by Noah Harris
Jon laughed. “Remind me to thank him.”
“I’ll remind you Sunday evening. You might be telling him to keep me on Saturdays.” Charge set the once again empty bowl aside and swigged his beer. “Speaking of the Morgan, what’s your plan of attack? How do you want to approach this?”
“Well, I’m kind of relying on you for that,” Jon said.
“Ok, first question, when is the last time you had the garage treated for bugs?”
Jon’s eyes widened in concern, “Did you see some?”
“No, but you have a wood-sided house, a wood-sided garage, and now a wood-framed car in a humid and generally damp environment. If you haven’t had it done in the last couple of months, I would suggest getting that scheduled.”
“I’ll have to check, but I’ll call the service I use tomorrow.”
“Ok, well, if we are going to do this from the ground up, I suggest turning it into two separate projects at least for the beginning. Restoring the engine and restoring the body. I don’t know about you, but I tend to work better when I can switch between two long-term projects.”
After laying out the plan of attack with Charge, they had gone back out to the garage. While Charge brought in the tools and lights, Jon had pulled the Challenger forward and double-checked the gate. He flipped on the MosquitoMagnet and had grabbed a notepad to start his preliminary STG list.
Scratching away with his pen, Jon didn’t hear Charge approach until the younger man spoke over his shoulder.
“What’s STG stand for?”
“Damn!” Jon jumped at that warm baritone against his ear. “Make some noise man, what are you? Part cat?” Jon wondered if he had said something too odd since Charge had a weird look on his face, but he couldn’t think what. “Umm. STG – Shit To Get. It's my preliminary list of what I see as soon as a car arrives. I always compare it to the one I make before actually purchasing a vehicle without seeing it in person,
“Ok – STG, makes sense.”
When Charge finally crawled into bed just after three in the morning, he was grateful that he wasn’t working until noon. Every time he had glanced at Jon he had caught the full human staring forlornly at the repulsive splatter of paint. When Jon had finally called off with a jaw-cracking yawn, Charge had waved him off to bed assuring him that he would be calling it a night himself. That had been at eleven. Just over four hours later Charge was finally making good on his promise.
“My arm is going to hurt like hell tomorrow,” he muttered to the darkness as he stripped and collapsed, face down on the bed. “Today,” Charge amended as he slowly drifted toward the temporary, peaceful oblivion he had always found in sleep.
Part cat? Yeah, Jon – I’m part cat. The type that can take down a caiman or anaconda in the Amazon.
Jon slipped out of the house as silently as possible. Charge hadn’t been in the kitchen sipping too bitter coffee, so Jon figured he had stayed up a while longer. Crossing the porch, Jon opened the door into the garage and hit the lights. For a moment he stood, confused, until he remembered the Challenger had spent the night outside.
I’ll shift the cars around so I can park it inside this evening, Jon decided. Lightly rapping his fist on the button just beneath the light switches, Jon flipped off the lights as the one in the bay door’s motor housing came on. He strode across the garage toward the opening door and the brilliant chrome and gunmetal he could already see waiting outside.
As he walked by the Morgan, Jon glanced into the to-be English rose, making a mental note to e-mail the pictures he had taken to the seller and the various shipping companies. Jon pulled out his phone to set a reminder to send the e-mails in case he forgot. Suddenly, he stopped. Slowly, Jon pivoted on the slick, leather soles of his shoes. He took the two steps back to the side of the Morgan and stared at the paint-glob-free dash. The salmon paint had lightly stained the wood of the dash, but not so severely that it couldn’t be covered with a darker stain.
Reaching out a finger, Jon traced it over smooth surface and noticed the heat gun tucked on the floorboard with a jar that looked to be an oiled down acetone.
“He hand rubbed it off.” Jon murmured in surprise. He couldn’t deny the sudden surge of warmth that filled his belly. “Don’t take it the wrong way, Jon. He’s just a nice guy.” Nodding his head in affirmation, Jon added Charge’s name to the reminder:
Charge – say thanks & get cell number! Offer dinner after he gets off.
