Right in front of a familiar, faded silver Mercedes stood a man with salt-and-pepper hair in a dark blue suit, a matching bow tie, and a crisp white shirt. Stubble was already making an appearance on his chin. He leaned against the silver C-Class Mercedes he’d owned since it was new. “About time you opened up! I’ve got an appointment at ten.”
“With me,” Lawrence laughed. “Get in the car, Harv, and pull that thing into this bay.”
This earned an affronted look. “Thing? You know her name is Marla. How can you say words like that in front of her?”
“She’s… been around,” Lawrence said. “Aren’t you even interested in a newer model?”
“No, Marla’s been great for me.” Harvey grinned as he inched the car forward, Lawrence guiding him to drive up the small metal ramp so he didn’t go too far.
They headed inside, once Harvey got out of the car. “Want some coffee?” Lawrence said.
“Sure, I’d—” Harv started but didn’t get to finish. A shout came from outside the bays.
“The Lamborghini isn’t starting, boss! Can I get your help to pull her forward?” Mario shouted across the lot.
“I’ve got it, Mr. Barnsdale.” Their second employee, Tim, a wiry, blond-haired guy, tossed his lunch bag on the counter beside another bucket of candy. “Mario, get behind the wheel and I’ll push it.”
“Better you than me!” Lawrence heard Mario shout.
Lawrence watched as Tim put his shoulder into the shove, and before long the shiny candy-red car was being hoisted up too. Tim began poking around under the car, and Mario came back, dusting his hands.
“What’s the story on that Mercedes, boss?” Mario picked up the keys to the burgundy Mercedes across the lot.
“It died at the intersection of Long Beach and Wardlow. It’s probably only here because he could push it this far.” Lawrence gestured to the corner.
Harvey unexpectedly hopped on the counter and dug in the bucket for a piece of hard candy.
Tim walked up, dusting his hands on his jeans. “Excuse me, sir. May I get behind you?”
“What?” Harvey hopped down.
“I just need my lunch.” Tim reached across the counter to get the brown bag. When did we start accepting Toyotas, Mr. Barnsdale?”
“Tim, just call me Lawrence, okay?”
“Sure, Mr. Barns—I mean Lawrence,” Tim sighed. “Sorry, it just sounds wrong to call you that. And it’s kind of formal—like when my mom calls me Timothy.”
Lawrence nodded. “True enough, but I fucking hate ‘Larry.’”
“Larry would be easier,” Tim said, putting his lunch in the small fridge in the corner.
Lawrence thought for a second. “Know what, Tim? Just call me ‘Law.’ Is that informal enough for you?”
“Sure, Mr. Barnsdale,” Tim said, walking past them to his locker.
Lawrence rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he turned to his accountant. “Nothing’s wrong with that old heap of yours, is there?” he said to Harvey.
“Well, her oil light came on again, but it has been a while since she got that changed, so could you check on that?”
Lawrence pulled on gloves, got on a rolling board, and slid under the Mercedes with an oil pan on a second rolling board. “So, just this before we go over the books, huh?”
“Yeah, unless you find something else wrong with her.” Harvey squatted to get closer to Lawrence. “Who’s Tim?”
“Tim? That’s Tim.” Lawrence gestured vaguely in the direction of the new employee. “I hired him last month. He came highly recommended from Long Beach Community College’s auto program.” He found the drain plug and pulled the oil pan under it, twisting it out of the car with a practiced hand. “And Mario pointed out that we could use the extra help.”
“So, his cute ass wasn’t the main reason you hired him?” Harvey smirked.
Lawrence slid out from under the car, mock glaring. “No. You know better than that—although you know what? That’s what Mario asked too.”
“Well, I don’t know what you do with your employees behind closed doors. I just remember the financials for installing that shower.” Harvey backed up as Lawrence rolled past his feet.
“It’s not a bathhouse, and I’m not that much of a whore.” Lawrence sat up from the roller board, stood, pulled the knob to unlock the Mercedes’ hood, then lifted and locked it open.
“Then who were you with on Sunday night?” Harvey said.
“What do you mean?”
“You know,” Harvey said. “And how’s Marla?”
