The old oak door creaked open, revealing dust motes dancing in the dim hallway light. A faded postcard fluttered to the floor, its edges curled from years tucked inside a book.
Inside the cramped apartment, John shifted on the worn sofa, his calloused fingers tracing a scar on his forearm. "Still hurts when it rains," he muttered.
Across the room, David paused while stacking weights. "That bar fight? Should've ducked faster." He wiped sweat from his brow with a faded gym towel.
John chuckled darkly. "Worth it. That bastard had it coming."
Moonlight sliced through the blinds, catching the glint of trophies lining a makeshift shelf — mostly wrestling medals from county fairs. David's reflection in the dusty glass showed crow's feet deepening as he frowned. "You ever think about getting out? This town's rotting."
John stood, joints popping. "And go where? This shithole's in our blood." He flexed, muscles rippling under his thin t-shirt. The fabric strained at his shoulders.
Outside, a car backfired. David didn't flinch. "Remember that diner job? When you flipped the grill during the rush?"
John's grin flashed white. "Cook quit screaming when the bacon hit him." They both laughed, the sound rough and sudden in the stillness.
David tossed John a protein shake. "Drank five of these yesterday. Tasted like chalk."
John caught it one-handed. "Better than prison slop," he said, voice dropping low.
David's knuckles whitened around the weight bar. "Don't." The word hung sharp in the air between them. He turned to the window, watching rain streak the glass like grimy tears. "That place took things you can't get back." His shoulders tensed, thick cords of muscle standing rigid. The silence stretched, thick with unsaid years.
John unscrewed the shake lid. The scent of artificial vanilla mixed with the room's stale sweat. He took a long pull, Adam's apple bobbing. "They took your brother," he said quietly. "Not your spine. Saw you lift that tractor tire last week. Like it was nothing." He set the bottle down hard. "Still got that fire, Dave. Buried deep, maybe. But it's there."
David turned slowly. His eyes, pale blue and bloodshot, fixed on John. "Fire burns out." He crossed the room in three strides, stopping inches away. The faded tattoo on his chest – a crude eagle with broken wings – seemed to pulse. "You think lifting tires fixes anything? That it makes the nightmares stop?" His breath hitched, ragged. "I smell that prison cafeteria stink every damn night. Hear the cell doors slam."
John didn't flinch. He raised a hand, calloused palm hovering near David's cheek. "Then smell this," he murmured. His thumb brushed the sweat-damp stubble along David's jaw. "Hear me." The touch lingered, rough but deliberate.
Outside, thunder growled. The dim bulb overhead flickered, casting their shadows huge and tangled against the peeling wallpaper. David’s gaze dropped to John’s mouth. A vein throbbed in his thick neck. The air crackled, thick as syrup. John’s fingers slid down, tracing the old scar on David’s collarbone – a souvenir from a riot. David shuddered.
"Still remember the sound," David whispered, his voice raw. "Metal on bone." He leaned into the touch, his forehead almost touching John’s. Sweat beaded along his hairline. The scent of protein shake clung to John’s breath, mixing with the damp wool smell of rain seeping through the window frame.
John’s other hand settled on David’s hip, rough palm against bare skin where David’s tank top had ridden up. "You ain’t there now," John murmured. His thumb dug into the knotted muscle above David’s waistband. David hissed, but didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand shot up, gripping John’s wrist. Not to stop him. To anchor himself. His knuckles were scraped raw from yesterday’s tire flip.
Lightning flashed, bleaching the room white for a split second. In that glare, John saw it – the tremor in David’s lower lip, the way his pupils swallowed the pale blue of his irises.
David’s grip tightened. "Prove it," he breathed. The challenge hung between them, jagged and desperate. Rain lashed the windowpane like thrown gravel.
