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Hunter hesitated. “I might have been tempted. But I’m not particularly into threesomes.”
“You know this from experience?”
“Yes.”
I stroked my jaw. Definitely due for a shave tomorrow. “You’re welcome then, I guess.” I jerked a finger toward the left. “You passed my street.”
“I know.” Hunter looked at me. “We haven’t finished talking.”
“Oh, I’m pretty much done.”
Hunter smirked. “You are boiling with questions. You have been the whole night. Don’t think I haven’t noticed you staring at my lap.” His voice lowered and his gaze locked onto mine. “Don’t think I didn’t read through your nervous humming of Chopin’s Funeral March.”
“The air was tight!”
“With curiosity and unasked questions!”
Heat flared on my cheeks and I was grateful for the darkness. Fuck.
“It’s okay, Marc. You can ask me.”
I glanced at his lap again. I couldn’t help it.
Hunter spoke gently, “I used to have a leg bag, now I use an intermittent catheter. I drain my bladder every four to six hours depending a bit on how much I’ve drunk.”
“Oh, um . . .”
“For . . . other stuff, I have a morning routine with a little chemical assistance. Accidents occasionally happen. It sucks, but I deal with it.”
I nodded, fascinated. Still fighting questions on the tip of my tongue. I tried to keep cool, but my curiosity gleamed through my hands repetitively rubbing my thighs.
“As for my junk, I can still get hard. Not from thoughts alone, but manual stimulation. Viagra.”
The heels of my hands paused mid-thigh, digging in. Images flashed in my mind of Hunter fucking guys, getting fucked, and—
Wow, it was hot in here.
“I don’t feel orgasms in the base of my balls and cock. Since this”—he gestured to his legs—“other parts of my body have become more sensitive. Like a fuck-ton more sensitive.”
I cracked open the window an inch, sucking in the cooler night air.
“My nipples might as well be two miniature dicks for how good they can make me feel. And my neck, below my left ear . . .” Hunter blew out a breath, and I sucked one in to steady the thundering beat of arousal in my veins.
Hunter observed me. “Too much information?”
I jerked a finger at my hard crotch. “Too much information?”
Hunter grinned; I casually flipped him off—in a light-hearted way, not like in the past—and he laughed.
We drove around the block, and once again Hunter passed my street. “What now?”
“You keep opening and shutting your mouth like a goddamn fish. Ask me already.”
I scowled at him. “Fine. How did you end up without the use of your legs?”
“Ah.” Hunter’s expression turned somber as he weighed how best to answer. Or if he should answer?
“Forget it. It’s too personal.”
Hunter gestured toward my dick, which had thankfully settled down. “I think we’ve well and truly crossed into the personal.” He shrugged. “We might have crossed that earlier in the summer, Fawkes.”
The reminder of our online conversations struck a weird bolt of electricity through me, along with the urge to read over all our past chats.
“I was seventeen.”
“How old are you now?”
“Twenty-two.”
I nodded, nervously folding my arms.
“There’s no way to sugar-glaze the story. Some guy beat me up with a baseball bat after basketball practice. Maybe he saw me with my boyfriend, god knows we didn’t hide our relationship. I won’t ever know why for certain. They never caught him.”
I stared out the windshield at the broken white center lines blurring by. Cool air swirled through the window, but it had little to do with the cold I felt in my chest.
Hunter continued, “The bat caught me in my spine and paralyzed me from the waist down. One single stroke.”
My throat clamped.
“But I had the best care, a wonderful physiotherapist, and a life-saving therapist. I have basketball and good friends, and I don’t let this stop me from doing anything I want.”
An angry shudder rolled through me. “I’m . . . Oh, fuck. Stop the car.”
Hunter frowned. “You okay?”
I blinked back the heat in my eyes. My voice sounded wispy. “I gotta . . . Stop the car.”
Hunter halted at the sidewalk, van still humming. “Marc, would you look at me?”
“I can’t.” I fumbled for the door handle. “I’m sorry for . . . Fuck, everything. See you around.”
I lurched out of the van, much like my insides lurched to my mouth. We were two streets from my place, and I shivered as I raced to Uncle Ben’s brick bungalow.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Once. Twice. Three times.
I hurried inside and dry retched, bowed over the toilet.
My phone rang.
I drew it out. Hunter, of course. I wanted to answer—to hear his voice—but I didn’t.
My stomach flipped again.
I slumped against the basin and avoided my reflection in the mirror.
A hefty bang rattled the back door and I jumped. Hunter’s voice followed, demanding I open the door.
Fuck. Uncle Ben was sleeping.
