Love Most Inconvenient 3 Read online

  Love Most Inconvenient 3

  Love Most Inconvenient

  DJ Manly

  Published 2010

  ISBN 978-1-59578-733-0

  Published by Liquid Silver Books, imprint of Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 10509 Sedgegrass Dr, Indianapolis, Indiana 46235. Copyright © 2010, DJ Manly. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Liquid Silver Books

  http://LSbooks.com

  Email:

  [email protected]

  Editor

  Lynne Anderson

  Cover Artist

  April Martinez

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Blurb

  Brody is happy to take a break from his city clinic to tend to the rehabilitation of a soccer player until he meets the man, a spoiled, stubborn superstar with attitude.

  Noah, a magazine publisher, is on a mission to drag all celebrities out of the closet, until he meets Ace, the hot drummer of a top rock band, who decides enough is enough.

  Yan, a vulnerable young man doing time for his older brother, finds himself in danger. In desperation, he attempts to solicit the protection of the only person tough enough to keep him alive: an ex-gang leader who expects to be paid for his services.

  Love Most Inconvenient is the third installment of D.J. Manly’s anthology series from Liquid Silver Books.

  Dedication

  To my readers.

  Story One

  Man On

  Chapter One

  “He’s bitter,” the coach told him. “You’ll be earning your money with Vic.”

  Brody Montgomery considered that for a moment. “I’ve dealt with athletes before. It’s disheartening to lose an entire season.”

  “Heartbreaking really.”

  “And with a player of Vittorio Barilla’s status, I’m sure he’ll be sorely missed.”

  “The season is pretty much shot for the Angels. Without Vic, we don’t stand a chance of winning. But shit happens. And that’s why we’ll be sparing no expense to get him ready for the next season.”

  “Of course he may never be what he was, Mr. Scott. You do understand that. I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “We can only hope.”

  “Those kinds of breaks can be tricky, especially for an athlete.”

  Terrance Scott nodded. “It’s taken some kind of talking to get Vic to accept the fact that you’ll be moving in there with him for a while. He swears up hill and down that he can do this on his own.”

  Brody skimmed the medical file he’d requested from Vittorio Barilla’s doctor. “He snapped the left ankle and heel. The tibia is broken in the right leg. It’s going to take a while to build the strength up, and regain the muscle. The cast has been off just three days?”

  “Yes, and already he’s frustrated with not being able to put any weight on it.”

  “It’s too early for that. We have to build the strength up in his legs and also restore the balance. The file says the bone healed nicely so that’s the good news.”

  “I prayed to the good Lord every night.” The coach put his hands together as if he was about to pray again. “I’ve had the equipment you requested moved to his house, Mr. Montgomery. And there is a heated pool, along with the floats you asked for. I put them in the shed outside. If there is anything missing, you call me straightaway. And don’t let Vic get away with trying to bully you.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll get my things together and be there at Mr. Barilla’s house early this evening.”

  “You have the map. It’s a little out of the way. Vic likes his privacy.”

  “I’ll find it,” Brody assured him.

  “Look.” Scott moved closer, lowering his voice. “I don’t know how much you know about Vic Barilla.”

  “Not much I’m afraid. I don’t follow soccer. I know that he’s a champion player. I’ve seen his face plastered around. That’s about it.”

  “He’s a winger. It’s a very important position. But it’s not about the game. Vic is a bit of a … well … a bit of a bad boy.”

  Weren’t all champion athletes?

  “When he’s off the field, he likes to party hard and not always with girls,” he said, then cleared his throat and continued in a lower voice, “if you get my … ahem … drift.”

  Brody got it.

  “He was partying pretty hard the night he had the accident on his bike. We’ve kept the details from the press, so I expect your discretion concerning all the things you may hear and see there.”

  “That’s part of my job. You have no worries there.” Many of these star athletes were partiers in their downtime. As for liking guys, that really was a nonissue. Brody knew he was gay at the age of eight.

  “Remember, he’s not himself. He will probably act like an asshole. He’s got a bad temper.”

  Brody held up a hand. “No one is ever exactly thrilled to see the physiotherapist. Physiotherapy is hard work, and often painful. I won’t be intimidated.”

  “Good, because when it comes to sports injuries, you came highly recommended. They say you’re the best in the business.”

  Brody thanked him for the compliment, and the coach gave him a few more details and then left his office. Brody sat back in his chair and thought over what the coach had told him. It was never easy to deal with an athlete who had an oversized ego and would fight his treatment every step of the way. But it wouldn’t be the first time. The pay was fantastic, true, but some would ask why give himself the aggravation, especially since his clinic was doing so well.

  What really appealed to Brody about this job was that it would take him out of the city to a quiet, secluded house north of Jersey. He’d be away from Frederick, another spoiled bad boy Brody had helped three years ago after Frederick had suffered a broken arm playing pro football.

  They’d had a secret affair. Brody had ended it because it was going nowhere, not to mention that it was tearing him apart. But Frederick wouldn’t let go. He still expected to show up at Brody’s house at two in the morning for a fuck then leave afterward to return to his latest girl, like nothing had happened.

