Page 8 of Chance Encounter

I lean against the back of the couch, not wanting to have to get up again once Chance is back. Now that he’s not in the room with me, I take in his place since I passed out last night before I had a chance. It is clean without a speck of dust on any surface. The decor is sparse, but all the furniture is dark brown leather and dark wood that complement each other. As much as I hate to admit it to myself, his house is nice and strangely inviting.

The front door swings open, and Chance comes running inside. He throws the crutches in his hands on the floor and then locks the front door quickly like a serial killer is on his tail. He turns around with his back to the door and slumps to the floor. His breath is heavy, and all the color is drained from his face as he looks up at me.

“What the hell happened?” I hop over to the crutches and try to lean over to grab them, but I’m unsteady. I’m more likely to fall on my face than pick one or both of them up. I stand with my arms spread out to my sides, trying to get my balance before I look back to Chance, who still seems freaked out. “Seriously, are you okay? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“Not a ghost, but Sally,” he rushes out.

Sally?

“My Sally? The bear?” I question, confused.

“Oh yeah, your Sally. She’s out there. It was like she was waiting for me by my truck when I came out of the garage. She reared up on her back legs the second I stepped outside, so I hauled ass back to the house.”

That’s not normal.

“No, it isn’t,” he answers my thought. I guess I said it out loud.

“I’m sure she’ll be gone by the time we leave. Does she normally come this close to the house?”

Chance stands up and braces his hands on the door as he looks out the window. “Not usually, but as I was running back to the house, I saw her prints all over out there. She’s circled the place multiple times by the looks of it.”

Not wanting to ask, but in serious need of taking a piss, I clear my throat. “Could you hand me those crutches?”

“Fuck, yeah, sorry.” He quickly picks them up and hands them over to me. “I told you I wasn’t much of a host.”

Slipping the crutches under my armpits, I give them my weight and start down the hallway. “For taking in someone you hate, you’re doing a good job. You could’ve left me on the couch to piss myself.”

“But I’d be the one who has to smell my piss-soaked couch, so no thank you.”

I can’t help the chuckle that slips out. Of course, he didn’t do it to be nice.

It doesn’t take me long to relieve myself and head back to Chance. I’m ready to go home where I don’t have to deal with him, but I find Chance frying up a couple of eggs when I walk into the kitchen. He’s trying, and I am hungry, so I guess I can stay a few extra minutes. Knowing my luck, his truck will break down, and I’ll be stuck on the side of the road since there’s no way I’d be able to walk with crutches through the snow.

He doesn’t look at me as he asks. “Can you put a couple of slices of bread in the toaster? Breakfast will be ready soon.”

“Sure,” I mutter as I move around him. His kitchen is a decent size, but we’re both big guys, and with both of us moving about and me with these crutches, it makes the space feel small. With each movement he makes, the unique smell that belongs only to him wafts my way. Being in Chance’s space is driving me crazy. Why does his cologne speak to me on some type of primal level? If he weren’t such an asshole, I’d throw him down and fuck his brains out. Instead, I should just hold my breath and hope I don’t pass out from lack of oxygen until I can get away from him.

The sound of grease popping has me clearing my head and me putting the bread in the toaster.

“Since that’s your right foot, how are you going to drive?” Chance is still not looking at me, which is fine. It’s better that way. When I can’t see his face, my stomach isn’t flipping upside down, and memories I’d rather not remember don’t surface. I can pretend he’s someone else entirely when I can’t see or hear him.

“What’s taking so long on that damn toast? This shit is going to burn if it’s not ready soon,” he grumbles, and my sour mood returns.

“How am I supposed to know how long your toaster usually takes? You can take it off the burner and start plating if you’re so damn worried about it.”

Chance turns around, his milk chocolate brown eyes flaring with irritation. “Have you always been this entitled?”

“Entitled? Where would you get that idea?” I scoff. Growing up, I was the poor kid. I had no money and wore my clothes and shoes until they fell apart. All the kids made fun of me, and the first chance I could, I got a job and started to make my own money. There was no way in hell my parents could have afforded to pay for any of my hockey stuff, and once they found out I was gay, they wouldn’t have helped me even if they could.

Chance didn’t say a word. Instead, he continues to stare at me. It feels like his eyes are trying to bore into my brain.

“You must have me confused with someone else. There hasn’t been a day in my life where I thought I was better than anyone else.” It’s kind of hard to feel that way when your peers are always putting you down for the way you dress and being the kid who gets free lunches.

“Oh yes, that must be it.” He slaps an egg on a plate and a few slices of bacon. “I’m not sure how I mistook you for the asshole who always taunted me about every victory you had over me.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You know what, it doesn’t matter. Take me home, and I’ll do my best to stay out of your way for the next decade or so.” I turn and storm off, slow as fuck because I’m using these damn crutches, and fling open the front door only to slam it shut again.

“Change your mind?” Chance taunts.

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