Dreamspinner Press Year Four Greatest Hits

by Felicia Watson

  ”I hope we all get what we need at least some of the time. Are you telling me that isn’t true for you?” Assuming that was more rhetorical than anything else, Logan simply shrugged in response. Trudy probed, “What do you need that you don’t have?”

  “Lotta stuff. My old job, my daughters livin’ with me….”

  “So you did have what you needed at one time.” Logan waited out a pause, trying to remember if that had ever been true. “Or wasn’t that what you were talking about?”

  As he studied the carpet’s pattern, something he now knew better than his truck’s transmission, Logan felt too tired to offer anything but the bald truth. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does. It matters a whole lot. Don’t you think you deserve to get your needs met?”

  It ain’t about deservin’, it’s about…. “What if….” Logan’s eyes finally found Trudy’s face. “What if what a man needed is… wasn’t the right thing?”

  “I can’t answer that question unless you tell me what we’re talking about. What did you need and not get? Not to have a wife and child to support at age twenty? To hang onto the job you loved? Stay in the town you grew up in? It’s okay to be resentful about those things, to feel cheated. None of that is as bad as losing control and hurting Linda.”

  “No shit. Did ya need all these degrees,” Logan pointed at the wall and continued, “so you could tell me that?”

  “You’re not getting it. The two things are directly related. Do you know what kind of man never gets what he needs?”

  “No.” Logan was determined not to give her the satisfaction of asking, but when a long silence revealed that Trudy wasn’t going to volunteer the information, he had to ask, “What kind?”

  “A very angry one.”

  LOGAN SPENT more time than usual mulling over his session with Trudy but had reached no concrete conclusions by the time he arrived for the automotive class on Thursday. When the clock showed ten minutes past three with no sign of Nick, Logan managed to stifle his disappointment, though he did voice his surprise to Norah. “Whaddya think—Nick ain’t gonna show?”

  Norah had no insight into Nick’s whereabouts, but Tish finally interrupted her cell phone conversation with her sister to say, “Oh, I forgot, I was s’posed to tell yuins that he’s gonna be late. He’s getting a new client set up at ACC. But he’ll be here.”

  “Uh… okay.” With some effort, Logan cleared all thoughts of both perplexing counselors from his mind and dove eagerly into the class. Though he’d willingly down a quart of motor oil rather than admit it to anyone, he had started to enjoy teaching these women about cars. As he showed them how to change the oil on Norah’s Cavalier, he felt doubly pleased. Not only was the car getting some desperately needed maintenance, but the three pupils were very obviously becoming quite comfortable around an engine.

  They were halfway into the class when Cheryl bent down to check the progress of the grungy oil draining into the pan; Logan cautioned her about her free-flowing long hair trailing on the ground. As she hastily snatched the mass up and away, he commented gruffly, “You’re just like my older girl. Her hair’s always gettin’ into everything too.”

  “I got somethin’ you can put it up with,” Norah offered, and she rooted around in her bag before producing a plastic claw clasp.

  Cheryl took the clip and fumbled with her slippery hair; in the process, her wispy cotton shirt rode up in the back to reveal an angry red scar slicing down her skin. Tish reached over and lifted the blouse up a bit more, but there seemed to be no end to the gash. It trailed down the white skin before disappearing inside her jeans. “Girlfriend—what the hell?”

  “Yeah,” Cheryl whispered when she looked over her shoulder and saw what they were all staring at. “Roger did that. With a huntin’ knife.”

  “Your husband?” Norah asked.

  “Soon to be ex-husband—thank God.”

  Tish smoothed the shirt gently back down, saying, “I can see why you finally left that bastard.”

  “That ain’t why I left him. That wasn’t even the first time he went after me with a knife.”

  Norah closed her gaping mouth enough to ask, “Then what finally did it?”

  “It was my little girl. Amber.”

  Joining the conversation at last, Logan growled, “He went after your little girl?”

