Dragons Sky

by Noah Harris

  Charge watched most of the men duck their heads to hide their laughter as he turned back to short-and-angry. “Yes?”

  “Do you even know anything about cars? No one here is going to pull any dead weight!”

  Charge cocked a brow at Benny before wandering past him to check under the hood of the Mercedes. Treyvon had already removed the containing panels to expose the condensed engine block of the AMG GT S. Grabbing the dangling hem of his button down, Charge tucked his shirt into the waistband of his dark jeans with his left hand as he bent and reached beneath the hood for the clipboard resting on top of the exposed engine block. He noticed a couple of scribbled notes on the mechanic’s slip for the vehicle.

  Poor shifting – erratic shift and seems to get stuck in gear/between gears in neutral.

  Trouble starting – electrical?

  Money says it’s the damn solenoid. One would think German engineering could avoid this problem more frequently. Charge sighed, snagged the corner of the creeper with the glossy toe of his shoe, snatched a surprisingly clean shop towel off a cart holding tools and dropped down onto the creeper.

  “Hey –” Treyvon began, but Charge had the shop towel spread over the pressed front of his mint julep button down and was already up under the lifted Mercedes.

  Under the car, Charge could see that Treyvon had been tinkering with the transmission – checking the obvious. From what Charge could see, he was in the process of checking that everything was fitting together correctly, that there weren’t any leaks, that the gear link wasn’t worn. Still, Charge drifted to the side and glad he had had the foresight to roll up his sleeves, reached between the transmission and the firewall, and felt along the top of the shift plate until he found the clutch solenoid.

  Since no one was under the car with him Charge saw no reason to do things the hard and full-human way – for all anyone would know he was using the spanner wrench Treyvon had left under the car. Charge flexed his fingers and let loose the vicious claws he had courtesy of his mixed genetics. Using his claws, Charge felt out the lip where the solenoid unit attached to the transmission, gripped and pulled.

  When, with a slight pop, the unit pulled free, Charge finagled it out from between the transmission and firewall. A glance told him the whole unit would need replacing.

  Using his heels, Charge pulled the creeper out from under the Mercedes. He looked up into the faces of the men that had gathered around the car and handed the clutch solenoid to Treyvon. As the big man, his face dark as midnight, turned the unit over in his hands, a smile slowly stretched his wide lips, allowing glowingly white teeth to gleam under the brilliant shop lights.

  “Manufacture’s defect,” Charge said as he sat upright on the creeper and used the towel to wipe the grit and grime from his hands and arm. “Should be under warranty. Had one come in the shop I was at in Vegas just last month – same damn issue.”

  Treyvon let out a rumbling whooping laugh, “Guess he knows at least a little, Benny.”

  “Yeah – yeah,” the shorter man muttered.

  “Admit it, Benny, you don’t like having a younger, better looking Mex in the shop than you.” One of the men that had yet to introduce himself interjected with a smirk at Benny.

  “Ricky! You forgot taller!” another man laughed.

  “You lying putas! He is not Mexican!”

  “I have to agree with Benny there,” Charge murmured catching the attention of the men around him once more. “My family is from much further south of the border – I’m Brazilian.”

  “Well that explains the better looking,” Ricky joked, intentionally taunting short-and-angry Benny.

  “And the taller,” Treyvon commented before being forced to catch the vice grips Benny flung at his large moon-shaped face.

  Jon tapped his fingers against the soft leather of the passenger seat. He was excited – he had received the e-mail confirming the Morgan had been dropped off and signed for. He couldn’t wait to see the old British beauty.

  He had never waited so long to see one of his projects after its delivery, hell – he always saw the cars the instant Boldan lifted the gate on his box-truck. Still, it was just as well that he had a guest at the house to sign for the delivery, Jon reflected sourly. His day had turned into a cluster-fuck of subtle power plays and attempted manipulation; and there had been no reason for it to be one.

