Hearts Repaired

by Caraway Carter

  “From television – soap operas I watched when I was in the dorms.”

  Lawrence choked again. Coffee dribbled from the corner of his mouth. “Soaps? Really?”

  Curtis walked around the counter and picked up the towel, wiped a drip of coffee from Lawrence’s chin, and left a kiss. “Yep. And I had way more bodies pressed against me than Buchanan ever did, or than he ever told me, at least.”

  Lawrence turned on the stool and hooked his ankles around Curtis’s legs, pulling Curtis closer to him. “I’m glad you did, because I like this.”

  They kissed—not deeply, just short and sweet. After a moment, Curtis stepped back. “I’m going to hop in the shower if you’d like to join me. Then we can leave together, if you’d like. You don’t have to run out of here, unless you don’t want people to see me with you.”

  Lawrence put up his hands. “I was leaving because I didn’t want you to think you made a bad choice last night.”

  “I only make good choices,” Curtis retorted. “And last night was wonderful, just like this morning has been.”

  “Okay, lead the way. I’ll send a message to my guy and let him know I’ll be a little late.” Lawrence headed for his jeans and fished a phone out of the front pocket, squinting against the sun that had risen and bathed the room in bright light. “Just a sec.”

  Curtis stood impatiently while Lawrence tapped out a message on his phone, then shoved it back into his jeans. “Okay, that’s done.”

  “Good. Come on.” Curtis slid his hand into Lawrence’s and pulled him to the back of the loft, into the bathroom.

  They entered a room with tile everywhere. “Shit, this looks like a bathhouse I used to frequent in the eighties,” Lawrence exclaimed.

  “It’s better when there’s more than one person in here.” Curtis grinned and began turning knobs.

  “What?” Lawrence stopped Curtis and turned him around.

  “I meant, it’s better with two people.”

  “It’s amazing,” Lawrence commented, taking in the room with a quick glance. “Four showerheads?”

  “And a rain head.” Curtis pointed up. “I’ve got an architect who loves to design showers that no one ever asks for.” Curtis twisted the large knob on the left-hand wall, and water sprayed in a fast jet from four square nozzles embedded in the walls. Lawrence turned in a circle as a steady stream of water flowed from overhead, just as Curtis twisted another, smaller knob. They were engulfed in a spray from the middle of the floor.

  “Oh, an architect,” Lawrence said with a knowing look. “Then where’s the bathtub?”

  “Yeah, an architect,” Curtis said and pulled Lawrence to the back where there was a bench. “He babysat me when I was a kid. He’s just an old friend.” Curtis lifted a brass shelf to reveal a brass tub. “I had it installed so I can sit down when I’m too tired to move.”

  “An architect,” Lawrence marveled, and stepped into the water and Curtis’s waiting arms.

  2

  Lawrence

  Lawrence was a creature of habit. Every morning before driving into work, he started his routine by stumbling through the house to the kitchen, where he’d grab whatever fruit was on the counter, toss some spinach into the juicer on top of it, and drink the resulting concoction.

  He’d hurt himself one too many times over the past four years to forget his simple stretches before his morning run. It didn’t matter what the weather was in Belmont Park; he always wore a pair of shorts, white socks, running shoes, and whatever color T-shirt he’d dug out of the drawer.

  The route was the same every morning: out his door, northeast up Covina Avenue to Appian Way, and back again. His thoughts were usually a routine as well: his to-do list, any interesting clients he might be working for that day, and his plans for lunch or dinner. But this morning, at the corner, Curtis popped into his mind again.

  Lawrence grinned. This had happened several times since the shower he’d shared with Curtis the previous Monday morning, and even though it disrupted his routine, he didn’t seem to mind. He looked down, his grin turning to a grimace. Maybe I should carry a sweatshirt to cover that up…

  He sat on a bus bench at the corner and shooed two buses until his hard-on finally went away.