John didn’t hesitate. He yanked David forward, their chests colliding with a solid thump. Heat radiated through thin cotton. David’s breath hitched, a ragged gasp against John’s throat. For a heartbeat, they stood locked like that – two mountains braced against an avalanche. Then David’s mouth crashed onto John’s. It wasn’t gentle. Teeth scraped. Salt and sweat. A low growl vibrated in John’s chest as he shoved David backward, sending a folding chair clattering. They stumbled toward the bedroom, a tangle of grasping hands and bitten-off curses. The doorframe splintered when David’s shoulder slammed into it.
Inside, moonlight caught the dust on a bare mattress. David tore at John’s shirt, buttons pinging off the walls. Fabric ripped. John’s calloused palm slid down David’s spine, tracing each knotted vertebra. David arched, a strangled sound escaping him. They fell onto the bedsprings, the metal screeching under their weight. Fingers dug into hip bones. Nails left red trails on sweat-slick skin. No words now – just panting breaths and the wet, urgent slide of mouths. David bit John’s collarbone hard enough to bruise. John snarled, flipping them, pinning David’s wrists above his head.
The air thickened with the musk of exertion and something sharper, primal. David bucked, muscles straining, but John held firm. Their eyes locked – David’s blown wide, pupils swallowing blue; John’s dark, fierce.
David’s chest heaved. "Do it," he rasped. "Make me forget."
John’s grip tightened. He lowered his head, dragging his tongue along the old prison scar on David’s ribs. David shuddered, a full-body convulsion. His hips jerked up, seeking friction. John’s knee slid between David’s thighs. A groan tore loose, raw and broken. Outside, rain hammered the roof like a drumroll.
David’s hand wrenched free, fingers tangling in John’s hair. He pulled hard, forcing their eyes to meet. "Not careful," he warned, voice gravel. "Don’t you be careful with me." His other hand clawed down John’s back, leaving angry welts. John hissed, hips grinding down. The bedsprings screamed. Sweat dripped from John’s temple onto David’s chest, tracing the faded eagle tattoo.
John’s mouth found David’s neck. He sucked hard, teeth scraping the pulse point. David arched, a choked gasp escaping him. His legs wrapped around John’s waist, heels digging into the small of John’s back. The air thickened with the scent of salt, musk, and the faint iron tang of blood from scraped skin. David’s cock pressed hot and heavy against John’s stomach, leaving a slick trail.
David rolled them suddenly, strength surging. He pinned John’s wrists, breathing ragged. "My turn," he growled. His mouth descended, biting John’s pectoral, then soothing the mark with his tongue. John bucked, but David held him down, the weight of him solid, inescapable. David’s calloused palm slid between them, wrapping around John’s cock. A sharp inhale. A curse. Then slow, brutal strokes that left John panting, his head thrashing against the thin pillow. Dust motes danced in the moonlight shafting through the blinds. David watched him unravel, eyes dark and relentless.
John’s hips jerked. "Fuck, Dave —" His voice cracked. David shifted lower, his breath hot on John’s stomach. He took John in his mouth without warning, deep and greedy. John cried out, fingers fisting in David’s sweat-damp hair.
The scrape of teeth, the wet suction, the raw vibration of David’s groan against his skin — it was too much. John arched off the mattress, muscles trembling. David swallowed him down, throat working, until John spilled with a ragged shout, hips stuttering. David licked him clean, slow and thorough, before crawling back up his body. Their mouths met again, tasting of salt and each other.
David guided John’s hand to his own aching cock. "Now you," he demanded, voice wrecked. John obeyed, his grip firm, strokes deliberate. David’s breath hitched, his forehead pressed to John’s shoulder. John’s other hand slid down David’s spine, fingers digging into the swell of his ass. He pushed a thick thigh between David’s legs, grinding up. David gasped, hips rolling, chasing friction. The bedsprings shrieked.
John’s mouth found David’s ear. "Let go," he rasped. David shuddered, a low groan tearing loose as he came, hot sperm painting John’s stomach. He collapsed, breath gusting against John’s neck.
