Page 17 of Snow Storm

“Appointment?”

“Harley James.” It felt weird to say his name aloud like that. He’d been using his pen name for so long people in his personal life had started calling him “RJ.” Sometimes he wondered if he’d respond to his own name in public the first time someone said it.

“Right. You’re with Daniel. Go ahead and go into room two. There’s a robe on the back of the door, and there should besheets at the end of the massage table.” He immediately went back to his game.

Harley felt anxiety creeping up his spine. It felt a little like a doctor’s office, which was one of the few places he genuinely hated being. But it lacked the antiseptic smell, and there was soft instrumental music playing through the ceiling speakers, so that was a small comfort.

He looked back once more before heading into the second room and glanced around. The room was warmer than the lobby, but there was a fan blowing somewhere that offered a gentle, comfortable breeze. The lights were low but not off, and a few candles were flickering on a shelf in the corner.

The place had a very cozy vibe to it, which he appreciated, and everything was exactly like the front desk person had said. The massage bed was made with a stack of sheets at the end, and a robe was hanging on the back of the door. It looked freshly washed and pressed—much like the one in his room—so he was pretty sure he wasn’t going to have his dangly bits rubbing along where someone else’s had been.

Except…was he supposed to get naked?

Oh God, he hadn’t asked, and it felt awkward to now.

He flushed, ignoring the panic of a possible faux pas, and stripped down as quickly as he could. Which, in hindsight, was a terrible idea because he had shitty balance, and in his fear of being walked in on naked, he tried to take off his boxers and socks at the same time and went crashing headfirst into a cabinet.

Dazed, he stared up at the ceiling with his boxers around his knees, dick and balls totally out, and his socks hanging on by the toes.

His breath caught in his chest. Was that kid from the desk going to come looking for him? Or was Daniel? That’s all he’d need right then—death by absolute humiliation.

He scrambled to his feet and managed to finish undressing without a near death experience.

Staring at the robe, then at the bed, he wasn’t sure if he should put that on or get under the sheets. Was he allowed to be on the bed without help? Was that just a doctor thing? He wished the kid had been a bit more detailed, but then again, most people didn’t need a play-by-play just to have a fucking massage.

“Stop being a dipshit,” he whispered to himself before climbing on the bed. The sheets crinkled, telling him there was some sort of paper barrier under them. Hygiene, he supposed. He didn’t mind that.

He grabbed the sheet and pulled it over his exposed crotch, feeling a little better, then lay back. The position felt weird. People usually had their backs worked on, right? He rolled onto his stomach.

Still didn’t feel right. There was a hole for his face, but the pillow pressed against his throat and made him feel like he was choking.

Yeah, no, this was a mistake. This was a?—

The door swung open with a heavy click, and Harley pressed his face harder against the little head-holder thingie—whatever it was supposed to be called.

“Hello. I’m sorry for?—”

“No,” Harley interrupted quickly. “Please don’t be sorry for being late.Areyou late? I’ve never done this before, and I feel like a jackass.”

“You’re fine. I just wanted to say I’m really sorry that?—”

“No, really!” Harley lifted his head, and his heart skipped a few beats. The man standing in the doorway was tall, broad-shouldered, with hair that was probably once dark, but it was mostly silver now. He had cheekbones that could cut glass, tan skin that looked like he’d spent all of his summer and falloutdoors, and a full mouth that was tipped down in a natural frown.

He was maybe one of the most beautiful men Harley had ever seen. But the thought was fleeting, considering he was naked under a sheet and feeling a bit of a mess.

“I should apologize,” Harley finally went on. “I’m kind of a disaster right now. My career might be in the toilet, my fiancé admitted to cheating on me and just left, and the first anniversary of my dad’s dea—” His voice suddenly failed him, and to his horror, his throat went hot. He swallowed heavily. “My dad’s death.” God, why was he unloading all that onto a stranger? “My brother thought a massage would be a good idea. I’m really wound up and apparently trauma-dumping all over a total stranger. I can go if you want,” he finished softly. “I’m sorry.”

Daniel’s face went on a journey, and then he squared his shoulders and stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “Hey. It’s okay. I’m sorry you had to deal with all that, and you’re perfectly fine exactly as you are.”

It was then Harley registered that Daniel had an accent. French, he assumed, with the way he curled his consonants at the front of his teeth and tongue. It wasn’t strong, but it was very present, and he liked it.

“It’s okay. And trust me, I don’t think a massage is going to fix any of my problems, so if you’d rather cancel this?—”

“No,” Daniel said firmly. “But you might want to adjust your pillow so it’s not pressing against your throat.”

Harley smiled sheepishly. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know how this goes.”

Daniel’s face softened. He took a step toward the table, and Harley noticed a slight limp. He reached out with a thick, knobby-knuckled hand and pulled the pillow out from under him, setting it to the side on a chair. “Better?”

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