2. Unexpected Jock

TWO

Unexpected Jock

" S o, this is it?" asked Luca, his bare feet propped on the desk. The epic view was made even sharper by the comically long binoculars he was holding. "Just stare out the windows and wait for a fire?"

"Probably don't wait for a fire," crackled Sandy. "That sounds like you're hoping one will come."

"You know what I mean."

"Well, some of the less remote towers double as wardens to nearby camps. Checking permits and giving safety briefings. You're the only official for miles, remember. A few others are on hiking paths and get scout troops or summer camps coming through. Got a red book nearby?"

He rummaged, finding it in the desk drawer. The crimson leather was soft and smelled like his abuela's bookshelf. "Yeah?"

"We tell wilderness hikers to check in with the towers, so we have a record if they go missing."

"Well, that's bleak," Luca said, flicking through the paper. To his surprise, it was only three pages deep with entries, despite the first being back in the sixties . "Wait, is there really only one or two hikers a year out here?"

"Yup. Bleeding Heart is the most isolated tower in the whole state. You're our last hope against a Canadian invasion."

"A big responsibility," he said. "But I'm guessing permit checking won't take a lot of my time?"

"Nope. Just binoculars all day. Well, the terms of your contract are actually all day and all night."

"How the hell am I supposed to see fires at night?"

"Interesting. Most rookies are more concerned with the lack of sleep than the visibility. But it's way easier to spot a fire at night. That far out, even a small blaze'll glow like a star."

"Okay, second question. When the hell am I supposed to sleep?"

"Ah, there it is. Don't worry. It won't be every night. Just when storms are rolling through."

Luca squinted out the window. "Of course! Why didn't I think of that? Because rain is the perfect condition for a fire to break out."

"Hold onto your ass, wise guy, but two-thirds of forest fires in this state are started by lightning, not people."

Luca gasped unironically and tugged the obligatory Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires! poster from its hangnail beside the axe. "But Smokey said it was all down to campers!"

"Sorry, kid. Sometimes cartoon bears lie."

Luca sighed. Just like the real ones. "And so..."

"And so nothing ," said Sandy, snorting like a trucker after too many warm beers. "This is the whole gig. Be on hand for your morning status check. Report any fires you see. Figure out when you can sneak off without anyone noticing—trust me, if you stay at your post all day you'll go nuts. Write a novel or album or knit a quilt or just stare soulfully into the middle distance. Apart from that, your peepers and that horizon will spend the next three months becoming best buddies."

"Sooo," said Luca, at the six-hour mark. "What's your deal, Sandy? What's a gal like you doing in a place like this?"

"Nice try, camper," came the response, the words muffled by what Luca assumed to be a pencil gripped between teeth. "But just because you've taken a vow of celibacy doesn't mean I need to entertain you."

"Come on! It's not my fault. The whole article was an accident. Besides, I'm genuinely curious about you!"

" Mmm hmm . I've read your CV. And looked up a few of your old articles. I know exactly what you're curious about."

Luca suppressed a grumble at her reaction—the same one he'd experienced hundreds of times before. "Seriously! If we're going to be working together for months, shouldn't we get to know each other?"

"Tell you what, why don't I ask my long-term lesbian lover about it? I'll need her permission before I tell you about all the crazy shit we get up to in the?—"

The line went silent.

Luca leaned forward.

"Sandy?" he said, staring at the receiver. When no response came, he banged it against the table. "Sandy!"

"Yeah?" she said, eventually. The smirk was heavy in her tone.

"Oh, I see how it's going to be," he muttered—half in frustration and half in admiration.

"Good. Now help me with seven down, college boy."

It was three days later—deep in the afternoon on the first day of proper summer. Luca was spinning slowly on the chair, the binoculars bumping his chest hair with each push of toe against rug.

Luca was wearing nothing but a white-and-blue jockstrap—the result of getting bored and re-sorting his clothes for the fifteenth time. He wasn't sure why he'd brought it, given there wouldn't be anyone to see him in it. Probably the same reason he kept his pre-booked sexual health checkup before leaving home. It just felt weirder not to.

But still, there was something slightly thrilling about having his bare ass against the leather, despite the lack of an audience.