They lay tangled, sticky and spent. David traced the fresh bite mark on John’s collarbone. "Still think lifting tires fixes things?" he murmured, exhaustion softening the edge in his voice. John huffed a laugh, pulling David closer.
The rain had eased to a steady drumming on the roof. Sweat cooled on their skin. Outside, a siren wailed, distant and fading. David’s hand settled over John’s heartbeat, a heavy, grounding weight. The nightmares felt far away, for now. The room smelled of sex and rain and the cheap detergent from the laundromat down the street.
John traced the curve of David’s shoulder blade, his fingers rough against smooth skin. "Still got that fire," he murmured into the damp hair at David’s temple.
David shifted, his thigh pressing warm against John’s. "Maybe." His voice was thick with exhaustion, but his eyes were clearer in the dim light. He touched the fresh bruise on John’s collarbone, a dark bloom against pale skin. "You always leave marks." A faint smile played at the corner of his mouth. "Even in prison."
John snorted. "Only on the ones who deserved it." He flexed his arm, the muscle bunching under David’s palm. Silence settled, comfortable this time. The old radiator hissed in the corner, fighting the damp chill. David’s breathing evened out, his head heavy on John’s chest. Outside, a dog barked, sharp and insistent. John stared at the water stains on the ceiling, shaped like continents he’d never see. David’s fingers twitched against his ribs, restless even in sleep.
Dawn crept in, gray and tentative. Dust motes swam in the thin light slicing through the blinds. John eased his arm from under David’s neck, the muscles stiff. He stood, the floorboards groaning under his weight. Naked, he padded to the window.
The street below was slick and empty, puddles reflecting the bruised sky. A newspaper skittered across the asphalt, snagging on a cracked curb. He could smell wet concrete, stale beer from the alley dumpster. His reflection in the glass showed the scar on his forearm, pale and ridged. Rain. Always rain.
Behind him, David stirred, the mattress springs complaining. "Where you going?" David’s voice was sleep-roughened, wary.
"Nowhere," John said, not turning. "Just looking." He heard the rustle of sheets, the soft thud of David’s feet hitting the floor. A warm presence settled behind him, David’s chest pressing against his back. Calloused hands slid around John’s waist, holding him there. Anchored. The town stretched out before them, rain-slicked and grim. But for now, the ghosts were quiet.
David’s chin rested on John’s shoulder, his breath warm. "Looks different," David murmured. "From here."
John didn’t reply. He covered David’s hands with his own, their fingers interlacing. The silence wasn’t empty now. It felt like a held breath. David turned him slowly, deliberately. Their eyes met. No challenge this time. Just a quiet intensity that made John’s throat tighten. David’s thumb brushed the fresh bruise on John’s collarbone, a touch so light it was almost a question. John leaned into it, answering without words. He tilted his head, meeting David’s mouth. Not a crash, but a slow convergence. Lips soft, yielding. The taste was familiar – salt, sleep, them – but the hunger had shifted shape. It was deeper, less about taking and more about finding.
David guided him backwards, step by step, until John’s knees hit the edge of the mattress. He sat, looking up at David standing before him in the gray dawn light. David’s gaze traveled over him, not with appraisal, but with something like reverence. He knelt, one knee on the worn rug, the other braced on the bed frame. His hands, those powerful, calloused hands, slid up John’s thighs, palms warm and steady. He bent his head, pressing his lips not to John’s cock, but to the inside of his thigh. A kiss. Slow. Deliberate.
John shuddered, a sigh escaping him. David’s mouth moved higher, tracing the crease where thigh met hip, a path of soft, open-mouthed kisses that left John trembling. David’s tongue flicked against the sensitive skin, then soothed it with a gentle suck. John’s fingers tangled in David’s hair, not forcing, just holding on.
David rose, settling beside John on the bed. He pulled John close, chest to chest, skin warming skin. He kissed John again, deep and unhurried, his hand sliding down John’s flank, over the curve of his hip. His touch was exploratory now, tracing the ridges of muscle, the valleys between, learning the landscape of John’s body without the frantic urgency of before. His fingers drifted lower, brushing the coarse hair at the base of John’s cock, which stirred against his thigh.
