Chapter Two - Asher #2
“Just hop on and hold on.” I rev the engine and try to give him a reassuring smile.
And then he gets on, and I feel the heft of him on the seat behind me. There’s a handlebar behind him to grip, but I feel his hesitant hands on either side of my waist. Before I can think about it too much, I hit the gas and we’re off, his grip tightening as we speed away.
The garage is only a couple of miles from my apartment, but it seems to take longer than usual.
My awareness of him behind me is enhanced with every bump and turn, his thighs touching, his hands gripping tight, and I wonder things, I think things that should be left in my Pandora’s box of shame.
At an intersection, I stop short— unnecessarily—so his chest bumps against my back.
He’s hard under that thin frame, and I could’ve let him hide in shadows, watching me for all time, if he’d just touch me like this.
Just sometimes. Just like this. It’s all I need.
And it’s all I can ever have.
I snap the padlock open and lift the door.
Inside is the baby blue Impala I’ve been repairing for this ass who needs it for his beauty queen daughter to sit in.
She’s Queen of the Dogwood Festival at the high school.
There’s a joke in there somewhere that I’m still working on.
But I’ve got the thing like, maybe half done.
And then there’s the 1924 Rolls Royce I’ve been restoring on the side for this rich guy.
Seriously, that square’s really got the dough.
The Royce is just one of six he’s got in a garage I could only dream of.
I go inside to the workstation and take off my jacket, hang it up. The kid’s standing just outside in the sun, squinting into the dim garage as if he’s looking for something in particular. I cut on the overhead light and start gathering up some polish and rags.
“What’s your name?” I call over to him.
He takes a step inside, takes his hands out of his pockets, then puts them back in. “My whole name is Paul Timothy, but I just go by Paul. Not my middle name. Not unless it’s something official. So, you can just call me Paul.”
“Paul?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. Paul .” I stick some brushes in a bucket with the other junk and hand it over to him. “Have at it, pal.”
He takes the bucket from me and stares at it for a long moment, doesn’t move.
I sigh. “Here.” I go over to the bench and find some coveralls for him. I go outside and cut on the hose, walk the bike to the front so the water goes in the drain, and he still looks lost.
So, I get him to put the coveralls on, to protect his clothes.
They’re just long enough for his height, but hang around his middle.
I show him how to use the hose on the wheels but to be careful of the leather seat.
I show him how to polish the chrome and remove any build up with the edge of a penny.
I tell him to rub wax on the seat until it’s soft as silk and shining like new.
And, honestly, I could’ve just done it all myself from how much time I had to spend explaining.
And, honestly, watching his interest pique, watching his eyes the color of rolling lush pastures settle on mine, watching him do something he’s clearly never done before…honestly? I don’t know if I would have wanted it any other way.
It’s after one and I’m hungry.
The sun has mostly dried the tires on the Triumph, but he’s wiping them down anyway, carefully, looking through water stains on his glasses.
The King Tut Drive-In is just up the street.
I grab the keys for the Impala, tell him to come on and jump in.
I had to remove the convertible top to fix part of the windshield.
The ass was driving drunk and plowed right through some farmer’s garden.
A flowerpot hit the windshield. That’s the story he gave me anyway.
Paul strips off the coveralls and opens the door. “Is this yours?”
“Nope.”
I start the engine, and I take us up the street. The teeny-bopper blonde on skates grins and giggles at us more than necessary, and I shift my gaze to see how Paul reacts. I hate to admit I’m hopeful when he doesn’t seem to notice her and says, “I’d like some french fries and a Coke, please.”
I shake my head at myself. Why should there be any hope for me at all?
Blondie brings us our food and we eat in silence for a bit.
About two cars over are some kids turning up “The Stroll” on their crappy Chrysler.
They get out and split into two lines right there in the parking lot, car hops skating around them, laughing.
It’s strange to see something like that, know it was never a scene from your own life, and yet miss it anyway.
Paul wipes his fingers on a napkin and looks over at me. “What’s your name?”
“Asher Douglas,” I say. He just looks at me, and I glance over with a smirk. “Or just Asher. Family or not.”
“Asher,” he repeats.
“Yep.” I take a sip of my soda. “How old are you?”
He hesitates, sits up straighter. “Twenty.”
I stare at him, wait for it.
Then he slumps. “Well, I will be. In December.” He pauses. “You?”
“Not twenty.”
He peers at me curiously through the water stains still on his glasses. “Twenty…five?”
I point upward with my thumb.
“Twenty-six?”
Up more.
“Twenty-seven?”
I take a long drink of Coke, and glance over at him. “Does it matter?”
Something heavy and breathing forms between us as we look at each other for a few seconds. It could be what we all are before we come into this world kicking and screaming, heavy breaths in repose, a tableau.