“Well, she needs an oil change for sure, but really, you need a new car.”
“Never,” Harvey said, the affronted look coming back.
“Okay, okay,” Lawrence said, holding up one hand. “Peace. She’ll need a full oil change—five quarts. But I just started on the drain, so give it a few minutes.”
“Fine,” Harvey said. “But I still want to know who you were with on Sunday night. I got this crazy text from you and a picture of feet on the ground, late at night. I didn’t see it until Monday morning.”
“Let me see.” Lawrence peered over Harvey’s shoulder. “Oh. Those are the backs of Curtis’s legs and the pavement outside the Brass Lamp. What’d the text say?”
“How long has it been since I’ve been picked up by a hot piece of ass?” Harvey read. He turned to look at Tim bending over the other Mercedes. “I mean, you’ve got Tim over there. I just figured.”
“Can it, Harvey, Tim’s not my type.” Lawrence shucked his gloves, took the phone, and flipped through the pictures he’d apparently sent to his best friend without remembering it. “Hell, I didn’t even get a good snapshot of Curtis’s ass. Figures.”
“Was the sex worth it?” Harvey asked as Lawrence handed the phone back.
“Ohhhh…” Lawrence smiled, remembering. “You don’t know the half of it. It was better than I could have imagined. At first, I was worried he was closer to Tim’s age, but he turned thirty-five last Friday.”
“Thirty-five? That’s almost half your age,” Harvey pointed out.
“I know.” Lawrence waved him off. “I tried not to think about that, but he didn’t care. Give me a minute.” Lawrence hopped on the board again and slid back under the car. A few seconds later, the second rolling pan emerged full of oil. “I’ll get Tim to dispose of that,” Lawrence said as he rolled back out from under the car.
He stood up, pushed his roller board out of the walkway with his foot, turned to the oil selection, snagged an oil hose, and placed it in the Mercedes’ oil fill port. Then he sighed—a contented sigh.
“His skill was—fuck, it was superior. He did this thing with this tongue and his finger…” Lawrence turned to look at Harvey. “Have you ever had someone touch you behind your balls when they blew you?”
Harvey laughed. “Why are you asking about my sex life while I’m getting my oil changed?”
Lawrence snickered. “Just think of me as your old bartender.” He plucked the oil hose back out of the port and hung it up, reaching for the dipstick to check the fill level.
He missed his footing as he turned back. To keep himself from pitching into the engine, he instinctively put his hand down to catch himself and hissed as he jumped away. “Goddammit! Fuck!”
“What happened?” Harv said, but Lawrence shook his head and tried to contain the stars. His right palm and last two fingers now sported a burn the length of his hand—angry, red, and agonizing. He grunted out another scream against his other arm.
I should have waited until the damn car cooled off, he had time to think, and then he pushed a third scream against his forearm. It hurt like he hadn’t hurt since Jeffrey.
“Shit!” Harvey said, catching a look at it. “Hey, Mario! Get your ass in here!”
Tools clattered against the floor as Mario rushed into the bay, Tim close on his heels. “What? What happened?”
“This old man was talking about that piece of ass he was with the other night, and t
hen he was screaming.”
“I lost my balance and put my hand down on the manifold. Didn’t think.” Lawrence gasped as Mario turned his hand over and hissed in sympathy. “Stupid of me.”
“Where are your gloves?” Mario demanded.
Lawrence winced and gestured. “I took them off to look at some photos on Harv’s phone, and I guess I spaced on putting them back on. I’m an idiot.”
Tim stared at his hand, horrified. “That’s gonna need bandages, Mr. Burns—uh, Law, sorry.”
Lawrence groaned. “That does sound good, Tim. Thanks for using it. But I’ll be fine. Just get the first aid kit.”
“Dammit, boss, this needs a hospital,” Mario said. “It’s at least second-degree.”
“No, it isn’t,” Lawrence gritted out. “It can’t be. We have six vehicles and only the three of us—I don’t have time for a hospital.”
“The hell you don’t,” Mario gritted back at him. “It won’t kill any of those people for us to take a little longer with their damn cars. I know the suppliers and who to call, you know that. And you need a hospital. Now.”
