by Zimmerman, L
“Little bit?“ Grant made a pinching motion to signify how little that bit was. Clayton huffed, biting back a grin and rolling his eyes.
“Dollies are what you put under the wheels so you can pull it along. You lift one end of the car and attach the dollies. Don’t ever listen to Jeff when he says he can’t tow a four wheel drive. He’s a whiner and he doesn’t want to do the extra work. Every truck has them, and this what they’re for. Put your hand here and ease up on it.” Clayton gestured to the lever he’d been fiddling with, as if he actually wanted Grant to touch it. Grant didn’t move, because hell no he wasn’t going to touch a giant lever that could mean life or death for his sweet, darling baby.
Clayton sighed, loudly.
“Here,” he grabbed Grant's hand, setting it on one of the levers. “You hook up the wheel lift to one end, pull that.” Clayton gave Grant's hand a coaxing push, his palm cool from being in an air-conditioned truck, nearly engulfing Grant's fingers. Flustered, Grant wrenched on the lever and shrieked when his jeep went flying up and almost knocked off of the track.
“Jesus Christina!” Grant shrieked, jumping a good half foot in the air. Clayton’s hand, over his own, firmly gave the lever a quick tug that had the lift freezing and the jeep rattling precariously in place. Grant's heart was thundering in his chest like some sort of Mars Volta bongo solo, breath coming in short gasps as he tried to comprehend the fact that he had nearly destroyed his precious, and only, mode of transportation.
Clayton’s laugh was soft and restrained, prying Grant's fingers away from the lever. It took more effort than possible, because Grant had totally crab-fingered the thing like one of those horror films where the body died clutching to something. “I guess this is why they have you behind a desk,” he teased quietly. Mortified, Grant threw his hands up in the air and tried to blame the burning in his face on the heat of the early summer evening.
“Well, I’m totally an awesome dispatcher and nobody ever bothered to like, tell me any of this stuff. Any time I ask anything about any of the trucks, I get this long and detailed explanation that totally makes no sense whatsoever because there’s no diagrams and I’m totally not a dude who can learn by ear. I have to, like, do it in person or have some kind of heavily depicted diagram that’s loaded with a ridiculous amount of detail!” Grant went silent when Clayton’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze.
“Calm down, princess,“ Clayton gave his arm an exaggerated rub, grinning when Grant shot him a dirty look. “I’ll finish the hookup; go ahead back in the truck and let Alyse know I picked you up. There’s a bottle of water in the arm rest.”
Grant didn’t need a better excuse to scramble his skinny ass all the way back into the truck. He buckled in, grabbing the water bottle Clayton had mentioned and chugging half of it until he felt hydrated enough to grab the radio mic from the cradle.
Seriously, was there even a tutorial book on how to be incompetent and sexy at the same time? Grant was pretty sure the only way he could have made any more of an ass of himself were if Clayton had come up to the truck to find Grant crying about Leonardo DiCaprio taking an acting hiatus.
He paged the radio instead.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen and lady. Fear not, Grant is safe inside of 49 and no longer in mortal peril on the side of the highway.” Grant chirped, leaning back into his seat and watching in the side mirror as Clayton bent over to look underneath the jeep to make sure that the dollies were secured. Now that was a nice view.
“Already?” David crackled in over the radio, “I didn’t know someone could change a tire that fast.”
Confused, Grant brought the mic back up, pressing down on the button. “I didn’t have a flat, we’re hooking my jeep back to take it to the shop. Engine overheated.”
“Clayton was just on a tire change about fifteen minutes ago,” David elaborated.
“Oh…” Grant said to the inside of the truck, absently sticking the mic back onto the cradle while Clayton returned to the side of the truck, pulling a lever that dragged the jeep back onto the dollies. David’s words struck him as odd, to a point where Grant couldn't help but wonder about the implications of Clayton rushing to his rescue.
