The next day, Wobbles got up early, despite a night tossing and turning. Emery would be over in thirty, a bit before the massage, so he cracked eggs into his skillet and looked down at them with determination. I can do this, he said, staring down at the eggs. I am an adult. I am more than capable of scrambling an egg.

Or so he thought.

At first, things were going great. Eggs were bubbling on the stove and the microwavable bacon he’d bought was heating up. But then he heard knocking on the front door. Emery was here. His heart jumped, well, more than usual, and he headed over to answer it. He threw open the door, and Emery stood at the threshold wearing a tight shirt and snug jeans. Once again, he found himself eyeing Emery’s body, shocked by the tone of his muscles. But more than that was his smile. It made his blue-green eyes light up like gemstones. Wait, why am I checking out Emery?  he asked himself in frustration. Damn, he was thinking with his dick again.

“Um,” Emery said.

“Oh, yeah.” Wobbles stepped to the side. “Come on in.”

“Your skillet is on fire.” The words were punctuated by the sound of his fire alarm.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Yanking at his blue hair, he rushed in, tripping over his bunny slippers. He took the skillet off the burner and dumped it in the sink. “Last time it was pancakes, this time it’s eggs. And these fire alarms should be called ‘shit cook’ alarms.”

“That’s it, when you’re not rehearsing, I’m giving you cooking lessons.” With a paternal sigh, Emery watched him scoop out charred eggs. “You’re either going to die by fire or by food poisoning. I cannot in good conscience leave for New York with you like this.”

“Then don’t go,” Wobbles blurted out.

This time meeting his eyes with a raised brow, Emery asked, “Why are you trying so hard to keep me from going?”

Suddenly, he lost all human speaking capabilities. He opened and shut his mouth several times, unable to admit a reason, even to himself. But thankfully, he didn’t have to stew like a hunk of meat. Someone knocked at the door, and he had a feeling it was the masseur. Grateful, he let the topic go and padded to the front door.

He was met with a very thin Korean girl with her black hair cut into a bob. Her auburn eyes were warm and soft, and she somehow managed to carry a hefty backpack. “I’m Donna. I’m here to give a massage.”

“Come in.” Stepping to one side, he allowed Donna into his apartment and pointed at Emery. “You’ll be massaging him.”

“Is doing it right here okay?” she asked.

Before he could even answer, she unfolded her backpack, which surprisingly turned out to be a portable massage table. She dug around in her purse and pulled out a bunch of oils. Her eyes raked Emery, and something predatory roared in his chest.

With her eyes still on Emery, she said, “Please remove your shirt and come lay here.”

For a moment Wobbles remained focused on the burning rage roaring in his chest, but when Emery grabbed the bottom of his shirt and hauled it over his head, he was struck dumb and deaf—but thankfully, not blind. Emery’s muscles managed to make his dick jump in his pants, a secret he concealed by standing behind the counter. But when she poured oil on his back and began to rub her wet hands along the long, sinewy muscles of his back, a breath escaped his lips. Damn, what the hell was wrong with him lately? He licked his lips all the same. The lady leaned closer, fingers running down his spine.

For a moment the angry monster in him growled louder, but then the burning, acid feeling disappeared like he’d eaten a whole container of Tums. He imagined it was his hands running along Emory’s back, touching him, feeling him. And he wouldn’t stop at just his back. He’d feel his legs too. His cock received a sudden rush of blood flow as he squirmed, grateful that Emery couldn’t see him.

“While you do this, I’m, ugh, going to take a shower.” Normally, he wouldn’t abandon someone in his apartment, but he couldn’t let the manager see his hard on. Normally, when he had a stiffy, he could beat it off single handedly, but not while Donna was here. So that meant only one thing—a cold shower.

After he turned it on, he stood beneath the icy spray, eyes squeezed shut. He tried to think of people he found unattractive. Any woman. A man who’d just eaten a whole container of Cheese Whiz, a corpse, Kanye West. Yeah, that did the trick. It took him several minutes to climb out and dress. When he came out of the bathroom, the masseuse was gone. Emery sat on the couch, even now sitting like his spine was made from a metal rod.

“How’d it feel?” he asked as a way of greeting. Emery didn’t look like spaghetti. Not cooked spaghetti, at any rate.

“You’ll laugh.” Like a lover settling on a cock, Emery wiggled from side to side.

“Why?” When he reached the counter, he leaned against it, trying to pretend he hadn’t been sporting an erection over this guy thirty minutes ago.

“I’ve done an Ironman, but that woman’s massage was more grueling.” With a frown, Emery swung his arm in circles like a helicopter. “She put me through muscle hell.”

“But she was tiny,” he said, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. It was hard to believe a woman so small could pack so much of a punch. But, hey, it was possible. He’d been beaten up by a girl in primary school.

“Well, she must have learned her massage technique in Auschwitz,” he said.

Before he could even think, he blurted out. “I’ll give you a massage some time, then.” Shit, what was he thinking? The sight of him had driven him crazy. How was he supposed to touch Emery and handle it?

“You? Give me a massage?” Silence fell as Emery held his gaze. The air became so electric it could have powered China, but he couldn’t back out now.

“Yeah.” Though he wasn’t willing to admit the only massages he knew how to give were sexual.

Several more beats of silence fell. Wobbles hated it. Maybe Emery could see right through him. He always seemed to. But then Emery was looking away.

“I hope you’re better at massages than cooking,” Emery said with a wicked grin.

With a sigh of relief, he felt his muscles relax.