Lawrence tried one more time. “You’re being dramatic, Mario. I’ll just wrap it up and glove it, and it’ll be fine in a few minutes.”
“The hell it will,” Mario said. “Hospital. Right now. I’d take you, but Mr. Hidalgo’s taking a cab over, and Tim takes the bus.” He looked at Harvey. “Can you take him to the ER?”
“Not a problem. I just didn’t think he was serious,” Harvey said.
“Oil change isn’t done,” Lawrence said. “What car will he take?”
“Yours,” Mario said. “I’ll finish the oil change on his while you’re gone. Tim, get his hand into some cold water.”
“Got it,” Tim said and pushed Lawrence toward the bathroom.
The next few minutes were a confusion of Lawrence cursing, running water, and Lawrence cursing some more. When he emerged from the bathroom with a clean shop towel wrapped around his hand, he was glaring and pasty white.
“This really isn’t necessary,” he said.
“Yeah, it really is, boss,” Mario said. “Where are the keys to your car?”
“In my—ow!” Lawrence made the mistake of reaching into his pocket with the injured hand. “In-in that pocket,” he finally managed, after another buried scream into his forearm.
Mario dug the keys out and handed them to Harvey, who scoffed as he led Lawrence back to the car parked in the Owner slot. “Now I have to drive your Metropolitan? Lawrence, you’ve got the worst taste. And you think I need a new car? Please. Get out of the fifties. Your house and this car… Maybe this young boyfriend will help you enter the twenty-first century.”
“He’s not my boyfriend,” Lawrence protested. “Shit, we fucked one night. I’m not saying it wasn’t amazing, but he’s young. He’s got a life ahead of him. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t involve me.” He winced as Harvey handed him into the passenger seat and his injured hand bumped the dashboard. “Ouch, dammit!”
“Stop whining—and remind me not to talk to you about hot young guys when you’re working on my car next time,” Harvey said.
“Or any other time,” Lawrence said. His hand was throbbing all the way up to his elbow.
Harvey slammed the door and walked around to the other side, squeezed behind the wheel, and drove off toward the hospital.
3
Curtis
“This is the same slop they had when I was interning here forty years ago,” Bernard said, after he placed his order at the hospital cafeteria grill for the chicken-fried steak.
“Should you have that?” Marilyn asked.
“Why the hell not? I’m not dead yet.” He looked at her.
“Jesus, Bernie, I want to be given your practice because you’re retiring, not because they find you dead at a cafeteria table with a forkful of chicken-fried steak half out of your mouth,” Curtis said as he took a packaged salad from the refrigerator case. “I’ll get the table.”
Curtis paid at the register and headed to a table against the window overlooking the city. Something Law had said made him look across the room at the now balding Bernard Buchanan. He considered for a moment.
Nope, there wasn’t anything in the wrinkled, bespectacled man that turned him on. In fact, even when he was younger, he hadn’t felt it. Bernard was a mentor, someone to look up to, someone who took the place of his dad—not someone he wanted to fuck.
But there was someone older he had wanted to fuck… and not just once, but repeatedly. He sat with the salad unopened in front of him, thinking about Sunday night—and Monday morning and the hot man he’d showered with. There was something about Law that was different from other men he’d been with. Most of them had been men who wanted to be trophy husbands, or men who wanted to be on the A-Gay list by being with a hot young doctor. He didn’t know whether Law had a string of A-Gays just waiting to have sex with him, but he doubted it.
“Penny for your thoughts,” Marilyn said, as she sat down beside him.
“Hmm? Oh, just thinking about a one-night stand I had last Sunday night.” He unwrapped the plastic from his salad and tore open the dressing packet, squeezing it out over the romaine leaves.
“You mean the night of the party?” Marilyn asked.
“Yeah, I guess it was that night.”
“Which lucky stud went home with you? Was it one of those college kids studying for his biology test?” She stirred her soup and winked.
He shook his head. “Not even close.”
“The bartender?” she prodded.
“No, not my type—too muscled.”
“But I’m getting close, aren’t I?” She smiled.