Tapping saves as he slid the key into the ignition, Jon dropped his phone into his breast pocket, confirmed that his briefcase was where he had left it – on the passenger floorboard – and turned the key bringing the metal beast to purring life.
Charge had ignored the alarm, the sounds of Jon getting ready, and even the smell of coffee – barely, but when he heard the throaty growl of Jon’s Challenger he hadn’t held out much hope of getting back to sleep. While he didn’t sleep again, Charge did doze another hour. Figuring that was the most he was going to be able to manage, Charge flopped out of bed and stumbled to the door.
Once he reached it, and found the doorknob eye-level the second morning in a row, Charge indulged in a pissed snarl. Not in the mood, and knowing he was alone in the house he wrapped his blunted maw around the knob and turned his head enough to have the tab of the latch clearing its mooring. Stepping back from the barely cracked door, Charge hooked his long claws to the under-edge of the door and pulled.
Wouldn’t do to scratch something. Ugh, I’m stiff. Hot shower or…oooh, he has a pool – and the walls are high enough I can go in shifted?
Charge trotted down the hall and went into Jon’s bedroom. While he normally might have snooped, the view into the backyard through the large glass doors had captured his undivided attention. Specifically the small sunken pool. Flicking the latch at the handle with his fangs, Charge caught the edge of the door with his claws and eased it down the track until he could maneuver his shoulders through the opening. Once in the otherwise unexplored backyard, Charge could see that the narrow rectangle pool had been paired with a sunken spa.
I’ll find the controls and get that sucker hot in a bit…probably need thumbs for that. But for now, cannon ball!
Charge leaped into the pool. Unfortunately, a cannon ball while a jaguar was impossible, and more than resembled a belly flop. Still, it was the passion behind the leap, right? Charge paddled up and down the length of the modern-minimalist pool a couple of times before sinking beneath the blue water. When his head resurfaced his long-ish dark curls were mostly straightened. He braced his human hands against the travertine lip and hoisted his wet body out of the pool.
Upright, Charge stretched and sighed happily. “Damn, every morning should get that luxury. Now, where are the controls for the hot-tub?”
Rotating his arm and shoulder in a large circle, Charge winced slightly as his bare feet slapped wetly on the white stone surrounding the pool and spa. He circled the low wall around the slightly raised tub.
“Well it has to be close by,” he muttered. Another minute of searching and Charge noticed a small box mounted to the wall of the house. It was tucked behind the heavy foliage of giant elephant ears. Flipping open the box, Charge found switches and knobs – all were neatly labeled.
After cranking the heat to his preferred 104⁰, Charge considered the jet options. “Hmm, pulsing, bubble, or high stream.” He rotated his sore arm and decided hard jetting, blisteringly hot water was just the thing.
Charge padded softly back to the hot tub and stepped down into the already steaming water. He hissed slightly as he lowered to a spot on the bench that would have jet nozzles aimed at each of his shoulders. The jets came on full and frothed the water turbulently around him.
Charge considered Jon’s tucked-away paradise. The pool and spa were screened away from the rest of the modest yard and the neighboring houses by strips of living fencing. Bamboo had been planted in long strips. Each strip was contained by sleekly finished concrete – the concrete gave the i
llusion of a slightly raised bed, while keeping the aggressive plant within the border that had been set for it. Clusters of elephant ears burst periodically within the pool area, softening the sharp lines of the bamboo. Large planters were nearly overwhelmed by the mounds of blooming hydrangeas bulging in brilliant displays of blue and pink. Prostate rosemary spilled over the lips of the planters and puddled in a fragrant curtain on the smooth flags.
Charge tipped his head back and rested it on the edge of the raised low wall surrounding the spa. His eyes drifted shut and he listened to the world around him. The neighborhood was quiet. A small dog yapped a couple of streets over. Occasionally, a car would zip in front of Jon’s home. As his muscles slowly relaxed in the general peace of the moment, Charge slipped into a light doze.