John sighed into David’s mouth, his own hands roaming David’s broad back, fingertips tracing the knobs of his spine, the powerful sweep of his shoulders. David shifted, rolling John gently onto his back. He straddled John’s thighs, his own thick cock resting heavy and hot against John’s stomach. Leaning down, David kissed a slow trail from John’s collarbone, over his sternum, pausing to swirl his tongue around a flat nipple, drawing a soft groan from John. He continued downwards, his lips and tongue mapping John’s abdomen, dipping into the hollow of his navel, his breath hot on John’s skin.
David’s hand wrapped around John’s cock again, but this time his strokes were languid, almost lazy, his thumb sweeping over the slick head with each upward glide. He watched John’s face, the flutter of his eyelids, the parting of his lips. David bent lower, his tongue replacing his hand for a moment, licking a slow, wet stripe from base to tip, then swirling around the crown, tasting the salt and musk.
John’s hips lifted slightly off the mattress, a low hum vibrating in his chest. David took him into his mouth, deeper this time, but without the desperate hunger. He worked him slowly, rhythmically, his head bobbing with deliberate, sensual purpose, his free hand cupping and gently rolling John’s balls. John’s fingers tightened in David’s hair, not pushing, just feeling the motion, the wet heat, the exquisite pressure building low in his belly.
David pulled off with a soft, wet sound, his own cock leaking onto John’s thigh. He moved up John’s body, kissing a path over his ribs, the hollow of his throat, the stubble along his jaw, before claiming his mouth again. The kiss was deep, unhurried, their tongues sliding together with a newfound tenderness. John’s hands roamed David’s back, fingertips tracing the powerful muscles, then dipping lower to grip the firm swell of his ass, pulling him closer. David groaned into John’s mouth, grinding his hips down, their cocks sliding together in a slick, slow rhythm that drew a low, satisfied rumble from John’s chest.
Breaking the kiss, David shifted, guiding John’s thick thigh between his legs. He settled over it, his weight braced on one elbow beside John’s head, his other hand sliding down to wrap around both their lengths. He squeezed, a gentle, possessive hold, and began to stroke them together, his calloused palm moving with deliberate, sensual slowness. John arched his back, his breath catching as the friction built – not frantic, but a steady, building heat.
David watched John’s face, his own eyes dark with a fierce, quiet intensity. He bent his head, nuzzling the sweat-damp skin beneath John’s ear. "Feel that?" David murmured, his voice rough velvet. "Just us. Nothing else." His thumb swirled over the sensitive head of John’s cock, smearing pre-come down the shaft, mixing it with his own.
John’s hand came up to cradle David’s face, his thumb brushing the corner of David’s mouth. "Yeah," he breathed, his hips lifting to meet David’s strokes. "Just this." He guided David’s head down for another kiss, softer this time, lingering. David’s rhythm faltered for a moment, lost in the taste, the feel. When he resumed, his strokes were even slower, deeper, his grip tightening just enough to make John gasp.
David shifted his weight, lowering himself fully onto John, skin flush against skin, chest to chest, belly to belly. The heat between them was immense, a shared furnace. David buried his face in the crook of John’s neck, inhaling deeply – sweat, sex, the lingering scent of cheap soap, and something uniquely *John*. His hips moved in a slow, grinding circle, their cocks trapped between their bodies, slick with pre-come and sweat. The friction was exquisite, a low, steady burn that built with each deliberate roll of David’s pelvis.
John’s hands slid down David’s back, fingers digging into the powerful muscles of his ass, pulling him closer, urging him deeper into the grind. A low, continuous groan vibrated in David’s chest, muffled against John’s skin. John arched beneath him, his own groan escaping as a ragged sigh. He could feel the tension coiling in David’s body, the tremor in his thighs.