  “No, it wasn’t that,” Cheryl said, her voice growing stronger. “It was…. See, I never wanted her to end up like me. I stayed with him all those years ’cause it was what my mom did. I saw my dad knockin’ her around, and I guess I grew up thinkin’… thinkin’ that’s just the way it is. She even told me it was ‘my duty’ to stay with him, even though it kept gettin’ worse. Every time Roger beat me up, I tried to make it seem like no big deal to the kids—so they wouldn’t get upset, you know? Then last time—” Cheryl choked back tears, and Logan had a second to notice a grim-faced Nick had appeared in the shop and was silently listening.

  Cheryl recovered and went on. “Then last time… I got home from the hospital, and Roger Jr. was lookin’ at all them stitches, and Amber piped up like it was nothin’, ‘Oh mommy got another boo-boo.’ And I knew… I knew she was gonna end up just like me, thinkin’ a man had the right to beat her and cut her and—” Another shaky sob echoed around the garage before Cheryl finished, “So I had to show her it wasn’t so. I had to get out so she would know….” By now, copious tears were running down her cheeks as she finished, “…so she would know it ain’t right and she shouldn’t let it happen to her.”

  Logan watched Nick as he moved to Cheryl’s side and put an arm around her shoulder. She turned her face into his polo shirt, crying, “I’m sorry. I knew this would happen. I shouldn’t’ve started, but I couldn’t help—”

  “It’s okay. You have every right to tell your story. We aren’t bothered. It’s all right,” Nick soothed. Tish and Norah chimed in, immediately agreeing that they were glad Cheryl had finally told about her past, too.

  Logan was off to the side, mute with horror and frozen with confusion, needing to offer some gesture of comfort but sure it would be unwelcome.

  After a few seconds, Nick escorted Cheryl outside to get some fresh air and regain her composure. Logan cleared his throat and said, “We better get this finished up if you’re planning on gettin’ home tonight.” He then ably helped a subdued Tish and Norah finish the oil change on the Cavalier.

  Tish, though, could not be silent for long; as Logan did the final check of the engine, she said to Norah, “I never thought about that, you know? I hope to hell my boys don’t think they can go beatin’ on their woman someday. And my baby girl—damn, I’m glad she won’t remember any of that shit.” Norah had no reply, but still Tish went on, “And what about what Cheryl’s mom told her, that it was her duty to stay with that son of a bitch? How fucked up is that?”

  The hood of the car clunked down, and the shop was eerily silent for a second until Logan dropped three words into the hush. “Plenty fucked up.” He didn’t care that the question hadn’t been directed at him, and he refused to flinch from their evident surprise.

  THERE WASN’T much conversation beyond basic greetings when Nick and Logan met up on Sunday morning for their second go at the car. Nick didn’t find it odd that Logan was quiet, and his own mind was wholly occupied by the daunting task of removing the engine from the Thunderbird. The two men worked together efficiently, the only words spoken directly related to the task at hand. By eleven a.m. they had the engine bolted to the engine stand and were ready to begin the tedious process of disassembly.

  Nick wiped the sweat off the back of his neck and looked at Logan. “Now what?”

  “We gotta remove the parts in groups, clean ’em in groups, and label ’em in groups.”

  “Makes sense; where do ya wanna get started?”

  “The intake manifold. Then we’ll work our way down to the short block. Then we get at the valve covers, rocker arms, pivots, push rods—”

 
“Okay, I get it, I get it,” Nick interrupted, afraid that Logan was winding up to name every damn part left in the engine.

  Twenty minutes later, Nick was humming happily to himself, intent on the intricate disassembly work, when Logan cleared his throat loudly. Nick now recognized this as the signal that the other man had something of import to say, so he looked over and quirked an eyebrow in a silent signal of attention.

  It didn’t take long for Logan to ask, “How’s Cheryl doin’?”

  “Good. She’s doing good.” Nick shifted slightly on the concrete floor before explaining, “That was a pretty positive sign that she told you guys all about her situation. A lot of abuse victims have this misplaced sense of shame, and it’s good to see her getting over that. Even though it was probably hard to hear….”

  “Sure as fuck was,” Logan grunted. “That boy of hers—Roger Jr., she called him?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is he a little redhead? Was on that Kennywood trip with us?”