  He hadn’t felt this horny in the morning since his vacation at the men’s retreat in Northern California, six years ago, when he had taken a little blue pill another guy had offered him and then suffered through nearly a day-long hard-on. “Who needs Viagra?” He chuckled. “I’ve got Curtis.” The third bus came to a smooth stop in front of him. He shook his head, waved it off, and sighed as it lumbered away. He ran back down Covina again, the hard-on gone but memories still bright and sharp.

  Last Sunday—was it really only last Sunday?—he’d decided to finish up his monthly accounting paperwork at the Brass Lamp. The coffee and wine bar was his favorite place to work. It was his home away from home, and recently more of a home than his house had been; the house always seemed so empty. He loved the place, but after his last relationship ended, he hadn’t wanted to invest in anything.

  Instead, he’d developed his routine. Wake up, run, work, go to the Brass Lamp on off days, or go home on workdays. At least at the Brass Lamp there were voices and laughter, music and good food, and great-looking people to occupy his mind.

  He’d been frowning at some receipts from his cross-town parts supplier when Curtis had come in, surrounded by his friends. They quickly took over one of the windowed rooms in the front of the building.

  From where Lawrence had sat in the middle of the main room, it looked like Curtis’s crowd was having some kind of celebration. The group around the table was diverse—older, younger, and all genders. They raised glasses of champagne the waitress had brought to them a few minutes earlier. There was laughter in the room and hugging every time another person joined them, and a cake covered with candles that arrived with a latecomer made a birthday party look like the most likely occasion.

  Lawrence had watched like it was the most exciting television show he’d seen in ages, pretending to himself that he wasn’t just watching Curtis, who looked so much younger than he was. College student? Maybe graduate student. If he has a job, it has to be close by. He can’t be more than twenty-six or twenty-seven…

  An instant message had popped up on his computer screen, derailing his train of thought. He’d responded with a few taps on the keyboard. When he looked up again, Curtis was screened from view behind a standing crowd of laughing, clapping people. He sighed and motioned to the server; he was hungry in more than one way.

  Three lattes and a four-cheese mac and cheese later, the room across from him had emptied out, and his books were in order. He hadn’t looked up at the right time, apparently—the attractive young man had disappeared, along with the others who’d crowded the small room. Wish I’d gotten one more look. He was easy on the eyes.

  Lawrence closed his computer and rubbed tired eyes, then looked up to find a dark beer sitting beside his MacBook. The server stood behind it.

  “What’s this?”

  She tilted her head in the direction of the bar. “It’s from the young stud you’ve been eyeing all night, old man.”

  “Thank you,” he retorted. “Did he send it as he left with his gang?”

  She shook her head and walked away.

  Lawrence reached for the beer, then pulled his hand back as Curtis sat down across from him. “I see you got my Guinness.”

  “Oh, she said it was for me. I’m sorry.” Lawrence pushed it towards him.

  “It is. Mine’s here.” Curtis lifted his glass and sipped. “Was saying my goodbyes to the gang, but I wanted to speak to the man I couldn’t take my eyes off of all night.” He pushed the glass back to Lawrence. “Go ahead, take it.”

  Lawrence lifted the glass, swallowed, and soared. The Guinness took him back to a summer in England he’d splurged on. “Mm.” He cleared his throat.

  “Great beer, isn’t it?”

  Lawrence
nodded. “It is.” He still wasn’t sure if this was a coffee-fueled fantasy or a practical joke someone was playing on him. “I don’t usually drink beer when I’m here, because I’m working on my account books.”

  “Sounds like something beer could help with,” Curtis said and sipped his own again.

  Lawrence looked at the glass next to him. “It might, but beer makes me get… silly sometimes.”

  “You don’t look like a man who could get silly. I’ve seen you here a few times lately. This is my usual hangout since I’ve got a loft on the Promenade.”

  Taken by the fact that he’d been noticed, Lawrence stumbled over his words. “I drove, so… I think I shouldn’t have much more than this.”

  “I’m Curtis, by the way. Nice to finally meet you.”

  “Lawrence.” They shook hands briefly. Curtis’s hand was chilly from the beer glass.

