Logan missed the rest of Trudy’s directions, distracted by her mention of the river he’d practically grown up on back in Elco. His daydreaming was cut short by the realization that, like everything else in Pittsburgh, the familiar waterway was a very different entity here.
Fortunately, Trudy was writing the address down for him. He figured, when the time came, he’d find it without her directions—one way or another. The counselor reached across her desk and handed him the paper, saying, “Nick Zales, the guy who runs the Life Skills program, would like to meet with you to go over a few things. I suggested tomorrow afternoon; can you make it?”
Though Trudy had been talking about this idea for weeks, it had always been somewhere off in the future to Logan, so the word “tomorrow” caught him off-guard. “No… not tomorrow. Maybe sometime next—”
“I thought you had Thursdays off?”
“Yeah… but I got some stuff I gotta take care of….”
“Can’t you take care of it in the morning?” Trudy leaned forward and speared Logan with her piercing gaze. “I really think this is important for you. You want to move on, don’t you? You want to get unsupervised visitation rights, don’t you?”
After two months in therapy, Logan had no trouble recognizing that Trudy was working up a head of steam. Cutting it off by agreeing to her request seemed suddenly more attractive than sitting through one of her fiery lectures. “Yeah, sure, I’ll make some time. When’s he wanta meet?”
“Nick said anytime in the afternoon before five. What works for you?”
Since Logan had no particular desire to teach a bunch of women who would probably think of him as some kind of monster, he still wanted to put this meeting off as long as possible. “How ’bout four?”
“Okay, I’ll let him know.” It was Trudy’s turn to glance at the clock. “We still have a few minutes. Why don’t we spend it exploring why you’ve never verbalized any desire to see your wife—even though we’ve talked about your seeing the girls quite a bit. Do you want to see Linda?”
The idea of seeing Linda filled Logan with so many conflicting emotions—most of them bad—that to cope he’d learned to squeeze it into as small a space as possible and lock it away in a dark corner of his brain. The thought rarely escaped its confines—until this infernal woman insisted on setting it free. He stared at the rug between his feet as he answered, “Like I’ve said, that’s up to her. In court she sure didn’t seem like she wanted to.”
“I didn’t ask if you could see her, I asked if you wanted to see her.”
Logan felt a spike of temper shoot up his spine, and he had to work to keep his thoughts to himself: Fuckin’ woman! Never lets nothin’ go. With no other outlet for his anger, Logan’s hangnails bore the brunt of his frustration for a few seconds before he finally threw a hooded glance at his tormentor, mumbling, “I don’t know.”
After waiting in silence for more than those three syllables, Trudy finally rejoined, “Okay, we’ll explore that next week. In the meantime, why don’t you give it some thought?”
Though he had no real intention of complying, Logan was trapped by Trudy’s direct request and felt he had no choice save to agree. “Okay.”
Trudy leaned back and twisted her chair gently back and forth as she speculated. “From what we talked about last session, I think working on cars is a real self-soothing technique for you. Some time doing that might unblock you on… well, any number of topics. Are you still looking for a mechanic job?”
Logan stifled the urge to roll his eyes at the phrases, “self-soothing” and “unblock.” Instead he answered honestly, “Been looking, but there ain’t much of anything—not in Braddock. Guess I’m lucky I was able to hang onto my job at the nursery.”
Though he’d never really cared for the work at Scott’s Garden Center, lately it had become a refuge for Logan, and he took every bit of overtime possible rather than face the emptiness of his tiny efficiency apartment.
“What about here in the city? I could ask—”
“No, ma’am. Thanks, anyway. Where I am is bad enough. Can’t see me working here.” To Logan’s way of thinking, the weekly trips from North Braddock to Trudy’s downtown office near Pitt’s campus were disorienting enough. He had no desire to make them a daily occurrence.
“Are you planning to move back to Elco when your probation is up?”
Before the incident in March, Logan would have jumped at the chance, but now the thought filled him with dismay. Since word of his arrest and subsequent guilty plea had certainly reached the small town by now, Logan was sure he’d face a storm of gossip and condemnation. “Nah, just my sister there now. Might as well stay put.”
