The Signal-Caller
The lie was getting heavy.
It was sitting across from me at the diner last night, picking at a salad and talking about reality TV. Her name was Stacy. Or maybe Tracy. She was nice. Pretty. Big tits. And being with her felt like wearing a shirt two sizes too small.
I’d done my duty. Taken her out the other night because she asked. Paid the bill. Drove her home. A peck on the cheek. The whole song and dance. All so Smitty and Big Ray would stop asking, "When you gonna settle down, Ivan? You’re gonna be 40 soon! Time to make some babies." All so the world would keep spinning the way it's supposed to.
Just a few hours before that, in the sticky darkness of the bar's bathroom, I’d gotten what I actually needed. A closeted jock from the college, some smaller framed built blonde thing, all frantic hands and appreciation of my giant dad like stature, was ogling me the entire night. When he followed me into the john like a sad puppy, there was something about the way he looked up at me, in awe. It had been a while, and this was exactly what I needed: just a silent, shameful release. No names. No making out. No looking each other in the eye after. It was a transaction. A pressure valve to release the tension in me. That was what I was used to.
He was talented, taking my dick like a little pro. I was no small man at all, and he hungrily lapped up my sizeable shaft, licking my tight round balls like a prize of their own as his hands groped and clutched and squeezed my various sizeable muscles. He even had a condom at the ready the little slut, sliding it over my cock and backing up into me in the tight stall. Figures. All I was to him was some big muscle head he wanted to have fuck the shit out of him. Lately, that’s all I wanted to do to, grab a little piece of jock ass and pound them hard, give them what they need and take what I need. So I grabbed his little hips and clamped my hand over his mouth when he squealed and I fucked him hard and fast, spilling into the rubber with little effort.
I got mine.
I left without a word, no kiss, no nothing. He looked up at me as if he was expecting a number or something. As if. I washed my hands and readjusted myself. Then I went and found the waitress to build the alibi without a second glance backwards. Like I usually do.
Like I said. The lie is heavy. And I’m getting tired of carrying it. Cause who’s going to expect a guy like me, my size, my past, would enjoy the feeling of a tight ass on a young jock more than anything else in the world? None of my distant friends. Heaven forbid my own father, God rest his soul.
My life was just one big empty lie, full of disappointment and resentment.
The shop is the only place it feels quiet now. The cars don't ask questions. A broken fuel pump is just a broken fuel pump. It doesn't care who I fuck in the shadows.
I was buried in the Chevy’s engine, feeling the old ache in my shoulder, when the bell on the door chimed. I didn't look up. I never do. Let Smitty handle it.
But then I heard a voice. Clear. Confident. Not from around here.
"Hey, I'm looking for Ivan Volkov? I have an interview."
I straightened up. Oh yeah. The kid from the resume. Troy Jenkins. Former quarterback. Now a mechanic. Sounded like a mid-life crisis, but his references were solid.
And then I turned around.
Oh.
He was… sunlight. Tall, lean, built like he still could throw a sixty-yard pass. He had one of those faces that belonged on a sports drink commercial, all short, cropped blonde and tanned, with a jawline that would rival any statue and lips that begged to be kissed. If I was into kissing. And I suddenly thought I would be with him. But his eyes were smart. Observant. They scanned the garage like he was already diagnosing it.
My brain, which is usually pretty good at staying quiet, shouted one single, stupid word inside my head: Fuck.
He smiled. It was a good smile. Easy. My brain said it again: Fuck. "You must be Ivan." I grunted out loud. It’s my default. Covers a multitude of sins, like the sudden fuck in my brain, and the inconvenient, and very physical awareness of how attractive this potential employee was and what it was doing underneath my coveralls. Just my type.
I gave him the once-over. Probably 10 years younger than me. Former athlete to former athlete. I saw the way he stood, the easy confidence. The width of his shoulders and the pecs sticking out, still solid and muscled. The size of his hands. The trim waist and the long legs. I also saw the haunting in his eyes. The one that every broken player has. I know that look, that flicker of shame. We’re old friends. I gave another grunt.
He started talking about engines. And he knew his shit. He wasn't just reciting from a manual; he talked about the feel of a well-tuned engine, the sound of a healthy valvetrain. His passion was genuine. It filled the greasy air between us, and for a second, I forgot about the lie, and the waitress, and the jock in the bar with the tight little ass that milked my big cock so easily….
I just listened.
He was exactly what this garage needed. Talent. Youth. New blood. A fresh eye.
And he was exactly what I didn't need. A complication. A walking, talking temptation with a wrench and a hot muscular ass I could see already. I would never do anything to fuck up my private quiet place here.
I had to test him. Shut my brain up. I handed him the torque wrench. "Setting for spark plugs on a small block Chevy like this?"
It was a rookie question. An easy test.
He didn't even blink. "Twenty-two foot-pounds."
He took the wrench. I was careful not to let our fingers touch. I’m always careful.
But for a second, our eyes locked. His were a clear, bright blue. They saw right through the grime and the scars and the bullshit. They saw the flicker in me, too. And they weren't afraid of it.
The moment stretched. The shop got quiet. All I could hear was the hum of the lights and the frantic thump of my own heart against my ribs.
This was bad. This was very, very bad.
I broke the stare, looking back at the engine bay. "Can you start Monday?" The words came out rougher than I meant them to.
His smile came back, brighter this time. "Absolutely."
I gave a nod and turned my back to him, pretending the Chevy’s intake manifold was the most fascinating thing I’d ever seen, and not the picture in my head of fucking him in a bathroom stall. I heard his footsteps fade out the door.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. The silence of the shop rushed back in.
Just what the garage needs, I thought, wiping a greasy hand across my face.
And just my fucking luck.
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