“Not really,” Curtis said. “It wasn’t anybody at the party. It was the guy sitting at the table in the middle of the room, with his laptop open. He had three—no, four lattes, and that mac and cheese.” He smiled, remembering. “I bought him a Guinness and then some Prosecco, and things… progressed.” His smile got wider.
Marilyn looked skeptically at him over her soup. “You remember what he ate?”
“Well, I did kiss him a few times,” Curtis said.
“I don’t remember him—wait, the guy with the earbuds in? The one at the round table in the middle of the big room?”
“Yes.” Curtis shoved salad in his mouth.
“He’s—got to be—hell, isn’t he around Bernie’s age?” Marilyn looked up as Bernie sat down next to her.
“I’m eighty-five,” Bernard said as he placed his tray on the table with his chicken-fried steak and a tall iced glass of something bright blue.
“Yes, we know,” they said in unison.
Don’t remind me, Curtis added in his head. Are you ever going to retire?
“Law is much younger than this old coot,” he said aloud and pointed with his fork.
“What law? They’ve made laws for years that are younger than me.” Bernard picked up his utensils and cut into his food.
“Lawrence, not a law,” Curtis corrected. “I just call him Law.”
“So how old is he, then?” Marilyn said, spooning soup.
“He’s probably my dad’s age, maybe younger,” Curtis said. “Late fifties? Maybe early sixties?”
“Your dad’s age?” Marilyn said, her skepticism deepening. “You’re interested in someone your dad’s age?”
“I don’t want to have sex with my dad,” Curtis protested. “Don’t get all weird on me. Law isn’t anything like my dad.” He shoved another forkful of lettuce in his mouth. Through the food in his mouth, Curtis shook his head and looked at his phone which was buzzing. “Great, I’m going to be late for my shift. I can’t ask Christine to lie for me again.”
“But what does it really matter? Your last day is Friday,” Marilyn said.
Curtis finished his salad in two big bites. “Which reminds me, Bernie. Will you have the paperwork ready by then? I don’t mean to push, but—”
“I was thinking of taking you out to dinner t
onight to discuss everything and get it settled.” Bernie brought a paper napkin to his mouth, spit out his food, and rolled it up. “That tastes like medicine. Everything I eat nowadays tastes like the last pill I swallowed.”
“I would,” Curtis said, “but I can’t. I got a phone notification that I had signed up for a class tonight at the Brass Lamp.”
“I think Henry and I are doing that class. It’s the art appreciation thing, right?” Marilyn pulled out her phone and sent a quick text. “Just reminded the husband.”
“Yeah, I vaguely remember doing something like that,” Curtis said. “I mean, I didn’t think it was a class, but I remember Law paying for it.”
“Okay. Well, I don’t think I’m ready to part with the practice just yet,” Bernard said.
Curtis rose to his feet, shoving the chair behind him. “Please tell me you’re kidding? I’ve already quit the hospital; Marilyn and I signed the paperwork for our office space. What in the hell am I going to be doing?”
“I’m just not ready yet,” Bernie said. “I mean, Marjorie has only been dead for a few months. I’m…”
“Bernie, you keep leading me on. You’re retiring, remember? Because you’re eighty-five years old? Now I’m half-afraid that’ll never happen.” He picked up his lunch tray. “Marilyn, try to talk some sense into him, would you? I’ll see you tonight, at class.”
“Right, I’ll see you then.” She looked at Bernard and shook her head. “Let’s talk, old man.”
Curtis ran down the stairs, taking two at a time. He jogged the last few steps to the lockers, slipped on his white coat, and adjusted his name tag as he rushed to the nurse’s station to slide in front of the older woman with a jagged pixie haircut. “Hi, Christine. Sorry I’m late—I got caught up talking with Bernie about the practice.”
Christine pulled a tissue out of the box on her desk and handed it to him. “Here. You’ve got something creamy on your bottom lip.”
“It’s salad dressing, Christine,” Curtis said, wiping it away.
“I’m never sure with you,” Christine smirked. “A couple of weeks ago you gave me a very odd explanation for the stains on your knees.” She led him around the station. “We’re pretty busy right now. We’ve got a burn in bed four, a heart attack in bed two, and a sprained ankle in bed one.”
Hearts Repaired Page 3