David lifted his head, his eyes meeting John’s. They were dark, pupils blown wide, but held a startling clarity. "Look at me," David rasped, his voice thick. "Look at me when it happens." His strokes became more insistent, the slick slide of their cocks together almost unbearable.
John held his gaze, the intensity a physical thing. He felt David’s body stiffen, saw the cords in his neck stand out. David’s breath hitched, then stopped entirely. His release hit him like a wave, a silent convulsion that rippled through him before a guttural cry tore loose. Hot sperm pulsed between them, coating their stomachs, mixing with sweat.
David shuddered violently, collapsing onto John, his forehead pressed to John’s shoulder, breath coming in harsh gasps. John held him through it, his own climax building swiftly, inevitably, fueled by the feel of David coming apart on top of him, the hot spill between them, the raw command in David’s eyes. He gripped David’s hips, fingers digging into hard muscle, and thrust upwards hard, once, twice. A low, guttural sound tore from his throat as he came, his release joining David’s in a sticky mess on their skin. The world narrowed to the pulse pounding in his ears and the heavy weight of David’s body anchoring him to the bed.
They lay tangled, breathing ragged, the air thick with the scent of sex and salt. David’s fingers traced idle patterns on John’s sweat-slick chest, avoiding the fresh bruises. Outside, the rain had softened to a steady drizzle, tapping against the window like a lazy drummer. The gray dawn light seeped further into the room, illuminating dust motes dancing above the wrecked bed. John stared at the water stain on the ceiling, shaped vaguely like Australia. He’d never get there. But right now, the weight of David’s head on his shoulder, the slow thud of David’s heart against his ribs – it felt like enough. More than enough.
David shifted, his leg sliding over John’s thigh. "Still raining," he murmured, his voice rough but devoid of its earlier edge. His hand drifted lower, resting possessively on John’s hip bone. "Town’ll stink of wet garbage by noon."
John huffed a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating in his chest. "Always does." He turned his head, his nose brushing David’s sweat-damp hair. The sharp tang of sex was fading, replaced by a deeper, muskier scent that was uniquely theirs. He felt David’s breathing deepen, the tension leaching from his powerful frame. The nightmares were held at bay, for now, by the simple, solid reality of skin on skin, warmth shared.
A car door slammed distantly. David didn’t flinch. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his cheek. John watched the steady rise and fall of David’s chest, the faded prison tattoo stark in the morning gloom. He traced the edge of the eagle’s broken wing with a calloused fingertip.
David sighed, a soft, contented sound John hadn’t heard in years. It settled something deep inside him. The radiator hissed, fighting the damp chill. John pulled the thin blanket up over David’s shoulders, tucking it around them both. The town outside was waking up to another gray day. But here, in the wreckage of the bed, there was a fragile, hard-won peace. John closed his eyes, listening to the rain and the rhythm of David’s breath. It was a start.
***
The alarm buzzed like an angry wasp. John slapped it silent, the sound jarring in the quiet room. David stirred beside him, a low groan escaping as he stretched, muscles pulling taut. Sunlight, weak and watery, now filtered through the blinds, highlighting dust motes and the stark reality of the peeling wallpaper. They moved with the stiff grace of men who’d pushed their bodies hard, gathering discarded clothes from the floor. The scent of sex still lingered, mixing with the damp wool smell from outside.
David pulled on worn jeans and a faded work shirt, the fabric straining across his shoulders. John watched him, the deliberate movements, the set of his jaw. It was different now, a quiet understanding woven into the silence between them. David caught his eye, a flicker of something unspoken passing between them before he turned to the door.
"Later," he said, the word a promise.
John nodded. "Later."
