Office Romance Box Set

Car Trouble-2

Terrence arrives at the auto shop a good ten minutes early. There are two cars parked in the shop’s meager lot, both junkers that obviously have not moved in years—grass grows up between the tires of one vehicle, and the other is rusted so badly, Terrence can’t figure out the car’s original color. His Mercedes gleams beside them.

Exiting his car, Terrence stops to check his reflection in his tinted window. Thick neck, broad shoulders, face and hands blends into the darkened glass as the bright white shirt he wears seems to glow in the sunshine. He straightens his tie, which is a muted pink color most men wouldn’t be secure enough about their sexuality to pull off wearing. Then he steps back, hikes up his slacks an inch, and admires his own appearance. For an old guy, Terrence thinks he’s looking pretty damn fine.

Running a hand over the top of his head, as if the short, kinked curls there would ever get out of place, he heads for the front door of the auto shop. As he approaches, he can see through the glass door at the tiny waiting room—no one is inside. The counter is empty, and even the bay doors leading to the garage are closed. No one’s home.

Of course not. Why did he even think Gary would roll his lazy ass out of bed just to cater to his whims? Damn.

Bitterly, Terrence yanks open the door and surges into the shop. Above him a little bell jangles at his entrance. The waiting room is smaller than he thought; he feels as if he fills the entire area, his large body cramped and uncomfortable. The idea of sitting in one of the miniature chairs in front of the counter is a joke. With a glare on his face he sees reflected back at him in the mirrored wall behind the register, Terrence leans on the counter, pissed.

He’s alone. No other customers, no one at the till, no noisy sounds through the door behind the counter leading to the garage. In one corner of the waiting room, a small black and white television flickers through a blizzard of snow. The only other sound is the steady drip-drip-drip of coffee that smells too weak to be any good. There’s a bell on the counter, one of those shiny silver ones like they have in hotels, and Terrence taps it impatiently. “Hello?”

No answer, which doesn’t surprise him. He notices another door beside him, presumably leading out to the garage, and he hits it with his hand to push it open. With the bay doors closed, the garage is unbearably warm. Terrence tugs at his tie, loosening it, as sweat beads on his neck and temples. Each step he takes echoes off the concrete floor. “Hello?” he calls out a second time, though he already suspects no one will answer. If he ever catches up with that Gary fellow…

The sudden ping of metal on metal is loud in the closed garage. Terrence whirls around. There’s a blue Camaro behind him, parked in one of the far bays. As he heads in that direction, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his slacks, he hears the shuffle of sneakers, a muffled curse. Closer, coming around the front of the car, he sees slim, denim-clad legs beneath the bumper, and one bare elbow sticks out from under the open hood. “Hello?”

He stops at the mirror on the passenger side and ducks his head to peer under the hood. He sees light brown hair the color of iced coffee, smooth as a curtain that hangs down to obscure the mechanic’s face. That hair is cinched loosely at the guy’s nape with what looks like a spare piece of rubber tubing, tied into place to keep it from his face, but the knot isn’t tight and the hair has slipped free to fall over slim, bare shoulders. Terrence isn’t one for long hair on guys, but he likes the way those feathery strands wisp over firm, pale skin, and his hands clench into unconscious fists in his pockets.

Then the mechanic notices him and steps back, startled. “Hey!” he cries, surprised. His voice is unusually loud in the closed garage. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

White wires snake into his ears, and when he tugs the ear buds away, Terrence can hear tinny music. He lets his gaze travel down the mechanic’s lean frame, over the smoothly muscled chest, the barely-there six-pack abs, the tapered waist, a pair of low-riding jeans that scarcely manage to cling to narrow hips. Just below the mechanic’s navel, a scant dusting of fine hairs starts up, trailing into his jeans. A hand curls into the pocket of his jeans, pulling them down a little as he shoves the ear buds out of sight.

Then Terrence looks up and, for the first time, sees the face hidden beneath that flyaway hair. Deep eyes the color of caramel stare out from light skin, and full, ruddy lips spread into an easy grin. “Hey there, big guy,” the man says, his voice lower now that he doesn’t have to shout over his music. “What can I do you for?”

Wouldn’t you like to know?

Unbidden, the thought of those pink, chapped lips clamped around his thick, black c**k fills Terrence’s mind. He imagines fisting his hand into that soft hair, thrusting into that wide mouth, that taut body tight against his own.

Damn. What’s he here for, again? And why aren’t they naked already?

Stepping around the side of the car, the mechanic wipes his hands on a greasy rag. There’s a thin line of oil beneath one red n****e, marring his bare, muscled chest. For some reason, Terrence finds that incredibly sexy, that one imperfection. If he touched the guy, his fingers would look like that, spread out like oil on that creamy skin. This time when his hands fist in his pockets, he shoves them deeper and presses against the start of an erection. Somehow he manages to find his voice. “Are you Gary?”

The mechanic laughs, a sound like bells, and Terrence finds himself grinning in reply. Of course this demi-god isn’t the f**k-up he spoke with on the phone, but he’s glad he asked, if only to elicit this response.

Terrence feels a bead of sweat trickle down his back and he shrugs, partly in response and partly to chase that spot of dampness away. It’s the heat of the summer, the heat of the garage—f**k, the heat from the mechanic, coming off the guy in waves, that has Terrence so hot and bothered, aching for something he hasn’t had in a long time.

With a coy grin, the mechanic asks, “Do you want me to be?”

The way he stares at Terrence says he knows the effect he has on the older man. He leans one hip against the side of the car and he knows. Terrence opens his mouth and has to close it again because he can’t think of what he wants to say. He’s forgotten how to talk. All his thoughts are of the sexy, half-naked man before him—in his mind’s eye, he sees this guy bucking beneath him, that pale skin wrapped so tightly around his own chocolate-colored flesh, those pretty eyes closed in passion, those pouty lips curved into a salacious grin.

Get a grip, Terrence. You’re here for your car. Not to fall in love with this Adonis of a mechanic.

This time when Terrence opens his mouth again, the words are there. “Gary told me to bring my car in—”

“The Mercedes?”

Terrence nods, relieved.

Tossing the rag into the open hood of the Camaro, the mechanic winks at him. Winks. “Bring her around. Let me take a look at what you got.”

It’s been a long time since a young guy has flirted so openly with Terrence. He feels the mechanic’s hot gaze follow him as he turns and walks back to the waiting area. Just for kicks, he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, pulling the silk pants taut across his large buttocks. Even at his age, he knows he still has a fine ass, and he wants the mechanic to know it, too.

Behind him, a wrench clatters to the concrete, and Terrence has to suppress a smile. You’re not the only hot thing in here, white boy.