Series: Peach State Stepbros Series by Riley Hart
Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 92311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 462(@200wpm)___ 369(@250wpm)___ 308(@300wpm)
If he could see me in the zone like this, maybe he’d get it. Mom would. At least, there was a time when that would have mattered to her. Who knows anymore?
“What the hell are you doing?” Walker says as he approaches the pit. In a company cap that’s angled to the side, he tucks his tablet in his shop apron as he gazes down at me, his forehead wrinkled up.
“Brakes. Why?”
For a moment I worry I’m so on cloud nine that I might be adjusting brakes when I should be checking an engine. But then I remind myself I fucking saw the brake pad before I started, so I’m fine. Damn, I hope surgeons don’t ever have moments like this.
“I didn’t know you knew this song,” Walker says, scratching his thick beard.
I hadn’t thought about it, but I’d been singing along to the Lana Del Rey song playing overhead—from Walker’s playlist.
“How could I not know it? You’ve played it every day for the past two years.”
He has a point, though. I don’t usually burst into song like I’m in a musical. At the same time, I’m self-aware enough to know what all this is about. My mood. The zone. The fucking singing.
It’s from spending last night with Atlas.
It wasn’t just the fucking around; although, that was epic. It was that deep shit he told me about Christian. Yeah, it pissed me the fuck off. Sucks having a homophobe kissing my ass and commenting on my Insta, then shit-talking behind my back. But really, knowing that Atlas stood up for me made a bad thing almost worth it. Because it reminded me of the kind of man he really is. The kind of man most people don’t see. My protective Titan, willing to stick up for me, regardless of my friends and I thinking he was being an ass. All to protect my feelings.
Walker’s smirking, so I’m wondering if he can read all this shit on my damn face.
“So, I haven’t been here thirty minutes, and the word’s already gotten around,” he says. “Either you’re seeing someone, or you got into a wrestling match with a vacuum.”
My lips push together.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it? Something serious.” I open my mouth to comment, but he’s already saying, “Ah. Not denying it. Very serious.”
Fuck Walker. Clearly, we’ve been working together too long if he can pick that up from me, though I’m hardly being subtle.
“It’s not serious.”
“And you sound disappointed about that. Ooh, I feel for you, Troy.”
I didn’t even realize until I said the words how disappointed I sounded, but fuck if Walker isn’t right.
“Shouldn’t you be supervising the noob?” I say. “We don’t need another leak like we had on Friday.”
“Come on. He made an innocent mistake. He’s doing fine. Don’t give him any hell because I’m giving you some.”
I don’t actually have anything against our new employee. Hell, I made plenty of rookie errors when I started out. It just seemed like an easy way to get the conversation off whatever Walker’s picking up on from me.
“If you keep on going like this,” I tell him, “it’s not the noob you’ll be worried about.”
“A threat? If I keep talking, am I going to wind up under one of these cars? Get a wrench up my butt? What you got that I haven’t heard?”
“Jesus, Walker, I was just gonna threaten to call in sick on Saturdays.”
He rolls his head back for a laugh. “I guess you know how to hit a guy where it really hurts. Gonna have to report you to HR for that one.”
I know he’s playing. This is kind of our thing. “Tell Al you were running your mouth, and he’ll probably let you off with a warning.”
Walker’s about to reply when the front door chimes.
“Don’t pretend you thought of something clever but have to get to that,” I warn. “We both know you could’ve made that guy wait for fifteen minutes before acknowledging his existence.”
“Guess it’s his lucky day,” Walker says as he heads off.
Guess a lot of people are getting lucky this weekend.
When Walker’s out of sight, I rub the tender spot on my neck, a souvenir from A to remind me of last night. As if I need a reminder.
I press down until it stings. Just a little. Just enough.
Why does that feel so good?
As much as I cherish this gift he gave me, my memory will outlast anything he could have done to my body, and I fucking hate that everything feels so temporary.
The fuck. The hickey. My cum across Atlas’s torso. All those things fade too quickly.
I wish I could inscribe my name on him permanently, like with a tattoo. Maybe in that original spot from our bet senior year. Or maybe up the side of his torso.
No, not the right spots.