by Lynn Lorenz
“Christ. I need you.” Jack moaned. He’d taken Edward’s ass this morning, then sucked him off, but it felt as if he’d gone days without being inside Edward. Over the last two months, Jack had had more sex than he’d had his entire life.
“Need you too,” Edward answered and with a final caress of Jack’s dick through his uniform pants, he pulled away.
Jack sighed. He’d never get enough of Edward. Never get tired of loving him and being loved by him. Of the taste of his mouth, his skin, his cock, his sweetly bitter cum.
Edward went to the door, Winston at his heels, then paused and looked over his shoulder. “I love you, Jack.”
“I love you, Edward. Unconditionally.”
Edward opened the door as if to leave, then leaned back into the office.
“Later, gator.” He winked, then he and Winston slipped out of the door.
Jack laughed and shook his head.
Yep. Always the last word.
PUSHING PHILLIP
Book four in the
Common Powers series
Jobless, homeless and alone at Christmas—can his new friends keep him from running?
When the guys decide to spend Christmas together at the ranch, it’s going to be a time for catching up with each couple. Rush and Brian are hosting, Edward and Jack will be there and Mitchell and Sammi are coming in from Houston.
When Brian and Rush take Phillip, a newly outed gay man, under their wings, they discover he’s got a power. But this power is one that makes all of them uncomfortable, along with the young man himself as issues of trust arise.
Phillip finds himself jobless, homeless and alone for the holiday, and he’s run out of options. Just when he’s ready to move on, he finds new friends who are ready to give him a second chance at his dreams. Along with a second chance at love.
Dedication
To all the readers who asked for more of the men with common powers.
Trademark Acknowledgements
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Dickies: Williamson-Dickie Manufacturing Company
Bronco: Ford Motor Company
Kia: Kia Motor Corporation
Stetson: John B. Stetson Company
Jeep: FCA US LLC
Wrangler: VF Corporation
Jetta: Volkswagen Group
Corona: Grupo Modelo, Anheuser-Busch
Shiner Bock: The Gambrinus Company
PBR: Pabst Brewing Company
Ford: Ford Motor Company
Dairy Queen: Berkshire Hathaway
Chapter One
Spring Lake, Texas
One week before Christmas
The irony wasn’t wasted on Phillip Mott that he worked at a car repair place but didn’t own a car. In fact, he didn’t even have a driver’s license.
Dressed in his work clothes—dark blue Dickies pants, light blue shirt with his name embroidered on the pocket—Phillip quickly limped the twenty steps from his tiny trailer to the back door of Smith’s Garage where he worked. His bad knee had bothered him last night and now the strain on it made him wince with each step.
He sorted out the keys to the place, found the right one and unlocked the door. After slipping inside, he punched in the code for the security system, flipped on the lights, then walked through the storeroom filled with metal shelves heavy with assorted parts, past the manager’s office, and to the front counter. He’d been the counter guy—official title—for nearly ten months.
Last year, after he’d climbed out of the big rig he’d hitched a ride on up on the interstate, he’d pulled up his hoodie and walked the few miles in the cold rain down the blacktop farm-to-market road into Spring Lake, looking for a place to land. As he’d made his way down the small town’s main street, the rain had turned to drizzle. He’d spotted the Help Wanted sign in the window of Smith’s Garage and had stepped inside looking mostly to get out of the rain, but he wouldn’t turn down a job.
The minimum wage job and the tiny trailer had fallen out of the sky like the drops of rain clinging to him, and into his lap with a little influencing on the shop manager to hire him. Nothing wrong with that, nothing illegal or dangerous, merely survival. Just a little push to get the owner to overlook Phillip’s lack of references while they shook hands. At eighteen, he’d decided his power’s boundaries weren’t his mother’s, and although he might have tested the limits, he’d stepped back from the cliff’s edge every time.
It wasn’t his dream job, but it’d do. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers’, his mom had always told him each time she’d asked him to use his power. What she’d really meant was he couldn’t be choosy. Don’t worry, Mom, I know exactly what you thought I’m worth—whatever I could get you, and the moment I stopped delivering you put me out.
