Page 11 of Grease & Grips
“If there’s no bar, what is there to do around here?” The question slips out of him easy, heavy with intention.
I scratch at my scalp, more nerves than itch, and realize my mouth’s bone dry. “Mama used to say the only things to do around here were drink, fight, or fuck.”
There’s a curl to his mouth I haven’t met before. It’s dark and daring and I wanna chase it like a bad idea.
“Okay, one’s out of the question. What’s your preference on the other two, Mack?”
I’m toast. Helpless prey out in the open. If he wants to eat me alive, I’m not stopping him.
Jesus Christ so help me... I’ll set the table.
“Depends on the day and how many beers I’ve had.” There’s undeniable heat in the words as they tumble from my mouth.
The blush on his face blooms in real time, spreading fast as that a grin breaks open into a full-blown smile with his white teeth on display.
He eats me up with his eyes, pupils blown wide, hunger stamped across every inch of his too-beautiful face. Beneath it I see the restraint, but only barely.
I’ve seen a drive belt pulled too tight before. I know the look right before it snaps.
Right now this man is being held together by threads.
His gaze is too intense so I look anywhere else. Pretend I’m suddenly real interested in absolutely nothing.
“Anyway,” I mumble, “not much call for either these days.”
“Why not?”
There are a lot of reasons. A whole goddamn pile of them.
It’s easier not to want when you know you can’t have. Wanting things means hoping and hoping means setting yourself up to be let down.
I’ve tried this before. There was the bar in Macon, the guy from Atlanta, my one and only Memorial Day weekend in Pensacola that ended with me ghosted at a Waffle House.
When you spend long enough watching other people live their lives while you make a living patching up the things that help them leave, you start to realize fixing cars is easier than fixing your own problems.
What I do gives other people the freedom to move on. The means to get out. Never to stay.
After a while you start to believe maybe that’s all there is.
Maybe that’s what you’re supposed to get.
Sometimes I don’t even know if I want the thing or just the idea of it. The distraction and the softness sound nice.
I might enjoy if someone could stand still long enough to let me believe they might actually see me and stay, but men like that don’t come to Sycamore. Not on purpose. They break down on dirt roads and leave as soon as the engine turns over.
I shift my weight, drag a hand across the back of my neck, and finally glance his way. “Guess I stopped seeing the point.”
He’s so fucking sexy like this.
With those eyes locked on me seeing right into the most embarrassing corners of my soul, even though I’m sweatin’ like a whore in church trying not to think about what it’d feel like if he touched me.
Believe me when I tell you I’m thinking aboutallthe ways that could happen.
The ways he could be wrapped around my dick hit me like a goddamn freight train. His hand, his mouth, even the way his hips would move if he let me fuck him. The way his hole might grip onto me keeping us connected in every way that matters.
I try to breathe through the onslaught of filthy thoughts I’m having, but I’m hard as hell and my jeans aren’t doing a damn thing to hide it.
This is torture.
