Page 5 of Grease & Grips
“Get in the truck.”
2
The truck cab isn’t small, but it sure as hell feels that way with this man sitting next to me.
It’s the bench seat. One long stretch of cracked vinyl that forces us closer than I’d like. He’s angled toward me a little clearly trying not to crowd, which only makes me more aware of him. His thigh’s a hair away from mine. I can smell him. Clean, warm, faintly citrusy. He’s wearing something expensive that whispersMiami.
Meanwhile, I smell like grease and hormonal panic.
Jesus, I’m thirty-two. I’ve lived through things. I’ve filed taxes. I should not be this flustered by a man in slacks and a rolled-up sleeve. Yet… here I am, sweating through my shirt and praying he doesn’t notice I’ve gone full middle school dance because he exists.
“Being a mechanic seems interesting. Complicated, I’d guess. I don’t know shit about cars,” he says.
I nod, eyes still fixed on the seat in front of me. No real reaction, just a small movement to let him know I heard him.
“I make commercials for a living. I produce them. Always been a big movie fan and I wanted to make those, butcommercials, it turns out, are easier... and most of the time pay more. You watch a lot of movies?”
I shake my head, quick and small, then glance at him for half a second before looking away again.
“So what’s your name?” he asks
Have we seriously not done that yet? Guess not. Jesus. We’ve been sitting in this truck for probably twenty minutes and somehow missed the most basic detail.
“I mean, I know your name,” he adds quickly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s Mack. It’s right there on your shirt. I just figured it’d be nice if you used words and, y’know, told me.”
The patch on my chest is doing more for me than I ever could, and for some reason that pisses me off a little. I glance down anyway and sure enough it still says Mack. I drag my eyes back to to the road, feeling a little dumb for not realizing sooner.
“Mainly,” he goes on, “because riding around with a stranger is already weird enough and not that knowing your name would, like, stop you from murdering me or anything… but it might help. A little.”
It’s the half joking and half genuine way he says it, but it makes it real hard not to smile, so I huff out a breath and give him a small nod, pretending that’s all it stirred up in me.
“My name… in case you’re wondering, is kind of a tongue twister. Andrés Miguel García Padilla.”
He pauses, like he’s waiting for a reaction, and when I don’t give him one, he just barrels on.
“García’s my father’s last name. Padilla’s my mom’s. I’m guessing you don’t get much of that out here.” With a crooked smile he adds, “Unless you’re feeling fancy, Andrés is fine.”
There’s a soft roll in the way he says his name and just like that now I’m thinking way too hard about that mouth.
I fiddle with the AC vents. Then the radio. Then the vents again.
“You okay?” he asks.
A noncommittal grunt is what I’ve got right now. It’s embarrassing.I’membarrassing.
I need to pull it together before I ask him if he wants to hold hands or something equally crazy.
He doesn’t seem to mind the silence. He settles in, resting his arm along the back of the seat like this is a damn road trip and not my personal hell.
I should’ve made him take an Uber. He would’ve figured it out eventually, right? Sure… I would've left him deep in backwoods murder country, but he seems competent. He could’ve survived the hillbillies… or monsters.
Not saying I believe in monsters, but any good Southerner comes with a healthy dose of backwoods superstition and I’m positive Andrés would've survived.
Christ. I can feel his arm behind me.
This was a bad idea. A terrible, horny, do-the-right-thing mistake. Too close. Too cramped. Too much him right next to me.
Whatever.