At the front desk, he turned on the computer, then went to the waiting room and got a pot of coffee started for the customers who’d be rolling in at seven when they opened. He plugged in the sad, one-foot-tall plastic Christmas tree, hung with flashing multi-colored mini-lights, someone had bought a few years ago. It matched his lack of Christmas spirit—sad, short and blinking. That done, he headed to the first of three garage bays, unlocked the roll-up door, bent down to grab the handle and pushed the first one open with a grunt. The bay filled with the brisk morning air of December in central Texas. Better than the inferno of August in Texas with only a few industrial fans to cool the work areas. Thank God for the air conditioning in the office areas.
In fifteen minutes, the two mechanics would show up and his day would begin. The manager, Carl Flynn—the owner’s brother-in-law—would stroll in sometime around nine, go to his office, shut the door and only come out when needed, which wasn’t often, leaving Phillip to deal with whatever came up.
This quiet time, with no one around and only the smells of oil, metal, tires and stale sweat to keep him company, was the best part of his workday. “Christ,” he muttered. Fifteen good minutes out of nine hours. Six days a week. Fuck my life.
He moved to the next bay and opened it. As he gave it a hard pull—this one always stuck in cold weather—a voice called out and ran down his spine like nails on a chalk board. He jerked to the side, twisting his knee, and struggled to keep from wincing.
“Hey, P-dawg! How’s it swinging?” The voice boomed off the metal garage walls.
Jimmy.
God, he hated the guy. Hated the douche nickname. Hated him with all the power of a thousand suns. Homophobic, racist, bigoted Jimmy was an asshole. He checked all Phillip’s bug-the-shit-outta-me boxes. He schooled his face as he turned to Jimmy while he punched his time card. Phillip might be a beggar, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d seen Jimmy in action before, and no way did he want to be on the receiving end of his crap. Jimmy was trouble, but for now, he was trouble that could be managed.
“Fine.” He got the last bay opened, brushed off his hands and headed back to the office. He couldn’t get away fast enough. Trying not to antagonize Jimmy, but not encourage him either, was a delicate balance. Most days, Phillip succeeded. Today?
It was first thing in the morning and Jimmy’s uniform was covered in grease. Fuck. Can’t the guy wear clean clothes at least more than once a week?
“I’ll get the keys from the slot and fill out the work orders.” Phillip closed the door behind him, glad to be out of the garage. Outside, three cars had been dropped off, and the keys, including a note with each owner’s name and their car’s problem, had been shoved through the mail slot in the front door.
After he unlocked it he picked up the keys and notes, careful not to mix them up, and went back to the counter to pull up the forms on the computer. He filled them out in order of ‘Jimmy’ and ‘Estaban’, depending on the work needed.
The door from the bays opened. He braced himself, but it was Estaban, their real mechanic. Phillip relaxed his shoulders as part of him eased and yet a part of him felt excited, somethin
g that had been growing stronger over the months. Every day he looked forward to seeing Estaban’s smiling face, so different from the sneer Jimmy greeted him with.
“Morning, Phil. Clocked in.” Estaban gave him a nod, the smile on his face reaching his eyes. So different from Jimmy’s dangerous, shit-eating grin.
“Hola, Estaban. Give me a minute to get this sorted out.” Phillip wished he didn’t call him Phil, but it was better than ‘P-dawg.’ And Estaban was a great guy, probably ten years older than Phillip, with dark brown eyes and thick, black hair, and a body built by hard work, not a gym. He was an incredible mechanic. A fucking genius with motors. There wasn’t a car he couldn’t diagnose and fix. He wore a fresh uniform every day, and no matter how dirty he got during the work day, in the morning his nails were clean. Phillip didn’t want to admit he noticed, but the guy even smelled good.
“What you got?” Phillip eyed the brown paper bag in Estaban’s hand.
“I brought you some pork tamales.” Estaban put the bag on the counter.
