by E M Lindsey
“I know,” Derek told him softly.
Miguel shrugged and dug his thumb into a swirl of cinnamon. “Things were shitty before I moved to Martin’s shop. I don’t…I don’t date.”
“But you like Amit,” Derek pressed, though his voice was kinder this time, like he was willing to back off if Miguel asked him.
Miguel shrugged again, trying his best not to think of Amit’s panties, or the make-up, or the way he’d stripped himself raw when he got home that night. “I don’t date,” he repeated.
“I won’t push, but uh…I mean.” Derek mouthed the word, ‘fuck’, and then laughed. “Do you have a therapist?”
Miguel couldn’t help his snort. “No, man. I don’t have a therapist.”
“Okay,” Derek said slowly, forcing Miguel to meet his gaze, “well I have someone who…”
“No.” The word came out harsh and a little mean, and he hated the way his stomach squirmed when Derek flinched back. “Sorry. Look, I’m…I don’t judge people who need them. I think it’s great, and really fuckin’ brave. But that ain’t me, okay? Shit happened, I got over it. I’m good.”
Derek looked like he wanted to say something. He looked like he wanted to say a lot of somethings, but he took a breath instead and nodded. “It took me a while to figure my shit out. And I’m not in any kind of place to tell someone they need therapy. I just know where it’s helped me, and if you ever want…”
“I won’t,” Miguel cut in firmly.
Derek’s smile went soft. “Okay. But if you ever want,” he emphasized, “call me. I have someone who will take you immediately. And this conversation right now stays between us. Not Baz, not my brother, not Sam. No one.”
Miguel let out a short breath, and for one, insane moment, he considered asking for the number. But he bit it back, because he didn’t need therapy. He just needed to stay the fuck away from attractive men in panties that made him want things he had no business wanting.
“Thanks,” he said after a beat, because, if anything, he knew what this conversation had cost Derek. “I mean it. Thanks. I’m not used to people giving a shit.”
Derek looked relaxed, the faint pink in his cheeks fading. “I know what that’s like. But it’s good here.”
“I’m starting to see that,” Miguel admitted, and Derek simply grinned.
Chapter Eight
“Yo!”
Miguel turned away from his bike at the sound of James’ voice calling from his back porch. Miguel had been worried about renting from the guy at first—the guest house was close enough to the main one that he could see through the window if the curtains were open, and he wasn’t in the market for new friends. He was fine with being friendly, sure, but Miguel wasn’t interested in getting comfortable. His conversation with Derek had started to soften him a little, but the feeling hadn’t lasted.
The only reason he’d even taken the house was because it was accessible to him. There were ramps, the floors were flat and even, and nothing put a strain on his hip, which had never quite healed up the right way.
By the first week there, he realized he’d worried for no reason. James was nice enough—he and his fiancé Rowan invited him to dinner every Friday without fail—and without fail, they took his dismissal with a grain of salt. Their smiles never faltered, James was always more than happy to lend a hand or even a client or two at the shop. Miguel struggled with feeling like he deserved any of it, mostly because he feared being pitied.
When Finn was given the same treatment, though, he relaxed. As he got to know them, he knew that sympathy was so much more palatable than someone feeling sorry for him. The guys there knew, at least on some level, what it was like to live with something that made them other. Possibly for the first time in his life, he felt normal there in that shop, with people surrounding him that got it.
Miguel shoved his phone into his pocket, then took a couple of steps to meet James. “Hey, man. You alright?”
James’ grin was wide, his eyes alight and happy, and he felt a rush of envy for how carefree the other man lived. “I’m great. I wanted to ask you a favor though.”
Miguel’s eyebrows lifted. He didn’t have a whole hell of a lot to offer these guys. “Sure. I mean, if I can help.”
“You did some mechanics back at your old club, right?” James asked.
Miguel was a little taken aback that anyone had the balls to bring it up. He knew Martin had briefed them about his past, about his injury, but so far no one had said a word or asked a single question. He absently reached up, rubbing his right palm against the back of his neck. “Yeah, some. I’m not a mechanic or anything, though. I mean, I’ve never been certified.”
