Mechanic with Benefits

by Mickey Miller

  In no time at all, it was June. In two weeks, I’d be back in Chicago and Chandler back in North Carolina for summer training camp.

  It was the first Sunday in June, and I woke up early for some reason. I headed to the kitchen to start some coffee.

  When I stumbled in, I smelled the fresh aroma of the coffee already brewing and heard the percolation of Doña Maria’s coffee maker. I expected to see Maria but that wasn’t the case. What I did see, however, was something out of a Tumblr page devoted to sexy morning wakeups.

  Chandler stood with his back to me, facing the window so that his body was lit up by the early morning sun. He wore dark grey sweatpants with no shirt, the muscles of his olive skinned back and neck on full display. His hands on his hips and his face turned slightly to the side, the light glinted off his strong jaw. I’d never noticed how broad his shoulders were—okay, that was a lie, I’d noticed—but I had to take the time to admire his perfect body as I moved my eyes up his back. The only movement he made was occasionally breathing, which seemed to tense his back muscles.

  I said nothing, watching him like a creep, again, for a full thirty seconds until the coffee beeped. Right before he turned around, I spoke, so he hopefully wouldn’t realize the extent of my gawking.

  “Good morning,” I said in an even tone.

  He squinted at me without smiling. “Morning,” he answered, returning my businesslike tone. He reached for his cup, drew another from the cupboard and handed it to me. As he did, his eyes examined me, staring at my hand and running up my arm and my chest before finally landing on my eyes. Something was different about him today, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what that was.

  “You’re up early,” I added as I filled my cup. I motioned for Chandler to hold his cup closer and I filled his as well.

  “Yep,” he answered curtly, giving me nothing to work with.

  “So…why are you up early?”

  “I leave today.”

  A surge of anxiety went through me unexpectedly.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, a dumb question that I probably knew the answer to.

  “Going back to college. Summer league for senior year starts in Chapel Hill for me next week.” He nodded toward his bags, which were all ready to go in the living room already.

  Of course I’d known Chandler would leave sometime. And I’d been consciously avoiding him for weeks. So why did I feel suddenly awful, desperate even, now that him leaving was a reality?

  “You know,” I said. “I don’t think I even friended you on Facebook.”

  Leaning on the kitchen counter to half sit, he shrugged. “Not on it. Coach says it’s a good way to stay out of trouble.”

  “Instagram?”

  “Nope. I don’t do social media.”

  “Hmm. Well, how are we going to stay in touch?”

  “Why would we stay in touch?”

  That one stung. I didn’t know how to react, so I took another sip of coffee and let the hot liquid burn my throat.

  “Because we’re friends.”

  “You’ve been avoiding me for a month and now we’re friends again?”

  “What about the friend pact?”

  He laughed, so coldly that it made my stomach lurch. His gaze cut to me, then right through me. “Friends…for a little while, Squirt,” he said, softly.

  Squirt. I was actually going to miss him saying that. On instinct, I went on the defense. “And me avoiding you?” I scoffed. “Please. You’ve been avoiding me.”

  His eyes seared through me as he took a sip of his coffee. “Fine. I admit I’ve been avoiding you somewhat. I know when I’m not wanted and I’m not into getting shot down every time we’re together,” he said, his voice flat. “But don’t act like you’re an innocent victim in all this. If you wanted to hang out you could have knocked on my door.”

  I gripped the mug with both hands, letting the warmth spread through me. The hot mug was a very different sensation than how ice-cold Chandler was being right now. But I deserved it. He was right. The strain between us was all on me. I had to fight the tears back. Show no weakness, prove that I was indifferent because it was the right thing to do.

  “So your flight is this morning?” I asked, opting to change the subject back to logistics.

  “Flight leaves at ten. In an hour, Maria is taking me out to an early breakfast and then driving me to the airport.”