Different men were built for different clothing. There were some who just looked better in a cap than others, more relaxed and street confident. Others looked perfect in a business suit, exuding money and dominance and that sneer of someone who knew the proper names for wine and could buy a yacht without thinking twice.

Luca was made for jockstraps—particularly this kind, the classic 1970s version, with the two-inch waistband and no-nonsense elastic under each cheek. Something about the sheer size of his furry bubble butt and round belly and thighs so powerful they could crush a watermelon. It was a combination that made all the stocky studs at the gym salivate whenever he started his squat routine.

Not that there was any risk of ogling here . The closest guy was probably some lonely Mountie in the distant north, and it seemed unlikely that he'd cross the border just to visit.

The thought made Luca groan at the ridiculousness of being dressed for sex but having zero access to it.

He stared at the typewriter—a cipher for his wilderness goal. That would be the thing to do, right? Just get on with it and write the story that would kick-start his future as an influential journalist.

I went to the woodsbecause I wished to live without the temptation of sexy men, with their cute butts and even cuter smiles...

And yet, something kept Luca from the keyboard. Probably the realization that writing about celibacy was the opposite of taking his mind off the frustration.

Instead, Luca rummaged among the meager pickings in the pantry.

It was a pointless distraction, given he already knew what was there. He'd signed up too late to have a say on the first food delivery, and whoever had packed the supplies was totally devoid of imagination—tinned fish and vegetables, rice and pasta, white flour and whiter sugar, and god-awful packets of hot chocolate that tasted like a cocoa bean had been cremated.

In the end, he reluctantly settled on a fat bag of trail mix—dried fruit and unroasted nuts. They were at least good to throw at the ceiling and catch in his open mouth, although he did have to keep chasing down almonds when they escaped under the desk.

And it was on one of these food retrieval missions—with his jockstrapped ass exposed to the door and his stocky knees splayed wide for maximum reach—that the first hiker of the season arrived at Bleeding Heart Tower.

"Whoa!" came a deep exclamation from a few feet behind.

The sounds of another voice—particularly one not filtered through radio crackle—was so unexpected that Luca immediately tried to stand.

Unfortunately, the desk got in his way, smacking hard against the back of his head and collapsing him into an even more revealing heap on the floor.

Dazed and disorientated, he scrambled out to find...

Oh, wow!

The midtwenties stranger was the most stunning man that Luca had ever seen. He was strong and tall, a six-foot collection of spheres—in his stocky shoulders, beefy arms, broad chest with its big tufts of exposed fur, well-fed belly, fertile bulge and an ass that barely fit into his aged jeans. His thick beard was copper red, a shade darker than the curls that poked in cowlicks from his mesh trucker cap. His round cheeks and surprisingly cute nose were covered in freckles.

And his eyes. Sweet baby bear Jesus, his eyes .

They weren't green , because that word didn't carry enough meaning to describe the allure of the shade. They were shamrock, perhaps? The lucky symbol of the Irish hills this beefcake must have descended from? Or pear skin, maybe? Shifting between verdant and flaxen depending which way the light hit. But whatever their shade, they carried with them a soul beyond any that Luca had ever seen.

Luca swayed a little, confused why the room was so swirly .

This stranger was obviously a poet. A tortured artist. A virtuoso. Luca could see that just in his expression, though he was sure that most were blind to it. This was the kind of man who could sit and brood and dream— always dream .

On their first date he would take Luca to a Parisian-inspired café, Moleskin pad of tormented scratchings gripped betwixt knowing fingers, as he ordered strange herbal drinks like Chartreuse and Benedictine.

On the first anniversary he would break down in wracking tears at the futility of man's condition and how little any of us could do to change it. And Luca would come to him, cradle him tight on their weather-worn couch, whispering his name until the lamentations stopped.

And the name he'd whisper would be decadent. Dante or Lysander or Theodore. A name conjured from leather-bound tomes and wood as dark as the wool. A name as bleak and tragic as?—

"Fuck, are you alright, buddy?" said the stranger, dropping his hiking pack and industrial-looking guitar case with a thud. He immediately began running thick fingers through Luca's unbrushed hair. His touch was sun warmed and sheened with sweat. "Damn, that's a massive lump you got there."

"Thanks, yours is nice too," said Luca dreamily to the twisting room.

The man snorted. "On your head , dummy. Come over here. That's it—just sit down. No, upright . I'll grab the first-aid kit."

