My Best Friend’s Dad — Chapter 2: The Man with the Magic Hands

CHAPTER TWO: THE MAN WITH THE MAGIC HANDS

He stepped closer, and when he came into the porch light, I realized I'd made a gross error in judgment because this isn't Duke's dad. Another man followed behind him.

"Logan, is that you?" Mr. Martin came into view, his features sharpening as he moved from shadow into the yellow glow.

"Hey," I say tentatively, my voice catching slightly. "How's it going?"

"Not bad," he says, patting the other man on the shoulder with easy familiarity. "Next week?"

What the hell is going on here? The other man—middle-aged, dressed in business casual—steps off the porch without a word and walks to a car parked on the street. I turn back to Mr. Martin, confusion written all over my face.

"Sorry about that. I see massage clients at the house now," he says, as if that explains everything.

"When did you become a massage...person?"

"The technical term is masseuse," he says. "Engineering isn't what it used to be."

"Wait, so you work from home now?"

"Not always, but some people can only book after hours. I'm flexible that way," he says with a slight shrug.

A lull follows, and the moment grows awkward. The silence stretches between us like taffy, sticky and uncomfortable.

"Sorry, but Duke isn't home. Matter of fact, I thought he was going over to your place," he says, gesturing toward my house next door.

He's at my house, alright.

"Oh, my bad. I ran out, didn't know if he waited or not." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue.

His expression tells me he isn't buying any of my bullshit. His eyes narrow slightly, reading me the way a parent reads a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

"Why are you really here, kid?"

"Okay," I say, scrambling, trying to hide my facial expression and failing miserably. "Maybe I wanted a massage."

"A massage?" he asks, his tone flat and skeptical.

"Well, you are a massage therapist, right?"

I'm just digging a deeper hole, but in my defense, my dad is currently railing my best friend in my bedroom, so excuse me if I'm not thinking clearly. The words almost tumble out of my mouth before I catch them. Mr. Martin looks at me a moment longer, his gaze searching, before stepping back into the dark house. I stand there on the porch, trying to recover from that epic failure of a conversation, my heart hammering against my ribs. Then I hear his voice drift from the darkness.

"You coming or not?"

After a moment, I follow him into the house. As soon as I step inside, I realize it's been a long time since I've actually been in here. Duke and I have always hung out at my place, especially ever since high school started. But standing in the entryway now, I can see it still looks the same—same family photos on the walls, same worn hardwood floors.

The entire house is dark except for a few strategically placed scented candles that make the place smell like Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Emphasis on the 'beyond'. What used to be Duke's mom's craft room now houses a solid massage table positioned in the center, another smaller table with neatly folded towels stacked on a shelf and various oils arranged on top, a space heater humming quietly in the corner, another shelf that doesn't look nearly as functional—more decorative than anything—a cushioned stool, and a flat screen TV mounted on the wall. The screen shows a glowing fireplace, and the sound effects of the crackling fire match what's on the screen perfectly, creating an oddly immersive atmosphere.

"Alright, here we are," he says, gesturing around the room with obvious pride.

"Nice," I say, unsure what to do next or where to even look.

He looks at me, and I can feel him taking in the way I look entirely clueless, probably standing here like a deer in headlights.

"Let me guess," he says, crossing his arms and resting a hand on his chin, studying me with an amused expression. "You don’t get massages that often?"

"I'm that obvious?"

"It's all good," he says with a warm smile that puts me slightly more at ease. "Just strip down to your comfort level and hop on the table. I'll wash my hands and be back in a minute."

"Okay," I say a little too eagerly, especially for someone who's never had a massage and has no idea what he's doing.

"You can put your stuff on that chair," he says, pointing to a chair tucked in the corner of the room, half-hidden in shadow.

He leaves, shutting the door behind him with a soft click, and I turn and stare at the table. I run my hand across the top—the sheet is taut and crisp beneath my palm. It's warm to the touch, almost hot, and it takes me a second before I notice the plug extending from the base to the wall outlet. So he's just washing his hands? And if so, that doesn't take long. What if he walks in before I'm ready? And how much clothes do I take off? Does 'to your comfort level' mean get comfortable, or does it mean leave your underwear on, you animal?

I stand there for another few seconds, overthinking it, before deciding on the former. I strip completely, folding my clothes and setting them on the chair, hyperaware of every sound in the house—the creak of floorboards, the distant rush of water through pipes. Then I climb onto the table, the heated surface immediately soothing against my bare skin.