  “I see,” I said. The awkward pause sank in. I thought about heading back to my room, or to the couch. But the truth was as awkward as things seemed, there was a certain magnetism that still pulled me to him. I wondered if he felt the same thing. I realized, it didn’t matter. He was leaving. This was over.

  After a few moments had passed, Chandler chuckled lightly and shook his head. “You’re so fucking confusing, you know that?”

  I glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”

  He took a step toward me so that he was barely an arm’s length away. I could feel the heat emanating from his body. He spoke in a soft, gravelly tone. “You masturbate to me while standing in my doorway. You literally drop your panties and run. We make a connection—a real connection. I start to feel like I know you better than anyone I’ve ever met—and you run away. You’re standing here talking to me this morning, and you still won’t admit to yourself what your body already knows.”

  My hands around the mug got tighter, so much so that the heat from it was almost burning me. “And what would my body already know?” I whispered.

  His eyes dragged down my face and landed shamelessly on my breasts. “Your nipples are hard as can be right now. Seems to happen a lot around me.”

  A shiver ran over my body. I actually looked down to make sure, and he was one hundred percent right. I was going to say, “It’s cold,” and make up some kind of excuse for it, but I knew that would be futile. There was no point in denying that looking at Chandler shirtless made my body warm. Plus, Barcelona in early June, was hot as hell. I just settled on the truth. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Chandler took another step toward me and put his coffee down on the counter behind me. He wasn’t yet touching me, but he was alarmingly close. He took the coffee out of my hand. He took a sip of it, and smiled. “Mmm. Tastes like Amy lips.” He set the coffee down on the counter, and pressed his hips into me. My heart beat like crazy, my ass pressed up against the kitchen drawers. Chandler grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head so that I had to look up at him. “I want to taste every inch of you, Amy, not just your lips.”

  “Oh God, Chandler,” I muttered. My hips—almost involuntarily, as if they had a mind of their own—began to move in slow circles rubbing against him through his sweatpants. Every time I applied pressure I could feel his erection get a notch harder against my stomach. “Is this what you want?” I asked, through hazy eyes.

  He didn’t say anything. Just stared at me until I opened my lips to him. I made myself a target. He put his hand on the back of my head and brought his mouth to mine. We pressed our lips together for what was probably minutes but seemed like hours, tasting the coffee of each others’ tongues.

  “Fuck, Amy, I want you so bad,” he said, between breaths. “I want to lift you up onto this countertop and fuck you right now,” he whispered. “I could never be just friends with you.”

  I closed my eyes, briefly, then stared at the rose tattoo on his chest. Chandler leaned away for a moment, his hands still on my hips.

  “Chandler, I—”

  We were interrupted by a sweet, sing-song Spanish voice. Chandler backed away from me as Maria entered the kitchen, eying us. “Buenos días,” Doña Maria said, all chirpy. “¿Qué están haciendo?”

  Que están haciendo. I’d learned that somewhere along the line, and I knew what she was saying.

  “We’re not doing anything, Doña Maria,” I said with a forced smile. “Coffee?”

  “Sí, claro,” she said, and Chandler poured her a cup.

  Chandler and I exchanged a look
that I found myself unable to interpret. God, I wanted him so bad. Yeah, I might even have a one-night stand with him, if that was my only option. But a voice in me kept saying to hold out. For what, exactly, I couldn’t be sure.

  Our goodbye after that was surprisingly anticlimactic. I kept thinking we would have a few more minutes together, alone, without Doña Maria watching us. But the truth was, she watched us like a hawk—the woman knew something was up.

  After consciously ignoring him for some time, I wished we had more time—one more night together even.

  But an hour later, I watched his sexy ass walk out of the door, and I didn’t have his Facebook, his Instagram, or his phone number.

  I figured I’d never see him again.

  Part Two

  Five Years Later

  Thirteen

  Chandler - Five Years Later

  The signs that a woman wants you aren’t obvious to every guy. But if you look close enough and you're a keen observer, you'll see them.

  Consider my situation on a flight from Chicago to Barcelona a few days after the New Year.