“But you worked on motorcycles, right?” James pressed, and Miguel nodded. “Great. So, I have this project I’m workin’ on for Sage, but it’s bein’ a real bitch and I can’t figure out why the damn thing won’t start. This is kind of a wedding gift, so I was hoping you might take a look. I think I need a fresh pair of eyes on the thing.”
Miguel’s first instinct was to bark out a quick, “No,” and then leave. But James had done a lot for him—and frankly, the idea of getting his hands dirty in a shop again sounded a little like heaven. It was the one place the club brothers hadn’t messed with him. He had been alright as a mechanic—not the best, but better than any of the guys they had on staff. It had been a place he could work and forget a little that his life had been derailed by resentment and fire.
And if it could help one of these guys, it wasn’t really a difficult answer. “Yeah, I think I can spare some time. I think Tony has a couple clients lined up for me, so let me check with him and I’ll get back to you.”
“You’re the best, man,” James said, and the sincerity in his voice was like a punch to the sternum. “Just text me what you got goin’ on and I’ll send you the address. You can come by any time.”
Miguel nodded, at a loss for words because he just wasn’t the kind of guy who ever made small talk. James didn’t seem to mind though. He just flashed another brilliant grin, then turned and walked away. The light reflected off the metal in his legs, his gait awkward, but perfected in his own way. Miguel felt his palm fold, squeezing it. He’d been offered a prosthetic once—something with fingers he could manipulate with the remaining muscles left in his hand, but he’d never been able to afford it. Any money he’d ever been able to save—anything significant—ended up in his dad’s pocket, then in a spoon, and shot into the old man’s veins.
Pushing the thought away, he turned back to his bike and hopped on, revving the engine a couple of times before rolling past James’ house. The curtains were closed, giving the men inside privacy, so he didn’t look back as he hit the main road and made his way to the shop.
Weekday afternoons were always dead, so Miguel wasn’t surprised that the front of the shop was nearly empty as he walked in. He could hear music from the front stall, and he could see the light brown waves of Sam’s head poking over the top. As he walked down the middle of the aisle, the little swinging door banged forward, and a small creature darted forward.
Miguel came to a skidding halt when a little toddler in a bright pink tutu, dark hair in braids down her back, threw her arms at him. “Pick meee yup!” she demanded.
Miguel had absolutely no experience with kids. The club he’d grown up in kept them all safely tucked away in their homes—even him, until he was old enough to start lending a hand. When they got to Texas, the place was less than child friendly, and most of the women were so hopped up on meth, they couldn’t carry to term even if they’d wanted to.
He stumbled for a second, but the look of determination on the kid’s face was so intense, he found himself obeying without thought. He hooked both arms under hers. Then lifted her onto his hip, her backside balancing on his right forearm. It felt alien, but weirdly natural as she slung an arm around his neck and looked at him.
For a brief, terrifying second, he thought he might scare her. His scars were mostly flat from th
e compression mask, but he knew how different they made him, and children were both brutal with their honesty and their fears of the unfamiliar.
“My daddy’s drawing,” she told him pointedly.
It was in that moment Sam rolled through the opening to his stall and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sorry,” he said, sounding exasperated. “I don’t actually take her to work with me that often, but there was some disgusting stomach-flu outbreak at her preschool and I didn’t want her to catch it.” He pushed his wheels, rolling closer. “May, we talked about this.”
“But,” she said, her bottom lip out as she pouted. “But he’s my friend!”
Miguel fought back a laugh as he felt her tighten her grip like Sam might try to pry her away. “Are we friends?” he asked her.
She cocked her head to the side and tapped her chin with her chubby finger. “I think…I think you’re my friend. He could be my friend, okay daddy?”
Sam gave him an amused look. “You can totally put her down. She’s not the actual boss of the shop, even if she thinks she is.”
