Page 2 of Grease & Grips (Friction Fiction #2)

T he truck cab isn’t small, but it sure as hell feels that way with this man sitting next to me.

It’s the bench seat. One long stretch of cracked vinyl that forces us closer than I’d like.

He’s angled toward me a little clearly trying not to crowd, which only makes me more aware of him.

His thigh’s a hair away from mine. I can smell him.

Clean, warm, faintly citrusy. He’s wearing something expensive that whispers Miami .

Meanwhile, I smell like grease and hormonal panic.

Jesus, I’m thirty-two. I’ve lived through things. I’ve filed taxes. I should not be this flustered by a man in slacks and a rolled-up sleeve. Yet… here I am, sweating through my shirt and praying he doesn’t notice I’ve gone full middle school dance because he exists.

“Being a mechanic seems interesting. Complicated, I’d guess. I don’t know shit about cars,” he says.

I nod, eyes still fixed on the seat in front of me. No real reaction, just a small movement to let him know I heard him.

“I make commercials for a living. I produce them. Always been a big movie fan and I wanted to make those, but commercials, it turns out, are easier... and most of the time pay more. You watch a lot of movies?”

I shake my head, quick and small, then glance at him for half a second before looking away again.

“So what’s your name?” he asks

Have we seriously not done that yet? Guess not. Jesus. We’ve been sitting in this truck for probably twenty minutes and somehow missed the most basic detail.

“I mean, I know your name,” he adds quickly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s Mack. It’s right there on your shirt. I just figured it’d be nice if you used words and, y’know, told me.”

The patch on my chest is doing more for me than I ever could, and for some reason that pisses me off a little. I glance down anyway and sure enough it still says Mack. I drag my eyes back to to the road, feeling a little dumb for not realizing sooner.

“Mainly,” he goes on, “because riding around with a stranger is already weird enough and not that knowing your name would, like, stop you from murdering me or anything… but it might help. A little.”

It’s the half joking and half genuine way he says it, but it makes it real hard not to smile, so I huff out a breath and give him a small nod, pretending that’s all it stirred up in me.

“My name… in case you’re wondering, is kind of a tongue twister. Andrés Miguel García Padilla.”

He pauses, like he’s waiting for a reaction, and when I don’t give him one, he just barrels on.

“García’s my father’s last name. Padilla’s my mom’s. I’m guessing you don’t get much of that out here.” With a crooked smile he adds, “Unless you’re feeling fancy, Andrés is fine.”

There’s a soft roll in the way he says his name and just like that now I’m thinking way too hard about that mouth.

I fiddle with the AC vents. Then the radio. Then the vents again.

“You okay?” he asks.

A noncommittal grunt is what I’ve got right now. It’s embarrassing. I’m embarrassing.

I need to pull it together before I ask him if he wants to hold hands or something equally crazy.

He doesn’t seem to mind the silence. He settles in, resting his arm along the back of the seat like this is a damn road trip and not my personal hell.

I should’ve made him take an Uber. He would’ve figured it out eventually, right? Sure… I would've left him deep in backwoods murder country, but he seems competent. He could’ve survived the hillbillies… or monsters.

Not saying I believe in monsters, but any good Southerner comes with a healthy dose of backwoods superstition and I’m positive Andrés would've survived.

Christ. I can feel his arm behind me.

This was a bad idea. A terrible, horny, do-the-right-thing mistake. Too close. Too cramped. Too much him right next to me.

Whatever.

“Your playlist’s good,” he says.

Just a casual observation from a man who doesn’t know he’s got me two seconds from pulling over and begging for a kiss. Doesn’t even have to be on the mouth. I’d take a peck on the cheek if it meant feeling his lips on me.

“Didn’t expect country, but… I kinda like it,” he adds.

I keep staring straight ahead because my life depends on it. Road’s the only thing that ain’t gonna make my heart race right now.

“It’s nostalgic. My grandpa used to listen to stuff like this. Feels like summer.” He says, shifting slightly in his seat. His knee brushes mine. “You always listen to music like this when you’re towing poor idiots out of ditches?”

Poor hot idiots, I think. Don’t say it though, cause I don’t trust my traitorous mouth not to ask for his hand in marriage.

“Definitely helps improve the mood, that’s for sure,” he continues on. “Something so upbeat and happy about 90’s country music.”

I swallow. “Yeah. Helps me not murder anybody.”

