Page 9 of Grease & Grips (Friction Fiction #2)

N ot sure when we fell asleep, but when morning light starts to slant through the garage window, dust catching in the beams, I open my eyes to find Andrés still asleep slumped against me on that nasty old couch. Peaceful in a way I don’t think I’ve ever been.

Feels like if I stay real still, this won’t end.

But I know better. I know I gotta get up, fix his car, and send him back to whatever big life he came from.

The one that’s full of movement and ambition and people who say yes without flinching.

A life that doesn’t have space for a guy who smells like motor oil and doesn’t know how to smile right.

Still… as much as that voice in my head tries to ruin this, I shove it down.

“You’re the loudest quiet person I’ve ever met,” Andrés mumbles against my chest, his voice laced with sleep.

“Huh?”

“Your thoughts,” he says, lifting his head to blink up at me. “Woke me up.”

“Sorry for thinkin’,” I shoot back as I steal a kiss.

He smirks, eyes scanning the garage. “What time’s this place open?”

“Eight. Guys start tricklin’ in around seven-thirty.”

“What time is it now?”

“Almost seven.”

He sighs then drags a finger down my chest, trailing lower until he’s teasing over the crusty towel that we used as a blanket. “So what you’re saying is… we don’t have time for round two?”

Not even trying to hide it, my cock starts rising to the occasion. I groan, “God, I wish we did, but I’d rather not get walked in on mid-stroke by my boss.”

Andrés grins. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing caught on camera.”

My blood runs cold. “Cameras.”

His brow furrows, “You forgot?”

I nod, already mentally scrubbing footage. “I’ll erase it.”

“Or leave it. Give the morning crew something to talk about over coffee.”

My eyes go wide at the suggestion. Imagine the guys walking in and seeing Andrés slathered in motor oil getting back shots on the floor of the shop. If I didn’t get fired, they’d never let me live it down.

Or worse… they’d never stop congratulating me. I’m pretty sure most of them think I’m celibate, which… before Andrés, wouldn’t have been far off.

He shifts, settling more weight on top of me and nuzzling his face further in the crook of my neck. “Should we at least grab breakfast? Is there anything good to eat around here?”

“Not really,” I admit. “Anything good’s at least a thirty-minute drive.”

His features tighten, jaw working through whatever letdown he’s feeling.

“But,” I add, patting his thigh, “I can provide one perfectly acceptable vending machine breakfast, alongside a fresh pot of the cheapest coffee this small-town garage can buy.”

His teeth tug at his bottom lip, “You on the menu too?”

“Depends how many bills you got in your wallet,” I say through a grin.

Planting a kiss to his forehead I peel myself from him and pad across the shop, bare ass out and proud. Not that he’s complaining. I scoop my clothes off the floor, get dressed in a few stiff, quick moves, and fish a couple crumpled bills from my wallet.

The vending machine coughs up two honeybuns and a pair of powdered donut packs like it’s offering condolences. I start the coffee, some cheap shit that’ll taste like burnt tires and battery acid, and head back.

Andrés is halfway dressed when I return, tugging his shirt into place, fingers lingering over each button. I hand him his pre-packaged pastry and sit beside him. He smiles at the offering. Silence envelops us as we eat. Quiet chewing, quiet thoughts. His gaze flicks to mine and holds.

“I’m glad this happened,” he says softly. “Breaking down in the middle of nowhere didn’t end up being all bad.”

I nod, but it’s a lie. Not because it wasn’t good. Hell, it was better than good. I just know in a few hours, he’ll leave. He’ll get in that car with a fixed axel, and I’ll still be here tasting him on my tongue like a secret I’m not allowed to keep.

Nothing stays. Not even something that felt this good.

But it did feel good, didn’t it? Better than anything I’ve ever felt and as sad as I am… shouldn’t I at least be thankful I got it at all? If a man like Andrés can choose me, even just for a night, then I can choose to see this for what it is. It’s not some sad little end.

But a damn good moment.

One I got to have and hopefully, for once, that’s enough.

Chewing is the only sound in the shop. Neither of us sure what else there is to say that wouldn’t make this worse.

“How long will the repair take?” he asks finally, voice still scratchy from sleep and… everything else.

“Couple of hours, maybe,” I say, around a bite of vending machine honeybun that suddenly tastes like cardboard.

