Interception
Friday. The week was almost done. My shoulder ached, that deep familiar pain from an old break that never quite healed. It usually put me in a “mood.” But not this week. Nope, a whole week had gone by and not once did I act on that mood. There was no walk in the woods at the park. No standing there with my big cock out in the dark as some younger guy followed me into the bushes. There was no need to grab a head and skull fuck a hungry mouth in the shadows. There was no pull to eyeball a smaller guy in the bar, to follow him into the back john and take it out on his ass. The desire to fill a condom that was stuffed into a little hole of a hot young jock no longer made me antsy at night.
In fact, I hadn’t fucked a tight ass since that night with Stacy/Tracy. The memory of that jock was now replaced with a new face and a taller, more muscular body which was becoming my new distraction and his name was Troy Jenkins, and he was a goddamn natural. It was pissing me off. And thrilling me in a way I hadn’t felt in a long, long time.
It really hit me two days ago, when a dealership brought in one of those brand-new, top-of-the-line electric pickups. The kid from the dealership said it was just “losing power” and they couldn’t figure out why. No noise. No shake. Just a digital drop.
The dealership kid had handed me a tablet, some high-tech thing we never purchased, and told me the “diagnostic portal is synced and would run a full systems analysis again.” Whatever the fuck that meant. He told me it was probably a firmware bug and to follow the prompts. He said it like the truck would fix itself, even though they couldn’t seem to figure it out.
I took the tablet from him and saw Troy look over, intrigued by the conversation as the dealership kid left the shop already checking his phone before he hit the door. I set the tablet on the workbench without looking at it and started for the shiny new truck when I heard Troy give a whistle.
“Big money,” He said, wiping his hands on a rag as he glanced back at the tablet.
“Big headache,” I grunted. I pointed to the tablet. “Systems analysis shit? Computer’s supposed to tell me what to do?” I expected him to light up, all new in the shop and probably experienced with this type of tech fix. He’d been here only a few days and he was already trying to get me to upgrade our scanner.
Instead though he shook his head and tossed the rag down. “You know what that computer’s going to do? It’ll do a twenty-minute scan, then charge the owner two hundred bucks and tell him to replace the high-voltage battery contactor which is a four thousand dollar part.”
I raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.
“Read about it on a forum. It’s a known flaw, but it’s not the only flaw.” I watched him walk to the front of the truck, peering at the sensors behind the grille. “But the automated scan can’t catch the cheap stuff. The stuff you really need to see. You know, whether a rat or something has chewed through the wiring loom for the thermal management system, which would cause the battery to overheat and the computer to light up.”
He looked at me then, and I saw the eyes of a true mechanic, not some fancy kid relying on computers and technology.
He pointed at the tablet. “That doesn’t have instincts, you know, to get to the real heart of the problem.”
He had experience, and done his homework to even know the limitations of technology. A rare feeling of respect filled me.
“So you’re saying we ignore the fancy technology?” I crossed my arms over my chest and held that feeling of respect in check.
“I’m saying we use our instincts first.” A slow grin spread across his face as he went over to his toolbox and pulled out a simple, powerful flashlight. “Let’s go find a rat.”
I almost smiled, but I definitely didn’t stop him. I wanted to see how this was going to go.
And in ten minutes, Troy found it: not a faulty contactor, but a fucking squirrel’s nest tucked up near the radiator, with a nice set of teeth marks through a bundle of wires. A simple hundred dollar fix compared to thousands which still wouldn’t have fixed the problem.
Troy looked at me, a smudge of grease on his chiseled cheek that took my breath away. “Told you. Computers can’t do everything.”
I gave a simple sharp nod. Troy wasn’t trying to come in and replace the old with a new reliance on advanced technology, but rather to make sure we still worked on cars the right way, with instinct and appreciation, to find the real problems and get the job done for owners the right way.
“Good work, Jenkins.” I had said to him, and I meant it. A feeling spread through my chest again and I couldn’t deny it: pride. That’s what it was. And suddenly I couldn’t focus properly.
Even Smitty, who’s hated every new hire since the Regan administration, actually grunted something that sounded like approval from nearby. The kid was fast. He listened. His hands were smart. He didn’t just replace parts; he understood why they failed.
And he looked, I don’t know, good in my shop. He’d wipe his forehead with the back of his arm, leaving smudges of grease everywhere it seemed which made him look downright cute. He’d hum along to the classic rock station, low under his breath. I found myself listening for it.
A whole week I couldn’t focus. And then today, I was buried in an invoice when I heard his laugh. It was easy, full-throated. He’d said something, and Big Ray was chuckling like a giant fool. I felt jealous, like I should be the one he is laughing with. Which was the most pathetic thought I’d had all week, and I’d had some real winners.
My brain had shifted at night. Instead of wanting to go out and find relief with some random, I stayed at home and reached for myself, to satisfy my own needs while replaying images from the day about Troy Jenkins. Like the flex of his forearm when he tightened a bolt, or the way his coveralls fit across the width of his back when he leaned over an engine, or the outline of his chin, and those eyes of his looking at me. That little smile he gave.