  In front of me, and across the aisle, sat an attractive woman who kept glancing backwards over her shoulder. A cute blondie a few years older than me.

  The reasons I knew she was into me were subtle but I didn’t miss them. Every time she glanced back, she deliberately lingered her gaze on my cocky smirk, blue-green eyes, and olive-colored skin. I was reading a book, but since I’m an expert at peripheral vision, I easily caught her stealing glances at me.

  “Jesus, when is the stewardess going to be up here. We are first class after all,” she huffed. I timed it just right so the next time when she glanced back toward the curtain, she found my eyes smirking back at her.

  “Good service is so hard to come by these days.” I grinned and shook my head.

  She smiled at me but seemed surprised. Probably because most guys these days are such pussies that they won't even talk to girls in the flesh, let alone openly flirt back. They’re so used to their electronic dating profiles, Tinder, and Snapchat, they feel more comfortable swiping left and right on their smartphones. Meanwhile, they are scared to interact with women in real life.

  Me? I’m an old school type. A regular Clint fucking Eastwood. I don’t even have a Facebook page. Fuck Facebook.

  “All I need is a drink.” She smiled wryly, batting her eyelashes and giving me an expression that had 'fuck me' written all over her face.

  “I could use a refill myself.” I jingled the ice in my now empty Jack-and-Coke and raised both of my brows at her.

  “There’s no one in the seat next to you,” she remarked, half question and half statement, grinning as she craned her neck to look over my shoulder into the seat next to me.

  “Nope.” I quirked the sides of my lips up slightly. “Want to give me some company? Long flight.”

  “I suppose you might make a better travel companion then McDrooly over here.” She nodded to the man next to her. Only an hour into the flight, the guy was snoring so loud it made me want to personally apply a nasal strip to his face.

  I turned my legs so she could squeeze through and sit in the window seat next to me. She put her hand on my shoulder for ‘balance’ as she walked by. But I knew she didn’t really care about balance. She was checking out the goods, like a man running his hands over a car he’s considering taking for a ride. Call me cocky, but I wasn’t surprised. I'm a professional basketball player, I work out a lot, and women have always enjoyed feeling me up. Abs and arms are usually their top priorities, but once they catch wind of what’s below, that usually seals the deal.

  She eased into seat and slid her hand off my shoulder.

  “I’m Chandler.” I smiled, reaching a hand out.

  “Renee,” she replied, returning my grip.

  “Pleasure to meet you Renee.”

  Like she had done with my shoulder, she let her hand linger a little longer than was normal.

  “You have strong forearms.” She ran her hand up to my bicep and gave it a light squeeze. “And giant hands. Do you play a sport?”

  “Basketball.” I smiled.

  She opened her mouth slightly, ran her tongue along her lips, and flashed her eyes at me once more as she slid her hand off my forearm. “Basketball. That’s hot.”

  Renee was attractive, objectively, at least. She had on a sexy black skirt and a blue tank top that hugged her upper body.

  I smiled again, and leaned back, seeing exactly where this was going. We’d chat for the next hour with some heavy flirting. The drinks would help lubricate the fact that—despite our mild physical attraction—we were virtually strangers.

  A stewardess walked by, seeming a little flustered, her cheeks red and her hair out of place.

  “Excuse me miss, we’d like to order a couple of drinks, please,” I said with a polite smile.

  She ignored me and continued past. A second later she stopped, turned, and looked over her shoulder with a delayed reaction. “I’m sorry sir, but we’re dealing with a bit of a…situation right now.” She chose her word carefully. “And I need to go speak with the Captain.”

  “Well, when you’re done dealing with that situation, we would love to get some first class service,” Renee chimed in. “We need some drinks.”

  “Right away, ma’am.” The stewardess made a sort of exaggerated curtsy motion, as if conveying that she had bigger fish to fry than our drinks. She disappeared into the flight deck.