  Jon rolled his eyes as he waited for the light to turn green again – he wouldn’t make it through this cycle, or the next, but if he timed it right he could maneuver his way in front of the metro bus, burping and coughing clouds of smog, next to him. The cross-traffic slowed, stopped and the light shifted to green. The instant the car ahead of him slid forward, Jon popped the Challenger into gear and muscled the car through the narrow opening just as the bus began to move.

  Jon knew that if he looked back, he would see an annoyed snarl twisting the bus driver’s face. However, he was no fool. One could survive an annoyed encounter, but the instant a body made a Houston metro driver certifiably pissed it was time to bail out of the car and run into oncoming traffic – they may or may not try to run you down at that point.

  The brief moment of momentum died as the light went briefly yellow then red. While the light was red, and the bus safely stopped behind him, Jon let his mind wander back over the chaos of the day and the moment half of the office had realized that he was taking a call from one of the most desired potential clients the company had been courting.

  One admin had slithered to the next so that word spread across the senior aides and the senior management they supported. Before Jon had gotten halfway through his spiel to the client the other members of senior management had spilled into his office, each fighting to take control of the conversation, the presentation, and the possibility of the account.

  The client, Mr. Swalters, had been astoundingly tolerant. He had listened and born up under the pressures of the hoard of people that had intruded on their discussion. Jon had sat back and waited for Swalters to make his excuses and benignly call off the call. Instead, 45minutes passed and every one of the interlopers had gotten a word in – or 50. At the three-quarters of an hour mark Swalters has cleared his throat.

  “Well, it has been quite unexpected to become acquainted with so many of the firm’s top agents. Now, I am getting to the end of the time I have to spend on this today. So, if all of you will please excuse Jon Forrest and I, I would like to finish my discussion with him.”

  At least 12 pairs of eyes had bored into Jon, he ignored them. Instead he had started shifting trough his notes to locate where in the presentation he had left off.

  “Jon!” Don Deluca had hissed, carefully pitching his voice so that Swalters might not hear it.

  Jon had looked up and considered the man before turning to the phone and picking up the handset, “Mr. Swalters, I believe we were discussing the industry profile you would like to focus on for the mid-risk options of your portfolio…Yes, yes. The mid-risk would have are more likely to come to fruition than the low-risk staples we have already covered.”

  Ignoring the nasty looks tossed his way, Jon had waited until the last interloper walked out of his office. When the door finally closed, he had let out a heavy sigh, “Mr. Swalters, I am so very sorry for that. Heaven knows I don’t want to have your time wasted.”

  “Hah! No worries Jon – let me assure you I have all day! Wife drugs me off to some resort so that she can go to the spa. I tried to suggest that she just bring some of her lady friends and let me get back to work. That woman would have none of it. I used this call as a reason to not sample the wonders of body waxing.”

  Jon hadn’t been able to hold back the laughter at the thought of the rather stately and dignified Walton Swalters getting his back waxed. “Pardon me,” Jon managed to gasp.

  “No worries,” Swalters had assured on his own chuckle. “Believe me, I would laugh like a loon if it were anyone but me reduced to hiding in a changing stall in the men’s locker room of a pool hou
se at some swanky resort.” Swalters had paused as if considering an idea, “You know what, Jon – I think you are going to be easier to work with than those stuffy folks – if you have the time what if we go through and plan this whole portfolio.”

  “Mr. Swalters, for you, I absolutely have time.” Jon had immediately assured even as he thought, so much for my early evening.

  “Good and call me Walt– damn, why did she have to drag me to Miami? Hell, I could have gotten into the trip if my crazed wife had gotten the idea to go to the resort outside of Tucson. Barrett Jackson is in full swing.”

  “Yeah – that is a good show,” Jon agreed.

  “You like cars?”

  Coming back to his present task, Jon had to laugh as he shifted back into first from the neutral idle, popped the clutch to second and zipped through the light as it blinked yellow. While Walton Swalters had proven an excellent conversationalist and an intriguing client to build a portfolio that represented his investment interests – the attempts to derail Jon’s efforts had continued through the afternoon until Jon had switched the call to his cell, locked his office door and taken the call through his noise canceling headphones.