The laugh I get feels like a reward. It’s full, low in his chest, and spills out in short bursts that bounce around the cab making the whole truck feel lighter just from the sound of it. It shouldn’t send a jolt to my dick, but it does because I’m the one who caused it.

I should laugh with him. Tease him or something. Tell him how he smells real nice and sounds even better, but I just sit there swallowing every dumb thought.

Truth is, I’m down bad. Wouldn’t take much for me to pack a bag and follow him like a stray.

I can’t do that though. I don’t even know if this man’s into guys. Let alone guys like me. And on top of that, he looks the way he does and could have anyone he wants.

He’s the kind of person who’s seen more than the Piggly Wiggly and the local bank. The kind who actually knows what life looks like outside the town he grew up in.

Guys like him don’t flirt with guys like me. Not the ones stuck in places like this, with oil under their nails and too much quiet in their house at night.

I bet he gets matches on dating apps and doesn’t delete them out of frustration after two hours.

He’s got a big, wide world available to him. Flights and friends and rooftop bars.

Places with options.

Places where happiness actually lives.

All I’ve got is this shitty town and a playlist full of songs about lovin’ and leavin’.

Probably looks like I’m trying to strangle the life out of the steering wheel as I white-knuckle it, holding on while his laughter fades and the awkward silence slowly creeps back into the cab.

“So… you from here?”

I get the “Yeah” out, but it ain’t smooth.

“Huh,” he says, like he’s trying to put puzzle pieces together. I imagine right now I’m feeling a lot like the piece that got stepped on ten years ago and hasn’t quite fit right since.

“You like it here?”

That earns him a quick shift in my seat. It’s a loaded question if I’ve ever heard one. That would get him an answer not about facts, but about how often I imagine driving straight past the town line and not stopping until I forget which direction I came from.

“It’s fine.” It sounds like the lie it is.

He considers me, nodding as he pulls his arm off the back of the seat retreating into himself. Then he turns to stare out the window at the darkness flying past.

Nothing quite like the country at night. No street lamps. Only moonlight. Can’t see a damn thing and even if you could, there’s nothing out there to look at anyway.

“Most people hate the dark,” Andrés says, eyes still on the window. “But I kinda like it.”

It lands soft, almost accidental like he’s talking to himself, but the quiet that follows says he was probably looking for a response.

“It can be peaceful,” I offer, voice unsure.

“More than that. Hope starts in the dark, right?” He asks, gaze still trained on the dark nothing of the world passing by us “Pretty sure that’s how the saying goes. You look out at the blackness, and you either get swallowed up by it... or you spot the light and follow it where it leads.”

I don’t know what to make of that. Why he’d say something like that to me. What sparked it. Just the two of us sitting here in the truck driving through the dark, I guess.

It’s not far off from the kind of shit Gary’s always trying to drill into my head, but hearing it don’t make it true. Not everyone finds the light. Some folks just get stuck in the dark, no matter how hard they squint.

“That’s one way to think of it,” I mutter.

The radio’s still going, low and lazy, crooning out some old song I probably know but can’t place right now. Too busy watching the tic in his jaw, the crease in his brow.

That jaw’s doing a lot of work for him and none of it’s good. Pretty safe to guess that wasn’t the answer he wanted.

For a second, I think he’s about to argue. Possibly deliver some half-preached sermon about positivity from a man who’s never had to wonder if the power bill could wait another week.

But he just sighs and slumps a little. Shakes his head like he’s tired of carrying of whatever’s weighing him down.

That’s so much worse.

Another few miles pass before he wheels around in his seat, angling his body to face me. “You could be a little nicer to me.”

My head snaps toward him, eyes wide, eyebrows practically hitting my hairline. “Excuse me?”

“I’m sure it sucks that I couldn’t fend for myself and had to ride with you,” he says, fast and frustrated.

“But we’re stuck in this truck for God knows how long, and you’re being so short.

I’m trying to be friendly. I’m trying to make the most of a shitty situation, and you can’t even…

what? Say more than one or two words to me when you say anything at all. ”

He folds his arms over his chest.

“You’d think they’d send someone a little friendlier if they expect them to help people.”

My mouth opens then shuts. Then opens again like maybe the words’ll come if I just try hard enough. I rub the back of my neck like that’s gonna knock some sense loose, like maybe if I scrub hard enough I’ll figure out how to say something that doesn’t make it worse.

He’s just sitting there, arms crossed, looking at me like he’s trying real hard not to say more.