  Brody tried his best to resist when Frederick came around but he wasn’t always successful. That’s why the distance would be a good thing. It would be good for Frederick to see that Brody wasn’t always going to be there every time he came knocking.

  There were many high-profile athletes in the closet, and they had no intention of coming out of it any time soon. Blame it on the world of sports or on their own macho self-image, but gay sports heroes were poison to the men who loved them.

  Later that afternoon, he packed a bag, got into his car, and headed across the bridge to Jersey. He’d left Sandra Uri in charge of his patients. She’d worked for him for several years now and was perfectly capable of taking over for him while he was gone. He had complete confidence in her.

  Several other physiotherapists would be on call when Sandra was in need, so all the clients would be taken care of while he was away. He told Sandra he’d be back on weekends to check on things and that she could call him to consult if she needed to. He gave her his cell phone number, the number that Freddy didn’t have. He didn’t want the man calling him while he was away.

  Barilla’s house was more isolated than he’d thought. After pulling off and checking
the map a few times, Brody finally found the way which led to the sprawling bungalow at the end of a long road. The house was shadowed by trees and in front was a large pond on which several ducks swam. It was peaceful and serene, and Brody decided that he was going to love the peace and quiet.

  As he swung his silver Chrysler Sebring up into the driveway and pulled to a halt, he spotted a man pruning rosebushes beside the veranda. A middle-aged woman in an apron sat on the stoop with her chin in her hand. She stood as Brody got out of the car.

  The man with the clippers turned around now and grinned at him. “You must be Montgomery?”

  There was a warm breeze and the air smelt fragrant and fresh. Brody breathed it in and held out his hand. “Yes, but you can call me Brody.”

  The man shook his hand. “Stanley Jones, and this here is my wife, Claire.”

  Claire held out her hand as well. “Welcome, Brody. We’re glad to see you.”

  “Oh?” He raised an eyebrow as he took her hand in his.

  “Since the accident,” Stanley Jones announced, “that big shot soccer player has been acting like a real ass. He almost had Claire in tears the other day.”

  “Shush,” Claire said, “lower your voice. He’ll hear you.” She looked at Brody. “He’s not that bad. It’s been tough on him, this accident. He’s not a bad fellow deep down, just young.”

  “Don’t care if he does hear,” the man was muttering as Claire went on with her defense. “No excuse for bad manners.”

  “He had a great career ahead of him. He’s scared, that’s all,” Claire added. “You’d be too,” she said to her husband, knocking him in the arm.

  Stanley peered at Brody. “You’re a big fellow though. He shouldn’t be able to mess with you too much.”

  Brody smiled.

  “Ever play any ball?”

  “I played football in college.”

  “Damn,” he said, “you must be six foot six, and all those muscles, bet you played quarterback.”

  “You got it. And I’m only six-three.”

  “You have to be strong, I suppose, to do what you do, lifting people and all.”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, Stan,” Claire chastised. “Don’t be keeping Brody here jawing all night. He probably wants to settle in. Come with me, Brody.” She smiled. “I’ll fix you right up.”

  Stan went back to his clipping as Brody followed Claire into the house. “How long have you worked for Mr. Barilla, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “Only three years,” she said. “Mr. Barilla bought this house from the Clem family. Stan and I worked for them for sixteen years. He was a senator, Mr. Clem. When he sold it, Mr. Barilla was nice enough to keep us on. We have our own little house out back. And what with the soccer, Mr. Barilla was hardly ever here. He really is a nice young man, Brody. He’s just frustrated being in that wheelchair and all.”

  “It’s understandable,” Brody commented.

  They walked down a long hallway and Claire pointed out this room and that. “We put Mr. Barilla in this room here because of the doorway and it’s the one closest to the bathroom. The house is able to accommodate the wheelchair pretty well. Some man came earlier with all kinds of equipment for the exercise room. Here,” she said, stopping suddenly, “I’ve fixed this room for you, right beside Mr. Barilla.”

  “Thanks, Claire.”

  “I’ll let you get settled. There’s a bathroom and shower adjoining your room. It will make it easier to help Mr. Barilla shower. God knows he doesn’t want me to help him, and he had the nurse in tears the other day. He’s fired two.”

  He nodded.

  “Are you hungry?”

  “No, I’m fine.” Brody sat down his suitcase. “Where is Mr. Barilla now?”

  “In the games room, I imagine. He’s always watching reruns of soccer games.”

  Brody nodded again.

  “If there’s anything else, tell me. And you don’t have any special dietary restrictions, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Okay,” she said and closed the door behind her.

  Brody took some things out of his suitcase and sat down on the bed. The room was very nice, large bed with gold-colored curtains and matching spread, night table, lamp, a nice bureau. This would do fine. Even if it appeared he had entered the house of the brat prince. Oh well, he’d asked for it.