  How they ended up in the loft a few hours later was anyone’s guess, but Lawrence was pretty sure they’d been arguing about art when the Brass Lamp’s owner came up and talked them into a class they were doing on Wednesday nights. Lawrence remembered saying to add the class to his tab, and the Guinness became Prosecco, and that was it for Lawrence. He moved wherever Curtis pulled him. He had vague memories of hands wrapped around his body, steering him out of the elevator and through the door of Curtis’s loft.

  Pretty much the last thought was of the bliss in the shower, the mutual hand jobs, and more kisses than he’d remembered ever getting or giving before. Those lips were still on his mind as he pulled into his shop in Bixby Knolls.

  A large blue-and-white sign stood next to the driveway of the shop. Larry’s High-End Auto had been a feature on Wardlow for as long as anyone could remember. When he bought it thirty years ago, it was owed by Larry Hines, who inherited it from his father.

  Larry Hines didn’t know a VW from a Mercedes, but he did know how to hire competent staff, and when Larry Hines met Lawrence Barnsdale, it was a match made in heaven. Larry played the “I’m not gay; my car broke down outside and I need to call the shop” card. Lawrence said he’d take a look at it; he’d get more action under the car than he was getting at the bar that night.

  The two of them had run the place until Hines died of AIDS in the late eighties. They had been fuckbuddies for a while, but Lawrence couldn’t really fall for a guy who owned an auto body shop but only liked the bodies of the men who worked the bays. Apart from occasional sex and running the operation, they’d had almost nothing in common—the jock and the aesthete. Lawrence finally bought the shop off Larry shortly before he passed away.

  He pulled his mist-blue-and-white Nash Metropolitan into the space labeled Owner at the front of the building. There were several unfamiliar cars in the parking area, but the blinds were drawn, so he knew he was the first one in. He flipped the lights on as he made his way through the front office, then checked the lockbox, tossed three sets of keys on the counter, and turned the coffee station on.

  The sound brought back a thought of water dripping off Curtis in the shower. He tried to shove the vision away but quickly realized it had made him need a cold shower. Without it, he wouldn’t be able to focus on so much as a tire change.

  He cursed good-naturedly as he headed toward the private bathroom, thanking his past bad relationships for the shower stall he’d had built there. Jeffrey’s hatred for dirty men had made Lawrence reconsider cleaning up after a long day. When he was younger, a coat of oil and grease was standard, but now he always cleaned himself up before leaving the shop.

  And here he was thinking about Curtis and needing a cold shower before the day had even begun.

  He stripped off his coveralls and clothing, set them on a chair, hopped in the shower, turned the water on cold, and shivered as he stood beneath it, willing himself to go back down.

  After several minutes of icy spray, his hard-on faded again. He turned the water up to warm, rinsed himself off, and grabbed a towel, rubbing himself down briskly. He tied the towel around his waist and grabbed the sides of the sink, still shivering.

  He looked at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look his age; Curtis was right about that. But not much younger. Maybe late fifties instead of mid-sixties. I’ve got too much gray in my hair and beard to be anything but an old man.

  Mario whistled as he walked past. “Ooh, boss, I might have to bend you over that sink if you aren’t careful. You’re looking good, even now.” Mario walked past the private bathroom door to the row of lockers, pulled out his coveralls, and began to put them on.

  Mario was one of his best employees, a straight-arrow worker whose wife was pregnant with their third child. But sometimes Lawrence wondered about Mario, and why he was so comfortable shit-talking with him about men’s asses and wanting to bend them over sinks. He might have to talk to Mario about sexual harassment one day, but there hadn’t been any complaints, ever, and he could count on his hand the number of times he himself had had sex in the building.

  He wondered if Mario had brought people here, since he did have keys. Then he shook the thought away. Whatever else Mario was, he was absolutely faithful to his wife.

  Lawrence pulled up his black briefs, pulled on his clothes again, and stepped into the company gray coveralls. He’d planned on leaving off his underwear, but then, with Mario in the room, he’d thought better of it.

  “You’re early, Mario.”

  “Tilde is having a hard morning. I did all I could, but she was yelling. I needed to be surrounded by other men.”