At last the hour was up and Logan could escape Trudy Gerard’s seeking gaze and blunt tongue. The drive home to his room tucked into a widow’s basement was marked by less relief than usual, since he faced meeting with this Nick Zales the next day. Logan wondered what he was like, almost immediately concluding he was probably some middle-aged stuffed-suit who talked bullshit stuff like “verbalize” and “self-soothing.” In the end, it didn’t really matter what Zales was like. Logan would just have to close in, keep his head down, and weather it—just like every other misfortune he had faced in life.
AFTER MORE than one wrong turn, Logan finally found the address on Arlington. Well, close to it anyway; in this part of Pittsburgh many buildings weren’t level with the street but instead seemed to have been carved into the hills that defined the South Side Slopes. His choices for getting to Acken’s Auto Clinic itself were a steep driveway or dozens of steps that ran alongside it; he swiftly chose the steps and, ignoring the late July heat, darted up them.
Upon reaching the landing that was level with the repair shop, Logan was amazed to see a man standing on the top railing. He was precariously balanced on the pipe rail and had a hand shielding eyes that were fixed on a spot across the horizon. The dark-haired man looked down at him, and Logan was caught by a flash of dazzling white, a mesmerizing smile that lit up an angular face dominated by deep-set, brown eyes and strong, masculine brows.
The stranger didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed by Logan’s sudden appearance; his smile only widened as he said, “Great view of The Mon from here.”
Feeling suddenly incoherent, Logan croaked, “The river?”
“Yeah. I love it. Love ’em all, really. Allegheny best, though.”
Logan couldn’t quite work up the nerve to debate the matter, only managing to dart the occasional glance at this fervent river devotee while asking, “Why’s that?”
“Grew up in Kittanning and Freeport—got Allegheny water in my veins.” He finally jumped down from his perch and motioned to the steps that continued on, climbing upwards to a few houses wedged into the side of the hill. “Guess I was in your way. Sorry ’bout that.”
Logan peeped back up at the man from under his baseball cap. “No… I’m… I’m meetin’ someone here.”
The smile disappeared suddenly, and a puzzled crease marred his forehead as he asked incredulously, “Wait a minute. Are you Crane?”
It took him a few confused seconds before he could even claim his own name. “Yeah… Logan Crane. That’s me.”
“Nick Zales,” was offered back along with an extended hand. It looked like he wanted to say more, judging from the mouth that opened and closed several times, but nothing escaped beyond those two syllables.
Logan shook the proffered hand, wondering how the pot-bellied bureaucrat he’d been expecting had inexplicably turned into a striking man about his own age. There was no sign of a suit. Instead Logan was disconcerted to notice a thin blue T-shirt playing over a muscled chest before sliding into snug Levi’s covering legs even longer than his own.
His discomfort was hardly diminished by the fact that Zales seemed equally startled by his own appearance. He briefly debated asking the counselor what he’d found so surprising but quickly decided against it. I probably don’t wanta hear the answer to that.
&
nbsp; WHEN NICK recovered from the shock, his first coherent thought was: I am going to kill Trudy Gerard! As he led his brand-new volunteer into the garage, Nick fumed to himself, Why didn’t she tell me this guy was fucking gorgeous?
A few deep breaths and Nick cooled off enough to admit that a lot of the fault was his own. Going on what Trudy had told him about her patient, he’d developed such a clear and concrete picture of Logan Crane that it had never occurred to Nick that he might not find a hulking, belligerent, knuckle-dragger waiting at Dave’s shop.
Okay—so what if he’s a shy, muscular piece of mouth-watering male? Just proof that this ugly book sure has one pretty cover. Come on, Nick, remember what else he is—a goddamned abuser.
Nick tried to distract himself by being briskly business-like. He turned to Logan, noticing that he’d finally removed his sunglasses, but the sky-blue eyes they’d been shielding flitted around the garage, never resting anywhere for long. Nick’s voice echoed around the space slightly as he explained, “So, we’ll have three gir—women in the group. None of them know the first thing about cars, by the way.”