  “Well, that was rude,” Renee said, clearly annoyed. “I am certainly not a ma’am.” I noticed a slight bulge inside her cheek as she ran her tongue inside her mouth and stared at me with her big blue eyes. “Quite a Miss.”

  I stood up and stepped into the aisle. “Well, Miss, I’m going to get us some drinks from the bar in the back since it looks like we are in a serve ourselves situation. What’ll you have?”

  “Vodka tonic with lemon. No lime. Lemon.”

  There was a certain bite to the way she said the words that made me slightly irritated. But still, I’d get her the drink. “You got it. Be right back.”

  The Boeing 747 was a jumbo jet and had several rows of curtains every twenty seats or so. The lights were mostly dimmed except for a few night owls up reading. The passengers were a mix of Spaniards, tourists, businesspeople, and a few scattered students. Most of them surely planned to sleep most of the way to Europe. I saw one wide-eyed guy with glasses looking out the window. He didn’t look tired at all. I wondered if this was his first flight or trip to Europe.

  When I reached the very last curtain I could hear a woman speaking. No, yelling. And there was laughter from the crew. I opened the curtains, and twenty feet away I saw the center of the disturbance.

  She had long brown hair, a short stature, and was gesturing toward the liquor cart. I slowed my walk so that I could gauge the situation.

  "Miss, I'm sorry but the liquor cart has been closed for the night,” the stewardess said in an even tone.

  "That’s a lie," the brunette countered, swaying ever so slightly.

  I tilted my head and squinted my eyes, trying to see her face in the sparse lighting. Something about her mannerisms seemed instantly familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. And then there was her voice, which had this unique perky quality to it. I scanned my memory, but something did not compute.

  “If I have money, the bar is open,” she emphasized, holding out a twenty dollar bill to make her point.

  "It's not a lie. The bar is closed,” the stewardess countered. This was a bold-faced lie, since blondie and I were about to order booze. Not to mention flights didn’t exactly have cut off hours since we were over international waters.

  "It isn’t, though. Come on, sister. I’ve had a tough year. A tougher month. And another drink is going to fix all my problems. Trust me.” She said the words with such conviction that the stewardess seemed like she wanted to believe her.

  Wait. That voice. I swallowed and my heart began to palpitate whe
n she turned, briefly, I saw her face.

  Squirt.

  Fourteen

  Chandler

  After all these years, Amy had the same fire in the eyes that had attracted me to her. Tiny, gregarious, and fucking gorgeous.

  My heart began to pound like crazy. The one fucking girl who got away from me was back in my sights. And tipsy Amy was possibly the most charming of all of the versions of her I knew.

  “I can’t even have a drink if I bust out my best eighties dance moves?” She closed her eyes and danced as if the entire flight crew wasn’t standing right goddamn there.

  The two stewardesses were both cracking up and I could tell that even though they wouldn’t give out any more liquor to her, they found her pleading as adorable as I did. By now, several passengers were stirring and avidly watching the show. Meanwhile, my heart was practically beating out of my chest as I felt old feelings float up to the surface. Ones that I hadn’t felt in years, ones I had pushed back and never visited.

  “Amy.” My voice broke as I spoke from behind, heard the syllables like I was speaking the words of a foreign language, so long since I’d said them. Sure, I knew a couple of people named Amy here and there, but the way I said her name was different.

  When I spoke her name, she immediately stiffened, then turned slowly toward me until she was fully facing me, her eyes wide.

  “Chandler?” She stared at me for a moment, mouth wide open, before she took several quick steps and ran up, and wrapped her arms around me. “Oh my God! Chandler!”

  She pressed her petite but curvy frame into me and laid her head on my chest, warming up my body. I hugged her back, looking down at the top of her head in utter disbelief.

  “I can’t believe it’s you,” I growled.

  “This is crazy,” she whispered, not letting me go. “Why the hell would you be on this flight?”

  “I live in Barcelona now,” I began. “I take this flight a few times a year. I was just back in Chicago for the holidays. What about you? Why are you on this flight?”