David’s work boots echoed on the stairs outside. John stood at the window, watching him cross the rain-slicked street towards the massive, corrugated steel building on the corner – Murphy’s Scrap & Salvage. The sign was faded, one letter missing. David pushed open the heavy sliding door, disappearing into the gloom filled with the scent of rust and oil. Inside, the roar of machinery started – the screech of metal on metal, the heavy thud of a compactor. David’s world was one of broken things, sorting, crushing, hauling. John pictured him, thick arms straining as he maneuvered twisted car frames with the hydraulic claw, sweat already beading on his brow despite the morning chill.
John turned from the window. His own day started later, but the routine was ingrained. He showered quickly under the lukewarm spray, scrubbing away the night’s sweat and stickiness. His workplace was the opposite of David’s cavern of metal carnage: Finch & Son's Fine Groceries, a cramped, overly bright storefront wedged between a pawn shop and a bail bondsman. The bell above the door jingled with brittle cheer as he entered. The air hit him – a cloying mix of overripe fruit, disinfectant, and the dusty sweetness of bulk candy bins. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, bleaching the color from everything.
His domain was the back room, a narrow space crammed with towers of cardboard boxes and the constant, greasy thrum of refrigeration units. John’s job was simple, brutal repetition: unload the pre-dawn delivery truck. He hefted crates of apples, sacks of potatoes, flats of canned goods – each load a test against his still-formidable strength. The boxes scraped against his calloused palms, the rough cardboard leaving faint red trails. He moved with economical power, stacking pallets with the precision of someone who’d done it for a decade. Sweat beaded on his temples despite the room’s chill, the scent of damp cardboard and bruised produce replacing the lingering musk of David on his skin.
The rhythm was mindless, almost meditative. Lift, pivot, stack. Lift, pivot, stack. The thud of crates hitting the concrete floor punctuated the drone of the coolers. His muscles burned pleasantly, a familiar ache that pushed other thoughts – the water stain on the ceiling, the echo of David’s ragged breath, the grinding scream of the scrap yard compactor down the street – to the edges of his mind. Here, strength had a clear purpose: move the weight, build the wall of goods. It was a different kind of cage, but one with known dimensions. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, the faded prison tattoo on his forearm flexing as he reached for another crate of oranges. The sharp, bright scent of citrus briefly cut through the staleness.
Outside the storeroom door, the shop owner, Mr. Finch, chirped at early customers, his voice a grating counterpoint to the thuds and hums of John’s labor. John ignored it, focusing on the weight in his hands, the strain in his shoulders. He pictured David across town, swallowed by the scrap yard’s gloom, the air thick with ozone and decay. A different kind of weight. A different strain. The image flickered – David’s back muscles bunching as he wrestled a mangled engine block, sweat carving paths through the grime on his neck. John’s grip tightened on a crate of canned tomatoes, the cardboard biting into his palms.
The bell jingled sharply, followed by Finch’s overly loud greeting. "Officer Riggs! Always a pleasure!" John froze mid-lift, the crate hovering. Riggs. The name slithered through the storeroom door, cold and unwelcome. John lowered the crate silently, his knuckles white. He edged closer to the door, peering through the crack. Riggs stood by the register, thumbs hooked in his duty belt, his polished boots gleaming under the harsh fluorescents. His gaze swept the store, lingering on the bruised peaches in the discount bin with detached disdain.
"Quiet morning, Finch?" Riggs asked, his voice a lazy drawl that didn’t match the sharpness in his eyes. He picked up an apple, polished it absently against his uniform sleeve.
"Quiet enough, quiet enough," Finch twittered, wringing his hands. "Just John in the back, handling the heavy stuff. Good worker, strong."
Riggs’s eyes flickered towards the storeroom door. John stepped back, heart hammering against his ribs. He knew that look. The calculating appraisal. The ghost of prison bars seemed to solidify in the air, the scent of disinfectant suddenly sharp as antiseptic.
Riggs took a slow bite of the apple, the crunch echoing. "Strong, huh?" he mused, juice glistening on his lip. "Heard he tangled with some trouble down at Murphy’s yard last week. Nasty business." He tossed the half-eaten apple carelessly back into the bin. "Tell him I stopped by, Finch. We’ll chat soon." The bell jingled again as Riggs left, leaving a chill deeper than the refrigerators could muster.