That first Monday night, his first day in my shop, I replayed it in my head and focused on just the look of him: the shape of his shoulders; the size of his biceps; the roundness of his ass. My nine inches had come to full attention rather quickly. With one grab of my hand and a few quick jerks, I’d cum in an instant, grunting out surprisingly loud at just the thought of him.
It was getting bad. I was jerking off every night to the images in my mind, to the fantasies I now had, of picturing him naked, of getting my hands on him, of drilling his ass harder than a piston. I would replay that scene in the stall, of the jock I fucked hard before joining Stacy/Tracy for dinner. But now it was Troy’s face, Troy’s perfectly shaped ass and his 6’2” smooth looking muscular body. It was Troy, but we weren’t fucking like two strangers. No. There was kissing, and naked bodies, and no condom between us to fill.
I was a grown man, a former pro, acting like a teenager with a crush. I was spilling more semen than a goddamn overturned navy submarine. But I hadn’t fed some guy’s mouth anything, or fucked a tight hole in over a week. Nope, I was just jerking off on my own in my bed, stupidly infatuated with my new hire, like a fucking teenager.
And now it was Friday and if it wasn’t for tomorrow’s stupid Saturday hours, the week would be done and I would get a reprieve from seeing this stud in my shop. So I pretended to study that invoice harder, but I was really watching him. He was under the hood of the Ford, his muscled ass on full display like a goddamn tease, explaining something now to Big Ray, rather animatedly, his hands moving, tracing the path of a vacuum line in the air. For a second, my brain checked out of the shop entirely. It supplied a very clear, very dangerous image: what if I walked over there right now? Not as the boss. What if I just put my hand on the small of his back, felt the heat of him through the coveralls? Would he lean into it? Or what if I just went by and slapped that hard looking butt? What would he do? Would he freeze? Or ask me to do it again?
The thought was so vivid I could almost feel the fabric under my palm.
Stupid. Pathetic. He’s not interested in a guy like me. He’s obviously straight. Unless I give him a signal, somehow? But then I shoved that thought down, hard.
The bell on the front door chimed. I didn’t look over. “Yeah?”
“Ivan? Baby?”
My blood went cold.
Stacy. Tracy. Whatever her name was. In a pink top that was way too bright for this place, spilling out those big tits that made Smitty and Big Ray instantly drool, holding two coffees and smiling like she’d just won the lottery.
Shit.
Every head in the garage swiveled. Smitty smirked. Big Ray gave a friendly wave. And Troy… Troy stopped what he was doing. He looked from her, to me, and back. His expression was unreadable. That was worse than if he’d frowned.
I felt like I’d been caught cheating. By her? Or by him?
I straightened up, my lower back giving a loud crack. “Hey. This is a surprise.” I managed to say, my voice rough.
“I was in the neighborhood! Thought I’d bring you a coffee.” She pranced over, heels clicking on the concrete, and handed me a cup. “So this is where the magic happens!”
Magic. Right.
I took the coffee. “Thanks.” My voice was a gravel pit.
She looped her arm through mine, clinging to my bicep, her hand gripping it with red painted nails. I could feel every eye in the place on us. Especially his. I felt like a bear in a zoo, putting on a performance for everyone here.
“So, Volkov Auto. You’re the boss, Mr. Volkov, aren’t you!” she chirped, looking around. “It’s so… big in here.”
Smitty coughed, which sounded a lot like a choked laugh. My face felt hot, like it was on fire. I wanted the concrete floor to swallow me whole. I wanted to literally disappear.
I forced myself to look at him. Jenkins. Troy. Quarterback. Kid. Whatever the fuck I called him. He offered a small, professional smile and a nod. The “I-see-you-with-your-girlfriend-and-now-I-understand-the-world” nod. It was a dismissal. He was putting me in a box. The straight boss. The guy with the ditzy girlfriend.
He thought this was real. He thought she was my type. He thought I was just another straight guy with a ditzy girlfriend. But it was his hand I wanted to feel around my bicep, not this painted one.
I was blowing it. I was blowing whatever minuscule, imaginary chance I might have had with this smart, talented, beautiful quarterback who fixed cars and hummed Creedence Clearwater. My jerk off fantasies suddenly seemed at risk.
“Well, I should let you get back to work,” she said, finally detaching herself. “Call me later?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
She left on a cloud of cheap perfume. The garage was silent for a full three seconds after the door closed.
“She seems nice, boss,” Big Ray offered, forever oblivious. “She looks like she’s a lot of fun.” He nudged Smitty then, giving out a raucous laugh.
I just grunted, turning back to my invoice without seeing a single number. I couldn’t look at anyone. Especially not Troy.
All I could think was, He thinks that’s my type.
The fantasy of him, the one I’d been jerking off to all week, was gone with that look he gave me. He’d seen the pathetic reality of this bimbo, and thought he knew me.
The week was almost done. And it felt like a complete and total loss. Whatever hopes I had of Troy Jenkins showing an interest in me was now gone. Thanks to Stacy, or Tracy, or whatever the fuck her name is.
To get in touch with the author, send them an email.
