Unwrapping Hank (5 page)

“They’re watching
Terminator
downstairs,” I pointed out, though surely he’d walked past it when he came in.

Hank shrugged. He jerked his head at the screen again in a silent command.

I started the video. I managed to keep my hands off any and all sexual appendages—his or mine.

We watched the first two episodes of season three. By then, it was just past eleven and the house was quiet for once. I should have been tired, but I felt wired. Hank, on the other hand, lay propped up against my headboard with his eyes at half-mast like he might fall asleep there. His two-hundred-plus-pounds looked like it had morphed into six hundred, he lay so heavily. He made no move to get up when I turned the laptop off.

It was so quiet you could hear the
tick tick
of computer cooling down.

“You really like mysteries?” I asked, sitting up and turning around to face him.

“Yeah. You?”

“Exceedingly.”

We stared at each other with expressions of mutual distrust. Did we actually have something in common?

“Like… ‘they’re okay but I’d rather watch action flicks or sci-fi?’ like them? Or…” I prompted, trying to get clarity.

“Well, I don’t jerk off to them or anything….”

I groaned. “I wasn’t… Okay, I think it’s time for anyone with a tattoo to go ni-nite.” I stood up and motioned to the door.

“We haven’t talked about the party,” Hank yawned, stretching out and making himself even more comfortable.

I sighed and looked at him, my face in a carefully calculated expression of annoyance. But really, he looked damn good lying on my bed, all warm-skinned and sleepy, his beard and bulging muscles stirring that unexpected little kink pot inside me that would probably have my mom writing a new thesis if she knew about it.

But I refused to give in and lust after a man who was off the gaydar, no matter how good he looked. Nope. Not going to happen.

I sighed and began to pace. “Fine. Let’s get this over with. Party.”

“Party,” Hank agreed with a yawn.

An idea popped into my head, and I stopped. “If you like mysteries, and I like mysteries….” I faltered doubtfully.

“Go on.”

I paced again, starting to feel a bit of excitement. The angels weren’t exactly singing yet, but they were filing in for choir practice.

“Okay. Christmas. Mystery theme. What if people can either cosplay their favorite detective or…” I paused, knowing that some people wouldn’t want to go to all that trouble the week before finals.

“A murder victim,” Hank said.

“Yeah,” I smiled. Even the laziest frat guy would find it amusing to paint a red line against his throat or hang a noose around his neck. “And we can take your TV idea but instead of playing beach movies we can play classic mysteries like the old Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes.”

“We gotta show the new BBC Sherlock too. That’s my favorite TV show of all time.” Hank said sincerely.

My throat closed up, and I stared at him. Oh shit.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.
This could not be happening. We could not be so firmly on the same bloody wavelength, not me and butch boy. “Sure,” I shrugged, turning away.
I hate you for being straight, Hank Springfield.

I booted up my laptop to look over some of my party ideas. Surely there’d be things we could adapt.

“We need an actual mystery, though,” Hank said. “
Somethin
’. Something not lame.”

“They have those dinner party murder mystery games.”

“Nah, too complicated for a frat party.”

He was right. “It is a Christmas party. We could make up a mystery skit involving Santa.”

Hank screwed up his face. “Nothing cutesy. Please.”

“What about…. Santa’s been abducted and is being held at an undisclosed location on campus. People have to figure out what the kidnappers want for ransom and bring it to the party, or he’ll be
dead
Santa.”

“So we run most of the mystery before the party….”

“We’ll use it as marketing! That way we can build up interest. And the party is the big reveal. We could have a prize for those who solve the mystery, a big Christmas gift box on the porch that we open that night.”

I could see the excitement in Hank’s eyes, but he chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Will people really pay attention to, what, flyers around campus? Everyone’s so busy with their own shit.”

“They will if it’s catchy enough. Give me a sec.”

I was decent with Photoshop, and I browsed the web to find some quick stock images and did a mockup with a Santa chained to a chair with some blood on the floor. It was very noir, if I did say so myself. I turned the laptop to show Hank.

He leaned toward me, elbows on the bed. He slowly smiled.

“We can find a place online that sells fake body parts like a pinky finger or something,” I said, getting into it, “and put those up with the sign in a central location on campus. Lots of red paint.”

“And a cut off reindeer hoof!” Hank chuckled.

We sat there on the bed and grinned at each other.

“It’s not exactly
classy
….” I hedged. “Not sure it’s what Micah had in mind.”

“Screw that. It beats the hell out of charades and lemonade anyway, right? And we agree?”

He put his hand out for a shake. It was a big hand, strong. It wasn’t anything like my long and narrow, normal guy’s hand. I put my hand in his, the contrast not lost on me. He was so warm.

Strange bedfellows
, I thought.

Who would ever have thought Hank Springfield and I would find common ground over killing Santa Claus?

         ~5~

Sloane

THE CHRISTMAS party was set for Friday night, December 12th. It was the last official day of classes. The week after was finals, so the weekend of the 13th was going to be spent studying like mad. That Friday night was therefore like the Mardi Gras before lent.

Of course, a lot of houses were having parties that same night. But ours was definitely the most creative.

Micah loved our party plan, and we started mapping it out. Maybe things were going a little too well, and I was getting a little too comfortable, because that was when the bottom dropped out.

We were in Hank’s room breaking down lists of what had to be done, when I noticed Hank kept rolling his right shoulder and stretching that arm over his head.

“Hurt yourself?” I asked, breaking off my web search for mulled wine recipes.

Hank made a pained face as he crossed his right arm in front of him, stretching it. “Pulled my shoulder doing deadlifts.”