  Brody stood and went over to the mirror, his hairbrush in hand. He glanced at himself in the mirror as he brushed his windblown blond hair, already too long for his taste, brushing the edges of his broad shoulders. In the heat of the moment once, Fred had told him he was beautiful, but right now, with his hair looking straggly and his face in need of a shave, he didn’t exactly share that opinion.

  What he was most proud of was his body. He studied himself for a few minutes after taking off his T-shirt and then put on a fresh one. He’d kept himself in good shape since his college days, and at thirty, his pecs and abs looked pretty spectacular. It wasn’t too late to find someone, someone who, unlike Freddy, would want to share his life.

  He sighed and laid his hairbrush on the bureau. It was time to meet the brat prince.

  It wasn’t hard to find the games room. He could hear the sports announcer screaming out the plays of the game long before he reached the open door. When he did reach it, he hesitated a moment, surveying the young man who sat in a wheelchair a few feet away from the gigantic television set. He remembered seeing his picture not so long ago on the cover of some men’s magazine. Brody recalled that Barilla stood about five-nine and weighed around one hundred and sixty five pounds, all of it lean muscle, before the accident. The man before him had jet-black hair and velvety brown eyes. His hair wasn’t curly but it wasn’t exactly what you’d call straight either. It had a little bit of a kink to it which probably made it unmanageable, probably not unlike the man himself.

  “That’s one hell of a television set you got there,” Brody said suddenly, walking into the room. “What is it, an eighty-four inch?”

  Vittorio Barilla glanced at him sharply. “Who in the hell are you?”

  “Brody Montgomery, your new physiotherapist.” He held out his hand.

  Vittorio ignored it. He gave Brody a hostile look. “I don’t need physiotherapy, thanks, so you can turn around and go home right now.”

  Brody folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall. “So, you’re just going to get up out of that chair and walk?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Let’s see you do it.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s see you do it.”

  “I don’t feel like walking right now.” He turned his attention back to the game. “I told Coach a hundred times that I didn’t need help. I think he’s developing a hearing problem. I can do this on my own when I’m ready.”

  “So, you’re a faith healer as well as a soccer player.”

  “Are you being smart?” Vittorio demanded crossly, glaring at him. “I don’t like your attitude and I don’t like you.”

  Brody shook his head. “You know, it’s hard to believe that you’re the bad boy who terrorizes the staff and reduces women to tears. You don’t look so tough sitting there.”

  “Hey, look you,” Vittorio replied, pointing at him, “this is my house. I’ve a good mind to get out of this chair and … and…”

  “Do it. I’m waiting, scary guy.”

  “I’ll just have Stan throw you out of here then,” he muttered, calming down somewhat.

  “I’m a lot bigger than the gardener. I don’t think he could do it. So, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning then?”

  “I told you I don’t need whatever you’re peddling.”

  “Well, like I said, get out of that chair and kick my ass out the front door. If you do that, I’ll believe you.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Brody laughed. “That’s what I thought. Do you need some help getting into bed?”

  “You going to tuck me in, and sing m
e to sleep?” he snarled.

  “I’m not a singer.”

  “Well, you can suck my cock if you like; at least that way, you’d make yourself useful.”

  Brody laughed again. “You’ll have to call a different kind of professional for that. But I’ll keep it in mind. I’ll be in the room next to you; shout if you need me.” Brody turned to leave.

  “Don’t hold your breath, asshole,” Brody heard Vittorio say as he walked out the door.

  Brody had a smile on his face as he lay down on his bed. Vittorio Barilla wasn’t so bad. He could tell the man was all talk, and really kind of cute for a brat.

  Vittorio didn’t call to him in the night, but Brody didn’t expect him to. As it turned out, when he walked into the game room the next morning, Brody found Vittorio in exactly the same place he’d left him. Vittorio had fallen asleep in his wheelchair in front of the big screen.

  Claire came into the room suddenly and glanced at Brody. “That’s the way I found him this morning. I checked in with him before going home last night, to see if he wanted me to help him to bed. Stubborn as the day, he is. It’s a wonder he don’t fall out of that chair.” She clicked her tongue and hurried over to him. “Look at the position of his neck, going to be stiff.”

  “That and my dick,” Vittorio grunted, trying to straighten up.

  “Mr. Barilla,” Claire said, giving the young soccer player a disapproving look, and tugging on him to get him to sit up straight.

  Brody came over to help her, wanting to laugh out loud.

  Vittorio was still half-asleep and in a nasty mood. “Leave me alone, woman,” he told Claire. “Jesus Christ.”

  Brody looked at Claire. “It’s okay, Mrs. Jones, I’ll deal with Mr. Nasty here. Why don’t you get us some coffee?”

  “Call me Claire, Brody.”

  “Claire, sorry.” He smiled at her. “Lovely name.”

  “Thank you.” She blushed and hurried from the room.

  Vittorio scowled at him. “Quite the charmer, aren’t you?”

  Brody raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re not being paid to charm the staff.”

  Brody laughed. “So, what am I being paid for, to discipline nasty little boys with stiff dicks?”