“For me?” Phillip grinned. “You didn’t have to go to any trouble.” He tried not to be foolishly flattered, but it was damn hard. After close to a year working with the guy, he couldn’t shake his growing attraction.
“Well, it was nada.” Estaban shrugged. “Right before Christmas, my family gets together and makes dozens of tamales. Pork, chicken, beef. It’s a tradition. I’ve got a refrigerator filled with them. Just thought you’d like some.” He gave the bag another push toward Phillip.
“Excellent! I love tamales. Thanks.” For a moment, Phillip stood there, grinning into Estaban’s smiling face. “Thanks for thinking of me.” Wow. Estaban brought them just for me? He picked up the bag and placed it behind the counter. “I’ll put them in the trailer’s fridge later. Looks like dinner tonight.”
“You just have to heat them in the microwave, you know.” Estaban looked all kinds of pleased as he rocked back on his heels, hands buried in his pockets. If Phillip wasn’t mistaken, a touch of pink colored Estaban’s cheeks, but that was probably due to the cold in the garage bays.
“Tell your family thanks. That’s a real nice tradition.”
“Yeah. A lot of Hispanic families do it at Christmas, at least here in Texas.” Estaban spoke without a trace of accent and for the first time, Phillip wondered if he’d been born here. Then he worried if Estaban might be in danger of being deported if he wasn’t. Despite him not knowing one way or the other, Phillip felt odd about the possibility.
“Thanks again.” Really? I need to just shut the fuck up. Master of witty banter I’m not.
“Great.” Estaban nodded, stepped away and leaned against the wall by the door.
“Good.” Could this be any more awkward? Phillip couldn’t take his gaze off Estaban even at the best of times. He forced himself to concentrate on the computer screen and figure out what work was up, but instead he let his mind wander to Estaban’s lips on his, his powerful hands on his skin, his tongue—
The door to the bays opened, breaking the spell, or at least waking Phillip up out of his daydream.
“What’s up first?” Jimmy came in, dragging a deep smell of sweat and grease with him. He leaned on the counter, leaving a smudge of black where his arm rested.
“Oil change. White Chevy truck.” Phillip handed him the keys. Jimmy did the oil changes, minor stuff like fuses, washer blades and tire changes. He wasn’t good for much more than a strong back, even though he acted like he owned the place.
“Got it.” He left and Phillip rolled his eyes. He picked up a rag and wiped away the grease spot.
Estaban snorted. “Now, what you got for me, Phil?”
Oh, I got something long and hard for you…
Phillip coughed, printed out a form, then handed it to Estaban. “The green Bronco? Says it’s running rough.” He shrugged. “Give it a test drive then open the hood, and work your mechanic magic. I’ll call the owner for approval when you figure it out.” He tossed the keys to Estaban, who spun and caught them behind his back.
“Goooaalll!” Estaban grinned. “Back in a few.”
The chime on the front door went off as a customer pushed through. Phillip had one more car to write up, but he paused to give the living person his attention.
“Merry Christmas! Can I help you?” He smiled as a pretty young woman came to the counter. He’d been lectured by the manager the garage was a Christian place of business, and to tell every customer “Merry Christmas” whether they wanted to hear it or not.
No “Happy Holidays” here, folks!
Hell. If they ever found out about his un-Christian activities, he’d put money down on their Christian reaction—goodbye job, goodbye trailer, goodbye Phillip.
“My tire’s flat. I got the spare on, but…” She shrugged and waved in the direction of the parking lot. Through the window, Phillip spotted a little shiny blue Kia.
“Got it. Do you want to wait or just leave it? It’ll be about thirty minutes before we can get to it.”
“Then how long will it take?” She cocked her head at him and batted her lashes.
Barking up the wrong tree, honey. “Maybe another thirty.”
“That’s good. I’ll wait.” She flung her long brown hair over her shoulder.
Oh, I recognize that move. “Great. Can you fill this out?” He shoved the form at her and handed her a pen, being sure to let their hands touch while he thought, Go sit down and leave me alone. She wrote her name, number and address, then pushed it back at him.
