Chapter 21

21

Troy

I’m a machine.

Knocked out three cars already, and I’m breezing through a brake pad adjustment on a Honda Pilot.

I live for this. Nothing like the smell of the garage, getting my hands dirty, and problem-solving my way through all the shit that comes up on any given day. When I’m on a roll in the shop, I really feel like I’m living the dream. I can only imagine what Glen would think of that, given some of the asshole comments he’s made over the years: “That’s a good way to build work ethic,” or, “I’m sure those skills will come in handy when you level up,” or even better, “Someone’s gotta do it.”

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.

Down the back of his neck?

No, still not good enough.

Stop! It doesn’t matter.

I force myself to get back to work, and after knocking out my last hour, I head back to the house and jump in the shower. Having seniority at Alpha Theta Mu means I’m one of the lucky few who could apply for a private bathroom, and after two years sharing with the other guys, I cherish every moment of it.

When I get out, I wrap a towel around my waist and approach the mirror, noticing Atlas’s handiwork again.

A smile tugs at my lips, not only because of the mark, but because it reminds me of late nights at McDonald’s, the steamy make-out session in the green room, the jerk-off in the shower, and most importantly, the sensation of being inside him.

I grab my phone off the counter and message him on Instagram: You left me a real shiner. Asshole.

Don’t know why I’m pretending it bothers me, when I sure as hell wasn’t acting like that this morning.

I set my phone on the counter and move closer to the mirror, studying the mark. About two inches maybe.

Back when I was in high school, I might’ve tried to cover it with makeup or worn a turtleneck, but I want people to see what Atlas did to me. Why the fuck, I don’t even know.

As I’m inspecting his artistry, my phone buzzes, and I see the notifications pop up on my screen:

Atlas: You love it.

Atlas: I wanna see my work.

Atlas: Now.

My greedy Atlas.

I notice my smirk in the mirror, appreciating that now’s a great time for him to get a view.

I fix my hair real quick but keep it a little messy for effect, then pose in the mirror, making sure to get my face and my torso in the shot, turning my wrist up so my bicep pops. Of course, I make sure what he’s wanting to see is prominently displayed, but I want to leave him a little thirsty.

I snap a few shots before I’m satisfied, then send him my favorite.

Me: Great timing. Just got out of the shower.

Atlas: You know what you were doing.

Me: You’re welcome. xx

I don’t know why it excites me so much. Just the thought of a little smile twisting across his face when he sees it sends a rush to my chest.

If he had a tat of my name, he could snap a pic of it to send back to me.

And now I’m fantasizing again about where I’d want it. His lower back? No…no, right under his left pec, running across his skin, along his torso. Yes, that’s much better. Just a little strip to let everyone know whom he belongs to—

What? No. He doesn’t belong to me! But he said belong first, not me. And why am I obsessing about branding him? Atlas would never get a tattoo of my fucking name.

I would never even let him know that’s something I want. Although, there are plenty of things he’d pulled from me in the past twenty-four hours that I hadn’t intended to say.

Like when I told him about that stuff with Brandon. When Atlas, who acts like such an asshole sometimes, stood there listening, seeing me in my pain, letting me see him in his.

No one else will ever know what shit he’s been through like I do. No one had been there to feel all that fury and pain. No one had experienced the way Glen treats him like a piece of garbage.

I’ve always known that was true, but since we started doing…whatever this is…it hits differently.

I shake out of this weird thinking and dress before getting some schoolwork done. My housemate Jesse asks if I wanna join the guys for pizza, and I take him up on it. I’d rather hit up Atlas to see if he wants to go to McDonald’s, but I can’t take up all his fucking time. Plus, I want to catch up with my friends.

There’s about ten of us at the pizzeria, and Jesse, Ash, and I sit near each other. There’s definitely some shit-giving about the mark on my neck, and I take it, especially since I can tell they’re all just jealous it’s not them.

“I doubt whoever gave you that paid nearly as much as I did,” Ash teases.

“You know you could have just hired a sex worker, maybe multiple sex workers for that much money,” Jesse points out.

We all laugh, and fortunately, it takes the pressure off me to comment about my mark.

A few minutes later, our housemate Lance joins us, frazzled and shaking. I’d already gotten the story from the guys before he got here—girlfriend just dumped him, and he’s taking it hard. But lucky for him, he’s got a good crew, and we’re all ready to rally around him for support. Ash is perfect for this, since he also went through a rough breakup, and while I’m tearing into some hot wings, Lance says, “I want to hit Crave tonight. And hard. Like…don’t-wanna-remember-tomorrow hard.”

“I don’t know about that hard,” I say, “but Crave would be fun. Could get some drinks, then get out on the dance floor. Love some dancing, and they have great music.”

“Yeah, I love dancing,” Ash says, his gaze shifting my way.

Ooh, this could be an interesting thing to work around. When I told Atlas I wouldn’t touch Ash, I hadn’t considered all the interactions we would have outside our scheduled date. But I can figure this out, and Lance needs us there for him.

After finishing our slices and settling the bill, we head back to the house for a bit, then around ten, get a Lyft to Crave.

Even though I know I shouldn’t be monopolizing Atlas’s time, I still wish he were here. And as we’re ordering a round, I text him: What are you up to tonight?

Atlas: Missing me already?

Me: Would it be so terrible if I was?

He doesn’t reply right away, and it pisses me off a little. But he has a fucking life outside me, so I put my phone in my pocket and focus on my housemates.

When Lance starts downing his drink, I take it from him. “Okay, okay, buddy, we have all night, and it’s not gonna be spent getting you back on your feet or keeping vomit out of an Uber, got it?”

“Sorry,” Lance says, taking a breath. “Just keep worrying she’s gonna walk in with some new guy and I’m gonna die. Just fall over dead.”

“But if that happens, we’ll have such a beautiful service for you,” Ash assures him.

“That’s what I was really worried about anyway,” Lance says. “So in that case, please text her to come on over.”

We all enjoy a laugh, and suddenly, the overhead music amps up, the sound of patrons chatting clashing with what I realize is a remix of Taylor Swift’s “Cruel Summer,” which has people dragging friends to the dance floor.

As if drawn by some instinct, I glance toward the entrance, and there he is.

Atlas McCallister.

Flanked by his buddies, he approaches the other end of the bar and flags down the bartender.

I just fucking saw him a few hours ago. I shouldn’t be this excited about seeing him again, but it’s like now that he’s here, the real fun can begin.