“Imma boss,” she parroted.
At that, Miguel actually did laugh. “Yeah? You’re my boss?”
“I could be a boss,” she told him with a firm nod. “Imma get my colors.” She wriggled out of his arms, and he gently set her down before she raced past her dad and into the stall.
“Sorry,” Sam said again.
“No worries, man. She’s sweet.” Miguel knew most of the guys had kids—he’d met Jasmine, Tony’s daughter, but the rest tended to keep away from the shop floor, which only made sense. It was strange to see it in action, though, how these guys managed to fall in love and create families. A small, burning seed of envy planted in his belly, and he quickly tried to stamp it out. He didn’t need to be thinking about shit like that. That kind of life would never be for him.
“You working this afternoon?” Sam asked.
Miguel shrugged as he stepped into his temporary stall. “Tony said I could come in for walk-ins, and he booked me a couple of spots.” He sank into his chair, reaching for the appointment book on the toolbox. Flipping it open to that day, he saw two hour and a half spots scribbled in for the afternoon, and a handful throughout the week, but nothing that would keep him from helping out James.
“Hey, I wanted to ask,” Sam said, interrupting Miguel’s mental calculations. “We’re going out dancing tonight to celebrate Matty’s birthday. He and Wyatt are on their way back into town now, but he wanted me to ask you if you’d like to come along. I asked Finn but he said no.”
Miguel let out a low chuckle and shook his head. “Yeah, he doesn’t do well with crowds. He likes being social, but not with shit like that.”
“He’s on the spectrum, right?” Sam asked.
Miguel blinked up at him. He’d heard the word before, but he couldn’t put a definition to it. Another moment he could curse his lack of education. “Uh.”
“Like Autism,” Sam clarified when he saw Miguel’s confused face.
He knew that one—had heard it hurled at Finn a couple of times from assholes on the road, and he immediately bristled. “There’s nothing fuckin’ wrong with him,” he growled.
Sam looked startled and put a hand up. “Hey no that’s not…I didn’t mean it like that.”
Miguel felt shame hit him, for the way his temper took over before he was aware of it. “Sorry,” he muttered.
Sam rolled forward until he was at the entrance of Miguel’s stall. “Hey.” When Miguel finally looked up, Sam offered him a smile. It was maybe a little patronizing, like an expression he’d use on his daughter, but Miguel—strangely enough—didn’t hate it. “No one here is ever going to get on your case for being protective. People are assholes. I only ask because I don’t want to make Finn feel uncomfortable by inviting him to shit he’ll hate. And if he says yes because he feels like he has to…”
Miguel laughed again and shook his head. “Nah, man. Finn won’t ever say yes if he doesn’t mean it. He’s not that kind of guy.”
Sam looked relieved. “Okay. I just…I worry. We don’t know you all that well, but we don’t want either of you to feel like outsiders.”
Miguel felt something settle in his chest, but he was a little lost for words. He offered Sam a tense grin, who seemed to take it for what it was and nodded before rolling back. Miguel gathered himself, then went back to his appointment book before saying softly, “Count me in, though.”
“Sweet,” Sam answered. There was an underlying excitement in his voice Miguel could tell he was holding back, and it was startling. The fact that any of them really wanted him around was hard to believe. He didn’t offer much. The guys were smart, good looking, charming, and loved each other with a ferocity Miguel had never seen before. Not between family, and not between lovers.
It overwhelmed him with envy and want. And even if this was just temporary, he craved any taste they offered him.
“Um,” came a voice, and Miguel looked down to see the little girl had returned. She was clutching three markers in her fist, and looked up at him with big, dark eyes. “Can I color?”
“You want to color, mijita?” he asked, and let out a quiet oomph when she clambered onto his lap as though his response was tacit permission for her to join him.
“Maisy,” Sam said, and appeared in the doorway again. “Sorry.”
Miguel shook his head. “I don’t mind if she wants to color.” As he reached for his sketchbook, he heard the click of the marker top.