He nods and we’re right back to the awkward quiet. This time it stretches so long it starts humming. I look at him to watch the way his lashes catch the light. The slow bob of his throat as he swallows. The golden sheen of his skin even under flickering fluorescents.

He’s gorgeous. Unfairly so. Somehow even more in a space that should’ve dulled it with its trash on the floor and grease on the walls. Even if the filthiest parts of this shop feel like the snapshot of my life, but he’s still here shiny and perfect.

“There’s a shower in the back if you wanna clean up before anyone else gets here,” I offer. I don’t know why. Maybe just to say something that isn’t please stay .

He glances up. “That’d be okay?”

“Yeah, of course. We keep it for emergencies. Remember those science room showers from high school? It’s one of those. You gotta keep the cord pulled or it shuts off, but it'll do the job.”

He nods again. Then adds, a little softer, “Thanks.”

I shrug, suddenly needing to look anywhere but at him. “Gives me a sec to tidy up the shop before folks start rolling in.”

I watch him go, towel in hand, while I just stand here dumb as hell, covered in sugar and drowning in whatever this is. It wasn’t supposed to matter. Now it kinda does.

Replacing the rim is a fairly simple job. I’ve done it a hundred times. Muscle memory takes over. Jack it up, pop the old one off, align the new one, tighten the lug nuts so they don’t fly off on the highway and kill someone.

I should be able to do this blindfolded, but my hands keep hesitating. Tools slip. I drop the same damn bolt twice. Every time I glance toward the open garage door, my heart stutters, expecting to see Andrés already gone.

But he’s not. He’s still here. Still inside the shop only dressed now and sitting on that same busted old couch with his legs crossed, eyes on the floor, and fingers laced together like he’s holding something back.

The creak of the side door makes me jump. I wipe my hands on a rag and straighten just as Gary steps in, ball cap already stained with a full day’s sweat even this early.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he says, stopping mid-step when he sees Andrés. Then he clocks the towel on the ground. The faint smell of coffee. Me, still flushed and jittery. “I miss somethin’?”

I toss the rag aside. “Just a busy morning.”

Andrés stands, offering a polite smile as he crosses the shop. “I got here early. Mack was kind enough to come in and help me out. Trying to get back on the road.”

Connecting the dots, Gary squints at us both. “BMW… Griffin Road?”

Andrés lets out a sheepish laugh. “Yeah. I know. Shouldn’t have been out there.”

Gary chuckles, pointing a thumb my way. “Well, you’re lucky you got him. Mack’s our best. Little grouchy, but if you can stomach it, he’ll get the job done.”

The smirk Andrés offers when he catches my eye makes my stomach do a somersault. He claps me on the shoulder. “I can do grouchy.”

Gary gives a knowing grin, but I cut in before he can start ribbing me.

“Some mornings don’t start out the way you planned,” I say, nodding toward the car. “But that don’t mean they can’t still turn into something good.”

Feels like I’ve knocked Gary on his ass the way he’s looking at me. Head titled with those eye brows nearly at his hairline.

“Well I’ll be,” he mutters, a slow smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Look at you, soundin’ like someone who actually listens when I talk.”

There’s no hiding the flush in my face even if I try to act casual.

“Guess even a busted engine can get fixed if you’re willing to look under the hood.”

Andrés beams beside me as Gary whistles, long and low. “Hot damn, that was almost poetic.”

“See? Not too grouchy,” Andrés interjects.

Gary’s gaze bounces between us and he swallows hard. “I’ll leave you to it then, Mack.”

After Gary slips out through the now open garage door the quiet comes back, same as before, but now it feels like it’s staring me down.

Andrés steps in close. “Look at you. Sounding optimistic.”

“Can’t be totally doom and gloom.”

He takes a second, just watching me, then touches my face. Fingertips trace my cheeks and then lips like he’s trying to etch them into memory. “It’s better if you’re not.”

It hits me somewhere deep, but I manage a smile. “You should get on the road.”

“I know.”

Neither of us moves.

“Maybe I can stay a few more minutes,” he says, his hand trailing down my arm until his fingers slip between mine. “I’d like to see you again, but I don’t know when that’ll be… if ever.”

“I’d like that,” I say, quiet but sure.

His eyes drift to the car. “Wanna take a ride?”

I follow his gaze.

“You could show me Sycamore. I know I already saw the one stoplight, but?—”

“Yes.” I squeeze his hand, cutting him off. “I’d love to.”

