Chapter 18 #2
But I hadn't. I'd left them because I hadn't been ready to separate myself from his legacy.
I moved to the workbench and traced the carved letters.
"He carved those his first time here," I said. Hog moved closer, standing behind me. "Five years ago. Walked around for ten minutes, then pulled out his utility knife and marked the bench."
"What did he say?"
"'Good bones. You'll build something here.'" I kept tracing the letters. "I thought he meant the workshop, but he meant I'd build his business. Keep it going."
Hog didn't respond. He waited silently.
"She's right, you know. Mom. She said I stayed because they needed me instead of building something." The bitterness leaked through. "This isn't mine. It's just his work with my hands."
"That's bullshit."
Hog's brows furrowed.
"It's not—"
"It is." He stepped closer. "You think your dad taught kids to skate? You think he cleared a drawer for his boyfriend? You think he gave a shit about making things better than what he inherited?"
He pressed his hand flat against my chest. "The business, yeah, he started it, but you made it yours. You hired Justin because you wanted to teach someone. You take jobs your dad would've turned down. You stay late finishing details nobody else would notice because you care."
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came out.
"And this workshop?" He gestured around us. "This is you. You're not him. You've never been him. And trying to erase yourself to maintain his legacy is the worst thing you could do with what he taught you."
I raked my fingers through my hair. "I don't know how to separate it. Who I am from who he needed me to be."
"Yeah, you do." He took my hand and turned it palm-up, tracing the calluses.
I stared at our joined hands. His were bigger, scarred from different work—hockey tape and fights, knitting needles and banana bread.
"She asked what was really keeping me here," I said. "Like Thunder Bay was a trap instead of a choice."
"Is it?" He rubbed my palm with his thumb. "A trap?"
I thought about the life I'd built in the margins.
"No. It's not."
"Then tell her that."
I pulled my hand free and grabbed the utility knife from my pocket—worn smooth from years of use. I set the blade against the wood and carved my initials—R.M.
Mine.
The letters were rough, uneven. They looked like someone claiming space.
I stepped back. "That's good," Hog said quietly.
I folded the knife and turned to face him.
"I'm not moving to Nipigon."
The words came out clear and confident.
Hog tilted his head and started to smile. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I took a breath. "I'll help Mom, but I'm not selling the business. I'm not leaving. This is mine. I chose it."
"About fucking time."
I laughed.
He crossed to me and pulled me into his arms—solid and warm and smelling like an ice rink. I buried my face in his shoulder and held on.
"We'll figure it out," he said against my hair. "The logistics. Your mom. All of it."
"Promise?"
"Promise." He pulled back to look at me. "You're stuck with me, Rhett."
I kissed him. I meant it to be quick and grateful, but his hand came up to cup the back of my neck and turned into something deeper. He tasted like the terrible coffee, and his beard scraped against my jaw. The whimpering sound I made would be embarrassing around anyone other than Hog.
When we broke apart, we were both breathing harder.
"So," Hog said. "Now what?"
I looked around. "Now I teach you something."
His eyebrows rose. "Teach me?"
"Yeah." I grabbed his hand and pulled him to the cabinet. "You taught me to knit, and I'll teach you to sand."
"That seems—"
"Fair." I picked up the hand block and pressed it into his palm. I moved close enough that my chest pressed against his back. My hand covered his. "Here. Like this. With the grain, not against it."
"This is a metaphor?" His voice dropped lower.
"Everything's a metaphor." I guided his hand in a long, slow stroke across the wood. "You're not controlling it. You're working with it. Feeling where it wants to go."
He turned in my arms. His eyes opened wider, expression hungry. "If you keep talking like that, we're not finishing this cabinet."
"No?"
I let the sanding block drop, the thud echoing too loud in the workshop. Hog didn't hesitate; his hands were already on my hips, thumbs digging into the denim. He backed me against the workbench hard enough for my tailbone to hit the wood.
He kissed me, his tongue insistent and searching. His beard scraped my cheek, and I wanted to feel it everywhere. He hoisted me onto the bench.
I hooked a foot behind his right leg and yanked him closer. Hog pressed his whole weight against my body, broad, heavy, and deliberate.
He wrenched open the buttons on my flannel—popped half of them. The hands were cold and rough, but the heat between us made it impossible to care. He ducked his head and dragged his mouth down my neck, nipping at the place where my jaw met my throat. I shuddered.