Oblivious to Grant's inner turmoil, Clayton finished hooking the jeep up and headed back for the truck, climbing in with a grunt of exertion. He reached for the mic, not even giving Grant a second glance as he paged the office. “49 is in tow to the shop to drop off and fuel up.”
Clayton shifted out of park, glancing out the window to pull onto the highway again when Alyse’s voice came from the radio. “What were your miles for that tire change? You got out of the truck before I could ask you.”
Expressionless, Clayton turned to grab the mic. “7 miles.”
Grant couldn’t help but to stare just a tiny bit. Not once when working with Clayton had he ever known the man to forget to give his times or miles, especially not so long after the run itself. Grant had a feeling Clayton knew that Grant was aware of this, because he refused to even look away from the road when he began driving.
It wasn’t until they were halfway back to the shop when Clayton finally glanced over at Grant to see that he was still being stared at. His glare was particularly intense and unflinching, apparently enough to make Clayton feel at least a smidgeon awkward, it seemed.
“What?”
“Did they tell you I was in an accident? Is that why you hurried?” Grant blurted. Clayton stiffened, and words practically spewed from Grant's mouth. “Dude, I could totally see Alyse doing that. She loves bullshitting everyone to get in ETAs and shit. I mean, not that I don’t do that when necessary, but--come on, you didn’t have to bust your ass to pick me up. It wasn’t like I was going anywhere.”
By the time Grant was finished rambling, Clayton had shifted in his seat a good two times, lips pursed into a tight frown. “The faster I got you, the faster I get back to the shop, go home, eat, and sleep before my on-call shift.”
Grant glanced at the clock, guilt hitting him like a pillowcase full of loose change. “Aw, dude. You totally got off a half hour ago, did you?” Grant whined, gesturing to the truck’s radio. “See, that’s where you should have gone the typical douche bag trucker route and just had me sit my ass there for a good hour or so instead of having to take extra time to do stuff like this.”
Clayton’s pursed lips were starting to look a little bit like he was biting back a smile. Grant continued on, arms flailing just a tiny bit. “I mean, not that I don’t appreciate it--because I totally do, man--I totally love that I’m in this nice, air conditioned truck and not sweating my nipples off outside, but now I feel all guilty and stuff because you totally are staying overtime because of me.” at some point, Grant was pretty sure he was speaking in nothing but run-on sentences, half of what he said being drowned out by radio chatter between the other drivers.
Clayton’s hands were clenching the steering wheel just shy of violently, his knuckles stained white from the pressure. There was a small tick in his jaw, making it look like Clayton was in physical pain at the idea of possibly telling Grant that he didn’t mind being nice by going out of his way just to pick up their stranded dispatcher.
Grant decided to save Clayton any more agony by blurting, “Let me buy you something for dinner as repayment.”
Clayton’s eyes flicked over to him, and then back to the road, and Grant realized what he’d just said. “I mean--not like a date, because I’m sure that’s not cool. I mean, not cool like--not cool because its homo, because I love gay people. I’m so gay that I have a ton of gay moments--but, shit--I mean, not gay like, I’m going to crawl into your bed at night and jerk off on your face, which, by the way, creepers do that, not gay people. I meant gay like, I appreciate the human body aaaand I’m shutting up now,” Grant slouched down into his seat until his knees were pressing up against the glove box, face burning hot in mortification at his lack of brain-to-mouth filter.
Clayton snorted, attempting to disg
uise the sound as a mild cough, and reached for the CB radio. Grant could see just by looking at him that Clayton’s mouth was twitching with the effort not to smile. “49’s dropping off this jeep and going out for a bite to eat. I’m third out for tonight’s on-call, so I’ll be taking Grant home and then getting some sleep.”
Since Clayton was distracted with checking traffic before turning, Grant took that moment to do a tiny little fist pump with his hand tucked up next to his thigh. Clayton, despite his rough and tough façade, was actually a pretty okay guy. That alone had relief uncoiling the anxiety that had built up in his chest just seconds prior.