John leaned against the cold metal shelving, the thrumming compressors suddenly deafening. The fragile peace of the morning shattered. Riggs wasn’t making social calls. He was circling. John stared at his hands – the scraped knuckles from the tire, the faded ink on his forearm – and felt the familiar, heavy pull of the past tightening like a noose. The weight of the next crate felt different now. It felt like an anchor.
He finished the pallet on autopilot, stacking the cans with grim precision. The scent of bruised fruit turned cloying. Finch poked his head in, his face pale. "John? You alright? Officer Riggs just …"
"Fine," John cut him off, his voice flat. He didn’t look up. "Trouble at Murphy’s? What trouble?"
Finch wrung his hands. "Oh, just … you know how it is. Some drunk kids tried sneaking in after hours last Tuesday. Wanted scrap metal for … for God knows what. David chased them off. Told Murphy. Standard thing." He paused, lowering his voice. "But Riggs … he made it sound like more. Said David was … excessive."
John’s jaw clenched. "Excessive." Riggs’s favorite word for anyone who pushed back. The image of David, tense and coiled in the scrap yard gloom, flashed in his mind. David wouldn’t start trouble. But he’d finish it. And Riggs knew it. He’d be looking for leverage, a way to rattle David’s cage, maybe John’s too. The storage room felt suffocating, the walls closing in. John grabbed his jacket.
"Where you going?" Finch squeaked. "The produce display …"
"Lunch," John growled, pushing past him. The bell jingled its brittle tune as he stepped onto the wet sidewalk. The air smelled of rain and the greasy tang from the diner down the block. He didn’t head for food. His boots pounded the pavement towards Murphy’s Scrap & Salvage, the rhythmic thud matching the compactor’s distant scream growing louder with each step.
The heavy sliding door stood partially open, revealing a cavern of twisted metal and gloom. John slipped inside, the roar of machinery vibrating his bones. He spotted David instantly – back turned, wrestling a mangled car door onto a pile. Sweat darkened his shirt between the shoulder blades, muscles straining like cables under fabric. The hydraulic claw nearby crunched down on an engine block, spraying rust.
David turned, wiping grease-streaked hands on his jeans. He stiffened seeing John’s face. "Finch call you?" he shouted over the din, eyes narrowing. "Riggs sniffing around?"
John nodded, stepping closer. "Said you were 'excessive' with those kids last week." He watched David’s jaw tighten, a flicker of the old prison-yard defiance in his eyes. "What happened, Dave?"
David spat on the oil-stained concrete. "Little shits were trying to steal catalytic converters. Told 'em to leave. One pulled a knife." He met John’s gaze, unflinching. "Took it off him. Bent it. Told 'em if I saw 'em again, I’d feed it to 'em sideways." He shrugged, a sharp, angry motion. "No blood. Just scared piss out of 'em. Riggs showed up after, sniffing. Said I looked 'agitated'."
The compactor screeched, a sound like tearing metal. John felt the familiar tension coiling in his gut. Riggs didn’t care about kids or converters. He smelled weakness, a crack in David’s hard-won control. He saw the tremor in David’s hand before he clenched it into a fist. The ghosts weren’t just at the apartment; they were here, in the rust and the roar. Riggs would use this. He always did.
John stepped forward, blocking David’s view of the claw’s relentless destruction. "He’s coming for you," he said, low and urgent. "For us."
David’s eyes flickered – not fear, but a cold, dangerous calculation John knew too well. The prison yard stare. "Let him." He picked up a heavy wrench, its weight familiar in his grip. "Got nothing new to show him."
John grabbed his arm, fingers digging into the sweat-damp fabric. "Don’t play his game, Dave. That’s what he wants. You swing that wrench, even just hold it like that when he walks in, he’ll have you back inside before sunset." He saw the truth hit David, the defiance hardening into something brittle. The air tasted of ozone and despair.
