Hound Dog & Bean by B.G. Thomas Read Free Book Online

catches you?”
    So Bean looked down instead and saw the guy was wearing sandals that were little more than leather flip-flops with a heel strap. Nice feet , he thought. They were long, creamy white, and well cared for. Even from here Bean could see that. So many men had such nasty feet: didn’t take care of them or clip their nails or groom anything below their balls, it seemed. But this guy? He…
    Jesus! Now I’m staring at his feet! He sees that and he’ll think I’m some kind of perv for sure .
    Bean turned away, placed his back to the man. Stalked to the back room. I gotta get laid , he thought. Or jack off more .
    Masturbate, because one-night stands didn’t do it for him. Left him feeling more alone than before. He was used to being by himself. He was an only child. His father had always been at work. His mother was a career woman all the way, with her job at the bank and the tons of charity work she did, gay organizations only a part of it all. Bean had to do a lot of caring for himself growing up, although his mother had always been there when he really needed her, and his father whenever he could. Then there was the University of Michigan, and of course the years on the road—roads all over the world.
    “Don’t need anyone,” he whispered, then went to his office. He sat down, sighed, switched on his computer—rubbed his eyes.
    Damn, the guy was cute . From what Bean could see from across the room.
    Could it hurt to go out and say hello? Wasn’t that what customer service was all about?
    Bean grinned goofily and sat up quickly, rolling his chair on its squeaky wheels. He got up and headed back to the floor.
    Just in time to see a big football-player type walk through the front door.
    “Well, fuck me!” the man bellowed. “You!”
    At first Bean thought the man was yelling at him. All his internal alarms went off as he caught the big man’s expression and saw this was not just a disgruntled customer—this man was pissed . Enraged, even. The man’s whole face was contorted, his thick dark brows drawn together in an ugly jagged line, his eyes on fire, his mouth a vicious snarl.
    Then Bean realized the snarl was directed at the pretty dreadlocked man at the counter.
    The angry man pulled back a fist that in that moment looked the size of a catcher’s mitt. Bean had time to think— Not good! Not good! —before he surged forward to put himself between the hurtling behemoth and the object of his fury.
    It was a move timed perfectly to allow Bean’s own jaw to intercept any damage that could be done to the hapless customer.
    Bean saw the fist coming at him as if in slow motion, thought I need to duck .
    And then he knew nothing more.
     
     
    B EAN WASN ’ T out long. When he came to, the first thing he was aware of was the worst feeling of pins and needles all over the right side of his face. Then light. Then sound. People talking—but they sounded so far away! Like the teacher on the Peanuts cartoons. Wah-wah-wah-wah…. A face. He saw…
    The face of the guy with the dreads. They were falling around his head, and he looked like a big sunflower. He started to laugh at that thought and then, Oh! It hurts!
    Bean’s face was tingling—like when his foot fell asleep, but worse.
    “You okay, boss?”
    He turned away from the cute guy to see who was talking. His head started swimming. Oh, don’t like that. Don’t like that one bit .
    A round face with huge, round black-framed glasses swam into focus. Oh. It’s Mara. Mara Poindexter . “Poy-en-dexxxxxx-ter,” he said, but it took him forever, and he wondered why. Concussion?
    God .
    Did he have a fripping concussion?
    Wait! Something was happening to the side of his face. Side? No. His nose.
    No, his nose? Know his nose?
    That was funny. He started to laugh again, and then there was pain and dizziness and, God, what was happening to his nose?
    The kid was doing something to his face. He tried to bat him away but just got pushed down gently by…