Turning the Tables

by Claire Thompson

  “Did you go to college?” Hank asked Avery, suddenly curious.

  “Never did,” Avery said without a trace of embarrassment. “I would have liked to.” He shrugged. “Who knows, maybe one day I will. I’ve been working since I was sixteen. I come from a big family—six kids. My dad was a postal worker but he got a rare form of stomach cancer when he was in his early forties and he passed away when I was fifteen. My mom had been a stay-at-home mom, but she had to go to work after that. My two older brothers and I helped out as best we could, but college was never on the table, not for any of us.”

  “Wow, thats sounds rough,” Hank said. “Your poor mom.”

  Avery nodded. “Yeah. It was tough for a while there. But she actually met a really nice man at the office where she got a job as a typist. He had never been married and had no kids. Right after they married, he ended up inheriting a big house up in Seattle. They moved up there with my three little sisters who were still living at home at the time. I had already left by then.”

  “Six kids,” Hank mused, trying to imagine it. “I’m an only child. I always wanted siblings. I was a pretty lonely kid.” And a pretty lonely adult. The realization stung, even as it rang with truth. He’d been raised by nannies and maids, his parents too busy with their work and social lives to bother much with him. He’d had friends here and there, but he had never gotten close to anyone, until Reese. And he’d totally fucked that up…

  Not wanting to go there, he closed the laptop lid. “We’ve done like six applications. Isn’t that enough for today? I promise I’ll look at this more later. Let’s do something fun. How about dinner and a movie?”

  “Sure,” Avery said agreeably. “But first, I have a question for you. Have you ever been paddled with a leather strop?”

  “No,” Hank breathed, his cock perking to instant attention. “Maybe we should forget about dinner and the movie…”

  The next Monday morning Hank opened one eye as he tried to figure out what that noise was. What time was it? It was barely even light outside. “Oh, the alarm,” he groaned, reaching for his phone, which was vibrating and chiming on its charger. He hit the snooze button and rolled onto his back, flinging his arm over his face.

  He still wanted to believe it had to only be a matter of time before his father got things straightened out and Hank’s life could return to normal. But Avery had convinced him it was better to behave as if he was totally on his own for the foreseeable future. And now he was going to his first job interview!

  Avery had had to work all day Sunday, so Hank had returned to his house with instructions from Avery regarding dusting and laundry. The house had seemed so big and empty and lonely after the comfort and companionship at Avery’s loft.

  He’d spent much of Sunday continuing to peruse the want ads. He’d filled out dozens of applications but so far, the only one he’d heard back from was for a “lube technician level 1,” whatever the hell that was, at the local Snappy Lube. It appeared to be an automated response inviting him in for an interview. If he checked the yes box and returned the email, he would be expected at the Snappy Lube at the ungodly hour of eight o’clock that Monday morning. Holding his breath, he’d checked the box and hit send.

  The alarm chimed again. With a sigh, Hank reached for the phone. He didn’t want to be late for the stupid interview. “No,” he said aloud. “Stop the negative thinking. It’s not stupid. It’s a chance to take control of your life.”

  Thus fortified by his mini pep talk, Hank stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the shower while he thought about what he should wear.

  Thirty minutes later, he drove into the parking lot in his piece-of-shit Toyota. At least he had a car, he reminded himself. He went into the building, a red brick affair with an attached garage that had six bays, several of them already with cars on the racks. When he told the pimply-faced teenager behind the counter what he was there for, he was directed to the manager’s office, a dirty, cluttered back room behind the service area.

  A grizzled man in his sixties with a craggy, leathery face and a nametag that read Foster Dickson – Manager sat behind the desk. He was doing something on his computer. He didn’t look up when Hank knocked on the open door, but only grunted, “Come in and take a seat. I’ll just be a sec.”

  Hank perched on one of the dirty, uncomfortable plastic seats in front of the desk, his heart jumping in his chest. He was glad he’d decided to dress down.

  Finally, the manager looked up. He gave Hank a cursory once-over. “So, you’re Henry Seeley?”

  “Hank. Yes.” Hank started to rise to shake the man’s hand, but he’d turned back to the computer.