The beautiful man rummaged through the shelves, eventually pulling out a little brown bottle from a red zippy pouch. As he approached again, Luca couldn't help but marvel at the glow around his magnificent frame, at the softness of his silhouette and the gentleness of his eyes. Like lush grass in a dawn field.

And then his dreamlike stupor was snatched away by the sharp sting of iodine.

"Christ on a bike!" said Luca, flinching.

His eyes refocused. Instead of the Victorian fantasy his half-concussed brain had conjured, there stood a sweaty stud with the chonky frame of a football tackle.

Quite unexpectedly, Luca found his heart pounding, like someone had mainlined coffee into his arteries. From the pain of the bump and the shock of the sting, surely.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" the stranger said, juggling the lid back onto the bottle. "I thought these things had a stopper and you could just shake a few drops out and..."

Among the ache on Luca's head came another sensation—a slow trickle down the side of his face. The stranger's eyes bulged as he grabbed a roll of gauze, dabbing quickly at Luca's cheeks and forehead. He kept rubbing long after the patch of skin was dry, his eyes bulging further and his cheeks getting redder.

Luca raised a slow eyebrow. "Did you just stain half my face yellow?"

"What? Of course not! On a totally different note, I'm super allergic to mirrors. If you've got any, I need to smash them, ASAP."

Luca snorted. Not just at the lame joke, but also at how the man's reddening face was blessed with the most curious grin that Luca had ever seen. Embarrassment, yes, but with the faintest hint of I regret nothing, and I'd totally do it again!

It was the half smile of a little boy who'd been caught with both hands in the cookie jar, knowing that he couldn't talk his way out of the problem but could probably defend himself with overwhelming cuteness.

Annoying, it was working .

Because this boy? Hot damn, Luca would've given the whole box of cookies to this boy.

"Artair, by the way," said Artair, by the way. His voice was deep and melodic, like he might start humming at any moment.

"Jaundice," Luca responded, as the man stepped a little closer, reaching around to dab a few rogue drips that were creeping down Luca's neck. "Or Luca. Take your pick."

"Why not both? Jaundice Luca?"

"Sound like a temptress in a mystery novel," said Luca, having to look up to meet Artair's eyes.

"I can see it for you," said Artair, meeting his eyes with a confident softness, like they'd known each other for months rather than minutes.

This close, Luca couldn't help but breathe his scent—the alluring combination of soap and sweat. Of cotton and sunlight and the gentle kiss of pine needles. All mixed with that distinctive, familiar smell of horny bear . Of furry legs and furrier balls. Of someone who'd make your ass clap like ship sails in a sharp breeze, then snuggle you for hours afterward.

This close, Luca couldn't help but admire the sheer stock of the man—at the size of his forearms and the thickness of his hands. At the way his t-shirt dimpled in at his belly button, slightly see-through from his climb. At the way a patch of red chest hair rose above the neckline, almost meeting the incredible density of his amber beard.

This close, Luca couldn't help but relish the warm graze of denim against his thigh, soft and strong and carefully woven.

Wait a minute . . .

It took a few terrible seconds for Luca to process the weirdness of feeling someone else's denim against his bare legs.

Only then did he remember that he was wearing nothing but a jockstrap. And that he'd greeted this guy with a full view of his exposed hole.

Luca scrambled from the chair and snatched a pair of shorts, contorting his body as he somehow tried to hide both his ass and bulge.

It wasn't like he had any issue showing off his body—quite the opposite—but this was hardly the way to do it. Not to some poor guy who'd just wandered off a monster hike, only to be greeted by an unsolicited view of another dude's asshole.

"Fuck! So sorry about that," said Luca, slightly distracted by an unwelcome spark in his balls, sizzling at the realization of how he was caught, naked and exposed and vulnerable. "I don't normally greet people in the doggy position."

It was a half truth, but good enough for now.

Artair shrugged. "Maybe you should? It suits you."

The comment sparked a moment of focus—a focus that fell on the man's shirt, gripping his stockiness in a way that spoke of supreme self-confidence in his figure. The pattern was of a smiling cartoon bear with its arms outstretched, and the words Free Hugs written in a sweeping rainbow font.

Oh fuck, Luca thought, as that little spark in his balls turned into a flare. He's gay.