His eyes briefly dart to my lips, then back up.
“No,” he says finally, shaking his head. “No, of course not.” He looks down at his hands. “Why would it matter?”
That’s a good question. The thoughts he’s already provoking within me are just leading toward disaster. And someone my age should know better. You never give yourself over, you never give yourself up. It’s best to wake up alone. Your freedom comes first. Always.
I clear my throat. “So, you live with your aunt?”
He shifts in the seat.
“Isn’t that what you said?”
“I don’t live with her.” He folds his arms in front of his chest. “Just sort of a…”
“Visit?”
“Yeah.”
I nod, waiting for him to say more, but he doesn’t. “Visiting for the summer?”
“I guess so. I mean, I’ve been there since May, so…”
“You’re not in school?”
He shakes his head and gets really interested in his fingers.
I don’t really know his aunt. Or, rather, I know her as the lady that hangs her underpants right underneath my balcony. I’ve never made a point to say hi to her or anything. I don’t make it a point to say hi to anyone. Unless they’re watching me from afar.
I want more, though. I want to know why he’s not in school, since he seems like that type. The brainy type. Not like me, who flunked out of tenth grade, because I couldn’t pass my tests, and made up for it with other skills and the work of my hands.
But I decide not to press him anymore. “You ready?”
He nods and I start the engine.
As we drive back I think about waking up alone, but maybe sometimes finding a way not to go to bed alone.
I found the last guy at a bar in the city.
It took me a while to find it, but it didn’t take me long to find him.
I took him home and fucked him and made sure he was gone by first light.
He left nothing behind except his scent on my pillow, and I just washed it away.
I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again.
But I went back the following Friday. Saturday. Sunday. Then the joint was raided by the cops on a Wednesday, and when I got there a couple days later, it was shut down and I was just shit out of luck.
Story of my life.
“Did we just steal this car?” Paul asks as we pull away.
I don’t know why, maybe it’s how he says it, but that makes me laugh. “Nah.” I look over at him. “Borrowed.”
“Borrowed.” He nods. “Took out a loan.”
I snicker. “Exactly.”
And he smiles back. He smiles . It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile and it changes his whole face. Green meadows in those eyes and millions of particles of light in that smile, and all at once, there’s that fucking flutter again, and my stomach sinks because I know I’m a goner.
I’m done for.
Wicked desire and sinking ships.
We get back to my apartment in the late afternoon.
Things feel lighter between us. It feels like he’s holding on tighter as we ride back, but I shouldn’t be able to tell that or want to tell that.
His face is flushed with excitement when he gets off the bike, his hair tousled by the wind.
It makes me avert my gaze. I don’t want to stare blatantly at him, even though he kind of deserves it, but my bike is clean now. Guess we’re Even Steven.
We stand in front of the apartment building, in an awkward sort of way, me turned to go inside and Paul turned to go to the gate. But then we turn back to each other and then we turn away, he lingers, and I hate that I want him to stay.
“Your bike looks good,” he murmurs.
“It does. Thanks.”
“So, I guess,” he looks down at his shoes, now scuffed and with little drops of chrome polish on them, “I’ll leave you alone now. And…everything.”
I know I shouldn’t say it. Shouldn’t even suggest it. But I’m a goner now. Might as well pillage and plunder on my way down. “If you ever feel like it, you can come on up. Stop by. Whatever.”
“Really?”
I have to be imagining the hopefulness in his voice. “Yeah. Just.” I shrug and look down at the rock I’m rolling around with my shoe. “Just whatever. Whenever. If you get bored.”
“Okay. Like tomorrow morning?”
I look up at him, shake my head with a smirk. “Tomorrow’s Sunday and I’m sleeping in.”
“Oh.” He nods like he should know this. “Yeah. Sure. Um.” He gives me a pensive look. “Later then?”
I shrug like it’s no big deal, take out a cigarette. “Sure. That’s cool.”
“Okay.” He smiles again, and I can’t help but return it. “See you, um, see you tomorrow.”
He skitters through the gate and he’s gone. I could go on up and probably catch him going through his aunt’s yard, glance down at that shrub where he watched me from, and tell myself I should know better.
“He’s never even had a beer,” I grumble to myself as I go inside, take off my jacket, and look for another pack of smokes.
I almost do my usual, go out onto the balcony with my cigarettes and a beer, but something stops me.
I sit down at the kitchen table instead, feeling suddenly alone, really alone for the first time in a long time.
I finish a cigarette and decide to hop in the shower, but instead of looking at one of my girly magazines, I get into the hot steam with him on my mind. I’ll allow it. I’ll allow my mind to be filled with thoughts of his smile, his body against mine, his fingers tight around my waist.
Just this once, I think.
Just his once, and I won’t ever think of it again.