“I’ll just sit over here.” She pointed to the chairs.
“Help yourself to coffee, it’s fresh.”
Phillip didn’t bother watching her as she sauntered over to the coffee. Head down, he entered the information into the computer then got back to the car left from last night.
Just nine more hours until he was free. Until he could sit on a bar stool, have a beer, and, if he was lucky, meet someone who wanted a quick trip to the bathroom for a blow job.
He’d kill to go on his knees for Estaban. Sure, he might be the man of Phillip’s fantasies, but he wasn’t gay.
Beggars can’t be choosers.
Chapter Two
Brian leaned against the side of his patrol car and swallowed the last bit of his coffee. Nights were boring in Spring Lake, well, at least during the week. Weekends were another matter. Friday nights? Anything could happen.
He crumpled the paper cup, tossed it into the trash can in front of the convenience store and turned to open the door. A wave of pain hit him. He’d felt it so many times before.
Trouble.
“Damn.” He squeezed his eyes shut and stopped fighting it. What would come couldn’t be stopped, so he let it wash over him.
In his mind he saw the lights of the Last Chance. They blinked off and on, almost a flickering. Then he spotted someone lying on the ground, curled around his belly. Hurt.
Brian’s head cleared and he opened his eyes, glancing around to see if anyone had seen him. The parking lot was empty. Thank God. He didn’t want to explain this.
The urge to get to the man filled Brian. He dashed around the car, jerked open the door and slid into the seat. After backing out, he threw it into gear, gunned it and merged onto the road, heading in the direction of the bar.
In less than ten minutes, he pulled the cruiser into the gravel parking lot of the Last Chance bar, his trouble lights flashing blue and red on the cheap vinyl siding.
The bar’s dark-tinted picture windows had been spray-painted with fake white snowflakes and Merry Christmas in red, and trimmed with a sagging string of multi-colored lights that only added to the visual assault. He’d been called to this place at least once a week since he’d started working at Spring Lake PD. It had a reputation as a dive. He hoped he was in time to stop this guy from getting hurt.
But no one was on the ground. Several cars were parked out front, but he didn’t spot anyone in the lot or by the front of the bar. Maybe he had gotten there in
time after all.
Just as Brian sighed his relief, a man flew out of the door and landed hard in the gravel parking lot. The two men who’d ‘escorted’ him out shouted something Brian couldn’t make out and slammed the door shut. He recognized them as the bartenders.
Damn. Looks like my timing is off.
Brian shut off the flashing lights, got out of the vehicle and approached the man as he lay face down groaning.
“Police here. You okay?” He squatted next to him and patted him down, searching for ID or weapons. The young man barely moved. “You need an ambulance?” He checked for a pulse in the guy’s neck. Strong, but rapid.
“No.” More of a moan than a word.
What Brian could see of his face in the headlights of his cruiser was scrunched up and bloody. Broken nose? Blond hair cut in a short on the sides but longer on top style. Guy might have been about five-eight, five-nine and maybe one hundred fifty-five pounds. The bartenders doubled as bouncers here, so they were a lot bigger than this guy.
Brian found a wallet in his back pocket, flipped it open and studied the Texas State ID card. Odd. “Phillip Mott? That you?”
“Yep.” The man rolled over with a heave and a whimper. One of his arms flopped on the ground, while the other cradled his belly. “Shiiiitttt.”
“Jesus. The bartenders do that to you?” Brian winced at the guy’s face. “You hurt anywhere else?” He didn’t think they would do this sort of damage. Throw him out, yeah, but not this beating.
“No. Not them.” But the grimace on his face told Brian the guy was lying, probably about being hurt, not the bartenders.
“I think you should get a doctor to look at you. Let me call the EMTs.”
“No! No ambulance. No hospital.” He grabbed Brian’s wrist and stared up into the night sky as he gulped down air. “Can’t afford it.”
“Okay, no ambulance or hospital. But I’m going to have to put you in the patrol car for now. Can you sit up?” Brian put his arm around the guy’s shoulder and got him upright.
