Chapter 15 — Hands Over Hands
714 Words
Marlowe
I'd gotten three-quarters of the way through rebuilding a fuel pump before I realized King had been standing behind me for a solid two minutes without saying a single word about it.
"You're doing it again."
"Doing what."
"The staring thing." I didn't look up, mostly because looking up meant looking at him, and looking at him for too long had started doing things to my concentration I didn't have time for with half a fuel system in pieces on the bench. "I thought we covered this. It's unsettling."
"You said it was unsettling. I never agreed."
"That tracks."
He came around the bench instead of arguing further, close enough that I felt the heat of him at my back before I registered he'd actually moved, and reached past me for the housing I was about to seat wrong.
"Other way." His hand closed over mine on the tool, correcting the angle before I could protest, and for one long, stupid moment neither of us moved at all. "You're overcompensating on the torque. Ruin the seal doing it that hard."
"I know how to seat a housing."
"Didn't say you didn't." His voice had gone lower, closer, closer than any conversation about fuel pumps had any business being. "Said you're overcompensating. There's a difference."
I should have pulled my hand back. I want that on record — I *knew* I should have pulled my hand back, knew exactly what it meant that I hadn't, and did it anyway, let him guide the angle through two full turns before either of us acknowledged out loud that the lesson had stopped being about mechanics somewhere around turn one.
"You're very good at this," I said, mostly to fill the silence before it filled itself with something more dangerous.
"The fuel pump, or the—" He stopped himself, and I felt more than saw the small, rare thing that happened to his face when he almost said something he hadn't planned to. "The teaching."
"Sure. The teaching."
"Wasn't planning on teaching anybody anything when I walked in here."
"No?"
"No." His hand was still over mine, longer than the job required, longer than either of us seemed inclined to acknowledge. "Came in to complain about the thermostat again. Got distracted."
That startled a real laugh out of me, sharp and surprised, and something in his expression cracked open at the sound of it — not quite a smile, something warmer and more unguarded than I'd seen on him before, gone almost as fast as it arrived but not fast enough that I didn't catch it.
"You're funny," I said, like it was an accusation.
"Don't spread that around. Ruins my reputation."
"Your reputation's already ruined. You just spent ten minutes teaching a prospect how to seat a housing instead of complaining about the thermostat like a normal grumpy President."
"I can do both." His thumb moved, absent, unconscious, along the back of my hand still under his. "Multitasking. Very important skill in leadership."
I didn't have a comeback for that. I didn't have much of anything, honestly, standing there with his hand over mine and his voice gone soft in a way that made the whole garage feel smaller than it actually was, quieter, like the rest of the den had faded out somewhere behind us and left just this one corner of the world still running.
The moment held. Neither of us broke it.
Then the outer door banged open hard enough to rattle every tool on the wall, and a voice I recognized with a full-body drop of horror carried across the garage before either of us could react.
"Where's my President? I want to talk to my President! Somebody tell him Grant Calloway's here to collect what he's owed!"
King's hand went still on mine. My whole stomach dropped somewhere south of the concrete floor.
"Friend of yours?" King asked, low, already turning toward the door, already reading something in my face he clearly hadn't expected to see.
I didn't answer. I didn't trust my voice not to give away exactly how much trouble had just walked, swaying and loud and very drunk, straight through the one door I'd been praying my whole double life would never open at the same time.
- Writer