“What am I gonna show ’em on—that?” Logan stopped his pacing across the oil-stained concrete floor long enough to point to a car hiding under a canvas tarp in the corner.
“No, that’s an old car Dave—he owns this place—is storing here. Larry says it needs a lot of work before Dave can unload it. We’ll use Norah’s car; she’s one of the women in the group. She just got herself a ’97 Cavalier.”
Talking more to the wall of tools than Nick, Logan observed, “Shit, they weren’t much good brand new, let alone twelve years old.”
“Yeah, well—that’s the kind of car these women can afford,” Nick answered in a frosty tone. “That’s why they need this course. They generally have old, unreliable cars, live in iffy neighborhoods, and possibly have some abusive nut stalking them.” He eyed Crane to gauge his reaction to that last salvo.
Logan’s shoulders merely hunched slightly as he responded, “Thought they lived in that center of yours?”
“Cheryl and Tish do, but Norah has moved out. Getting back to the course, what I want is for you to start with the basic stuff and work up to auto upkeep—changing oil and stuff like that—and then move on to a few really easy repairs.”
There was no immediate response from Logan as he stood, staring at the tarp-covered car with his hands jammed into his pockets. Nick waited him out, and Logan finally looked up briefly and mumbled, “Yeah, sure, sounds good.”
With that out of the way, the two men quickly agreed on a weekly course to be held every Thursday from three to five p.m. Logan was running his hands lightly over some of the equipment as he asked, “Do you know if I’m allowed to use these tools, or should I bring my own?”
“According to Larry, we can use whatever we want. Apparently Dave had a heart attack a few months ago and doesn’t get here much anymore.”
Logan finally trained his compelling gaze full-bore on Nick, who was surprised at the pain hiding in the impossibly blue depths. Surprised to see it or surprised he recognized it, Nick wasn’t sure. “This a one-man operation, then?”
Nick wanted to ignore the lonesome longing seeping out from under that question, but instead his body strummed with the sudden need to issue a non sequitur in response: I know, me, too. Wondering if he had suddenly lost his mind, he shook his head to clear it before answering, “Yeah, think so.”
To cover his disquiet, Nick walked over and flicked the cover off the car. His heart leaped at what he found, and he breathed excitedly, “Oh, wow, a T-bird!”
There was true reverence in Logan’s tone as he elaborated, “A ’62 Sports Roadster.”
The sudden appearance of his teenage dream car enthralled Nick, wholly swamping his revulsion for his companion. “Wonder if it runs,” he said, jumping into the cherry-red convertible and reaching for the key. He ignored Logan’s muttered protests about getting permission and attempted to start the car. It sputtered a few times and died, but Nick persisted, and the engine finally came reluctantly to life.
By now Logan was fully engaged, saying, “Let’s have a look under the hood.”
Nick left the car running but got out to peer over Logan’s shoulder. The mechanic seemed spellbound, standing transfixed with ear cocked to the car. “What are you doing?” wondered Nick.
“If you listen to a motor run, they’ll tell ya most of what ya need to know. Engines never lie—they’re great that way.” Logan then leaned in and started poking around, wiggling a few hoses before tugging at the rusted dipstick.
As Logan worked, he displayed a spectacular view of denim stretched tight over his well-defined ass, augmented by a damp, worn, western-style shirt doing little to hide strong back muscles. Nick was stunned and dismayed when a streak of desire sizzled down his body straight into his cock; he couldn’t help but look down at the slowly plumping traitor and murmur, “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
Logan straightened up, asking, “Huh?”
“I said, looks like there’s a lot wrong with it,” Nick demurred with a cough, while the reality of who he was addressing splashed ice water on his sudden ardor. “I gotta get goin’,” he added tersely, wanting to make his getaway before things got even weirder. Companionably examining a classic Thunderbird with a remarkably arousing, eerily familiar, convicted abuser was plenty weird enough already.
“Okay,” Logan acquiesced, though his reluctance was clear.
