Page 12 of Torch Songs

“It’s not that we don’t like you, son,” the man said genially, although Guthrie was pretty sure he didnot, “but you know, having one of our employees drive a piece of shit like that isnotgood for business.”

Guthrie had dealt with good ole boys like this all his life. His father was one and his uncle Jock another, although Uncle Jock wasn’t a bad guy. But the box-suit wearing, Brylcream-sporting, toothy, smarmy asshole who put his name on Guthrie’s check was the worst kind—oily, disdainful users. Guthrie hadneeded to put out warnings to all the pretty girls in the office whenever Gene Calhoun of Calhoun Auto Dealership drove up. Guthrie had even taken one of his coworkers, who had since fled for a better job, through the building, finding exit points, recesses, and all the ladies’ rooms so they could escape Gene’s meandering hands.

The faintest whisper of “Operation Octopus” could empty out the reception area before Gene’s heavy cologne wafted across the office.

But the job came with health and dental, and it paid the pricey rent on Guthrie’s small apartment. He had other sources of income—his gigs, some residuals from a CD that he’d put out with Fiddler and the Crabs, plus some gigs as a studio musician that the kids in the bandnowgot him—but this close to San Francisco rent was a nightmare, and needing a filling could put a crimp in your musical style right quick.

“You’re late,” sang Martin, the only other guy in the front office, as Guthrie walked in. Martin was supposed to be behind the desk, but he was vying for the next salesman position that opened up, so he was not necessarily an ally. Guthrie had heard him say more than once that “There was no room for two roosters in a hen house,” and while he’d wanted to tell the man, acidly, that Guthrie was a different kind of cock, Guthrie also knew that would get him fired quicker than screaming “Operation Octopus” at the top of his lungs and throwing himself in front of Tracy, the tiny nineteen-year-old with the unfairly bodacious chest, who hadn’t figured out yet that Gene Calhoun had been trying to get a good grope since she got the job.

Acid roiled in his stomach for the umpteenth time, and he wondered if, since it was his night off of gigs, he couldn’t polish up his resume a little and try to find a job somewhere else. After Seth had left the band for greener pastures, Guthrie hadused the proceeds from their CD to finish up his education with a BA in Liberal Studies. He’d already worked as a mechanic, a carpenter, and a construction worker, and he’d been desperate for something that wouldn’t ruin his hands. It was damned hard to play a gig if your knuckles were swollen or you’d driven a nail through your thumb, and he’d had to do both.

But he was yearning for the smell of grease and a socket wrench about now, because he didnotlike being in charge of this place when the guy who ran it was a danger to all of his employees.

Except Martin. Martin and his straight white penis were safe from Gene Calhoun.

“I am, in fact, exactly on time,” Guthrie said sourly, typing the security code into his computer to the minute. “I usually get here ten to fifteen minutes early, because unlike some people, I’ve got a work ethic. If you get here early ninety-five percent of the time, hitting traffic on 380 once in a while doesn’t get you fired.”

“Ooh,” Martin mocked. “Did somebody get laid last night? Did she leave without getting your number?”

Guthrie rolled his eyes. “No, that’syourweekend, Martin. I had a gig last night. Fought off a mugger. Strained my shoulder.” He grunted and rolled the shoulder he held his guitar case with. He hadn’t realized it when it had been happening, but clocking a guy with your guitar case twisted sinews and muscles and shit that werenotmeant to go that way. Of course, then there’d been changing the flat, and then there’d been….

He very carefully didn’t think of the kisses, the way his mouth had opened under Tad’s like he’d been panting for—longingfor—kisses just likethat. God, it had been so long since he’d had sex, he couldn’t remember if it was supposed to be that good; where someone’s smell, the look in their eyes, theirbody temperaturefor sweet hell’s sake, had just clicked, like cosmictumblers in the magic Guthrie opening combination that made him want to drop his pants, bend over, take the sex, and sob.

Right as he was yanking his attention to the here and now, his pocket buzzed. Checking the lobby, because being on your phone when there were customers was not allowed, he saw a text.

This is Tad. I’m at a work meeting and thinking about you. Text me back, okay, or I’ll think you’re a mirage I made up on the drive home.

Guthrie smiled to himself and texted quickly,Not enough coffee in the WORLD.

He slid his phone back in his pocket before Martin could glance up from his computer screen and took a sip of coffee before opening his file of customers to see who was due to bring their car in for servicing and who had (poor bastards) answered an automatic questionnaire about would they want to trade their vehicles up.

Thank God he made the big bucks so he could delegate that shit. He made a file of the customers, thought briefly about sending it to Tracy because she’d be happy to do it and she was a sweetheart, and sent it to Martin instead.

“What the—hey!” Martin groaned. “Why do you give this shit to me? Make one of the girls do it. They’re not doing anything!”

“In fact,” Guthrie told him, “Tracy’s being trained on auto bay reception today, and Lana’s doing the training. That leaves me to service customers and you to do the hackwork.”

“Who died and made you boss?” Martin snarled, and Guthrie was in no mood for this shit.

“I’m your office manager, Martin—managing the office is myjob. You, on the other hand, are an absolute dick to people, so you can either piss them off anonymously over a cold call, or pissthem off face-to-face where they can complain to your manager—me—and I have to pass it on to Mr. Calhoun.”

“Why can’t I be trained in the auto bay?” Martin whined, and Guthrie rolled his eyes.

“Because they all hate you there,” he said. “And Tracy has zero write-ups and you have three. Look, buddy, hate to go all power mad on you, but you’re circling the drain. Take the crap assignment, do it with a smile, and you might get to keep your health and dental, okay?”

“Prick,” Martin muttered.

“Four times,” Guthrie said, pulling the paperwork on his computer. “You’ve been written up four times.”

Martin made a sound like air escaping a punctured tire, but he did not make it five.

GUTHRIE DIDN’Tmind helping people. He greeted them, asked them what they wanted, hooked them up with sales reps, if the reps didn’t get them first. Put them in touch with the maintenance department—and said hi to Tracy, who was a smart kid and doing just fine—when they needed it, and made sure the coffee and donuts were fresh and the area was clean.

Which was something he had to nag Martin to do, because Martin felt it was beneath him.

He was in the middle of cleaning up the coffee station when a woman said, “Hey. You look familiar!”

He turned with a pleasant smile on his face, pretty sure he didn’t know her. He was right.

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