CHAPTER1
walker
“Junior, we’ve got a customer,” Mom barked out over the PA system, three minutes before closing time.
Stripping off my grease-smeared undershirt, I let out a deep, exhausted sigh. Whoever was rolling in now was going to have to be okay with me shirtless, because it was still a hundred and one miserable degrees outside, and I wasdone.
The AC in the garage was out, my knee was acting up, my shoulders ached from throwing tires all evening, and warm sweat was running down the crack of my ass.
The real kicker? This wasn’t even my full-time job. I was a high school teacher, currently teaching summer school geometry along with a few college prep courses. But that meant nothing to my parents, who called me in whenever they ended up short staffed at one of their tire repair shops.
I appreciated the extra cash, but these long, sweltering days were eating me alive.
Today had been especially bad because I’d started my morning off trying to plan for the fall curriculum, which meant I’d spent a good deal of time banging my head on my desk. Last year’s geometry classes had gone well, so their curriculum hadn’t needed more than a few tweaks. My woodshop classes, however, had been a complete disaster.
I’d loved Mr. Paige’s shop class back when I was in high school, but I hadn’t had the slightest clue what to do when he died and Dr. Gardner dumped his classes into my lap.
Even after I stopped panicking and found-slash-plagiarized Mr. Paige’s most recent curriculum, this past school year had been a painful reminder that I was no Mr. Paige. Sure, I was handy, but the classroom’s power tools scared the piss outta me, and the surly teenagers didn’t exactly find my simple projects engaging.
So, yeah. I spent the first part of the day tearing my hair out and the rest sweating out a third of my body weight, changing and repairing tires till my arms all but fell off.
My shitty mood lasted until I spotted the car limping up to the bay: a familiar classic Chevelle, custom painted in a modern charcoal gray with white racing stripes… and sporting one very flat tire. I smiled for the first time since breakfast as Ozzie Cavanaugh, wearing cream linen trousers with a light-blue button-down, stepped out of the vehicle.
Tall and muscular with a trim beard and a perfectly faded Afrohawk, Ozzie was a cold blast of AC right when I needed it. I was so damned relieved to see someone I hadn’t yet disappointed today.
In high school, Ozzie had been part of a group of guys Mr. Paige had called the Lost Boys. Like Mr. Paige, all the guys were some flavor of queer, and Mr. Paige had been a trusted mentor and a safe space for them.
Years later, Mr. Paige had somehow lassoed me into their orbit. It was awkward at first, a straight country boy like me hanging out with a bunch of confident gay men, but from day one they were nothing but kind.
Since I was raised in a superconservative household, these new friendships had felt a little rebellious. Regardless of my parents’ opinions, I was damned proud to call the Lost Boys my friends, and I was pretty sure they returned the sentiment. At least I hoped so. Maybe they just saw how lonely I’d become and were showing me pity.
Either way, I’d take it.
Ozzie grinned as he approached and bumped fists with me. “Walk, buddy! Did you forget your clothes today?”
I looked down and swore under my breath. On top of being bare, my sweaty torso was smeared with all sorts of oil and tire muck. Great. I was a mess in front of the one guy who never had a hair out of place.
“Sorry,” I said, attempting to brush off some of the dirt, only to have the grease on my hand make it worse. Giving up, I explained, “I was getting ready to close down, and it’s been boiling in the garage today. The AC unit crapped out, and we’re not getting another one in until tomorrow.”
“Dude, that sucks. Though, as a red-blooded gay man, I got to say…” He gave me an obvious up-down followed by a low whistle.
I flushed at the compliment, jokingly covering my nipples. “Sir, I am a gentleman,” I tossed back, laying on the country accent.
His deep, rich chuckle was better than caffeine.
The buzzy click from the PA system went off, making my stomach clench.
“Walker Tire Service is now closed for the day. Please finalize your business,” my mother announced in her nasally twang.
Click.
I checked over my shoulder, spying her judgmental gaze through the office blinds.
Rolling my eyes, I turned back to my friend, held out my overall sleeves, and curtsied. It would have been a damn funny move if my already pissed-off knee hadn’t taken exception.
Ouch, ouch, ouch.
Ozzie’s smile slid off his face, and he quickly reached for my arm, helping me stay upright as I worked the joint back into place. “Is this still from the accident?”