  “Okay, Hank. Says here you have experience working on cars. That’s good.” He adjusted his glasses and squinted at the screen. “And I see you went to college. Well, la dee da to you. What’re you applying for this job for? It’s an entry level position.”

  “I need the work,” Hank said, trying to keep his voice calm. He couldn’t decide which would be worse. Not getting this job, or getting it.

  The guy gave him another look, longer this time, and then shrugged. “Okay. Well, you’re in luck. I just had a guy quit on me and I need a replacement, pronto. I ran you through the system. No criminal record. No outstanding warrants. Minimum wage to start. Opportunity for advancement, depending how you do. You might even move up to pit manager someday, if you play your cards right.”

  “Uh, how much is minimum wage?”

  “Eleven dollars and ten cents.”

  “An hour?” Hank did a quick, rough calculation in his head. Eighty-eight dollars a day times five was less than five hundred dollars. For a week’s work? How the fuck was anyone supposed to live on that? He could spend that much on a single dinner out if he ordered wine.

  The guy scowled. “Uh, yeah. An hour. You got a problem with that?”

  Hank swallowed. This was his only nibble from the dozens of applications he’d filed online. It was a start. “No,” he said quickly. “No, that’s fine.”

  The guy continued to scowl at him. “Okay. I can give you thirty hours a week. No benefits. No overtime.” He paused, as if expecting a reply.

  Hank just nodded numbly.

  “The most important thing to remember if you want to get ahead in this place,” Foster Dickson continued, “is you aren’t being paid to think, college boy. So don’t get any ideas. The pit manager will handle the customers and make recommendations as to what services they need. You just change the oil and whatever else is required, do as you’re told and keep your mouth shut. Got it?”

  What the hell was he getting himself into? “Got it,” he managed to reply, reasonably sure he’d been able to keep the snark out of his tone.

  “We provide training and your uniform,” Dickson continued. “You’re responsible for keeping it clean. The place is open seven days a week, from seven to seven on weekdays, eight to five on Saturdays and ten to five on Sundays. You’ll get your schedule at the beginning of each week.”

  The manager swiveled behind himself to look at his wall calendar, which had a nearly naked woman perched on the hood of a Trans Am. “Let’s see. Today’s Monday. If I can get you in for training tomorrow, then you could start Wednesday. We open at seven a.m. You report for work at six thirty sharp to get your pit ready for the day. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Hank replied again.

  “Good. See Mike at the reception desk. He’ll give you the personnel packet to complete and get you some uniforms. I’ll expect you at six thirty tomorrow.” The manager got to his feet and extended his hand. “Welcome aboard, Hank.”

  ~*~

  Avery’s cell buzzed just as he was finishing up in the brewery. He fished his phone from his pocket. Hank rarely called him, preferring to text, but now the phone indicated an incoming call. Avery took the call. “Hank? Everything okay?”

  “I did it,” Hank said, his voice flat. “I got the job. I’m a lube technician, level one. I start training tomorrow
morning.”

  “You don’t sound too excited. That’s fantastic, no?”

  There was a pause, and Avery could almost see Hank shrugging. “I guess. I have to wear a uniform. It’s thirty hours a week at minimum wage. Did you know minimum wage in Colorado is only eleven bucks? Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous? How are people supposed to buy food, much less afford a place to live?”

  “It’s even worse in other states,” Avery said grimly. “The federal minimum is a ridiculous seven dollars and twenty-five cents. Texas, Alabama, Georgia, North Carolina—a whole slew of states just pay the bare minimum, and only when they’re forced to. Over half this country qualifies as what they call the working poor. No matter how hard you work, it’s impossible to get ahead. It’s a very tough world out there.”

  “Yeah, I’m getting that picture,” Hank said dispiritedly. “I never really thought about it. It sucks.”

  “But the good news,” Avery said, not wanting to discourage Hank in his new endeavor, “is you’re doing it. You got out there and made it happen. And I’ll be here for you every step of the way.”

  “Thanks, Avery. I really appreciate that. Want to come over and we’ll, uh, celebrate? I have some fun toys you haven’t seen yet.”