  “That’s him.”

  Logan removed his baseball cap and ran a hand through his sweaty blond hair; he tossed the cap onto the workbench as he continued, “Boy seemed like a real handful.”

  “He sure is.” Nick stopped to label the head bolts he had just cleaned before adding, “But in a way that’s a good thing too.”

  “Don’t see how.” Logan hunched over the engine, his face a study of intense concentration while he removed the water pump. After a few minutes of work, he had it free and managed to complete his thought. “Seems like Cheryl has ’nough trouble on her hands.” He pointed at a tool set near Nick’s foot, saying, “Hand me that puller, would ya?”

  Nick exchanged the requested item for the water pump as he explained, “Yeah, but ever since they left Wheeling, little Roger’s had a lot of anger festering. It’s better that it’s comin’ out, even if it’s makin’ things worse right now.” Nick watched Logan gingerly tugging at the harmonic balancer and elaborated to the back of his head, “I’m doing some work with him, but… I don’t know. I’m not really an expert on juvenile counseling.”

  Without looking up, Logan replied, “Looked like you were plenty good with them kids at Kennywood.”

  “It looked that way ’cause most of those kids are so damn grateful for a little male attention that doesn’t come with fear attached that anyone….” Nick shrugged, then, realizing that the gesture was lost on Logan’s back, added, “Well, any guy who cared to could do the same.”

  Having successfully removed the balancer, Logan straightened up and eyed Nick. By the way he was chewing at his lip, Nick sensed something was coming, and a second later it did. “Them boys… like Jesse and the rest?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do they know that you’re… um… gay?”

  “Never thought about it,” Nick replied. “Probably. Most everybody at ACC knows, I guess. I don’t hide it, but I don’t make an issue of it either.” After taking a deep breath, Nick added, “Why do you?”

  Resentment and alarm fell like a curtain over Logan’s face. “Why do I what?”

  “Why do you make such a big deal out of it? That friend of yours or whoever it was that got beat up…. Is that it? Or is it that you’re worried—”

  Logan snarled “I ain’t worried!” as he set the balancer down on the workbench with a resounding thump and picked up a wrench.

  “You sure you aren’t afraid that maybe I’m attracted to you, Logan?” When the other man immediately turned back to the engine and savagely attacked the mounting plate, Nick knew he’d struck a chord. “So what if I am? Does it creep you out that bad? I don’t leer at you, and I’m sure as hell not gonna make a pass at you. I never hit on straight guys, so you can just fucking relax, okay?”

  Hands still in the engine, Logan twisted around to glare at Nick. “I ain’t worried about none of that shit, so can we just stop talking about it?”

  “Sure.” Nick went to work cleaning the water pump but couldn’t resist mumbling, “You’re the one who brought it up.”

  Thirty minutes of working in strained silence in the sweltering garage brought both men to at least enough feigned camaraderie to peaceably work together at removing the oil pan and the timing chain set. When Nick nimbly detached the pan, Logan actually grunted in approval. “You’re pretty good at that for….”

  Nick waited, but when Logan didn’t complete the thought, he suggested, “For a gay guy?”

  “That ain’t what I was gonna say.” Logan laid the timing chain on a drop cloth before adding irritably, “I was gonna say for a guy who doesn’t do a lot of this kinda stuff.”

  Not believing him for one second but reluctant to renew the hostilities, Nick retorted, “I do plenty of work on my Jeep.”

  His only answer was Logan pointing at the motor and saying, “We gotta turn it over now so we can number-stamp the connectin’ rods.”

  “Turn the whole engine over?”

  “Yeah, of course. How else’re we gonna get at the rest?”

  “Shit, I’m already sweatin’ like a pig,” Nick complained as he pulled his stained, damp T-shirt over his head and wiped his torso with it.

  His own un-tucked, faded workshirt drenched with sweat, Logan snapped, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m hot and I’m takin’ my shirt off.” Nick parked his hands at his hips as he challenged, “Got a goddamned problem with that?”

  Logan looked down at the rag he was using to wipe his hands, growling, “You can’t work like that. It ain’t safe.”

