Chapter 1 #2
Sighing to myself, I turn to face Luke fully.
He’s got a wary look on his face, his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, but there’s a fierceness in his posture that makes me think he’s trying very hard to remain unbothered.
Knowing what kind of crap he’ll likely face from this place going forward, I don’t need to add to it by coming off as rude because I’m not much of a people person.
I can try to be more approachable for his sake.
“Hey, man.” I hold out my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Luke looks at it hesitantly before taking it into his own, nodding his head.
His grip is surprisingly firm, and his skin is so soft and warm that I’m instantly aware of the many calluses on my hand—enough so that I can’t help but rub my fingers against them self-consciously as we let go of each other.
“So,” I toss out, unsure what else to say. I’m not very good at small talk—never have been. I grasp at the only thing I can think of. “I heard you recently moved back here from New York?”
Something about what I said seems to have a strange effect on Luke, and he visibly tenses. The warm smile he wore a minute ago goes cold, and he looks away with annoyance. “Yup,” he replies shortly, letting the ‘p’ sound pop at the end.
“Oh. Cool.” I laugh, rubbing a hand at the back of my neck. Great job, Ethan. You’ve offended him somehow. “So, do you have any experience as a machinist?”
Luke doesn’t answer. He simply gives me a quick up-and-down look from the corner of his eye before turning and heading back to his station, leaving me standing there looking like an idiot.
Wow. Okay. So Luke Shaw is kind of a dick, huh?
I’m confused, but as I go over it again, I’m not entirely sure where the conversation went wrong. I know I’m awkward as hell, but I can’t have fucked up that badly when I barely said more than five words to the guy. Whatever I did, Luke obviously isn’t interested in extrapolating on it.
After a moment, I shake my head and go back to work as if nothing weird just happened. I only spare him another glance to see him set up his station like he’s been doing this kind of thing all his life. Well, at least that answers my question.
When lunch rolls around, I slink off to my secret spot in an old upstairs storage room where I can read without being disturbed. It’s been my habit for the last fifteen years of working here, and by now, the rest of the guys are too used to it to question where I go or what I’m doing.
No one honestly cares enough to pry, but the number of stupid guesses I have heard over the years about what I do on my lunches has always kept me entertained—from the tamest, “Ethan’s getting his beauty sleep,” to the lewdest, “he’s jacking off.
” They couldn’t be further from the truth, but let’s be honest. Reading never seemed to be a popular pastime in these parts.
I have to drive four towns over for the closest bookstore! It’s ridiculous.
Part of the reason I hide myself away to read is that whenever someone catches me doing it, the mocking and prodding are incessant and juvenile, and I got sick of that shit very early on.
It’s like the people in this town can’t stand the thought of someone enjoying something other than drinking, hunting, and watching sports as if they’re the only ‘approved’ male activities allowed.
Don’t get me wrong, though. I like that stuff as much as the next guy.
I’m just not rigidly stuck thinking that’s all there is to enjoy life.
I’m not saying I’ve orchestrated things to deliberately hide the fact that I enjoy reading, but I’ve definitely taken precautions to make it harder for people to drag me for it—which might be why my entire library is tucked upstairs in my attic. It’s fine. I prefer that to being harassed.
God, that must be how Luke feels coming back here, but on a much larger scale.
Shit. I swear I’m not bothered by the conversation with Luke.
I definitely haven’t thought about it since it happened.
Nope. Not once. Except maybe right now, while trying to focus on this novel, only to have my brain decide it’s the perfect time to relive the world’s most awkward exchange.
Seriously, I am over it, but at the same time, I just don’t get it.
I’m probably the only person here who has no issues with the man being gay, and yet, somehow, I’m the one he got mad at! Where’s the sense in that? Maybe his sexuality wasn’t the only thing that made him a black sheep, but that award-winning personality.
Okay. That was a low blow, even for me. I groan and drag a hand down my face.
The standoffishness is probably a defense mechanism to protect himself.
Here I am getting annoyed at him when he’s probably wary of trusting anyone in this ass-backward town.
I would do the same if I were in his shoes. Still. What the fuck did I do to him?
Whatever. It’s fine. I don’t even know the guy, so it’s not worth dwelling on.
I make it through a couple of chapters in my book before my alarm goes off, alerting me that lunch is over, and I pack up my stuff and head back downstairs.
There’s a commotion near my station, and already, I know this can’t be good. As I get closer, I recognize the guys surrounding Luke, and the pit in my stomach sinks. Frank Owens, Nick Dombrowski, and Henry Miller—the three biggest pricks in the shop.
Of course, it’s them looking to cause trouble.
I should have figured it would happen since they’re the sort of hyper-masculine jerks who feel threatened by anything that falls outside their strict ideas of gender norms. They’re openly homophobic, claiming it’s in the name of Christ, while wearing it on their sleeves like it’s a part of their identities when, in fact, it’s actually a glorified excuse for them to be assholes.