  When he pulled onto his street, Jon hit the button for the gate. By the time, he coasted the Challenger up the drive, the gate was wide. Jon was immediately treated to a view of the inside of the garage.

  Momentary panic welled until Jon remembered that he had a guest, and one that would likely feel more at home in the garage than anywhere else. Jon brought the Challenger to a stop outside the garage, his gaze riveted on the scene by the fence.

  I guess it survived the night.

  Charge had found the extra shop lights and their stands. He had stretched a long extension cord out with a surge protector on end. His prone form was half lit by the three halos of light cast by the lights.

  He had lifted the ‘80s Corvette dangerously high on the cheap jack stands Jon had forgotten were tucked behind one of the large tool cabinets. Charge was sprawled on the hard ground in an old pair of jeans, beat-to-hell work boots, and not much else. The shop lights cast the sun-glazed warm hues of his skin in stark relief with the smears of oil that stained his chest.

  Charge was in the process of dropping the transmission onto the low rolling coaster as Jon got out of his American muscle pride-and-joy. The Corvette had a number of issues, not the least of which was the blown transmission. The metal had sheared, bits and pieces had been lost to the road; the instant he had gotten under the car, Charge knew he was going to have to work like a dog in Marsters’ shop to be able to buy a new one.

  The slap of Jon’s hard soled shoes came closer, “Ouch!”

  Charge glanced over and saw that Jon had crouched down in his perfect suit to peer beneath the car.

  “Yeah – no hope here. Might as well get the piece of shit out of the way.” Charge torqued a wrench and fought to muscle a tweaked bolt from its mooring. “I am worried that when it blew, it threw the sheared bits of the casing up into the engine.”

  “Yeah that would be bad. And just to err on the side of being obvious, you realize that your transmission exploded – it didn’t just blow.”

  “Shh. I am still trying to cling to my delusions.”

  “Uh-huh…Honestly I am shocked you managed to get more than 50 feet. You want a hand?” Jon offered.

  “With this? Na – I just about got it out. I’ll have it out in another few minutes. Go lust over that Morgan. By the time we are both finished dinner should be about ready.”

  “Dinner?”

  “Just because my mama is a junkie whore doesn’t mean I didn’t manage to learn to cook elsewhere.” Charge smirked as Jon tried to decide whether to be embarrassed or amused.

  VI

  “That wasn’t what I meant and you know it,” Jon insisted. I cannot believe he would actually say something like that – good grief!

  “Yeah – but it’s fun to get you all flustered. And if you take a look at this transmission again, I think you will agree that I need all the fun I can get. Either that or you are going to be faced with man tears.” When the younger man turned his face toward Jon, and fluttered his lashes while screwing up his face comically, Jon had to laugh.

  “You are utterly outrageous. You sure you don’t have the temperament to be a model.”

  Charge smirked before turning his gaze back to the last bolt mooring the transmission to the rest of the engine. While Charge’s gold eyes were focused on his hands, Jon took the opportunity to indulge his out of control senses and let his gaze feast on the oil, transmission fluid, and sand-streaked skin.

  Cuz boy does he have the body for it…

  Charge was built. He had the ever coveted sculpted body – rippling planes of dense, defined muscle under taut toasted gold skin. Jon was fascinated by the mottled blonde and black curls that lightly decorated his chest. Still, when his gaze swept down, the trail of hair that started just beneath Charge’s navel seized all of Jon’s attention.

  I didn’t know anyone could grow body hair that thick…and he has it dyed? That must have been an awkward day at a salon. Though the stylist was probably delighted a he would have had to take off his pants.

  And he’s staring at the happy trail. Charge barely resisted turning to stare down Jon’s obvious fascination. He had intentionally gone without a shirt to see if he could provoke some sort of response from his undeniably repressed host. It had been going well too.

