Chapter Eight One of the Worst Massages in Human History #4
“I’m just not sure where he could’ve gone.” Brandon’s voice echoes down the hallway again.
“Okay, well, just wait for him. He’s probably in the bathroom or something,” another voice replies.
In one swift movement, Owen grabs the collar of Jacob’s robe, pulling the both of them into the storage closet. It’d been
cramped enough when it was just Owen hiding in here, but with Jacob, Owen has a choice to make.
Let the bin filled with damp laundry continue to dig into his back, sending a sharp pain all the way down to his ankles? Or
keep his body right up against Jacob, unable to keep their stomachs from pressing against each other?
“You know, I always told myself I’d never go back into the closet,” Jacob jokes, the angle they’re stuck at forcing him to
look right down at Owen. Owen can feel the heat of Jacob’s laughter on the bare skin of his throat.
Meanwhile, Owen is forced to stare at Jacob’s round pecs, the top of the robe opened just enough to give Owen the perfect view of his bushy chest hair.
Jesus Christ. Owen swallows before shushing Jacob. Quiet, he mouths.
“I don’t think it’s that—” Jacob starts to say before Owen reaches up with a hand, cupping it around Jacob’s mouth to silence
him.
“Shhh!” Owen shushes as the voices get closer.
“You gonna do anything fun while they’re all off deck tomorrow?” Brandon’s friend asks him.
“Hell yeah, dude. Caroline’s coming to my room, she’s got her stash with her, and we’re not leaving till she’s walking crook—”
Owen’s grateful that he misses the last part of Brandon’s grand plans.
“So . . . come here often?” Jacob asks, voice muffled by Owen’s hand.
Owen’s brows furrow. “You’re not funny.”
“Hey, you pulled me in here with you,” Jacob so helpfully reminds him. “You know you could just . . . tell the guy that you don’t want the massage.”
Owen glares up at Jacob, all too aware of how close they are, careful of where he rests his knee as it starts to feel tighter.
“Why didn’t I think of that?”
“Right, you never were the best at that.”
“I’ve made strides,” Owen says. “I’m not afraid to send my coffee back when a barista mixes up my order.”
“Wow! Color me impressed,” Jacob says with this sort of enthusiasm that feels as genuine as it does sarcastic.
Owen hates how warm the words make him feel. Growing up he barely heard those kinds of things from his parents. In the earliest
days of their relationship, Owen had been so embarrassed every time Jacob called him cute or said that he had done a good
job, the words stirring such a confusing cocktail of shame and euphoria that Owen didn’t know what else to do besides shut
down.
“Thanks.” He swallows, moving his knee again, resting his ass against a pile of robes.
Then Jacob grunts.
“What is it?” Owen asks.
“You, uh . . .” Jacob stammers. It’s hard to tell in the light, but Owen’s sure the man is blushing. “Your knee is in my crotch.”
“Oh, fuck! Sorry!” Owen reacts too quickly, stumbling back and nearly falling. Again. This time, he catches himself on the
cart, which forces him to fall back onto the pile of discarded towels waiting to be cleaned.
“Oof!” Jacob grunts again as Owen’s foot makes hard contact with his groin.
“Are you okay?” Owen tries to pick himself up, but the towels spill from underneath him.
“Yeah, yeah.” Jacob winces for a bit before he relaxes. “This might be the first time I’m grateful I don’t have balls.”
“I’m so sorry, Jacob.” Owen does his best to pull himself out of the laundry cart, but he can’t find the room to maneuver
in the tight closet, not until Jacob offers him a hand. “Thanks.”
In one fluid movement, Owen’s pulled out of the cart with nowhere to land except face-first into Jacob’s chest. It’s like
he’s living in a slapstick routine. Jacob’s chest was always a favorite of the most primal caveman parts of Owen’s brain.
He used to love burying his face in Jacob’s pecs, whether it was in a sexual context or not, nose pressed against Jacob’s
skin and breathing him in deeply.