  “And you walked in on me in a towel. One minute earlier, you would have walked in on me in the shower. I guess we were both lucky,” Lawrence said as he laced up his boots. “You avoided a heart attack from seeing my skinny old bod.”

  “We’ll never know, Lawrence.” Mario stepped into his own coveralls and grinned. They were old friends, and this banter was a common thing between them.

  “Ah, Mario, if only I were thirty years younger and you weren’t a married man with three children.”

  Mario zipped the coverall. “Three? I’ve only got two so far.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “What’s on our schedule this morning?” Mario asked as he knelt to tie his own work boots.

  “I haven’t even got that far yet,” Lawrence admitted.

  “Really?” Mario squinted. “That’s not like you, boss.”

  “I know,” Lawrence said. “I took a run this morning, and I just got itchy from the sweat. Getting a quick shower seemed like the fastest way to handle it, but that put me behind. Anyway, we’ve got at least three cars out there—new repairs, I mean. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll have you set up for the day.”

  “Okay,” Mario said, straightening and stretching. “Want me to go take a look at that Beemer we got in yesterday afternoon?”

  “Yeah, that’s fine,” Lawrence said, heading to his desk.

  He adjusted himself as he took the three sets of keys to his office, giving himself a stern warning to stay down. He left the door open and grabbed the bucket of candy bars before setting everything on his desk.

  He worked his way through the keys, creating the forms that Mario and Tim would need to do the work requested. One of them required a phone call, but the owner of that set of keys didn’t answer, so he put them aside for later. The other two were shop regulars.

  His head was down as he finished up the form on the second car, when he heard the squeak of the chair in front of him. “It’s been fifteen minutes, boss. That Beemer’s going to need some specialized parts, though.”

  “Do you have a list?”

  “Yeah, here.” Mario pushed a paper across the desk to him. “Want me to call around?”

  “Nah, I’ll do it.” Lawrence took the list and set it with the Beemer’s folder.

  “So, what do we have lined up for today? Can I get started on anything?” Mario asked.

  “Mr. Hardy left one of his Mercedes. It’s the burgundy one in the lot.” Lawrence nodded at the key
s clipped to the first of two clipboards on the desk. “There’s a name I haven’t heard of before attached to the Lamborghini—Trent Hidalgo. He didn’t answer when I called, so I’ll try him again in an hour or so. And your favorite customer, Mr. Pazos, dropped off his Prius.”

  “I thought we told him we didn’t work on Toyotas.”

  “We did, but I think he likes being refused by you, Mario,” Lawrence said. “And we do work on Toyotas. It’s just you that doesn’t.”

  “Should I call him, or do I have to wait for him to show up?” Mario said.

  “If you want, I can have Tim take care of it. Get him primed for when you age out of here.” Lawrence set his pen down, opened a Butterfinger, and took a big bite.

  “No, I do like it when he asks me nicely.” Mario leaned forward and swiped the candy away from Lawrence. “You shouldn’t eat that shit.”

  “I’m fit!” Lawrence said in protest. “In fact, I fucked a guy like three times last weekend.”

  “Once a day isn’t a big deal, old man.” Mario snorted.

  “It was twice on Sunday night and once on Monday morning.” Lawrence grabbed the candy bar back and took another bite. “I need to get my strength back up.”

  “Okay, I’m impressed,” Mario said as he stood. “Is that why you were ‘sweating’ this morning?”

  He ducked as Lawrence threw the rest of the candy bar at him. “Missed me, old man.”

  “I can see you’re not busy enough.” Lawrence tossed the keys at Mario. “Pull the Lamborghini into the first bay.”

  Mario caught the keys and nodded.

  “What’s rule number one?” Lawrence asked.

  “Leave the nicest car where everyone who pulls in can see it.” Mario looked back inside the building. “Your accountant’s waiting out in front of bay two.”

  “I’ll get the other doors.” Lawrence headed out of his office to unlock them. He pushed the button for the first bay to get the door rolling up, then unlocked the second and third doors and got them moving as well.