick pajamas.
Glancing at the time on my cell, I decide I’d rather power walk to the bus depot than spend the rest of the day feeling like I’m being owned by the spirit of my dream.
So, I turn on the water and take a two-minute, freezing cold shower.
My teeth are chattering by the time I wrap my naked skin in a towel, but I don’t care.
Opening the plastic tote that sits at the top of the pile, I take out clean underwear and socks and pull them on.
Spraying myself with dollar store deodorant, I find clean navy-blue slacks, a white button-down, and a burgundy-red knit sweater that I brought from a discount clothing store and quickly get dressed.
I look a little preppy, but at least my clothes are neat and clean.
Slipping on my shoes, I throw together a peanut butter sandwich and grab the last apple from the bag I snagged in the reduced section at the grocery store on my way out the door.
I barely make my bus, but by the time I climb down the steps in Rockhead Point, I’m feeling almost normal and fully determined to pretend that the dream I had last night never happened.
The moment I get to the garage, Parker asks me to go out in the breakdown truck with her and I agree, even though I have zero knowledge about cars or how to fix them.
“Dinner was fun last night; I’d like to do it again soon if you want to?” Parker says the moment she pulls the recovery truck onto the street.
“I’d like that. I’m not great with new people, but…” I don’t want to admit that I’ve never had a friend or gush over how much I want to be her friend. So instead, I press my lips together, not wanting to make myself sound like even more of an idiot than I already have.
“I don’t know why, but it feels like we’ve known each other before, not like we only met yesterday,” she confesses with a small smile, and she sounds almost as happy about that as I feel.
“Yes,” I agree quickly, mirroring her smile back at her.
Neither of us speaks for a moment, and I wonder if I somehow made it awkward, but then her lips curl into a wide smirk. “Soooo,” she drags out the word. “What did you think of Anders?”
My eyes go wide and I blurt, “He’s terrifying.” Then immediately slap my hand over my mouth.
“Like terrifyingly hot? Because that man is gorgeous,” she says on a giggle.
I wasn’t talking about how good-looking he is, although there’s no denying he’s absolutely gorgeous. “He looks like he should be in that show, Vikings. I’ve never met anyone with hair that naturally blond,” I admit, feeling heat fill my cheeks.
“Do you like him?” she asks tentatively.
“You never finished telling me about Danny,” I say in deflection.
“I was talking about Anders,” she says, turning the conversation straight back to the man who ravished me in my dreams last night.
“Yeah, but you were in the middle of telling me what happened between you guys when they showed up last night. So, you have to finish first,” I say with a smile, hoping and praying that she takes the bait and doesn’t make me talk about all the confusing things Anders makes me feel.
After we tow the broken-down car back to the garage, I head into the office and spend the rest of the day preparing invoices, organizing the paperwork for the next day, and sending out reminder texts to the customers who are scheduled to bring their cars in later in the week.
Working at the garage isn’t taxing, but I enjoy the quiet office and relaxed environment.
After I graduated college and started working with the temp agency, I spent months flitting from company to company, covering vacation time and unexpected sickness, but the work rarely lasted more than a week at a time until I came here.
Bay and Penn Barnett are both really great people, and if there was a way that I could figure out how to take the permanent job they’ve offered me, I would.
Unfortunately, the two-hour round-trip bus trip is exhausting and expensive, and rent for an apartment in Rockhead Point is more than triple what I pay for my place in Bozeman.
Even if I could afford the monthly rental cost, it’d take me at least a year to save the money for the first and last months’ deposit.
When the clock hits six p.m. I close down my computer, double check all my paperwork is in order, then head into the breakroom to grab my backpack from my locker. Both Bay and Parker are still working on cars when I step into the shop. “Hey, do you need me to stay until you’re finished?” I ask Bay.
“No, it’s fine. I’ll let Mr. Waverman and Mrs. Cruz know that they need to come back in the morning to settle up,” Bay assures me. “See you tomorrow.”
“Okay, see you tomorrow,” I say, waving goodbye as I step out onto the sidewalk.
The sun has dipped low in the sky by the time I get to the bus stop.
The next bus won’t be here for twenty minutes, so I sit down on a bench and pull out my book.
Focusing on the print, I try to lose myself in the story, but every few minutes I lose track of the words and check my surroundings instead.
I don’t know why, but a part of me thought I might see Anders again today. It’s stupid to imagine he’d seek me out, but the lingering effects of last night’s dreams have plagued me all day, and even though I’ve thrown myself into my work, he’s been constantly on my mind.
Deep down, I know that a man like Anders would never be interested in me, but my reaction to him and the fantasy I had about him last night shocked me.
I think a part of me hoped to see him today so I could prove to myself that my response to him was an aberration, a one-off, and not me developing an unhealthy crush on a man who may not even be into men and who is so far out of my league we’re barely even playing the same sport.
He’s the NFL, and I’m peewee football. There’s no comparison.
When my bus arrives, I’m grateful to climb aboard and sink down into my seat. But as the bus pulls away from the curb, I swear I see a glimpse of a broad back and white-blond hair standing on the opposite side of the road.