Page 78 of Sizzle

My hands are still shaking but the fear begins to recede. Something’s still wrong but Elliot’s at least alive and kicking.

Or hitting, as the case may be.

I drop my bag and coat inside the house and head through the kitchen, opening the door that connects to the garage.

I stop short on the threshold as the door snicks shut behind me.

It’s dark, the only light in the room flooding in from the streetlamp through the small windows near the garage ceiling. The heavy bag sways through the shaft of light, shaking with every hit. Elliot’s clearly been in here for a while.

Even in the dim yellow glow, I can see steam furling up off his skin. Sweat beads on his back. I can see goosebumps ripple across his abdomen as he twists to land another round of hits.

My God, the body on that man. There’s a damn good reason we haven’t sparred in years, and right now I’m looking at it. It was easier to handle back in college. He wasn’t as fleshed out then, and I was the better fighter anyway. I could let him practice a little then lay him out if I couldn’t handle being so close to him anymore. Then things would go back to normal for a week, until it was time to spar again.

Then a couple of years passed. He trained more, got better. Because God clearly hated me, Elliot kept packing on muscle. I was out of practice by then, so when he started winning every time, I stopped letting him challenge me to fights in the first place. It was getting too hard to conceal my own body’s reaction to his, and Elliot’s friendship meant too much to me to fuck things up between us.

It crosses my mind that today, things are a little bit different. Whatever line I couldn’t cross back then… well, that line’s gotten a whole lot smaller and harder to see. And for the first time, Elliot’s looking back at me from the other side. Now I’m staring at his body and wondering why I’ve waited so long, even while it’s tearing out my heart to see him hurting.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I flip the light on and Elliot flinches, but he keeps swinging.

“What does it fucking look like?” he says, not looking at me.

“You’re going to freeze to death, you idiot.”

“Fuck off.”

Any other day, that might piss me off. But tonight, whatever happened to him is written all over his face.

He’s grieving. It guts me to see it.

I move closer, trying to get a better read on him.

“Keep going and you’re going to get hit,” he says, still swinging. He’s panting, sweat rolling down his face. It’s so cold in here I can see his every breath, but I’m not feeling the chill. Not anymore.

I pull off my suit coat.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I say. He’s looking at me now, considering me. He sizes me up, and already my cock is stirring. I can see it the instant he decides to engage and pop the buttons on my shirtsleeves.

“Fine,” he says. “You want me to lick your ass, I will.”

My heart just fucking stops. I know what he means, I know, but my dick hears exactly what it wants to hear and my pulse doubles.

Elliot panics. I almost laugh, but I can’t manage it yet.

“I only meant—”

“I know what you meant, asshole,” I say before he freaks out for real. The bleak look is gone from his eyes, so I keep talking. “You want to lick my ass? Fine. Bring it.”

I strip off the dress shirt and throw it over my coat. I should be freezing my balls off out here but the anticipation of the fight has my blood running hot.

The air around us is still. The street is empty of cars, but the sleeting rain has picked up, smacking against the windows and metal garage door. The damp air only magnifies the smell of the garage, a heady combination of motor oil, sweat, and dust that to me always reminds me that work gets done out here. It’s a familiar scent, a favorite one, even.

Mixed in with it now is Elliot, and I know that whatever else happens today, I’m never going to be able to set foot in this garage again without remembering this fight.

He moves in first, swinging hard, landing a blow to my stomach that I’m only barely able to absorb and after that, I’m all in. The rest of the world shuts off as all my focus moves to keeping up with Elliot. He’s faster than he used to be, or I’m slower. Probably both. He lands hit after hit, and when I manage a punch past his guard I finally catch on.

“Quit pulling your punches, dick,” I say, dropping my hands and standing up.

“You’re not wearing gear,” he says, not meeting my eyes.