by J. M. Snyder
And Melissa recommends this place?
“Listen up, son,” Terrence says, his already deep voice dropping a notch or two. A big guy like him can sound positively intimidating on the phone. “I need my car serviced, and my secretary suggested your place. Can you take a look at it today?”
Gary groans. Literally, over the phone, he groans in Terrence’s ear. As if this car were the last thing he needed right now. Terrence is about to hang up and just call one of the name brand places, Jiffy Lube maybe, Meineke or Tuffy or even Wal-Mart, anywhere other than this rinky-dink little shop called Gary’s.
But then Gary sighs. “My mechanic should be in around nine. I only got one guy working today, so I don’t know how long you’ll have to wait.”
“Fine.” Terrence thinks he’ll wait all damn day if he has to, if only to piss Gary off.
Through the phone, he hears Gary scrambling around for something, a pen maybe, or a piece of paper. He sounds as organized as Melissa. “What kind of car is it?”
With a certain measure of pride in his voice, Terrence tells him, “A Mercedes.”
Gary groans again.
Rich prick, that groan says. A dull anger rises in Terrence at the implied prejudice he thinks he hears in that groan, and part of him hopes this Gary idiot is at the shop when he arrives, because he plans on telling him exactly what he thinks of the guy’s customer service and phone etiquette. How is it someone half his age can make him feel so unworthy and unimportant with just a few unintelligent grunts? Terrence wants to know that. Melissa likes this place? Did she actually say the people were friendly?
“Be here in a half hour,” Gary says, then hangs up. He doesn’t ask for Terrence’s number, the model of the car, his name, even.
Fuck. Terrence twists the key in the ignition so hard, the engine growls as if goosed. This time when he peels out of his driveway, he doesn’t give the car time to act up. It chugs to itself, once, then settles for a desultory knock every now and then to remind him it’s unhappy.
After a few feet, Terrence rolls down the window and a sweet spring breeze fills the car. A few beads of sweat have begun to trickle down the side of his face. He raises an arm, presses his jaw against his shoulder, and wipes the sweat away.
This is not going to be a fun day.
* * * *
Terrence arrives at the auto shop a good ten minutes early. There are two cars parked in the shop’s meager lot, both junkers that obviously have not moved in years—grass grows up between the tires of one vehicle, and the other is rusted so badly, Terrence can’t figure out the car’s original color. His Mercedes gleams beside them.
Exiting his car, Terrence stops to check his reflection in his tinted window. Thick neck, broad shoulders, face and hands blends into the darkened glass as the bright white shirt he wears seems to glow in the sunshine. He straightens his tie, which is a muted pink color most men wouldn’t be secure enough about their sexuality to pull off wearing. Then he steps back, hikes up his slacks an inch, and admires his own appearance. For an old guy, Terrence thinks he’s looking pretty damn fine.
Running a hand over the top of his head, as if the short, kinked curls there would ever get out of place, he heads for the front door of the auto shop. As he approaches, he can see through the glass door at the tiny waiting room—no one is inside. The counter is empty, and even the bay doors leading to the garage are closed. No one’s home.
Of course not. Why did he even think Gary would roll his lazy ass out of bed just to cater to his whims? Damn.
Bitterly, Terrence yanks open the door and surges into the shop. Above him a little bell jangles at his entrance. The waiting room is smaller than he thought; he feels as if he fills the entire area, his large body cramped and uncomfortable. The idea of sitting in one of the miniature chairs in front of the counter is a joke. With a glare on his face he sees reflected back at him in the mirrored wall behind the register, Terrence leans on the counter, pissed.
He’s alone. No other customers, no one at the till, no noisy sounds through the door behind the counter leading to the garage. In one corner of the waiting room, a small black and white television flickers through a blizzard of snow. The only other sound is the steady drip-drip-drip of coffee that smells too weak to be any good. There’s a bell on the counter, one of those shiny silver ones like they have in hotels, and Terrence taps it impatiently. “Hello?”
