Str8 Chaser II

Leave the door unlocked. Wear a blindfold. — Mister.

Catch up and read the first installment!

St. Patrick's Day is tomorrow, and my ass was still tender from last weekend’s pounding. That was my first thought as I shifted on the couch, trying to find a position that didn’t make me wince.

I figured I'd take it easy today, rest up before Atlanta’s streets turned into a sea of green—and a fresh pool of straight lads got wild with the holiday spirit. I couldn't miss that.

Wrapped in nothing but my robe, I flipped through the morning paper I’d swiped from Carl’s doorstep: no boxers, no shirt, just a bit of morning mischief.

knock-knock-knock.

Carl. Again.

“Can I have my paper back!” The irritation in his voice pierced through the door. He wasn’t knocking, he was practically pounding, and for a moment, I wondered if I’d end up with a second round of tender cheeks if I opened it.

I cracked the door, half-expecting him to just barge in. Carl stood there, brow furrowed, face flushed in annoyance.

“You can’t read,” I said, flashing him a more devilish grin than apologetic.

His eyes flickered down to my robe—specifically, to what was hanging freely beneath it. His expression didn’t change, but I saw the briefest flicker of something in his eyes.

“Why do you do this?” he asked, voice flat but tinged with frustration. “You steal my paper, and I have to come over and ask for it back every god-darn day. Get your own!”

“Because,” I said, dragging out the word, “the chase is fun.”

He snatched the paper from my hand, shaking his head as he stormed across the hall. His usual awkward shuffle had some fire in it.

“Carl’s growing a pair,” I muttered, amused.

Just as I was about to retreat inside, old Miss Johnson appeared, wobbling toward the elevator like a disapproving hawk.

“Lord have mercy! Put some clothes on, boy!” she screeched, fanning herself as if my half-nakedness had sent her into cardiac arrest.

“Morning, Miss Johnson. Beautiful day, isn’t it?” I called out, waving cheerfully.

Her frown deepened, but I knew I'd just made her day.

Downstairs in the gym, the early crowd had already assembled—mostly business types squeezing in their workouts before heading to the office. I’ve always had a soft spot for a businessman in a tailored suit, polished shoes, and a secret that only a few lucky souls like me would ever know. Most of them lived double lives—wives, kids, dogs, and SUV memberships to Atlanta's Magnolia Hills. I'd entertained more than a few of them, but let’s say I wasn’t there for the golf or the stuffy cocktail hours.

As I stretched in front of the tall mirror, I admired my reflection. My body glistened under the gym’s soft lighting, muscles taut and carved, the kind that always attracted attention. If I could, I’d fuck me. I was so into my own little show that I didn’t notice when fresh meat walked in.

"Need a spot?" I asked, flashing a smile at the man settling under the bench press.

"Sure, man," he said, his voice deep and gritty like he had spent years in places far harder than the plush comforts of Atlanta.

I stood over him, taking in his graham-cracker skin, blue-gray eyes, and broad, sculpted chest. The kind of body you wanted to trace with your tongue. He looked up at me, a smirk playing on his lips.

“You ready for this?” he asked, gripping the bar loaded with three hundred pounds of iron.

I raised an eyebrow, "The question is, are you?"

He grinned and started pressing, and I counted each rep like it was a slow seduction. "Three... four... come on, push it, that's it. Seven. One more. Eight! Good job."

The bar clanged against the stand as he sat up, chest heaving. Sweat glistened on his skin, tracing a line down his back, and I could practically feel the heat radiating off him.

“Thanks, bro," he said, gripping my hand, his touch firm, almost crushing.

"Anytime." I let my gaze linger on him. "You must be new here, haven't seen you around."

"Moved in last week, actually," he said, taking a long swig from his water bottle.

“Thought so. You’re not from around here, are you?” I asked, leaning casually against the treadmill, my body language open, curious.

He cocked his head, smiling. "What gave me away?"

"That accent," I replied with a teasing grin. "It's got that sharp New York edge. Sexy."

He blinked, and I watched his defenses shoot up. "Sexy? Uh, look, man—I'm straight."

I laughed, the sound soft but dripping with irony. "Relax. I said your *accent* was sexy. Who said anything about you?"

His expression softened, a mix of apology and amusement. “My bad, I misread that. I’m Jarred.”

I nodded, pushing off the treadmill, eyes never leaving his as I headed for the door. “Welcome to Atlanta, Jarred," I said, throwing him a wink before leaving him to wonder exactly what he'd just walked into.