“Alrighty. Make sure to cover up, boys.” Alyse chimed back. Grant's anxiety returned tenfold, making him choke on a strangled laugh that sounded more like a deer mating call than anything. Thinking about deer sex just made Grant wince internally, because that was an awful analogy.
Determined to somehow deny Alyse’s underhanded accusations, (because, seriously, he was gay, but he wasn‘t in quest of every tappable booty in sight) he reached for the radio, only to have Clayton snatch it out of his hand. Dismayed, Grant tried to grab it back, only for Clayton to stretch his arm over his other shoulder and out of Grant's reach. Grant's seatbelt kicked in halfway through his attempted lunge for the radio, strangling him and making Grant gag for air.
Clayton gave him a warning stare--between watching the road and making sure not to swerve into traffic--and waited until Grant was completely back in his seat before he started to slowly put the mic back. Grant's hand hadn’t even come up all the way for a second grab when Clayton was jerking his hand out of reach a second time.
Grant huffed, crossing his arms and flopping back into his seat. Too much time had passed for him to even bother saying anything on the radio, which Clayton seemed to know, because he replaced the mic on its cradle without any problems. Clayton was far too possessive of his mic, and Grant opened his mouth to inform him of that very fact when Clayton cut him off.
“None of that cheap stuff, either. I‘m not one of your poor friends looking for a handout.”
Grant, taken aback, openly gaped. “Uh, dude. Part time job? College kid?” There was no way he was going to dish out heaps of money for a not-date with Clayton, especially if he wasn’t going to get any free orgasms from it.
Clayton glanced over at Grant, his eyebrows lifting up to his hairline. “Uh, dude. Fixing your jeep? Working overtime so your scrawny ass doesn‘t bake in the sun for another hour?” His voice hitched up an octave, openly mocking Grant in a way that really didn’t bother Grant all that much. That was probably because he was too busy having an internal parade at the idea that Clayton had been looking at his ass enough to deem it scrawny.
Knowing he‘d been bested, Grant narrowed his eyes, muttering, “touche,” under his breath. Clayton didn’t even bother hiding the crooked smirk that came to his lips this time, turning into their business lot and driving in a half circle so that he could back Grant's jeep into the garage.
When Clayton idled to climb out and unhitch the jeep, Grant slipped out of the truck to run into the office so he could talk to Alyse for a few minutes. She was seated behind the office desk, a book in hand and the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder - on hold, most likely.
“Hey Alyse,” Grant began, waving when she glanced up at him before going back to her book. “So uhm, what was that thing on the radio--I mean, like, you don’t think me and Clayton--I mean,” Grant broke off, laughing awkwardly and gesturing behind himself to the door, “No, that’s crazy, ha, but--really--you don’t think we’re going on, like, a date or something, do you? I mean, you know he was supposed to clock out like, almost an hour ago and, dude, I feel super bad about it. I was totally just gonna buy him some food because he’s going to help fix my jeep and shit tomorrow, and I was gonna ask him if he could give me a ride into work an--”
“Grant, what are you talking about?” Alyse finally looked up at him, finger marking her place in the book and giving Grant a blank, wide-eyed stare that usually meant she wasn’t actually listening to him at all. Grant's brain flatlined, mouth flapping open for a second and then shutting when Alyse held up a finger to him and brought the phone to her mouth as she was taken off hold.
Once she was done informing the insurance company she was talking to that she needed to authorize a cancellation on a tow, she hung up and looked at Grant. “Why would I think you and Clayton were seeing each other?” She gave Grant another one of her blank stares, before her eyes narrowed suspiciously, “unless… you are?”
“Uh--.. Buhhh,” Grant tongue refused to cooperate, and he shook his head. “I mean, but, on the radio. The thing- you said, c-cover…up?” his voice cracked nervously at the end, shrugging in confusion.
Alyse sat back, thumbs tucking her hair behind her shoulders. “…uh, yeah? Its overcast tonight. Don’t you ever check the weather? You should, you know we get twice as many calls on rainy days.” she pulled her hair up, fluffing it and letting it fall back down in thick, black waves.
