Second Chances (3 page)

I didn’t remember this place being here last time I was in the Cheshire Bridge area. There used to be titty bars and head shops and a couple of bathhouses there back in the day. But not now—the streets were cleaner and the units were nice, graffiti-free and brand-new. The door opened and
hot damn
, that was Antonio?

He was almost six feet tall, head shaved with just a light peach fuzz starting to grow back in. Sharp Roman nose and angular features, tattoos on his forearms and neck. Deep-set blue eyes. I couldn’t really tell much about the body because he was wearing a T-shirt about three sizes too big and sleep pants and no shoes. And a huge smile.

“Mark, glad to meet you, man.” His voice was nice, deep, no trace of an accent. “Come in.”

I walked in and looked around. There wasn’t much furniture in the place, a leather couch and loveseat, a table in the dining area, a six foot table with a laptop and printer and God knows what all attached to it that took up the whole space. The kitchen area, right off the entryway, looked empty. All I saw there was a microwave and coffeemaker. Nothing else on the counters.

Off to one side, there was a hallway with what looked like two bedrooms, both doors closed, and a bath. There was a little sunroom with great windows on three sides, covered with mini blinds. In it sat a massage table. The lighting was low and there was Enya on the stereo. Of course.

“Sit down and let’s talk for a few minutes. Want something to drink?” he asked.

“Sure. Have some water?”

He pointed to the sofa and motioned for me to sit, and went into the kitchen. Damn, still couldn’t tell much about his ass with those baggy sleep pants. Oh well, I was here for a massage anyway, I thought.

He came back with a bottle of water for me and a glass of red wine for himself. Italian men and wine—what a damned nice combination. Made my mind wander and I thought about villas and vineyards and pasta. Wonder if he cooks too?

“So talk to me, Mark. What do you do? What brings you here?” He sat on the other end of the sofa.

“I handle all the financial stuff for a nonprofit, and right now it’s driving me crazy. Too much to do and not enough manpower to make it happen. I’m working almost every day, and have been for the past two months. Some personal shit’s going on too, so my stress level’s off the charts right now.” I took a swallow of water.

He glanced at me, looking up and down my body, and damn if that didn’t make me flush a little. “Well, we can definitely do something about that tonight. Sounds like you work way too hard. Can’t someone else help? Hope you’re getting paid for it at least.”

I laughed hard. “Riiight. I work for a nonprofit. That means I take what little they offer and work ’til I drop. But yeah, I can handle it, because it doesn’t happen like this all the time. It’s just a really stressful time right now.”

He reached over and squeezed my forearm and looked me right in the eye. “Yeah, I understand all that, but who’s making sure you take care of yourself? Because you can’t do it all alone.”

Damn. The focus in his eyes was almost unnerving. I was only here for the massage, but this guy seemed to want to know more than I wanted to share.

But really, how long was it since somebody sat down and actually asked about
me
? God, I felt so pathetic sometimes. Since I kicked Brian out in January, it’d been months since I’d spent time anywhere other than at work, with Mom or the family, or at home. And the dogs, they don’t talk so much.

“It’ll be okay. I have another two weeks of serious long days, and then it’ll ease up. But then I have to think about—” and I stopped. He didn’t need to know about Mom.

But he caught it and asked, “What?”

“Nothing. Just… other things. So tell me about you. You make good money doing this? Has to be hard, there must be a thousand massage guys in this city.” I laughed. “I know I talked to two others earlier when we were chatting and I see the chat rooms full every damn time I’m online.”

He frowned. “It’s hard as hell. Most of those guys on there call themselves massage therapists, but not a damn one of them are licensed. I am.” He pointed to a framed certificate on the wall over his computer. “They also fucking undercut me and charge fifty bucks for a session, and from what I hear all you get’s a quick rubdown and a handjob, and sent on your way after twenty minutes. With me, you get a great massage for an hour and there isn’t any funny business.”

I didn’t know whether to say
Amen
or
Shit
. “You must be doing okay, though. This’s a nice property here, and the rent can’t be cheap.”

“I do okay.” He shrugged. “Business is steady, and I get a lot of callbacks. I prefer to do incalls so I don’t have to lug the table around, but outcalls can make me a lot more money. It covers the rent, bills and child support.”

So that answers
that
question. Straight. Maybe bi but telling me
that
this early was shutting it down. Straight. Well, good. It’s not like I had a chance with a guy like this, anyway.

I mean, I’m okay, but nothing to write home about. A couple of inches over six feet tall, furry. Not built, and in fact a couple of extra pounds from eating way too much takeout lately and not enough exercise. Buzz cut and a goatee. But I’m told my best feature is my steely gray eyes that have the tint of blue in them.

“You have a…?” I left it open-ended.

“Son. He’s eight years old. Lives with his mom and her boyfriend in Alpharetta. And no, I am not gay. Or bi.” His eyes laughed at me. Fucker. “Love the ladies. Especially after they’ve been walking in their high heels around the mall for a few hours shopping. You know what I mean.”

His grin was contagious.

“No, really can’t say as I do. Maybe a guy who’s been working out at the gym for a couple of hours and’s in the sauna, though,” I volleyed. Ball in your court now, young son.

“You say potato, I say po-
tah
-to,” he laughed. “You told me you don’t have any health issues to worry about. Any specific areas you want me to focus on?”

“My neck and lower back are killing me, to be honest. With all this worrying about my mom, I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in two months.” Damn it, I was getting too comfortable here. With him. What the fuck was wrong with me?

“Something’s wrong with your mom?” His concern sounded real.

Damn. I thought about it for a long minute, and took a deep breath. Fuck it.