VIII
The clunk of a car door woke him. Suddenly awake, Charge glanced skyward – the sun had barely moved. 45 minutes, maybe an hour. Charge stood from his still hot and frothing soak. Water sluiced down his long body in thick, erratic ribbons. Charge cocked his head as the sound of a woman’s rapid firing yammering reached his ears.
“Si. Si. Look I’m at Mr. Forrest’s. He has someone staying with him. So while we both know I can clean and everything else while chatting, I don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea…”
Charge didn’t wait to hear the rest of the woman’s conversation as she approached the front door of Jon’s house he shifted and leaped from the spa. His claws scratched slightly against the stone surround as he landed and gave himself a thorough shake. Charge shifted back to human, opened the door into Jon’s bedroom and padded through the room and down the hall. Only somewhat damp after the shake, he knew the beads of water transferring from his feet to the floor would dry before the woman Jon paid to clean his home saw them.
He shut the door of the room he was staying in and snubbed the lock home as the front door opened. Charge listened to the woman bustle to the utility closet set in the hallway between the bathroom and Jon’s bedroom. She checked both washer and dryer.
“Well, I guess he has been distracted this week. He didn’t wash the linens. Finally, I’ll do them. That boy,” Charge could hear the exasperated affection in the woman’s voice. “I always tell him to let me do it. He’s busy enough. Maybe he’ll let me do my whole job eventually.”
Charge slid a pair of faded jeans up his legs. The soft, thinning denim clung to his thighs and the band clung low on his hips; out of habit, as opposed to need, he threaded a dark mahogany brown leather belt through the loops. He rocked back on his heels as he contemplated his two shirt options. Tossing aside the button-down, Charge tugged the v-neck blue t-shirt over his head. He rummaged in the side pockets of the duffle and found one elastic hair tie.
The chlorine in the pool and spa had sent his hair into an unruly mess of curls, unwilling to fight the riot, Charge flipped his head over and scooped it back into a mid-height stub tail. He tugged on a pair of socks and slipped his feet into the beat-up work boots.
Charge snagged his phone off the bed-side table and checked the time as he unplugged it from the charger. 10:50…I bet there is someplace I can get a cheap breakfast around here. Maybe the cleaning lady knows…
Tucking his phone and wallet into his back pocket, Charge carefully unlocked the door of the room and opened the door.
She’s tiny, was his first impression of Jon’s housekeeper. The little Latina woman had brassy-grey streaked dark hair. Her face was lined with years of smiling and shouting. She was humming some ditty in a low average tone as she prepped the washing machine.
Suddenly, she sensed his presence and spun toward Charge, one of her hands flying to her breast, while the other shot into the utility closet in search of a weapon. Her low ditty had transformed into a shriek so harshly high pitched, Charge had to wince at the sound.
As fast as she had been startled, the cleaning lady’s hands dropped to her hips and she scowled at him.
“You are Mr. Forrest’s friend? Si?”
“Si, mama – Si.” When the small full human raised a dangerous brow at him, Charge raised his hands in surrender, “You don’t look old enough to be my Abuela,” he lied charmingly.
“You are naughty sneaking up on an old woman!” She insisted, snarling to hide the smile tweaking her lips at his flattery.
“I didn’t sneak – I opened the door without slamming it. I am sure you would have yelled at me if I had done otherwise.”
The little woman gave him a dark look before turning back to the washing machine. Grateful that he had managed to catch the feisty woman with the truth, Charge stepped further into the hall, “I’m Charge,” he introduced himself with a bright smile.
“Angeliza.” She finally answered.
“A pleasure to meet you, I am sure, Mama Angeliza.”
“Handsome men only say Mama when they want something. I know I am too old for you!” Angeliza chided.
Charge couldn’t help the laugh. “No, mama, it isn’t that you aren’t a beautiful woman. I don’t like women that way.”
Both of Angeliza’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re no Mariposa,” she insisted.
“No, and I don’t go for the particularly effeminate either.”
“Ahh – you are like Mr. Forrest.”
“Jon insists he isn’t gay.”