“Oh,” Grant said stupidly, eyes going wide with understanding. “Cover like… cover with a rain coat or an umbrella… not… cover… like condoms,” he trailed off at the very end, muttering the last few words under his breath so quietly that Alyse had to double-take to even understand what he said.
“Excuse me?”
The office door opened, Clayton sticking his head in and looking at Grant expectantly.
“Can we go?”
Grant jumped on the chance to avoid an awkward moment, turning and reaching out to push the door open when Clayton stepped back and did it for him. “Yes, food. Food is good. Bye Alyse!”
The door closed on the sound of Alyse releasing a long, loud, “Ohhhhhh!” of understanding.
Grant climbed back into the truck, now without his jeep attached to it, and buckling himself in. Clayton didn’t bother with his seatbelt, shifting out of park and pulling out of the garage. Grant instantly brought up a mental list of places in his price range, listing a few of them to Clayton until he realized that Clayton wasn’t even listening--already driving with a destination in mind.
They pulled into the parking lot of a hole-in-the-wall restaurant called Elliot's, Clayton guiding the truck towards a spot that was out of the way. Grant stumbled out of the truck, walking around to the driver’s side as Clayton stood next to the driver’s door to tug his uniform shirt over his head. Of course, doing so happened to reveal a black wife-beater that Grant thought, personally, should be outlawed in at least 48 states.
Initially, Grant had figured that Clayton was just a tiny bit stocky, the uniform baggy in the middle in a way that made it impossible for him to realize before now that Clayton wasn’t stocky, he was just the walking epitome of muscle. Grant had to swallow back a horrified groan of imminent arousal, watching Clayton lower his arms, and tried to look everywhere but at the way his chest and biceps flexed at the movement. Clayton, oblivious, locked the truck and gestured for Grant to follow him inside. Grant kept himself a good step behind Clayton, just for the chance to stare at the way the man’s torso disappeared sinfully into the band of his uniform pants.
The host barely gave them a second glance before cheerily saying, “Booth? Follow me.”
Booth. Booths were meant for small groups of friends, families and couples.
Couples.
Grant's face burned and his mouth itched to frantically inform the host that no, sadly, he and Clayton were not a couple--despite the fact that he would totally love to bone the guy six ways to Sunday, if possible. However, Clayton was already following the man down the aisle and towards a small booth in the far corner of the restaurant.
Once seated, Grant grabbed his menu and searched through it for the cheapest possible meal. He was totally game for getting an appetizer. He had the metabolism of a vicious jungle cat, but the stomach of someone who often forgot to eat more than once or twice a day. His eyes zeroed in on a delicious looking photo of some honey barbeque
wings when there was a brushing sensation against his leg. Grant almost jumped completely out of his skin, because there was no way that wasn’t a foot rubbing against his ankle.
A myriad of emotions thundered through Grant mind, ranging from ‘oh god, Clayton is playing footsie with me, what do I do?’ to, ‘oh my god is he seriously playing footsie with me? That’s so third grade.’
Clayton’s foot brushed Grant's calf again and Grant decided to go balls-out and reciprocate, sliding the toe of his sneaker awkwardly along Clayton’s calf and then jerking it back when Clayton looked up sharply in surprise.
This was the moment of truth.
Setting his menu down, Clayton shifted to look under the table, eyebrows hopping up as he glanced at Grant with an apologetic grunt. “Sorry, steel-toed boots. Didn’t know I was bumping your leg,” he muttered, shifting and dragging his feet back.
Jesus, mother Mary and Joseph.
Grant's menu came all the way up in a desperate effort to hide the mortified burn in his face. “S’ok,” he mumbled, laughing awkwardly. The waiter appeared at their table, first taking their drink orders, and then their food orders when Clayton and Grant both informed the man that they knew what they wanted. The instant that the waiter left, the tension came back tenfold, driving Grant out of his mind.
