by E M Lindsey
James scoffed, giving Miguel a slightly patronizing smile. “Shug, a favor is you havin’ dinner and a beer with me at Niko’s place and not giving me the slip halfway through. This is work, and I fully intend to compensate you for your time. You try to argue, I’ll find a way to pay you back. That’s just the way I run things.” He cast Miguel a wink, then sauntered off, leaving Miguel feeling like a child.
A slightly scolded one, yes, but also very loved, and it was the most unusual feeling in the world.
Miguel got the bike running by three that afternoon. James brought him some lunch as he was tinkering with the throttle, and they chatted a bit before another car pulled in for an oil change. By the time he was ready to close up shop. Miguel had almost everything pieced back together.
James walked in with a look of awe on his face, arms crossed over his chest, and he seemed almost petulant. “Been doin’ this damn near all my adult life and it only took you an afternoon?”
“Like you said,” Miguel reminded him, swiping his hands on a clean rag, “you just needed a fresh pair of eyes. It still needs work anyway, but it’ll run.”
James looked at him a long moment, then nodded his head toward the door. “Come on, you can wash up in the office and we can head out. Also, your phone kept goin’ off, but I figured if you were waiting on anything important you’da kept it with you.”
Miguel shrugged. It might have been Amit, and if that was the case, he would feel guilty for getting totally lost in the work. The shop was the one place he’d felt safe at the club, and it had been a long time since he really got his hands dirty like this. It was easy to fall back into an old routine, but he didn’t want Amit to think he was blowing him off.
He heard James chuckle when he picked up his speed, but he ignored it in favor of walking to the desk. There was a text from Amit, but just the one, and then seven missed calls from an unknown San Antonio area code.
His stomach dropped, his face hot with worry because his dad was dead a year and a half, and he’d never been patched in. There’s no way they wanted him back—no way he owed them anything.
Amit: When can I see you again?
* * *
Miguel: Let me check my schedule at the shop, but any time I’m free. Sorry this took me a while, I was helping James at his shop.
He thumbed through the missed calls, three separate numbers, then moved to the voicemail and saw there was only one. With a breath, he took another leap, and hit play.
“Mr. Ruiz, this is Melissa Carter, and I’m an agent with Child Protective Services. I’m calling to speak to you regarding Cristin Tyndall and her daughter Callie. If you could please give me a call back, it’s imperative that we speak before the end of the week.”
She rattled off her office number, and with a frown, Miguel reached for a post-it and scribbled it down. He didn’t know anyone by the name of Cristin Tyndall, and he didn’t know anyone with a daughter besides the guys at the shop, which meant it was likely club related. It was a simple enough thing—he’d gladly tell them he’d never been part of it, and he’d never been privy to any of the goings on. Once upon a time he hated not belonging, but it made escape a hell of a lot easier in the end.
“You good?”
Miguel spun and saw James there with a worried expression. “Fine. Just some bullshit from back home.”
“Martin’s shop?”
Miguel shook his head. “Sorry, old home. Club shit.” When he saw James’ face fall, he shook his head. “Trust me, trouble won’t follow me here. Some agent is calling about some kid, and they probably think I know something. Luckily, I never got involved in club business. I fixed their bikes and occasionally drove a truck, but I kept my distance.”
James looked a little relieved and a little sorry. “I didn’t mean to be a dick.”
Miguel waved him off. “You weren’t. You’re protective. And my old man’s last club is the sort of shit you avoid. They made more trouble than they solved, and they didn’t have a lot of friends.”
James looked a little sad. “Was it always like that?”
“Not when my mom was alive,” Miguel said, and let himself feel a small pang of grief for her. “My granddad was the president of his club. Most of the guys came from Sonora—like my mom—and they didn’t like my old man, called him Gringo, though he never accepted the name. My granddad knew he was bad news—and he was. Somehow, the presidency got handed to him though, and he fucked it all up.” Miguel swallowed thickly and looked away. “He started breaking contracts and agreements with other clubs, couple guys got shot. They tried to teach him a lesson by burning his house down.”
“Fuck,” James breathed out.
Miguel felt a phantom stab in his missing fingers, and he curled his palm tight. “They thought I was with him on vacation. They didn’t know I was home. I uh…well. They got me out before I died, but I was pinned under a beam for a while. Fucked up my hip, burned me real good.”
“I didn’t know,” James said.
Miguel let out a laugh and was surprised it wasn’t more bitter. “Nah, I don’t talk about it much. Just…it is what it is. I never patched in with my old man’s club. I might have, if we’d stayed, but I was an extension of him and I wasn’t welcome anymore, even if they loved my mom.”
James winced. “I don’t know what that’s like, but I know what it feels like to be an outsider in the place you were supposed to belong. Takes a while to find your way.”
Miguel nodded, and James knew what he was talking about here. And Miguel felt it, even if part of him believed he was supposed to rebel against something like small-town life. A bunch of white, middle class, straight people with mason jars and neck beards, with their little vegetable gardens and PTA meetings. That wasn’t for him. Family, the straight life, none of it.