And not just gay, but clearly thrilled by what he was seeing. That smile. The way he was standing—with one hand on his hip and the other tucking a thumb into his beltless waistband, revealing a tiny sliver of milky skin underneath. All of it spoke to a feel free to stay in just the jockstrap vibe that brought Luca's own dick to the threshold of no return.

For the first time in years, he had flashbacks to high school. Of standing in front of the class to present a book report and having to scream at his dick to stay soft .

His efforts were failing badly. Because in front of him was an easy-going slab of prime beef. Exactly the kind of thick-all-over furball that made Luca's mouth water and dick swell. And if he'd been back in the real world, he'd have dragged Artair off to a dark corner and fucked that huge, hairy ass until dawn.

But—as Luca sternly reminded himself—this wasn't the real world. This was the opposite of that. This was meant to be a refuge from temptation. An oasis free from sexy men with sexy smiles. From hairy hunks slinking within smelling distance and running their hands all over him.

Now properly dressed, Luca tried to regather, shocked at how sharp a reaction the man was having on him.

"You... must be here to sign the register?" Luca said, gulping through a suddenly dry mouth. His brain pointed daggers at his semi-hard cock, still deciding which direction it wanted to move.

"Hmmm?" said Artair, bringing his gaze back from a distracted inspection of the tower, obviously polite enough to give Luca some privacy while dressing.

"The check-in book for hikers?"

"Right! Yes. Sorry. In my own little world."

The stranger filled in a few lines, chattering away animatedly about how the summer was shaping up and asking how long Luca had been a fire watch.

Luca barely heard any of it, too caught up in the sharp throb in his head and the even sharper one in his pants. The man was so unreasonably sexy that he found himself struggling to keep the conversation short.

Worse still, the more they spoke, the more Luca became certain that he could get this guy naked and groaning with zero effort. There was an incredibly relaxed nature to Artair. A touch of flirtation in every movement.

And as much as Luca's higher brain wanted the man to get the hell out of his tower and stop being so damn desirable, Luca's natural instincts were too well-honed to be silenced completely.

What's the harm in just talking? it said. You're the only person he's likely to see on his whole hike. Don't be rude and turn him away!

And so, Luca found himself offering coffee—gratefully accepted—and sipping it slow, with Artair sitting up on the porch railing, his boots dangling off the ground. Luca found himself laughing at the dumb jokes Artair was making. He found himself leaning at just the right angle to sneak glances at Artair's bulge—a little too blatant to avoid being caught.

When their cups were drained and the late afternoon breeze fluttered warm against their skin, Artair insisted on checking his head once more.

Luca approached him, nestled between the splay of Artair's legs. As Artair ran fingers through his hair, Luca felt his visitor slide a free hand gently against his hip.

It was just for balance, obviously. To stop the bigger man falling into one of the garden beds below, but the fingers came to rest a little too low and a little too close to Luca's crotch to be innocent. There was the slight press of boot heel against the back of Luca's calves, bringing him closer to the man's delicious scent.

Luca won the battle to stifle a gasp but lost the battle to restrain his dick. As his head prickled under the soft weight of Artair's touch, his cock grew to full mast, the thin cloth doing nothing to hide his attraction. His only saving grace from inadvertently breaking his vow of celibacy was that his growing shaft was poking toward the hip that Artair wasn't holding—otherwise it would have ended up right in his palm.

Luca's heart beat hard as the man started to hum. Like he had no idea what he was doing. Like his flirtation was completely inadvertent.

Some tiny part of Luca's rational mind screamed that he should step away. That he should stop this before it was too late.

For Christ's sake, it's the first day of summer! I can't fail on day one!

And yet, he didn't move a muscle in protest or say a word in objection. Because somewhere deeper and hotter and more urgent refused to intervene. Because somewhere animal and hungry wanted it to keep going.

This near, Artair's musk was even stronger. Even more alluring. And as much as Luca tried to hold his breath, he couldn't help himself, breathing deep and hoping like hell that he was being quiet.

Artair's raised eyebrow showed just how badly Luca had failed at subtlety. The man's smile showed just how glad he was to have Luca in this position.

And then, without saying a single word, and still ostensibly tending to the lump on Luca's head, Artair rubbed ever so slightly against the waistband of Luca's shorts. His thumb tip ran between cotton and skin—as if saying want me to take these off for you, buddy?

