Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
harrison
When I was seven, my parents vacationed in Thailand, and we visited Bangkok for a few days. One of the days, in the late afternoon when the heat was the most oppressive, and the humidity made my mom’s hair frizzy, they took me to the zoo.
I didn’t remember much of the trip, although the monkeys were so like us in their curiosity and movement that they forever remained our cousins in my head.
The thing that stuck with me the most, though, was this cave-like entrance into the terrariums. All the scariest, most interesting spiders and snakes were behind the wooden door, and whenever someone opened it, all I could see was darkness.
To my seven-year-old imagination, there was no limit to what lay beyond the door.
The glass protection of the terrariums was gone, and all the spiders crawled along the ceiling and hid in the corners, and all the snakes were waiting to coil around your feet, and I hadn’t seen anyone come out from the cave, only people going in.
It never occurred to me that it might be a tunnel.
What I knew with the certainty that penetrated into my bones was that this was something very scary, very unwise, but oh so very exciting, so I stepped through the door.
And I stepped into the gym with Taylor walking shoulder-to-shoulder with me.
He ran a hand through his hair, then shook his head so that the floppy locks fell in a particularly careless and effortless way.
We swiped our passes at the entrance and walked down to the locker room, where a few guys were in various states of dressing and undressing.
I tossed my duffel on the bench and pulled the burgundy cashmere sweater over my head, then took off the white undershirt, and tugged down my pants until I was in my underwear, fully aware of Taylor’s measuring look settling on me.
He wanted to see how I worked out so he could change up his routine, so it was only natural that he wanted to see what the results were.
Well, I wasn’t shy. I didn’t mind being seen.
In fact, I liked it. The problem was that I liked it too much, and I easily confused it with another kind of interest.
I dressed quickly, putting on my training clothes and shoes while Taylor began to peel the sweatpants down his legs.
His skin was just as warm on the rest of his body, and his torso was smooth and just a little flushed from earlier when he lay in the sunshine with no protection.
His legs were covered in a scattering of short hair.
When he was dressed, his shorts turned out to be the scantiest scrap of clothing that worked overtime to keep everything packed inside, and I didn’t know how to look away from the bubble butt filling the tight shorts when he knelt to tie his shoelace.
He got up and turned to the locker, scratching his abs lazily with one hand while he rummaged through his bag with the other.
His top was no better than his shorts, sleeveless and with long, deep cutouts for arms that revealed all of his rib cage and, in movement, hid none of the curve of his chest or his small, brown nipples.
He grinned at me. “Show me.”
I drew a wheezing breath of air and swallowed. “Of course. This way.”
He followed me loyally to the line of treadmills, and we took two that were free, side by side.
“Let’s try to break a sweat,” I said, echoing his boasting about how much he could lift.
“Takes work, that,” Taylor joked, then dialed up his treadmill to a speed he was happy with.
He could run faster than I, but that was not a surprise.
I was a big guy. And though Taylor matched my height, he was half my width, cluing me in as to why he wasn’t on the pro team at Elmwood but only occasionally played a game with friends.
He had long legs, defined but not as big and heavy as mine.
He could run like a rabbit, zipping into the horizon before I had a chance to blink.
We ran for a good while until heat was pulsing out of me like I was a shining star, burning up.
It was only when we both stopped that Taylor untied the bandana that had been tied around his bicep and fastened it around his head to soak up the sweat and keep his hair from falling into his eyes.
It was an old thing, faded with sweat and washing and drying and use, but it was purple, and it had a white floral pattern all over it, and it just emphasized how elongated Taylor’s face really was, and how arched and expressive his eyebrows could be, and how fine all his features and how high his cheekbones were.
And that nose. That achingly beautiful, aquiline nose.
I gestured at the benches, then proceeded to take Taylor all around the gym for a tremendously exhausting workout session. It was only when my legs shook with fatigue from Romanian deadlifts that I entertained the idea that I was maybe trying to impress him a little.
Taylor was aware of his strength and his limitations.
He was not aware of the effect he had on me and everyone who found themselves near him.
He was unfairly, frustratingly beautiful, but he was also so bright and smiley that everyone, men and women, turned their attention to him because he looked like he enjoyed it.
And I hated it. I hated that others got to look at him, got to check him out in passing or sneak a look in the mirrors, or come up to him to ask him how many sets he had left.
So far, fake-dating Taylor only managed to leave me feeling jealous, and Emma had barely registered us earlier.
She had waved. I forced my thoughts there while Taylor strapped a belt around his waist on the hip-thrust machine and prepared for a difficult set. It was even more difficult to watch him.
Not many workouts had a sexual appeal in my view.
I wasn’t someone who looked at others when they were in their rawest, most extreme moments in a gym, but Taylor lying on his back and thrusting his hips while sweat soaked his bandana and his mouth worked expressively to keep him breathing was nearly impossible not to associate with other activities.
I crossed my arms on my chest and watched him, nodding encouragement when his gaze flicked to me questioningly.
His legs strained, and his top lifted a little in the movement, abs tense as he lifted the strapped weight high off the bench, his hips rising, his glutes constricting, his crotch outline in shameless detail that kept tugging on my attention.
I refused to look again after making sure his form was good.
And when he was done, he ripped the Velcro belt and sat up, lifting his water bottle off the floor. “Whoa, no wonder you have an ass like that,” he said.
“What?” The word was a whisper, barely audible, escaping my lips before I could force myself to laugh it off.
“Finn pointed it out the night of the dare,” Taylor said conversationally, no hidden meaning to it at all. “He said all you did were glutes and that you couldn’t be all straight.”
“Finn’s clever,” I said. I wasn’t disappointed that this observation didn’t come from Taylor. I was not. In fact, it was a relief. And if I kept telling that to myself, I might start to believe it, too.
We headed back to the locker room, where Taylor stripped down entirely while facing away from me.
His locker was near the door to the showers, and he strolled away with a towel over his shoulder.
His bare ass, firm and round and very nicely defined, was the last thing I saw before he slipped around the corner.
I rubbed my eyes before undressing down to my underwear and letting my towel hang before me. I wasn’t hard. Well, not entirely, at least, but my heart was pounding, and my breath was shallower than at any point during the workout.
After we had showered, we walked into the locker room again. Taylor was in front of me, a towel tied around his waist, drops of water clinging to the vast plain of his upper back, just between his shoulder blades.
“I’m ready to let my soul leave my body,” he said, lifting a pair of bright green boxer briefs from his locker and untying the towel. Thankfully, he still faced away from me as he bent down and stepped into his underwear, pulling them up in one quick, sweeping motion.
I pulled mine on while the towel was still around my waist, and then we both finished dressing in silence.
“I’m starving,” he said as we neared the door. “Let’s have burgers at Calloway’s.”
“I could eat,” I said.
He stretched his arms high above his head, duffel hanging on his lower back, the strap passing across his torso from shoulder to hip. He looked inexplicably cat-like when he stretched and let his arms drop down again. “There isn’t a part of me that isn’t exhausted.”
“Just wait for tomorrow,” I said. “You won’t be able to get up.”
“I can always get it up,” he said in an off-handed manner.
I gave him a deadpan, do-I-look-entertained look, but he laughed.
“I crack myself up,” he said.
“It’s never boring in there, is it?” I asked, pointing at his head.
“Not a day passes that I don’t make myself laugh and that I don’t give myself a compliment,” he said wisely, making me break at last.