  “Sure. I could come by this evening. We should definitely celebrate. I’ll bring a pizza.”

  “No, I have a better idea,” Hank said excitedly. “I’ll cook for you. I have some great steaks in the freezer. I’ll look up what to do on the internet. I’ll make a salad. I’ll bake a cake.”

  Avery grinned at the phone. “That’s the spirit. You’re taking a big step and I’m super proud of you. See you around seven?”

  “See you then.”

  The guard at the gate to Hank’s neighborhood no longer asked for Avery’s ID. After a quick call, presumably to Hank, Tony waved Avery through. When he pulled up in front of Hank’s house, Hank was already standing at the door. He had a stained apron on over his jeans, and a smudge of something, maybe chocolate, on his cheek.

  “Hi, sexy,” he said, smiling broadly as Avery approached.

  “Hey there.” Avery set down his overnight bag and the small cooler he’d brought with him. Taking Hank into his arms, he gave him a long, lingering kiss.

  When they parted, he wiped the bit of chocolate frosting from Hank’s cheek with his finger and put his finger into his mouth. “Yum. That tastes good. Looks like you’ve been busy today.”

  “I have,” Hank said, grinning. “I went shopping at an actual supermarket on the way home from the interview, and I’ve been cooking all afternoon. The food’s almost ready. I set the table and everything. Care for a cocktail before dinner?”

  Avery laughed at Hank’s newfound enthusiasm. “I’d love one.” He bent down and picked up his things. Holding out the cooler, he said, “I brought some of our newest batch of Colorado Mule. It’s really good. Nolan just got us a contract with a local pub chain so we’re going full steam ahead now on production.”

  “That’s great,” Hank said. “Food’s almost ready. Come on back to the bar.”

  He followed Hank into the large living room. Something was different about the place. It took him a minute to figure it out. “Hey, where’s all the artwork?” The walls were bare, the large canvases of original abstract art noticeably absent.

  “I took them to a very exclusive private auction house I’ve bought pieces from in the past. They’re being appraised and priced for auction. I may not own the house, but at least I have something to sell.”

  “That must have been hard for you to part with that stuff.”

  Hank shrugged. “You know, I thought it would be, but I really don’t care that much. When it’s a matter of buying food and putting gas in the car, original art becomes kind of superfluous, you know?”

  “Yeah. Kind of puts it in perspective, right?” Avery agreed. “I’m proud of you.”

  Hank beamed as he pulled two chilled beer mugs from the small refrigerator under his bar. Avery poured the beer into the glasses and handed one to Hank. He raised his mug. “To Henry Winston Seeley III, lube technician, level one.”

  Hank laughed as they clinked glasses. “Thanks, Avery. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “Yes, you could,” Avery replied, smiling back.

  They both startled at the sudden, high pitched beeping coming from the kitchen. “What the fuck is that?” Hank cried.

  “Sounds like a smoke alarm,” Avery said as they rushed to the kitchen. Smoke was billowing from the oven. The kitchen looked like a bomb had hit it, with dirty pans and bowls strewn over countertops covered in crumbs and goo.

  “What do we do? What do we do?” Hank cried, wringing his hands.

  Avery opened the oven. Two large steaks were on fire, the pan too close to the broiler. Yanking open a drawer near the oven, Avery found some mitts and pulled out the tray. “It’s just a grease fire,” he said over the shrieking alarm as Hank flapped anxiously around him. “Get a dishtowel and climb on a chair and wave it around the smoke alarm to dissipate the smoke.”

  Hank grabbed the dishtowel that was wadded on the counter near the sink, which was full of dishes, wooden spoons and spatulas. He climbed on a kitchen chair as Avery turned on the oven fan and opened the windows over the sink, which held more unwashed dishes and utensils. The alarm finally stopped its incessant, piercing chirp, and Hank climbed down from the chair.

  His gaze fell on the steaks, which were charred black and still smoking. His face crumpled. “Oh, man, they’re ruined,” he wailed. “I wanted to give you a nice dinner.”

  “Hey, don’t worry,” Avery said quickly. “They’re not ruined. Just charcoal broiled. We can cut off the burnt stuff. I’m sure the rest is good.”

