Touch And Go - Aiden Bates Page 0,4

trying to get money out of me, but I didn’t really owe him, I was debt-free…except for student loans, which I refused to acknowledge and prayed every day for a collapse of the banking sector.

Two: Wrist sprained, but not broken. Had to go to the hospital, but I got seen by a hot doctor. And damn, was he ever good-looking. I liked older guys, and he was exactly my type. Mid-thirties with a few of those sexy creases framing his magnetic, deep blue eyes. He was lean, not built, but I had a feeling there were some rock-hard abs hiding under his scrubs. He was a real dish. Dr. Dish. Mm, tasty.

As I walked to the entrance of my apartment building, a shiver ran from the base of my skull to my gut and I was yanked out of my Dr. Dish daydream. I spun around. Someone was watching me. I scanned the street. The usual assortment of business folks in suits talking into their ear pods, homeless guys wheeling carts of trash, cars, trucks…no one paying attention to anyone outside of their own little bubble. No one even glanced my way. Maybe the pain was getting to me.

I fished out my keys and wrangled the door open with just my right hand, then headed up the stairs to my crappy studio apartment.

A waft of damp air hit me when I stepped into my place, and I tried not to think about the mold probably growing in hidden spaces throughout the building. The one-room studio with its worn-out, brown shag carpet that hadn’t been replaced since the ‘70s, a sofa someone had left behind, and years’ worth of smoke yellowing the ceiling was what I could afford with my bar job and inconsistent freelance tech gigs. Living there might have been a health hazard, but at least this place was mine. Home sweet musty home.

Straight to the linoleum-tiled kitchen with its half-broken electric stove and window that provided only a view of the stucco wall next door, I waited for the kettle to boil and passed the time by practicing my glass-wrangling skills with a sturdy mug. I tested the weight of it in my left hand. Not bad. I chucked it up in the air and caught it again with no problem. Maybe I’d be able to manage at the bar with just one hand after all. Or maybe not…I put a spin on the next throw, cried out as the motion yanked something in my wrist, and the mug bounced on the linoleum floor with a dull thud. Broken handle. Chipped rim. Great.

I settled onto the threadbare sofa with my cup of tea in my broken mug and a Dr. Dish daydream brewing when a heavy thump rattled my door. Mid-sip, I paused, and my pulse pounded in my ears as loud as the knocking continued.

“Seb! Open the fuck up.” Big Ben’s voice blasted through the thin hollow-core door like an active volcano. If he kept banging, his big meaty fist might just pound right through the wood.

“Yeah, yeah. Hold on.”

“Open up!”

“I said hold on, I’m coming!” I was so dozy I didn’t bother to set the cup down before trying to stand. With just one hand and legs tired from my long walk, getting up off the deep-set couch was a gymnastic feat, and I sloshed warm tea all over my arm in the process. At least the sofa was brown and wouldn’t show the stain. I was still flicking warm tea off my good hand when I opened the door.

“I need you to fix this shit.” Ben shoved his laptop at me, and I barely dodged it so it didn’t hit my sling.

“Whoa, I’m kind of limited, bro.” I held up my injury so he could have a look. Not that I expected more than a grunt in reply.

He sneered. “What’s wrong with you? You look all…twitchy.”

“I’m fine. Just fell off the curb.” I held up my bandaged wrist again, and he pulled his head back and widened his eyes like he’d only just noticed before he reached out a trembling hand, and quickly yanked it away again. Was he actually worried?

I couldn’t meet his gaze without blurting out that I thought I was being followed and maybe it was related to my accident. He would laugh it off. He’d make sure I knew he thought I was a sissy. A pansy. A Nancy-boy. Weak. And Big Ben didn’t like weak. Not one bit. I wrangled