“Do you have any liniment that heats up?” I wasn’t sure what it was called in America, but I’d been a fan of the stuff ever since joining the swim team at my high school.

Hank shook his head. “It’s fine.”

“Hang on.”

I’d actually brought some with me to the States, because I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find anything as good here. I went to my room and came back with the tube.

“This stuff is magic. Wait til you feel it.”

Hank grabbed the tube out of my hand and looked at it. “It’s in French.”

“Yeah, imagine that. A French label on a product I bought
in France
.”

“So how did you end up at PSU anyway, if you were living in Paris?” he asked, as if he’d been wondering.

I sighed. Did I give the quick and dirty answer or the truth? “When I was little, we lived in New York City. I used to visit my grandparents in Wisconsin during the summers.” I shrugged. “I liked it there.” That was an understatement. I’d adored my grandparents’ house. They lived in a real house instead of a high-rise apartment, with a yard full of green grass and everything. “We moved to London when I was in fifth grade, and then Paris my last few years of high school. But they never felt like home exactly.”

Hank looked dubious.

“Don’t get me wrong,” I added quickly. “They’re amazing cities, and I’m lucky I got a chance to live abroad but… I wanted to go to college in the States. And PSU has one of the highest ranked veterinary programs.” I grabbed the tube back from him. “It’s my parents. They travel a lot. In fact, they just moved to Greece.”

Hank gawked at me. “You left for college and your parents moved to Greece? Dude! That sucks ass.”

It didn’t really. I was over going to foreign schools, having to learn a new language, a new everything. I loved how comfortable PSU felt. “Well, I’ll still get to visit them there, so it’s all good. Now take off your shirt.”

We both froze once the words had left my mouth. Hank looked at me oddly, and I had a stab of self-doubt. What was I doing? I honestly had no intention of seducing him, as if I even could. But the thought of getting my hands on those muscles, even for a few brief moments, was heady. I wanted to touch him, and that was a bit not good, even if I had the perfectly reasonable excuse of needing to administer first aid.

“You know what? You can do it yourself.” I tossed the tube back to him and picked up my laptop. I wandered over to his desk chair to get some distance. I’d focus on the party plans. No problem.

I tried to assimilate a mulled wine recipe and failed. Hank was silent.

“Can’t reach it,” Hank grunted. I looked up to see he had his T-shirt off, and he was trying to touch the back of his shoulder with the opposing hand. “There’s a big knot in the back.”

If that wasn’t a green light, I didn’t know what was. And damn, his chest was
amazing
—roundly muscled and smooth with dark brown nipples. I felt a thrill low in my belly, but I kept my game face on.

“You need help or what?”

“Yeah.” He tossed the tube onto the bed beside him and lay down. On his stomach.

Holy shit.

I so knew this wasn’t going to end well. Warning signs were blaring in my head like it was the zombie apocalypse. But I was powerless to resist. Lying on his stomach with no shirt, his arms bent at the elbows and folded under his head, his back was a work of art. I’d never realized shoulders came that size. His bone structure alone was impressive and then add all the muscles he’d built on top of it, and that perfect, round, denim-clad ass…. My knees literally went weak. It didn’t help that I’d come to actually like Hank Springfield.

God, I was going to regret this.

I made it over to the bed, weak knees notwithstanding, and sat beside him. I picked up the tube. Trying not to talk, or blink, or breathe, I squeezed some out and started working his right shoulder using both hands. Hank gave a pained but satisfied grunt. He didn’t open his eyes.

Wow.

He had amazing skin. Soft, almost downy, and his back was free of hair and blemishes. He had a faded summer tan. His back muscles, even relaxed, were firm.
Juicy.
It occurred to me that I had never seen him with a girl.

Oh, no. This was bad. Now I was heading into delusional territory.

“There,” I said, forcing myself to
remove the hands
. “Better?”

Hank lay there without moving for a minute. I thought he wasn’t going to answer. And if he was asleep, I had a semi that needed to see me in my room forthwith.

“That stuff really works. I can feel the burn. Mind getting the other side?” he asked without opening his eyes. He gave his left shoulder a little roll.

The warning bells in my head were silenced
in a rush of blood. I should have stood up and moved to the other side of the bed, but I did not. No, I climbed over Hank like he was a jungle gym and straddled his ass, sitting myself on his extremely firm derriere. I massaged the other shoulder with both hands.

Hank didn’t protest, or even open his eyes. But I felt him growing tense underneath me. I was by now fully aroused, but a thrill of fear wormed through the haze. We were alone, behind a closed door, with me sitting on Hank’s ass on a bed and touching his naked back. This. Was gay.

Maybe I could push it. Maybe he was horny and could be convinced to do something he’d regret later. I wanted that. I wanted to touch him all over, but the idea made me a little ill at the same time.

“Thanks,” Hank said abruptly. He started to sit up, dislodging me. I scrambled to get off him and, feeling extremely awkward, went back to the desk.

By the time I sat down, picked up my laptop, and raised my eyes, Hank was at the door. His face was red. “Hey, email me your list, Frenchie. I forgot I gotta be somewhere.”

“But… this is your room.”

“Lock the door when you leave. Later.” He fled.

Fuck! I thought back over what had happened, trying to figure out how badly I’d blown it, where I’d crossed the line, and how pathetically obvious I had or hadn’t made myself.

But like everything with Hank, there was no easy answer.

*             *             *

After that, Hank avoided me. We emailed back and forth about the party plans, and Hank suggested we divvy up the duties. He headed up the regular party details like food, drinks, and extra tables while I set up the mystery part. We had other frat members assigned to us to help out, and Hank was quick to approve anything I suggested over email.