Hog jerked my shirt wide and peeled the t-shirt up, knuckles grazing my ribs and palms flattening over my chest. Then, he inclined his head, and his mouth, hot and wet, closed around a nipple.
He muttered a fuck against my skin and the world blurred into a mess of sensation—his hands everywhere, mouth following, teeth leaving marks. I clung to his broad back and hooked my legs around his waist, thighs trembling.
Working a little lower, Hog undid my belt buckle and the zipper.
He had me stripped before I could think to be embarrassed—the workshop lights overhead, sawdust under my ass, half of Thunder Bay somewhere out there in the night.
He kissed down my stomach, tongue flicking the trail of hair, and then he looked up, pupils huge, beard dripping with spit and condensation.
"Okay?" he asked, voice ragged.
"Yeah," I rasped. "Keep going."
He grabbed my cock with a big paw, squeezed until I whined, then brought his mouth down slowly. Sex with Hog was always no bullshit, only greedy lust—like I was the last thing on earth he couldn't live without.
The workshop was cold, but we weren't. His hands were warm against my skin. The workbench was hard against my spine, sawdust everywhere, and I'd never been more certain of anything.
This. Him. Here.
Mine.
Hog didn't waste time. He bent his head, warm mouth swallowing me whole.
I swore—the word echoing around the space—and clutched his shoulders, feeling the muscles flex and shift under my palms. He went deep, hand fisted at the base, tongue working the underside, then pulled off with a gasp and a grin, beard glistening.
He was bigger than me by thirty pounds, manhandling me onto my back, legs splayed, my ass skidding against the scarred up wood. The air was cold, and the surface was rough, but none of it mattered.
All I could think about was his mouth on my dick and his beefy palm pressed flat over my hip to keep me pinned. He didn't tease, didn't make anything a slow build, just sucked like it was his job.
Every time I tried to get leverage, he pushed me down. He nearly yanked me off the bench when he reached up to thread his fingers through my hair.
I wanted him closer. I wanted to crawl inside his ribcage and thump against his heart.
"Fuck, Hog—" My voice cracked.
He sucked harder.
I wasn't going to last. Not with Hog and his tongue curling just right. Not when his hand worked in rhythm with his mouth.
I came fast and hard, head thunked back against the wood, vision full of stars, and my hands clutching empty air. He finally stopped, resting his head on my thigh.
I was shaking all over. Hog wiped his mouth and looked up, a little smile curling at the corners of his mouth. "Fuck," I said, not sure if I was laughing or choking. "You trying to kill me?"
Hog stood and leaned over, kissing my knee, hip, and belly slowly and gently. I slid off the workbench, knees rubbery, and caught him by the front of his hoodie.
His cock was hard behind his jeans, but he didn't make a move for it. I did. I pressed my palm against his crotch, feeling how hot and thick he was through the denim. He groaned.
"Your turn," I announced.
He grunted approval and let me push him onto the nearest bench. I knelt—shop floor cold against my bare knees.
His fly took some doing. The zipper was stuck, and he hissed when I finally got it down, his cock springing free, red and leaking. He hadn't worn underwear.
I took him in hand and stroked him once, slowly, then licked the head. He twined his fingers into my hair, rough, but not hurting.
I sucked him slow, teasing with the flat of my tongue, the way he liked, and he swore under his breath, hand at the back of my head. He didn't force me, just held on.
I squeezed his thighs, felt the muscle jump against my fingers with every swirl and spit-slick pull. When I pulled off with a pop, he jerked, and I grinned up at him. His face was flushed, hair stuck to his brow.
He wrestled my hand down, and I stroked him again, wrist aching from the thickness. He moaned, a deep sound, and then he came, hot and thick on my palm and belly, some of it streaking up my chest. He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees, breath coming in huge, shuddering gulps.
Hog looked up, and his face was open, unguarded. Not a single wall left between us.
Later, we lay on drop cloths spread across the floor, my jacket serving as a pillow, and his hoodie thrown over us like the world's worst blanket.
Hog's arm was solid around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder.
"You good?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah." I turned enough to see his face. "I'm good."
"Tomorrow, will you call your mom?"
"Tomorrow I'll call my mom." I settled back against him. "Tell her I'm staying. Start figuring out how to help without destroying myself."