He lights up at that, grin wide and easy as he tugs me toward the car. He opens the passenger door like a true southern gentleman, and I climb in heart thudding. He jogs around and slides into the driver’s seat, eyes flicking to me like he still can’t believe I said yes.

The engine rumbles to life, and we roll slow out of the garage, tires easing onto Bussey Road knowing we’ve got nowhere urgent to be. I never told Gary I was leaving, but somehow, that feels like the least important thing in the world.

I’ve got a handful of moments left with this beautiful, impossible man and I want to wring every drop of meaning out of them.

Let the world wait.

Right now, I’m exactly where I want to be.

I take him down every wide, cracked road Sycamore has to offer, which small as this place is takes about forty-five minutes if you stretch it.

And I do.

I show him the grocery store and the bank. The old theater on Main that used to play black-and-white movies until some church bought it up and turned it into Sunday sermons. The McDonald’s we got my sophomore year, which felt like a big damn deal at the time.

But I also show him my high school.

The bend in the road where I crashed my car two weeks after I got my permit.

The weather-beaten bridge where my mom used to take me fishing, just the two of us and a Tupperware full of peanut butter sandwiches.

And finally, I show him the house I grew up in.

Somewhere along the way, I’m laughing. Really laughing.

Not because it’s all funny, but because somehow, telling these stories to him makes them feel lighter. The stuff I thought was ugly or dumb or painful shines different when he’s the one hearing it.

For the first time in a long time, it doesn’t feel like I’m just remembering. It feels like I’m sharing and that makes all the difference.

The silence between us isn’t heavy, but it hums under my skin. I catch sight of the shop sign as we turn, and that’s when the jitters really start.

“Text me when you make it back,” I say, once we’re stopped outside the garage. “And maybe… when you’re not so far from the middle of nowhere again.”

He grins, “You’ll hear from me.”

We exchange numbers, and I take the chance to lean across the console and pull him into one last kiss. His lips part for me, and I meet him with slow, lazy swipes of my tongue against his.

Whatever he did to me last night, I want to do right back. Make sure he carries me the way I know I won’t stop carrying him.

I don’t say anything else when I pull back. We just share a long look, and then I step out of the car and head back into the shop. I don’t bother watching him drive off. Don’t think I could survive it.

The rest of the guys aren’t even here yet.

Those last few minutes with him happened so fast and all I want is to stretch them out, slow them down, make them last a little longer.

Maybe forever.

“Mack,” Gary calls from the back of the shop as I step back inside, “You spill some oil back here or something?”

The laugh that rips out of me is too loud and almost crazed. It starts in my chest but catches in my throat, spilling over into something that sounds a lot more like a sob. Then another. Whole-body shakes hit and I can’t stop.

Gary rushes over, panic in his eyes. “It’s okay,” he says, hands up like he’s approaching a wild animal. “We can get it cleaned up.”

Wiping my nose on my sleeve I sniff hard. I’m laughing even harder now. A full-blown, absolute wreck. Gary looks like he’s not sure if he should call someone.

“Jesus, Gare,” I croak, flopping onto the couch. “I’m just tired.”

He hovers watching me like I might spontaneously combust and he’s seconds from ducking for cover.

“How was the recital?” I ask, patting the space on the couch beside me. “Tell me about it.”

His eyes go wide, caught off guard. Like he’s trying to figure out if he heard me right.

“Your daughter,” I say, clearing my throat. “Didn’t she do a tap number?”

“You remembered,” he says, face softening into the biggest damn smile. “Mack, she was so damn good. I don’t know how anybody moves their feet that fast.”

He eases down next to me and launches into the story and I let him. I let myself listen to every word. To the joy in his voice. The warmth. The love. The kind of love that makes you sit up straighter just hearing about it.

While he talks, I think about the man already halfway down the highway. Think about how close I came to calling it nothing. To letting it slip away.

The only proof he was ever here is the coffee cup in my trash, the motor oil stain on the concrete, and the ache low in my belly that I know ain’t just from the sex, but I don’t move from that spot. I stay right there on the busted old couch that still smells faintly of oil and yesterday.

Gary keeps talking, voice warm and steady beside me, and I just... let it wash over me. I let myself feel all of it. The grief. The want. The gratitude. Like maybe if I sit still long enough, the ache won’t feel so sharp. Or maybe it will, but I’ll know I survived it.

It hurt finding something good in all the mess, but I guess if you lean into it anyway, sometimes you get to see what might be waiting past the worst of it.