Owen looks up at him, grateful for the darkness of the room, otherwise the beet-red color of his face would be way more obvious. Then Jacob starts to laugh. Not at Owen, just at the absurdity of the moment. And Owen feels the shame and embarrassment leave his body, Jacob’s hands coming
more firmly around him. Jacob’s laughter is infectious, and before too long, Owen is joining him, even daring to let his head
fall forward, resting it on Jacob’s shoulder as he breathes in the warm sound of Jacob’s giggles.
It’s so right that it hurts, as though Owen belongs next to Jacob like this, slotting perfectly against Jacob’s body.
“You think we’re in the clear?” Jacob asks, Owen only able to focus on the rise and fall of his chest, how warm their open-mouthed
breathing has made the room.
Even in the darkness, Jacob’s eyes seem to light up.
He doesn’t want to reply, because he does think they’re finally in the clear, but he doesn’t want this moment to end. Owen wants it to last forever, to be trapped in
this room that reeks of mildewy robes and chemicals. It should be one of the last places that Owen wants to spend eternity.
And yet, if he got to spend that eternity next to Jacob, he has to figure that it wouldn’t be so bad.
Instead, he says, “Probably.” Pulling away from Jacob finally, Owen watches as the man awkwardly shifts his hand, barely gliding
against Owen’s waist. For a moment, just a moment, Owen thinks something is about to happen. His muscle memory takes over,
his neck craning, head tilting. Then he hears the click of the door behind him, and he realizes that Jacob was reaching for the doorknob.
Right, Owen thinks. I’m supposed to hate him.
Owen lets out a quiet sigh, only realizing that something is wrong when the clicking of the doorknob continues.
“Jacob?”
“Um . . .” Jacob looks down at him sheepishly, his arm still half-wrapped around Owen’s body as he pushes a bit harder against
the door. “I think we’re stuck.”
They’re only trapped for about ten minutes.
But in the dark, cramped room, pressed right against the chest of the man he’s not supposed to have feelings for, ten minutes
feels like an eternity to Owen. Thankfully, while they left their phones in their lockers, Jacob didn’t take off his smartwatch.
Meaning he’s able to—very slowly—write out a message to Kaitlyn on the limited screen, forced to go letter by letter with
his thick finger.
“Can’t you just do the dictation thing?” Owen asks, praying that he’ll speed things up.
“No, uh . . . that stopped working a few years ago, remember?”
Indeed, Owen does remember, when Jacob went to swim at the Y and forgot to take the watch off.
“You still haven’t gotten a new one?” Owen asks.
Jacob shrugs. “You gave me this one.”
Oh. Owen pauses, heart thudding heavy in his chest.
“Jacob?” Kaitlyn’s voice comes in loud and clear from the other side of the door. “Helloooo?” Owen can tell she’s trying to
avoid suspicion.
“Here!” Jacob says, knocking. “In here.”
The door handle twists a few times, and for a moment, Owen thinks that Kaitlyn’s going to have to get the spa staff to help
her, but then there’s a click and the door opens wide, Kaitlyn standing there to greet them with a sly smile on her face as she takes in the scene in front
of her.
“Well, well . . . what’s all this, then?” she asks, putting on a thick Cockney accent, leaning against the doorframe before
Owen pushes past her.
“We got stuck,” Owen explains quickly.
“Together . . . in a small . . . cramped . . . closet . . .” She leaves plenty of space for meaning between each of the words.
“Nothing happened,” Jacob insists.
“I didn’t say anything,” Kaitlyn says in her defense.
“No, but you insinuated.” Owen glowers at her.
“I think she was implying, actually,” Jacob corrects. Because he can’t help himself.
“Whatever.” Owen crosses his arms. “Thanks.”
“How’d that happen?” Kaitlyn asks.
“I was hiding from an obsessive masseuse,” Owen tells her. “Jacob was just collateral damage.”
“Hey, I was helpful!” Jacob reminds him.
Kaitlyn hesitates, eyeing the both of them silently. Like she doesn’t believe Owen for a second.
“Okay, well . . .” Owen straightens. “If you’ll both excuse me, I’m going to take the mineral bath that I came here for.”
He barely gets the words out before he’s pushing past the Morrison siblings. Jacob opens his mouth like he wants to tell Owen
to stop, but he doesn’t say anything.
He just lets Owen go.