Page 25 of Wood

Ben smirks. “Teammate,” he corrects, then turns to me, his eyes rolling. “Mustang?”

“Yeah, big and black and loud,” I reply, and the salesman re-evaluates.

“Will you be trading in?” he asks, his eyes flicking to the silver Prius.

“Yep,” I reply. “I’ll pay the rest in cash.”

He blinks.

“Let’s see your used inventory, Myron,” Ben demands.

Holy fuck, I love this car. Deep and rumbling, just like I wanted. After driving the Prius, this is just out-fucking-standing. I’ve never driven something with so much raw power. I could get hard just from the sound of it. I rev at a red light and Ben laughs out loud.

“Because you can,” he laughs. He is sitting with his knee turned toward me, not touching, window cracked just enough that I catch his cologne every time the air shifts. Every time I move the stick, his eyes drop to my hand for a second before they come back up.

He’s got his arm braced along the console, close enough that if either of us leaned even a little, we’d be touching. Neither of us leans. I keep both hands on the wheel, eyes on the road.

We zoom up I-70, passing Subarus and minivans galore.

“You’ll want a radar detector,” he laughs. “We’ll get that ordered when we get home.”

“Enabler,” I tease.

“I remember twenty-one,” he laughs, then admits, “and I have one in the Porsche.”

We pull the car into the driveway. “I’ll get you a garage door opener,” he states, hopping out to open the side door. Then the garage door slides up and I pull in next to his gleaming black Cayenne Turbo.

Sexy as fuck.

Ben’s neighborhood has a private clubhouse with a decent gym. It’s a smaller building, single story, log with some decent landscaping out front, more like a rec center than anything grand. Glass double doors, a keypad that Ben taps a code into without looking, and inside it’s just quiet. A carpeted lobby has a couple of leather chairs nobody sits in, a bulletin board with community stuff pinned up, a flyer for a wine tasting.

The weight room is through a second set of doors, a decent-sized room, maybe two dozen machines, a couple of racks for squats, a rack of dumbbells that goes respectably heavy, a couple of those big exercise balls nobody ever uses stacked in the corner. Mirrors on one wall, rubber flooring, a TV mounted up high playing the news with no sound. The interior smells like clean sweat and whatever spray they wipe the machines down with.

There are nicer touches here and there that give it away. Actual folded towels in a stack instead of a paper towel roll, a water cooler with lemon slices floating in it, a little basket of rolled washcloths by the sink. Not fancy, just a step up, the kind of place that makes you feel like your homeowner dues are doing something, even if you can’t say exactly what.

There are a couple of other people around. A woman on the elliptical watching something on her phone and an older guy doing slow, methodical reps on the rowing machine like he’s got nowhere to be. Ben grabs a bench like he’s done it a hundred times and I hang back a second longer than I need to, watching him before I mentally shake myself into action.

I know most of the equipment from my college rec center and what I don’t know, YouTube fills in. I’m sitting on the lat pull bench while Ben does some tricep pull-downs on a pulley across from me. I try to keep my eyes from his flexing arms. And fail. Jeezus fuck he is so hot. The salt in his temples and beard are mesmerizing, and I want to reach out and stroke… fuck. Focus, Geoff, get your body harder like he wants.

Ben and I put together a training and diet regimen, and I love it. This is fascinating stuff, and I may try going back to school for this after… after Ben is either done or done with me.

Someone’s little kid is bouncing around on a mini trampoline, his shaggy blond hair flapping as he jumps, giggling. He leaps off and crashes into me.

“Whoa there, buddy,” I chuckle, setting him back on his feet. “You ok?”

“Yep!” he giggles. “I’m fine! I’m Benjamin, what’s your name?”

I can’t help but smile into this shining little face, gray eyes twinkling, freckles on his cute button nose. Kid is probably five, and I spot his father searching for him by the free weights.

“I’m Geoff,” I reply, holding out a hand to the kid to fist bump. “That’s Ben over there, too. You go by Ben?” I take a swig of my bright yellow electrolyte water.

He peers at Ben, then turns back to me. “Nope, just Benjamin. My dad calls me Bennie sometimes.” He watches Ben pulling down, and I watch his triceps flex. So hot. “Is that your daddy?” he chirps, and Ben’s weights crash down as I choke.

“Ah, no, Ben is my friend. My teammate,” I finally say.

“My daddy is over there,” Benjamin continues on, oblivious of the havoc he’s created.

The blond guy spots his son and hurries over. He is unmistakable as the kid’s father, same gray eyes and bright blond hair.