  “You think?” Hank asked hopefully. “I made a salad, too. And I even made dessert.”

  It was like a scene out of an old sitcom between a husband and his new, clueless bride, and Avery had to suppress a smile. “Sounds fantastic. I’m starving.”

  Hank had set the table in his elegant dining room, complete with fine china and cloth napkins. He insisted that Avery take a seat while he brought the food in from the kitchen. The steak was actually quite good, once they’d cut off the charred parts. The salad was good too, if a little overdressed.

  After dinner, Hank said, “And now dessert. You have room for dessert, right?”

  “I always have room for dessert,” Avery said, patting his stomach.

  Hank went to the kitchen and returned a moment later with a large, rather lopsided chocolate cake. Some of the icing had slid off and was pooled on the plate. He set the cake triumphantly on the table and cut Avery a huge piece, which he placed with a flourish in front of him. “I made it from scratch. The Barefoot Contessa. The secret ingredients are buttermilk and fresh coffee. I hope it’s good.”

  Hank watched expectantly as Avery took his first bite. The cake was burnt around the edges and not quite cooked in the middle, but the love that had gone into baking it made it perfect. Avery closed his eyes as he chewed. “Hmmm,” he said, indicating his approval. “It’s delicious.”

  “Yeah? You like it? Really?” Hank replied eagerly. He hadn’t touched his own piece.

  “I really do,” Avery said, taking another bite to prove his point.

  Hank sat down and took a bite of his own piece. He wrinkled his nose. “Well, it’s not going to win any prizes.” He chewed and swallowed. “But it’s not half bad, if I say so myself.”

  After they finished their dessert, Avery pushed back from the table. “Let’s clean up the kitchen and then I could use a shower. I came over straight from the brewery. Then you can show me those sexy toys you mentioned earlier.”

  ~*~

  They stood together under the multiple shower sprays in Hank’s state-of-the-art shower stall. Hank was still riding high from the success—well, the almost success—of his first home-cooked meal. He’d never appreciated how much time and work went into cooking. He’d always just t
aken his meals for granted, prepared by someone else and placed on the table in front of him, and then whisked away when he was done. It hadn’t gone quite as smoothly as he’d hoped, but Avery had genuinely seemed to appreciate the food.

  As Avery reached for the soap, Hank said, “No, let me.”

  It was strange, this newfound desire to do things for someone else—to please someone else—not because of what it got him, but just because it made him happy to do it. He knelt in front of Avery as he soaped up his big, strong body. He spent extra time soaping Avery’s cock and balls, pleased and excited when Avery’s shaft hardened and elongated to full erection.

  After Avery rinsed off, Hank knelt again and took Avery’s shaft and balls into his hands. He looked up at him, seeking permission. Avery nodded slightly. Eagerly, Hank closed his lips over Avery’s warm, wet cock. His own cock was aching for attention but he ignored it, focused on Avery’s pleasure. He gripped the base as he sucked and licked along the long, thick shaft, taking it as far back into his throat as he could.

  “Slow down,” Avery murmured, putting his hands on either side of Hank’s head. “There’s no hurry.” Holding Hank still, he guided himself in and out of Hank’s mouth. Hank closed his eyes, letting his hands fall away as he focused on opening his throat to fully receive Avery’s offering.

  Avery moved slowly, pressing into Hank’s open mouth until he nearly gagged him, not stopping until the head of his cock was lodged at the back of Hank’s throat. Hank couldn’t breathe, and for a panicked moment he lifted his hands, thinking to push Avery away.

  “Hands down,” he heard Avery say, and despite his pounding heart, Hank obeyed. Only then did Avery pull back, allowing Hank to catch his breath before slowly but surely moving forward until Hank’s windpipe was again blocked. This time he stayed there longer. Hank fought the rising panic, focusing instead on the heavy, sweet weight of Avery’s shaft filling his mouth and throat.

  “Yes,” Avery said softly. “That’s it. You belong to me, Hank. Even your breath is mine.” He moved more rhythmically, pressing in, pulling out, his hands all the while on either side of Hank’s head, holding him in place.