“Yeah, but that’s not what she… Maisy!” His voice rose as Miguel felt the first swipe of a felt tip over his skin.
His eyes darted down to see her holding one marker, drawing scribbles and lines in the whirls of black ink covering some of his scars.
“Ima make it pretty,” she told him, her tongue poking out between her teeth in concentration.
Miguel looked over at Sam who was pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah, so, I got some line art on my arm that I let her color on. I swear, the shit’s washable, okay? Maisy! Get off him. You only color on daddy.”
“Nope,” she said, setting one marker down and uncapping another. Miguel thought maybe he should remove her since Sam looked so distressed, but he couldn’t help watching as her little hand and a tube of blue washable ink brought life to skin he so often tried to ignore. “Uncle Sage says okay, Uncle Matty says okay, Uncle Tony says okay…” She rattled off half the names in the shop in a small, litigious voice.
Miguel couldn’t help his laugh. “She’s got you there.”
Sam pushed forward, but stopped when Miguel shook his head. “I meant it when I said she’s not the boss. You can tell her no, it’s not going to traumatize her.”
Miguel looked down again as she started in with the red. It was bright and chaotic, and it strangely reminded him of the work he’d just done on Amit.
“Daddy, I maked it better. It’s pretty now!”
“She ain’t wrong,” Miguel said quietly. When it became obvious Sam wasn’t going to step in further, Miguel stretched his arm out and let her continue toward his hand. His breath caught in his throat a bit as she turned his wrist, scribbling red over the raised marks, then drawing a ring around what remained of the knuckle on his thumb.
She picked up blue after that, and drew over the lines in his palm, then over the scars at the tip where the doctors had cut away bone, muscle, and flesh. Setting it down, she took him by the wrist and held his hand up, her head cocked to the side as she examined her masterpiece.
“You yike it?” she demanded.
He looked down at her, then looked at Sam out of his periphery. The poor man was obviously holding his breath, and Miguel realized in that moment he probably got it. Being visibly disabled, having a child, the two worlds couldn’t be easy to navigate.
But he found the scrutiny didn’t gut him the way it used to. He curled his palm closed, then open again, flexed his knuckle. “I love it, mi cielito. Thank you.”
“Yup,” sh
e said, popping the P loudly. She gathered her markers and slid from his lap, pushing past her dad. Her shoes made soft tapping noises as she raced back up the aisle, and then it went quiet again.
“She likes you,” Sam said after a beat.
Miguel’s brows rose, and he turned to look at him. “Kids usually don’t.” It wasn’t about the scars though, but about the fact that he’d grown up in a world full of violence and deception—a world where there should have been loyalty instead of betrayal. They usually sensed that about him and avoided him like the plague, and he couldn’t blame them.
“A lot of kids are assholes,” Sam said, and the honesty in his tone was like a punch to the gut. “They’re sheltered and conditioned by their parents to like things that are considered perfect by social standards. Perfect in ways that don’t really exist. Maisy is a pretty good judge of character, and she might be three, but I’ve learned to trust her instincts. I’m glad you’re here, Miguel. I hope you consider staying a while.”
Miguel didn’t know what to say, so he simply gave another nod, then grabbed his sketchbook and pencil. After a short moment, he heard the rubber of Sam’s wheels on the tile as he backed out, and the moment faded to nothing.
Only it wasn’t nothing. It was something. It burrowed deep inside him and clung on, refusing to let go. It was dangerous and a little terrifying, because he was only going to be here a short while. Leaving now would gut him—just like he was afraid of when he thought about getting attached—but he wondered if maybe the pain wouldn’t be worth it.
Chapter Nine
Amit turned at the hand in his periphery, and he saw his friend Nick leaning against the door jamb. It felt good getting ready for a night out away from home. Freer, even if his friends didn’t exactly know everything about him. They scrutinized his choices about what looked best on his body, not whether or not he came across as too gay. He could relax in a way he couldn’t anywhere else.
‘What are you doing?’ Nick demanded.