Luca's cock throbbed hard at that, and he was sure he let out a little whimper. He wanted to say yes. To cross the few inches of heat between their faces. To kiss him. To undress him slowly. To explore every curve of his amazing bear body .

But he didn't.

With a resolve he didn't know he had, Luca muttered some barely formed resistance. "I... work. Must work. Back inside. Where work be."

And just like that, it was done.

There was no anger from the man. No protest or comments of are you sure? Instead, Artair clapped firm hands on Luca's shoulders—strong and reassuring. "That's fine, buddy! Thanks for the coffee."

"I... I..." Luca stammered, suddenly worried that Artair might get the wrong idea. Bigger guys often doubted how sexy they were, and the last thing Luca wanted was Artair thinking he wasn't desirable. Not when the opposite was true.

"Don't worry," laughed Artair, shooting a glance toward Luca's crotch. "You don't have to explain anything ."

Luca glanced down himself. A spot of precum was visibly darkening the fabric over his massive and obvious erection.

Soon, Artair had gathered his gear and was back on the trail, his big booty bouncing with each departing step. His smile was somehow undimmed despite the rejection.

Just before Artair disappeared around the bend, into the shaded bows of the pine trees, he called back with a friendly salute. "Have a great summer, Luca!"

Luca waved back weakly. "You too, Artair."

That night, under crystal stars and deepest navy, Luca dreamed a heady dream. One of sweet-faced bears with emerald eyes. One of stocky hikers with thighs he wanted to bury his ears between. One of being stuck under the desk, in an exposed and vulnerable position, and of the stranger having no choice but to take full advantage of the situation.

And in that swirling space, he did take advantage. Confidently. Expertly. Flowing like rough water against a grateful shore. Crashing against the dunes. Raking strong fingers through timeless sand.

Together, they rolled on the tide. Driftwood on an ocean of nothing. Heat among the cold. Solid among the wet.

Then calm.

Content.

And just before Luca woke, at the deepest part of the dream, came an image. Hazy. Distant.

It was not of fury this time, but of peace. Of a powerful force holding Luca close, even though they were finished with their primal act.

It held him close because the seas beyond were too cold to explore alone.

Because the night was too long and the stars were too few.

Because it couldn't imagine facing any of it without him .

The image lingered after Luca woke.

But it didn't stay long.

Because it was just a dream.

On the next morning's check in, Sandy was surprisingly interested in his visitor. Not that Luca told her the full details of their encounter. It wasn't that he needed her to keep secrets or anything. As far as Luca was concerned, he hadn't broken his celibacy pledge. But if she was going to keep the details of her own life secret, there was no reason he needed to overshare, either.

"Let me guess," she said. "Six foot three? About two-hundred-and-seventy pounds? Hair like a strawberry haystack and a face about forty percent freckles? Looks like an Irish hammer-thrower?"

"Yes?" said Luca, curiously. "How did you know that?"

"Name of Artair Osmond?"

Luca grabbed the book. He'd been too distracted yesterday to actually notice Artair's surname.

But Sandy was right. Artair Osmond . From parts unknown and destination unfilled.

Fictional newsprint flashed before Luca's eyes, full of words like mayhem , shock and carnage . "If you're about to tell me that I just met an escaped serial killer, so help me God?—"

"No, nothing like that. He's just known in these parts. It's not a huge surprise he turned up there."

Luca flicked the pages. Artair's name wasn't anywhere else in the book. "He's visited other towers?"

"Yeah. Trust me. Everyone in the system knows him." There was a strange and rather long pause from the other end. "He didn't say anything, did he?"

"Like what?"

"Like where he was going?"

"I don't know. North? Maybe he wants to help with the defense against Canada?"

"So he didn't hang around or set up camp or anything?"

"What? No!" said Luca, a little too defensively, suddenly realizing that Artair didn't appear to have any camping gear on him—no tent or sleeping bag or mattress. "Why are you being so weird about this?"

" Me? " laughed Sandy. "Let's take stock, rookie. A hiker came to check in at your tower, and you didn't think to ask any question about where they might be going next?"

Luca stared at the shocking lack of detail in the book. "In my defense, it's been ages since I saw a cute guy."

"Luca, it's the second day of summer."

"I know what I said."