But it didn’t seem like it should be for anyone at Irons and Works either, and yet, they oozed contentment. Tony and Kat were both queer, married, inked up rebels who had probably seen a lot over their lives, but they were happy. They had a fucking picket fence and a daughter and a mortgage.
Things that Miguel had always believed were for other people. Strangely, it felt just outside of his grasp now—like all he’d have to do was lean forward and take it. But fear gripped him by the throat. He shook his head, then nodded his head toward the bathroom to wash up.
By the time he was done, he had himself under control. He’d shut down all those wants—even if his desire for Amit still burned under the surface of his skin. He’d let himself have it for a little while, but he wasn’t going to let himself believe it was for keeps. That just wasn’t his luck.
Chapter Thirteen
Amit was just finishing up with the last keg when Stacy’s head appeared around the door. There was a look of concern on her face that had Amit standing up, and she twisted her hands in front of her. “Uh. Some nurse called from Denver General, said your mom was admitted and you needed to get down there. She wouldn’t give me any info, though.”
Fuck.
Amit groped for his phone, then groaned when he realized it had died at some point during his morning shift. He hadn’t charged it the night before, and he had totally forgotten by the time he walked in to start on his inventory.
He felt panic rising in him, and he was torn between throwing his phone on the charger for long enough to call his sister, and running.
The urge to run won out, and he made it to his car in record time. He’d worry about his boss later—right now, he had to know. Losing his dad was years ago, but still fresh enough that he felt panic start to choke him. His mother’s love was suffocating, but he wasn’t ready to live without her yet. He wasn’t ready to assume the role of responsibility over his sister, his family, the meager estate his parents left behind.
He barely had his shit together as it was. He wanted more time to figure out who the hell he was and what he planned to do for the rest of his life. Slinging drinks wasn’t his end-game. He wanted something more, something that made him feel like the adult h
e should be by now.
He just…he wasn’t ready. He didn’t know how to do any of this.
Amit was in a full-fledged anxiety attack by the time he reached the hospital, and it was by luck alone that one of his aunties was standing outside on the phone. When she locked eyes with him, she ended the call and took him into her arms. “Oh, raaje,” she said.
“She’s not…is she?” he choked out.
She gave his cheek a pat. “Your sisters are with her. The doctors said it was a stroke, and she might be due for another, so they want to keep her.”
He let out a shaking breath, his hand curling into fists. “But is she…”
“Right now, she’s stable. I’m making calls, but you go and see her, okay?”
He nodded, feeling very much like the little boy who used to sit at her knee while she knitted and talked about her wild, younger days. She looked old, the way his mom did now, and it was like a punch to the gut. If he was getting older, so were they. He was busy wearing panties and smearing on lip gloss and painting his nails.
Fuck. His nails.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It was easy enough to explain away—a prank pulled after he’d fallen asleep. He’d at least had time for a shower before work so he didn’t smell like sex or booze. He put his hands behind his back as he reached the check-in desk, and after showing his ID and getting a visitor’s badge, he was directed to her floor.
It wasn’t hard to find, even if the hospital was a bit like a maze, and his heart thudded against his chest as he found her door. It was cracked open, and he could hear the murmuring voices of his sisters inside. He breathed out, then pushed inside, blinking against the dim lighting. The silence was strong enough he wouldn’t need to strain to hear them, but he fought the urge to turn up the lights anyway so he could read their lips and expressions.
“Oh, thank god,” Farhia said, standing up from her chair. She dragged him into a hug, and he crushed her smaller body against his own. Burying his nose in the top of her veil, he breathed in the familiar scent of home and childhood. “I was freaking out. I called your work but no one could find you.” She said something else against his chest, but her voice was too muffled for him to hear.
“I was doing inventory,” he told her. “Stacy got the call from the nurse and I ran over. My phone died.” He glanced up at Aminah whose gaze was stuck on his hands, and he knew she’d noticed. “How long have you two been here?”
Aminah shrugged. “Since she was brought in. I was over last night helping her bake for tomorrow—some of Ejaz’s cousins are coming into town to meet the family.”
Something he would have known—should have known—but he’d been so busy wrapped up in his own shit.
“She started repeating herself, then she went really pale and slumped over. I thought,” Aminah stopped when her voice cracked, and she glanced away, tugging at the edge of her veil. He wanted to go to her, but they’d never been particularly close, and he didn’t think she’d welcome the affection right then. “The paramedics got her talking again, but her left side isn’t working the way it should be.”
He winced, letting Farhia go and moving to the third, unoccupied chair that had clearly been set up for him. “Auntie told me the doctors think she might have another.”
“She has clots. They’re trying to dissolve them before it happens again, but they can’t be sure,” Aminah said. She was the younger sister, but had taken the role of responsible sibling better than he ever could, and guilt ate at him. It was his job to be the rock, his job to take care of them and step in when their father had died, and he’d let them both down. “We’ll know more this afternoon, when she has another scan.”
He didn’t like the thought that there was nothing to do but wait. He’d never done well with unknowns, and this wasn’t something he could ignore. “How was she? When she was awake and talking.”
“Asking after you,” Aminah said without bothering to hide her distaste. “Farhia said you went out last night.”