No answer, which doesn’t surprise him. He notices another door beside him, presumably leading out to the garage, and he hits it with his hand to push it open. With the bay doors closed, the garage is unbearably warm. Terrence tugs at his tie, loosening it, as sweat beads on his neck and temples. Each step he takes echoes off the concrete floor. “Hello?” he calls out a second time, though he already suspects no one will answer. If he ever catches up with that Gary fellow…
The sudden ping of metal on metal is loud in the closed garage. Terrence whirls around. There’s a blue Camaro behind him, parked in one of the far bays. As he heads in that direction, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks, he hears the shuffle of sneakers, a muffled curse. Closer, coming around the front of the car, he sees slim, denim-clad legs beneath the bumper, and one bare elbow sticks out from under the open hood. “Hello?”
He stops at the mirror on the passenger side and ducks his head to peer under the hood. He sees light brown hair the color of iced coffee, smooth as a curtain that hangs down to obscure the mechanic’s face. That hair is cinched loosely at the guy’s nape with what looks like a spare piece of rubber tubing, tied into place to keep it from his face, but the knot isn’t tight and the hair has slipped free to fall over slim, bare shoulders. Terrence isn’t one for long hair on guys, but he likes the way those feathery strands wisp over firm, pale skin, and his hands clench into unconscious fists in his pockets.
Then the mechanic notices him and steps back, startled. “Hey!” he cries, surprised. His voice is unusually loud in the closed garage. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
White wires snake into his ears, and when he tugs the ear buds away, Terrence can hear tinny music. He lets his gaze travel down the mechanic’s lean frame, over the smoothly muscled chest, the barely-there six-pack abs, the tapered waist, a pair of low-riding jeans that scarcely manage to cling to narrow hips. Just below the mechanic’s navel, a scant dusting of fine hairs starts up, trailing into his jeans. A hand curls into the pocket of his jeans, pulling them down a little as he shoves the ear buds out of sight.
Then Terrence looks up and, for the first time, sees the face hidden beneath that flyaway hair. Deep eyes the color of caramel stare out from light skin, and full, ruddy lips spread into an easy grin. “Hey there, big guy,” the man says, his voice lower now that he doesn’t have to shout over his music. “What can I do you for?”
Wouldn’t you like to know?
Unbidden, the thought of those pink, chapped lips clamped around his thick, black cock fills Terrence’s mind. He imagines fisting his hand into that soft hair, thrusting into that wide mouth, that taut body tight against his own.
Damn. What’s he here for, again? And why aren’t they naked already?
Stepping around the side of the car, the mechanic wipes his hands on a greasy rag. There’s a thin line of oil beneath one red nipple, marring his bare, muscled chest. For some reason, Terrence finds that incredibly sexy, that one imperfection. If he touched the guy, his fingers would look like that, spread out like oil on that creamy skin. This time when his hands fist in his pockets, he shoves them deeper and presses against the start of an erection. Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Are you Gary?”
The mechanic laughs, a sound like bells, and Terrence finds himself grinning in reply. Of course this demi-god isn’t the fuck-up he spoke with on the phone, but he’s glad he asked, if only to elicit this response.
Terrence feels a bead of sweat trickle down his back and he shrugs, partly in response and partly to chase that spot of dampness away. It’s the heat of the summer, the he
at of the garage—fuck, the heat from the mechanic, coming off the guy in waves, that has Terrence so hot and bothered, aching for something he hasn’t had in a long time.
With a coy grin, the mechanic asks, “Do you want me to be?”
The way he stares at Terrence says he knows the effect he has on the older man. He leans one hip against the side of the car and he knows. Terrence opens his mouth and has to close it again because he can’t think of what he wants to say. He’s forgotten how to talk. All his thoughts are of the sexy, half-naked man before him—in his mind’s eye, he sees this guy bucking beneath him, that pale skin wrapped so tightly around his own chocolate-colored flesh, those pretty eyes closed in passion, those pouty lips curved into a salacious grin.
Get a grip, Terrence. You’re here for your car. Not to fall in love with this Adonis of a mechanic.
This time when Terrence opens his mouth again, the words are there. “Gary told me to bring my car in—”
“The Mercedes?”
Terrence nods, relieved.
Tossing the rag into the open hood of the Camaro, the mechanic winks at him. Winks. “Bring her around. Let me take a look at what you got.”