  Charge had felt Jon’s gaze sliding over the exposed expanse of his torso. The older man’s gaze had lingered on the hallow above his collar bone, and again on his pecs when Charge had intentionally taken a deep breath. It had been a good sign.

  But now, Jon was staring, with obvious fascination at the trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans. Unfortunately, enough showed for Jon to see the obviously spotted pattern in the dense pelt. Charge knew that if Jon were to reach out his hand and stroke his fingers over those speckles it would feel as if he were touching a large furred animal.

  Well, technically I am one – not that I can explain that. Now the repressed Texan gets to think that I frivolously have my pubes dyed for added ‘interest.’ Determined to distract Jon, Charge made a comment all but guaranteed to catch the older man’s attention. “So, how classic are you planning on taking the Morgan? I think there might be some serious potential in the metallic peach-salmon color someone slapped all over the interior.”

  “What do you mean all over the interior?” Jon demanded, shooting to his feet.

  Charge listened as Jon all but flew into the garage. He listened as the canvas drop cloth was whipped away. And one, two, three, four…

  “Christ on a three-legged horse!”

  That’s a new one, Charge considered the swear, but held back a chuckle. Considering the garish hue of paint that some enterprising vandal had smeared all over the dash and hardware inside the Morgan, Charge figured Jon might snap his bolt if he heard laughter. Those hard-soled shoes slapped on the ground as Jon came back out of the garage.

  “I am not sure that words even exist in English to communicate my level of disgust.”

  “Well, I wanted to ask you what was shown in the pictures the seller provided.”

  “Not that!”

  “Ok – how difficult is it to claim against the shipping insurance?”

  “I’ve never had to before. They’ll probably argue that there is any problem with the paint.”

  “Doesn’t matter. You have it insured so that the item arrives in exactly the condition the seller sent it in. Furthermore, that shit is sealed.”

  “Damn it!”

  “Yeah I am going to have to sit on it with a heat gun, a bottle of high proof alcohol and a bottle of Tylenol – hand rubbing that shit is going to be a bitch…hurt like one too. If I hit it with a sander, it could go through and damage the wood of the dash.” Charge finally dropped the transmission on the cart and scooted out from under his Corvette. He stood tall in the ring of l
ight and waited.

  Jon had leaned back against the small stretch of grooved siding between the bay doors of the garage. He had closed his eyes against the irritation. He had never had a problem with the shipping before. Boldan was meticulous; Classics Cross Shipping was one of – if not the best in the industry.

  “Probably happened before CCS got it,” Jon murmured. “I’ll send the seller an e-mail tonight,” he commented as he straightened. Whatever he might have said next was forgotten when he opened his eyes and found more than six feet of half-naked Brazilian-mix perfection considering him from within the brilliant halos of light.

  His skin shimmered in the light, even the stretches of shadows cast by ridges of muscle seemed to glow with warm luster. Some people might be put off by the streaks of oil and grime, but Jon found the whole aesthetic was rather raw and primal. The thick fringe of Charge’s lashes feathered his cheeks – his lids lowered slumberously against the bright lights around him. Still from beneath those dark lashes, Jon could glimpse intense liquid gold.

  The silence seemed to stretch between them. Jon couldn’t look away, but felt his cheeks heating awkwardly. Finally, Charge stepped out of rings of light, into the increasing shadow of the nearly finished dusk.

  “Dinner’s probably ready,” he murmured – the low timbre of his voice seemed to purr in the air between them.

  Jon forced himself to turn back toward the garage and the safety of the mechanical order that existed in there. He cleared his throat and spoke over his shoulder, “You never told me what dinner is?”

  “What – you don’t like surprises?”

  “There is a difference between a surprise in a box and a surprise I am supposed to put in my mouth,” Jon answered crisply.

  “What? You’ve never heard of ‘dick in a box’?”

  Jon would have tripped over his feet if Charge hadn’t caught his hand and pulled him back upright. When Jon looked down at their joined hands, he could feel the flush resurfacing in his cheeks.