There's a towel rolled up near the headrest. I unfurl it and position it over my ass, then spend the next thirty seconds trying to decide if my arms are more comfortable resting on the table at my sides, draped over the sides, or hugging the headrest. I shift positions twice before finally choosing to drape them over the edges, letting my hands dangle.

A few moments later, Mr. Martin returns and quietly closes the door behind him, like he's trying to contain the entire experience within these few square feet of space.

"You ready?"

"Sure thing, Mr. Martin."

"Logan, call me Fred."

The last time I called him Fred was sophomore year, and he all but had an aneurysm, insisting I show proper respect.

"Sure thing, Fred," I say with a small chuckle, the name feeling strange on my tongue.

"You're a man now," he says matter-of-factly.

Wow. Hear that? I'm a man. The thought alone sends a jolt of electricity through me, a current I feel all the way to the tips of my fingers.

"Anything hurting you before we get started?" he asks, his voice dropping into what I assume is his professional massage therapist tone.

Just my eyesight from watching my dad fuck your son.

"No sir—Fred, nope, all good," I say, correcting myself quickly.

"Great," he says, and then his hands are on me, taking my arms and gently laying them at my sides instead.

His hands are soft and at the same time strong, confident in their movements. When he lays my arms down, he slides the tips of his fingers along my forearm in one smooth motion, from elbow to wrist. Fuck. I feel like this entire thing is going to be me interpreting a bunch of signals in the exact opposite fashion they're intended, reading into every touch, every word, every breath.

He turns on music—soft and hotel lobby-like, the kind that fills space without demanding attention—and then he turns on a diffuser. I hear the quiet hiss as it comes to life, and moments later the scent reaches me: apple and cinnamon, warm and inviting.

I hear a bottle pop open, the cap releasing with a soft click, and then the sound of squeezing—liquid pooling into his palm. He rubs his hands together, the friction creating a whisper of sound as he warms the oil between his palms. Then his hands are on my back, finally making contact.

The first touch is warm—warmer than I expected—and slick with oil. His palms press flat against my shoulder blades, spreading outward in one long, deliberate stroke that follows the curve of my spine down to the small of my back. The pressure is firm but not aggressive, like he's testing the terrain, learning the landscape of my body. My breath catches, and I force myself to exhale slowly through my nose, trying to look like someone who's done this before, someone who isn't about to lose his mind over a completely normal, professional massage.

Except there's nothing normal about this. Not when it's Duke's dad. Not when I can still hear Duke's voice in my head—harder, daddy, fuck me harder—and now here I am, face-down on a table while those same hands that probably touched the random guy from the porch earlier are now touching me.

Jesus Christ.

Fred's hands move back up, this time with more pressure, his thumbs digging into the muscles on either side of my spine. He works his way up slowly, methodically, like he's got all the time in the world. The heat from the table beneath me seeps into my chest and stomach, making everything feel heavy and languid, like I'm sinking into the padding. The towel across my ass shifts slightly as he moves, and I'm suddenly hyper-aware of how little is actually covering me, how exposed I am.

"You're really tense," Fred says, his voice low and close. "When's the last time you had a massage?"

"You know that whole ‘not often’ thing you said—well it should have been ‘never’," I admit, the word coming out muffled against the face cradle.

"Never?" He sounds genuinely surprised. His hands pause for a moment, resting on my shoulders. "Well, we'll take care of that."

His thumbs press into the space between my shoulder blades, finding a knot I didn't even know was there, and I have to bite back a sound that's somewhere between a groan and a whimper. He works the spot with slow, circular motions, applying just enough pressure that it borders on painful but doesn't quite cross the line. It's the kind of pain that feels good, the kind that makes you want more even as you're trying to pull away from it.

"Breathe," he says. "You're holding your breath."

I am. I force myself to inhale, and the scent of apple and cinnamon fills my lungs, mixing with the faint smell of the oil on my skin. His hands slide down again, this time moving to my sides, his fingers pressing into the muscles along my ribs. The touch is almost intimate, too close to my armpits, too close to the sides of my chest, and I feel my pulse quicken.

This is fine. This is normal. This is what massage therapists do.

Except Fred isn't just a massage therapist. He's Duke's dad. And Duke is currently fucking my dad. Or my dad is fucking Duke. Either way, the whole situation is so fucked up that I can't even begin to process it, so instead I'm just lying here, letting Duke's dad put his hands all over me, and trying very hard not to think about the fact that I'm getting hard.

Fuck.

His hands move lower, sliding down to the small of my back, his thumbs pressing into the dimples just above my ass. The towel shifts again, slipping down slightly, and I feel the cool air hit the top of my crack. My entire body tenses, and Fred's hands pause.

"Relax," he says, his voice soft. "I've got you."