The two men said an awkward goodbye before Nick re-covered the car, locked up, and clattered down the steps to his Jeep. All the while, he analyzed his disturbing reaction to Trudy’s patient. Nick finally shrugged it off as mere horniness brought on by an undeniably attractive man.
“Obviously, three weeks’s just too long to go without a workout. Could probably fuck that car’s trunk ’bout now,” Nick muttered to himself as he called home to see if Polly could stay a little late. With that taken care of, he punched in the number for The Downtown Athletic Club and asked to speak to the personal trainer, Adam Cecil.
NICK STRETCHED out luxuriantly, enjoying the looseness that always came into his muscles after a good hard romp. He rolled on his side and came face-to-face with a bedside table lamp sporting a plastic Steelers helmet as its base. Nick had already chided Adam more than once on it being more appropriate for a six-year-old than a twenty-six–year-old, but his happy-go-lucky friend had always shrugged him off. Still, he couldn’t resist another try. “You ever gonna get rid of this lamp?”
“Sure,” came the mirthful reply over his shoulder. “When they come out with one that has a Steelers helmet and a Pirates cap.” Nick rolled back towards the auburn-haired man and gave him a playful swat. Adam rewarded him with a mock scowl, complaining, “You know if we could fuck at your place once in a while, I could take potshots at your furniture.”
“Oh, that would be lovely. I can just see it now—I’d be sucking you off, and my mom would come pounding on the door wanting to know if I’d finished my math homework.”
Adam gave a bark of laughter, finally chortling, “Okay, I can see where that would kill the mood.”
“Worse than when my Aunt Hetty caught me and Alison Barstow, ‘half-nekkid’, on her ‘good sofa’.”
“When was that?”
“Twelfth grade.”
“You were still messing around with girls then?”
“Yeah—not many other choices in a town like Freeport. Besides, at that age any chance to shove your dick in something felt good.”
“Huh,” Adam answered. “Not when what you’re really craving is a cock up your ass.”
“You never bothered with girls?”
“Not much. I always thought they were a pain in the ass. And not the good kind.” Adam waited for Nick to stop laughing before continuing in a more serious tone. “From what I hear at work, it gets worse when they’re older. Always whining about relationships and their feelings—or wanting guys to dress up and go to stupid t
hings like the ballet or some goopy chick flick.”
Adam warmed to his subject, sliding up onto his knees and affording Nick a chance to admire his muscular form. “I bet if straight men really knew how it was for me and you, they’d die with envy. We can hook up for sex if that’s all we got time for, or shoot hoops together, maybe catch a ballgame, and best of all, you don’t give a rat’s ass what I wear or who I screw when you’re not around.”
“As long as you’re using condoms,” Nick shrugged, comfortable in the knowledge that the caution was completely unnecessary for the health-conscious young trainer.
“Yeah,” Adam answered sheepishly. “Not that I ended up needing one last weekend.”
Sensing a story, Nick asked, “Okay, what happened?”
“You’ll love this. I hit on another straight guy at Sully’s.”
Nick sat up to face Adam, chuckling and shaking his head. “Man, what is with you? Is your gaydar broken?”
“Aww, it’s these goddamn metrosexuals—they jack me up but good. What kind of straight dude wears fancy shoes, has a manicure, and orders an appletini?”
“What’re you hittin’ on a guy like that for, anyway? And how’d he take it?”
Embarrassment flushed Adam’s cheeks as he answered, “What can I say, I was drunk, it was late, and he was cute. And luckily, he just thought I was having some fun at his expense.”
“That’s lucky? Adam—”
“Oh, come on. You’re makin’ me sorry I brought this up. You mean to tell me you’ve never been attracted to a straight guy?”
A memory of thick, dark blond hair, muscular arms, and a tight rear end flashed through Nick’s mind. Suddenly an uncomfortable truth was closer than the sweaty sheets. Nick hurriedly brushed the subject aside. “Of course I have. I’m just not interested in pursuing them. Who the fuck needs that grief?”
Green eyes alight with mischief, Adam nudged him. “I don’t know, you know what they say about every guy being just a six pack away from being gay.”
Dreamspinner Press Year Four Greatest Hits Page 102