David yanked his arm free, turning back to the pile of scrap. He slammed the wrench down onto a twisted fender with a deafening clang that echoed through the cavernous space. "Then what?" he snarled, not looking at John. "Just stand here? Take it? Like before?" His shoulders hunched, a raw vulnerability beneath the rage. The rhythm of the yard felt like a countdown. Riggs was coming. The fragile peace of the dawn was ash in their mouths. John scanned the grim landscape of broken machines, searching for an answer buried in the wreckage.
The roar of the compactor stopped abruptly, plunging the yard into a heavy, metallic silence. Murphy, the yard owner, a thick-necked man with oil permanently etched into his knuckles, lumbered over. His small eyes flicked between David’s rigid back and John’s tense stance. "Problem?" Murphy’s voice was gravelly, used to shouting over machinery.
"Riggs," John stated flatly. "Sniffing around Finch’s about Tuesday."
Murphy spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the concrete. "That prick. Saw him eyeballing the fence yesterday." He fixed David with a hard look. "You kept it clean, Dave. Kids ran. Knife’s in the office. Riggs got nothin’ but hot air." He paused, his gaze sweeping the yard. "But he’s like a badger. Digs where he ain’t wanted. You two ..." He jabbed a thick finger at them. "... lay low. No trouble. Especially you, Dave. Don’t give him the inch." He turned, bellowing for the compactor operator to get back to work. The deafening crunch resumed.
David finally turned. The fury had banked, replaced by a weary bleakness John recognized. "Lay low," David echoed, the words tasting bitter. "Where? This town?" He gestured at the rusted skeletons surrounding them. "It’s all a cage, John. Different bars." He picked up a smaller piece of scrap – a bent axle shaft – hefting its weight. His knuckles were white. The ghosts were back, whispering in the screech of metal. Riggs wasn’t just a cop; he was the past, sharpening its claws. John felt the trap closing. They needed an exit. Fast.
John stepped closer, lowering his voice beneath the compactor’s roar. "Murphy’s right. Riggs has nothing solid. Yet. But he’ll manufacture it if we stay." He met David’s haunted gaze. "Remember that place upstate? The logging crew? They were hiring strong backs. Pay’s shit, but it’s cash. Off the books. Deep woods. No Riggs."
David’s eyes narrowed. A flicker of hope? Or just desperation? The logging camp was brutal work, isolated. But it was distance. John pressed. "We pack tonight. Take the truck. Be ghosts by dawn." David stared at the axle shaft in his hand. Not a weapon anymore. A tool. For a different kind of fight. He gave a single, sharp nod. The decision hung between them, fragile as the morning’s peace, but charged with the grim energy of survival. They had one shot.
Back at the apartment, the silence was heavy. They moved with practiced efficiency, two men used to packing light and fast. David shoved worn flannels and thick socks into a duffel. John emptied the meager fridge, tossing expired milk, stuffing bread and canned beans into a cardboard box. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant siren, made them freeze. Riggs was out there. Hunting.
John paused by the window, the street below quiet now. He saw the ghost of their reflection in the rain-streaked glass – two battered men, one scarred, one tattooed, fleeing again.
David’s hand settled on his shoulder, warm and solid. "Not running," David said, his voice low. "Choosing." John covered David’s hand with his own. The touch was an anchor. They weren’t just escaping the town; they were leaving the ghosts buried in its grime. For now.
The engine of John’s battered pickup coughed to life just after 3 AM. They loaded the duffels, the box of food, two dented canteens. The apartment keys lay abandoned on the bare kitchen counter.
David took one last look at the water-stained ceiling, the empty bed. "Goodbye, shithole town," he muttered. Then he slammed the passenger door shut. As John pulled away from the curb, headlights off, the first fat drops of a new rain began to fall, washing the grime from the windshield, blurring the town they were leaving behind. The road north stretched ahead, dark and unknown.
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