  Defiantly, Nick threw his shirt on the workbench while asserting, “I’ll decide what’s safe for me, okay?”

  Nick watched Logan fling the grease rag to the ground as he yelled, in ascending syllables, “I’m the mechanic here, and I said it ain’t safe!”

  “Don’t pull that paternalistic crap on me—”

  “Paternalistic?” Logan pivoted one step towards him, snarling, “You fucking shrinks with your fancy ten-dollar words. Why can’t you stop talkin’ bullshit and do something useful instead? You guys wouldn’t know a real job if it bit you in the ass!”

  “Is that right? Well for your information, I worked at Weirton Steel as a screenman in the cinderin’ plant every summer I was in college.” He advanced on Logan, who refused to yield an inch; Nick’s voice grew louder and harder as he continued, “And in case your three months in the mill wasn’t enough to let you know, that’s one dirty, back-breaking job. So you can shove that holier-than-thou shit right up your ass.”

  Logan’s breath was now coming in harsh pants, and his hands were balled into solid fists. He gritted out, “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get the fuck away from me. Right. Now.”

  Rebellion boiling in his veins, Nick yelled, “Or what? You gonna hit me? That’s your answer to everything, ain’t it?” He pointed a finger in Logan’s face, asking, “What’re you so fucking angry about, huh? Why’re you such a timebom—” Nick’s question was cut off when Logan grabbed him by the shoulders and backed him into the T-bird’s frame; Nick’s entire body stiffened, preparing a defense against the inevitable punch.

  The blow came in a different form when Logan grabbed his face and fused their lips together in a blistering kiss. Fueled by lust, adrenaline, and relief, Nick’s body slammed his conscious mind into idle and took control. He grabbed Logan by the lapels and pushed back, ramming their tangled bodies into the wall while shoving his tongue into Logan’s molten mouth.

  The two men’s sweaty, grease-stained bodies clung together as the kiss deepened. Nick’s blood ran hot and fast towards his rapidly swelling cock; every screaming nerve felt the answering wildness ripping through Logan. Not even the faint ray of sunshine poking through the dirty window could wedge its way between them—not until Logan wrenched them apart, sending Nick stumbling backwards.

  Logan shook himself like a wet dog and drew a shaky hand across his bruised lips. Stunned by the sudden loss of heat, Nick stood dazed, in shock and co
nfusion as Logan stammered out, “I gotta go,” and fled the scene.

  Nick finally recovered enough to look around questioningly at the cluttered shop, as though the stripped-down motor or empty car had any answers for him. He glanced at the door through which Logan had escaped, murmuring, “Well, fuck me a running…. So that’s his problem.”

  Chapter 7:

  A Hard Beginning

  A hard beginning maketh a good ending.

  —John Heywood

  LOGAN WOKE Monday morning to a grade-A hangover; not surprising, since the only things he’d had in his mouth the previous day were coffee, a doughnut, too much whiskey—and Nick Zales’s tongue.

  It was that last item that had led him to stop on his way home from Acken’s shop and grab a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He’d spent the rest of the day pretending to watch a baseball game and attempting to drown out any deliberations on that kiss with a steady stream of whiskey. After a few shots, it had worked—sort of. Logan had managed to work himself into a muted, drunken fury, blaming Nick, and to some extent Trudy, for unlocking the impulses he’d kept neatly caged for more than half his life. He nursed the whiskey and his anger all night before finally falling into a dead sleep and waking to the angry buzz of an alarm he rarely needed.

  Logan drove to the garden center after forcing down some plain white bread and downing a pot of coffee. He knew full well that those palliative measures could do nothing for the real source of his lingering queasiness—the fear that Nick was preparing to spill his guts to Trudy Gerard. Shit, could’a already done so, for all I know. He could’a called her up right after….

  For a second he was buoyed by a quickly-formed plan to issue an unconditional denial. After all, it was just his word against Nick’s. And who’s gonna believe him? He’s nothin’ but a…. Even in Logan’s mind, no epithet came. He’s nothin’ but… but… a pretty good guy. Who you attacked.