It’s been a long time since a young guy has flirted so openly with Terrence. He feels the mechanic’s hot gaze follow him as he turns and walks back to the waiting area. Just for kicks, he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, pulling the silk pants taut across his large buttocks. Even at his age, he knows he still has a fine ass, and he wants the mechanic to know it, too.
Behind him, a wrench clatters to the concrete, and Terrence has to suppress a smile. You’re not the only hot thing in here, white boy.
* * * *
The mechanic opens the bay door for Terrence, who drives into the garage. As he parks, the guy tugs the bay door down behind the Mercedes. Hitting the brake, Terrence watches the guy in his rear-view mirror, a thoughtful expression on his face as he listens to the choppy sounds of the motor. The engine drowns out the world, unbelievably loud in the closed garage. Finally he waves at Terrence to turn it off.
Climbing out of the car, Terrence frowns. “What do you think the problem is?”
The mechanic jogs to the front of the car. When he passes Terrence, he pats Terrence’s stomach with the back of his hand as if they’re best buds. The almost careless gesture of camaraderie sets Terrence’s nerves tingling, and through his shirt, his skin seems to burn from the guy’s quick touch. “Pop the hood for me, will you?” he asks.
Terrence turns his back to the guy and leans through the open window into the car. Over his shoulder, he watches the mechanic watch him—those dark eyes widen, trained on Terrence’s ass. His silk slacks hide nothing; they show off every curve, along with the trim cut of his thighs. His shirt flattens out across his back, pulled straight along his broad shoulders, and from the corner of his eye, Terrence sees the mechanic bite his lower lip.
Good. He wanted that reaction.
Pulling the hood release, he stands and turns to smile at the guy, who runs a hand through his hair to push it from his face.
The man has to clear his throat before he can speak, but he doesn’t manage to tear his gaze away from the slight bulge at Terrence’s crotch to meet his eyes. “Thanks.”
“My pleasure.”
The mechanic lifts up the Mercedes’ hood and leans under it. The shadows fall across his bare back, turning the tan skin a dusky hue, and Terrence has to resist the urge to touch him. At the small of his back, his jeans pucker slightly, allowing a glimpse of white boxers.
Terrence wonders what the guy would do if a finger eased down that gap in the fabric. Just thinking that makes his groin ache sweetly. His voice is thick with lust when he grumbles, “Well?”
With nimble fingers, the mechanic pokes around beneath the hood for a minute before replying. “It could be a number of things.” Glancing up, he winks at Terrence again and says, “I don’t want to bore you with the details.”
“I doubt you could bore me.”
The mechanic’s gaze slides down Terrence’s body like a magnet drawn to his crotch. There’s a faint smile on his lips, one that entices Terrence to step closer. Leaning over the side of the car, he stares at those pink lips and, in a low voice, says, “Try me.”
Those eyes rise to meet Terrence’s steady gaze. The look in them asks, Really?
Oh God, yes, Terrence wants to say. Please. Try me. Right now there’s nothing he’d like more.
But the guy clears his throat and stands, and the moment is gone. “Let me get some information from you,” he says, trying to be professional. “Follow me.”
“Anywhere.”
There’s that look again, the one Terrence thinks says, God, I want you. The urge to say the words out loud grows with each passing minute.
He follows the mechanic into the waiting area, both of them entering the room through different doors to emerge on either side of the counter. Here in the bright light of the waiting room, the mechanic looks paler than he did in the garage; his skin takes on a porcelain, almost translucent, shade. Terrence pictures his hands cradling such fine flesh, night encircling the day.
When the mechanic leans one hand on the counter to duck down, Terrence wants to touch those long, white fingers, see how dark his own skin would look against them. He wants to cover that hand with both of his, draw those dirty fingertips to his chest, his belly, lower. He wants to feel it grip him below the belt, ease into the fly of his slacks, grasp the hard darkness in his briefs.
He actually begins to reach out when the mechanic stands. A blank invoice replaces the guy’s hand. “Fill this out.” He looks at Terrence, not at his eyes but at his mouth, as if wondering what it’d taste like. “Please.”
“Sure,” Terrence says, taking the paper and a pen he’s offered. Their fingers brush, the touch as brief and electric as a summer storm. The mechanic leans over the counter and watches, not even bothering to hide the fact he’s reading as Terrence fills out the form. “I’m Terrence Jackson.”