Amit curled his hands into fists in a fruitless attempt to hide his nails. “A friend of mine passed the bar. We were celebrating.”
“Hardly an accomplishment,” she sneered.
He sat forward, meeting her gaze. “He’s a Deaf man who uses only sign language. He fought tooth and nail to pass this exam and to find a job. It’s a huge accomplishment.”
She didn’t look contrite. If anything, she looked angrier. “And that’s more important than being with your mother?”
“I,” he started to defend, then slumped back and crossed his arms. He was tired of being made to apologize for having a life, for growing up, for moving on. He was tired of apologizing for being Deaf, for taking pride in his community. He knew it wasn’t the culture he was raised in—he knew he was different, but he should be allowed.
“Enough,” Farhia said after a minute.
Amit felt a sliver of gratitude toward her, but it wasn’t enough. She would defend him, but she’d never be on his side. He was language deprived for the first several years of his life as he struggled through speech therapy and audiologists telling him to just try harder. That stuck with him—viciously, cruelly. They could have learned with him, and instead they made him conform to their normal.
If they couldn’t accept his language, how would they accept the rest of him? How would they accept that, ultimately, he wanted to find true love with a man. That he wanted to sometimes put on dresses, and wear makeup, and feel like the real version of himself he’d been painting over for all these years.
He swallowed back bitterness and dragged a hand down his face. “We can worry about all of this later. Once mom gets past this…”
“If she does,” Aminah said, and though her tone was muffled, he could hear her intent to be cruel.
“Then we’ll go from there.”
His mother woke briefly, long enough for him to kiss her forehead before she was taken back for her scan. Aminah disappeared for Dhuhr prayer, which he hadn’t observed in a long time. He didn’t miss the way she side-eyed him as she left, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He took some comfort in the fact that Farhia didn’t follow their sister out.
Eventually the nurse came in and gave him a sympathetic look. She turned her back to him as she took readings off his mother’s machines, and he could hear the faint murmur of her speech. “…home…food. She’ll…for a…some time.”
Amit rubbed his temple, knowing it was mostly stress and fatigue that was making hearing and paying attention harder. “Sorry,” he said, waving one hand at his ear when she turned back around, “can you say that again?”
She sighed. “Never mind,” she started.
He put a hand up. “Please don’t do that. I need to know what you said. This is my mother in here.”
The nurse looked somewhat contrite. “Do you want me to write it down?”
“No,” Amit said, frustrated at how much time was being wasted. “Just say it again.”
“Can your sister sign for you?”
He curled his hand into the back of his hair and pulled, the pain helping him focus. “My family doesn’t sign. Just…obviously I can hear you now. Please repeat yourself.”
The nurse glanced over at Farhia who was determinedly looking down at her phone, then back to him. “I said she’s fine for now and you should all go home. Get some rest and food. She’ll be out of it for a while.”
He knew the nurse hadn’t told him everything she’d said before, but it was enough. “Will someone be in touch if her condition changes?”
“She has her daughter listed as her emergency contact,” the nurse confirmed.
Amit understood why—even on his best days, talking on the phone was practically impossible, but it still stung. It was meant to be his place, his job, but he’d always been relegated to last. “Right. Okay.” He turned to Farhia who was already gathering up her bag. “Do you need a ride?”
“Ejaz is outside,” she told him. She said something else, but she
’d turned and started walking, and he was tired of asking for people to repeat themselves.
He found himself missing Miguel fiercely. The way his voice carried even when Amit took his hearing aids out, the way he didn’t hesitate to repeat himself, the way he didn’t make Amit feel like a freak or a burden. Miguel’s hands were strong and all encompassing, and then he’d put himself at Amit’s mercy with a level of trust no one had before. He’d gifted Amit with a first—an important one—and it meant something.
He meant something to Miguel, even if it was temporary.
The fact that his phone was dead irritated him beyond reason, and he knew he should go home and charge it, but instead he jumped in the shower, changed, then got back in the car to head toward Fairfield. He felt no surprise at all when he pulled his car up next to James’ bike, and he felt a rush of relief and a little trepidation when he saw the second motorcycle next to it.
He could recall with perfect clarity how the rumble felt between his legs, how his body felt pressed against Miguel’s. He’d been naked to the open rode, but had felt entirely protected. He craved that again.
Walking around the side of the building, he came to a halt when he saw Will heading in his direction carrying two drink trays from Masala. The pair smiled at each other, and Amit held out his hands. “Can I help?”
Will relinquished one with a sigh. “Thank you. I guess some group of Frat assholes rolled into town. I got an emergency text with a caffeine SOS.”
Amit couldn’t stop his chuckle. “Poor guys.” It meant a bunch of anchor and tribal tattoos, and shit like pizza on an ass cheek or Bite Me on the inside of a lip. Amit had seen plenty of them roll through the shop during his longer sessions, and he didn’t think they’d be in any sort of decent mood after this.
He was hoping Miguel would have been happy to see him, but now he worried. Frat guys could be the cruelest, and Amit had seen enough of it for the day. He hung back behind Will as they walked through the front door, and he heard a muted cheer at the sight of them.