“She’s dying. She has liver failure and she was in a coma and she just woke up today and we’re taking her home and she’s going to die in the next little while.” It all came out in one rushed mouthful, all flat and solid. I hoped.

His look was unexpected. Compassion, without pity. Caring, sympathetic even. Those blue eyes saw me, and it felt good to be… connected.

“I lost my dad when I was a teenager. I remember how tough it is.” He stood up and reached down for my hand. “Come on, let me take care of you.”

Lying bare-assed on a massage table wasn’t something I was used to. I liked,
needed
, to be in control, and this was an uncomfortable position. Antonio moved around behind me, then away. There was a ding from the microwave and he was back. I heard a pop from a lid, a wet noise, and I thought,
Oh God
. This was too close to something I hadn’t had in too long.

Then there was warm oil on my back, and big strong hands moved across my shoulders and the back of my neck. I felt the muscles there unknot and relax, and by the time he moved to my arms there was a little bit of drool falling from my mouth.

His hands could have bent metal. Ripped car doors off. Punched holes in brick walls. They were warm and healing and oh-so-strong. And then he had me turn over. My whole body felt like spaghetti noodles boiled for an hour. I lost track of time as the worry faded.

His hands started again on my chest and arms, and what little tension I carried in me melted away. I finally opened my eyes a little and he’d taken his shirt off. God, he was beautiful. A light dusting of hair across a solid chest and stomach, not ripped but looking like a man who worked with his body for a living. Total concentration on his face. If I wasn’t so relaxed I’d have popped a boner. My eyes closed again and I drifted along with… The Carpenters?

He liked The Carpenters?
Well, I’ll be damned
. Those hands made me forget about that, too. He worked on my fingers, squeezed and rubbed. He moved up my arms, then down to my thighs. My calves unknotted under his touch and then my feet. Damn, he spent about ten minutes just on my feet. I thought I’d fall asleep. It felt like I was floating.

Just when I thought he was finished, there was a warm, slick hand on my crotch. I started, moved to get up, but then I heard his voice. “Shhh. Let me take care of you. It’s okay. It’s been a tough day. Shhh.” And I relaxed and let it happen.

I didn’t even open my eyes. Just laid there and felt his strong hands rub my balls and run up and down my dick. As it hardened, he added a little more warm oil and stroked.

In slow, long strokes, his warm, sure hand ran from the root of my cock to the head. The pressure was just right, and before I knew it the orgasm eased out of me gently, no more than a sigh compared to others that made me scream out and cuss. But it was just what I needed.

“Stay.” He pressed one hand on my chest like he was holding me to the table somehow, and his steps faded as he moved away. Water ran, and he was back with a washcloth, gently cleaning me off.

“Lay there for a couple of minutes, then get up and you can get dressed. I’m going to get you another bottle of water and me some wine and we can talk.”

I
SAT
on the couch, relaxed but a little unsettled. What the fuck just happened? My gaydar was either broken or he flew the hell under it. Or he was straight but… something? I glanced down at my watch and saw I’d been there over two hours. He came back in, closed the door, and sat down on the loveseat.

“Feeling better? How’s your stress level? The back better?” he asked.

“Yeah. Gonna sleep like a baby tonight.” I looked up and didn’t see anything on his face but concern. Maybe a little curiosity and a little excitement.

“I’ve got something I want to show you. If you have a minute. It’s something that means a lot to me and I think you might like it.”

How could I say no? I nodded.

“Okay,” he said, and went to the computer table and came back with what looked like a deck of cards. He took them out of the box and started shuffling them.

“These’re angel cards. There’s a meaning that’s specific to each card. Here,” he fanned the deck out. “Pick three. They’ll tell you what you need in your life right now.”

I pulled out three at random and looked. Compassion. Hope. Healing.

He looked up the meanings in a small book and read them to me. I only heard his voice, not the words, because the cards themselves were works of art. Each had a beautiful painting. A beautiful angel with wings, comforting a man in distress. Laying on hands. Hugging.

It was all too much. And too close to home. I stood up and knew I needed to get going.

“Antonio, thank you so much for the massage,” I blurted. “It was just what I needed, and I feel like a million bucks. But I’m about to fall asleep, and I have to work in the morning.”

I counted out a hundred and fifty bucks and gave to him. To my surprise, he tossed the money on the counter, not counting it and grabbed me in a rough hug.

“I like you, Mark, and I hope you’ll come see me again. You’re a nice guy and you have an old soul. I hope we can be friends.”

What. The. Fuck?

“I’d like that.” I was confused, and shit,
way
too tired and drained to think.

“Call me to let me know you got home. I don’t like that you have to drive.” He looked concerned as he walked me to the door.

I just stared, nodded, and left before something truly fucked up came out of my mouth.

But I called him when I got home to let him know I was safe.

December 2000

I’
D
BEEN
back to see Antonio several times since that massage. It was funny though, neither of us ever acknowledged that he jerked me off. It hadn’t happened again, and I didn’t know whether to be relieved or pissed off.

I scheduled for eight in the evening every time, and he seemed to be okay with it. It let me take care of the things I needed to do—finish work, feed my dogs, then drive back into the city. But I never spent less than three hours there.

We always took a while to talk before he started the massage. “How was your day? How’s your mom?” were always the first questions he asked. The fact that someone, anyone, was concerned about me was nice. And I felt really comfortable around him, more than I thought I would as a client. I think that’s why I started taking the glass of wine he offered. But no damn way was I going to let him put ice cubes in
my
merlot. That shit was wrong. And nasty.

So I took the wine and filled him in on the news. Bitched about work, told him how the week had gone. Because, yeah, Dan had been right and the massages
did
help me manage my stress. The conversation made me feel human again.