“Bah,” Angeliza waved off his denial. “I know that boy has had a hard time. He might hide it but he doesn’t like women either. Once my daughter came with me as I had sprained my ankle; Mr. Forrest was here, but, he doesn’t look at Naddia the way all men look at her. I was even a little hopeful until that moment. He was happy to talk, but he wasn’t interested in the beautiful woman bending and unloading the dishwasher in front of him. And her beauty isn’t just a mother’s pride. No – Naddia is breathtaking. She was home because she just finished a photo shoot for bathing suits.”
“She must be beautiful.”
“Oh – very. Here, I have a picture.” Angeliza pulled her cell phone from her the pocked on the little apron she wore over her crisply pressed jeans and flowing shirt. She unlocked it, and went to her photo gallery. When she turned the screen to face him, Charge had to admit that she hadn’t been exaggerating. The woman in the photo was breathtaking. He didn’t go for those with two X-chromosomes, but there was no denying that if he had, Charge would have been stuck on Angeliza’s daughter like an epoxy.
“No, you weren’t exaggerating.”
“So you think she is beautiful?”
“She’s a very beautiful woman, but I wouldn’t be interested in having sex with her. Contrary to popular belief, a man can appreciate a woman’s beauty without wanting to sleep with her. Doubly so, if he is gay,” Charge finished with a smirk.
“You are a sad case for womankind, young man. Quite sad as you are quite beautiful yourself, still I suppose I’ll just have to say that ‘you’ll make some man very happy.’” Charge’s laugh strangled in his throat when Angeliza continued, “I have to wonder if you are interested in making Mr. Forrest very happy.”
Charge coughed and took a moment to clear his throat. “Well, he is a very nice man…”
“But is he too old for you?”
He could feel a blush spreading up his neck to dust over his cheeks. Angeliza’s sharp eyes caught the warming color of his cheeks and smiled sagely.
“I think not. And you aren’t shy. I think you don’t want anyone to know that you are going to try to convince him. Don’t worry, I won’t share your secret.”
“That’s good,” Charge muttered as he glanced back at his phone. 11:03... crap, I’m running out of time if I want something to eat. “Anyways, mama,” Charge began, “I’m due at work in not too long. Is there somewhere cheap but good nearby that I can get something to eat?”
Angeliza glanced over at Charge and noticed that he was serious. Suddenly, the little full human hit a stop on the water starting to chug in the otherwise empty washing machine. She proceeded to tug his arm so he exited the hall into the open liv
ing spaces ahead of her. Angeliza shooed Charge all the way to the table, much the way he had occasionally seen people shoo chickens through the years. She pushed him into a chair and moved around the counter into the kitchen.
Before Charge quite realized what she was doing, Angeliza was back around the counter and pushing a cup of coffee into his hands. “You sit right there,” she ordered as she went back into the kitchen.
Charge sipped the bitter coffee and turned in his chair to watch the woman rummage in Jon’s refrigerator. She came out with an armful of stuff: a carton of eggs, a pepper and onion, what looked to be a pack of English muffins, a jar of jam, the carton of heavy cream, a block of cheese, and a package of bacon. Angeliza dropped her load on the counter before going to the pantry – there she pulled out a can and went back to the counter. Next, she assembled her tools, knife, whisk, spatula, a two pronged fork, can opener, cutting board, mixing bowl, and not one, not two, but two skillets and a griddle that she put onto the stove and cranked the burners to high.
She glanced over and saw Charge watching her. She smiled much as he imagined an indulgent grandmother would, “Mama, makes the best breakfast.” Angeliza turned back to her ingredients and tools and didn’t say another word. She cut the onion and pepper before cracking several eggs into the bowl. After scrambling the eggs with the cream, she mixed in the vegetables, and poured the lot into a sizzling, buttered skillet and eased down the temp.
A frittata? Charge wondered.
Then Angeliza piled every slice of bacon onto the lightly smoking griddle before opening the can. She eased the viscous brown mush into the smallest skillet, as it got hot, Charge’s nose told him that she was heating refritos. He watched as Angeliza juggled the various foods, burners, and temperatures. She flipped the bacon before yanking a very large plate down from the cabinet.