“Jimmy.”
Terrence looks up to find the mechanic staring at his short, kinked curls, his chocolate eyes, the thick eyelashes which curl almost girlishly. Then the man clears his throat and says again, “Jimmy. That’s my name.”
“Jimmy.” Terrence allows his mouth to curve into a beguiling smile. So this deity has a name after all. “Are you a good mechanic?”
Jimmy laughs. “I’m good with my hands, if that’s what you mean,” he says with a wink.
Damn, the audacity… Terrence’s cock goes from a mild ache to a painful throb in the confines of his slacks, suddenly harder than it’s been in a long time. “How good?”
Jimmy smiles. Terrence can’t help but wonder what he’d do if asked to show just how good because hell, he wants to find out.
Apparently, Jimmy remembers he has a job to do, because he turns from the counter and heads for the door leading back to the garage. With a hand against the door, he stops. “There’s coffee there, if you want to wait. I may be a little while—”
“Take your time,” Terrence says. “I have all day.” To watch you, he adds silently, and before Jimmy turns away, Terrence gives him a wink of his own.
Jimmy’s eyes widen slightly, then he grins before disappearing through the door. Terrence wanders to the window that separates the waiting room from the garage and doesn’t care how obvious it is he’s watching the mechanic. Jimmy heads towards the Mercedes, one hand shifting the front of his jeans as he walks. Terrence sees his own reflection grin at him in the window. So I’m not the only one with a hard-on right now.
Pouring a cup of the coffee, Terrence leans against the window to sip at the tepid liquid and watch Jimmy bend over the hood of his car. Before he leaves Gary’s, he wants a piece of that.
* * * *
After an hour of watching Jimmy’s strong, jean-clad legs and tight ass through the window as he sips the horrid coffee, Terrence can’t take it anymore. He tosses the cup aside and pushes
through the door out into the garage.
Even though it’s only mid-morning, it’s sweltering in the enclosed garage. The minute Terrence is through the door, the heat hits him like a wet sponge, sticky and warm. The air is so close, it squeezes the sweat from his pores; he feels it bead like dew on his forehead and scalp. How that skinny white boy can stand it, he has no clue.
As Terrence approaches his car, Jimmy doesn’t hear him. His back is to Terrence and he’s leaning under the hood, his jeans hugging a slim, tight ass. His makeshift ponytail hangs over one shoulder, allowing Terrence to see the thin sheath of sweat glistening across Jimmy’s bare shoulders. He wants to run a hand across those shoulders, wipe away the sweat clinging like condensation to that smooth skin. Or press his face between the narrow shoulder blades and lick the sweat away.
The ear buds must be back in place, because as Terrence comes closer, he hears Jimmy singing softly. His voice is husky and slightly off-key, but the low murmur surprises Terrence, and he finds himself drawn to it. He wants to hear that soft song first thing in the morning, beside him in the bed. He wants to wake to hear it echo off the tiles in his bathroom, raised over the sound of the shower, or fall asleep to it, low and intimate between them in the darkness.
It’s been way too long since he’s been with another.
Jimmy hears Terrence step up behind him and the song stops on his lips. Without extracting himself from under the hood, he glances at Terrence and grins. “I think I’ve found your problem.”
“What’s that?” Terrence leans beside him against the side of the car. They’re only inches apart now, the space between them electric, and he stares at the bunched muscle on Jimmy’s arm, the lithe strength coiled there. He wants this guy, now, and he doesn’t care if Jimmy knows it.
With a shrug, Jimmy says, “I don’t want to bore you with the details, remember?”
Terrence laughs. “I told you, I doubt you could bore me.”
A smile crosses his face as he turns back to the engine beneath the hood of the car. Terrence watches him struggle with a stubborn bolt, the wrench in his hand slipping without purchase. When Jimmy leans in for a little more leverage, Terrence reaches out as if to catch him and threads a finger through the belt loop on the back of Jimmy’s jeans. The movement brings him closer; he smells the manly scent of sweat coming off the mechanic. Gasoline and oil and animalistic musk conspire to drive his libido crazy. Another step closer and the front of his slacks will touch Jimmy’s hip, and the hardness shoved down his briefs would leave no doubt about his intentions.
