Black Zeus
1295 Words
Jalen
....
One week had gone by since I arrived at Soho, yet it still felt like I was living a wild dream with my eyes wide open.
The city flowed with a rhythm I couldn't quite relate to no matter how hard I tried. I tried to adjust, but it felt like the world was always two steps ahead and I was still learning to walk.
But as weird as it was, I liked it. I enjoyed it. I liked the noise, the people, the freedom to openly admire anyone without flinching, or having to worry that you're being judged. I liked how nobody seemed to really care who was holding each other's hand, or what kind of love lingered behind someone’s eyes, or what kind of moments people shared.
It should've been a win for me. An easy platform to explore my fantasies, but I still caught myself folding whenever a guy’s gaze lingered too long. My stomach still dropped whenever the thoughts of being seen with a man crossed me. I still held my breath and clutched my chest whenever I walk past groups of men being comfortable around each other.
It was the Harlem effect.
But Soho was nothing like Harlem. There was room here: room to live and let live. And even though the thought mortified me, I was happy that I could someday live my truth.
School was alright. Not so amazing. Not so awful. Just like every other thing... New. I didn’t talk much, but I listened. Observed. And I sketched. Always. I filled the margins of my notebooks with quick drawings of my classmates—hands, lips, necks of that one boy with the blonde hair, blue eyes and the dimple.
After class, I had a routine. The cab dropped me off at the garage which Nyla's dad ran with surgical precision and a good sense of humor. I was still learning how to walk the ropes, but he trusted me with more tools and responsibilities now. He taught me how to read engine codes, and how to "listen to what a machine is trying to say."
Nyla had been the anchor to my little raft. She made things a lot easier, stoping by and easing up the tension and struggles with her light jokes and meal breaks.
Along the week, we filmed the second painting episode in her sunny living room. Though it didn’t beat the record of the first one, but it was widely received. She was proud, and I was beginning to see the vision.
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The sunlight was scorching when the cab rolled to a stop in front of the garage. The familiar blue and silver sign gleamed under the afternoon glow. I passed the driver a tip and stepped out, tightening my grip on the strap of my bag as I approached the entrance. It was day six at work, but the feeling was still overwhelming.
The scent of engine oil and metal still caught me off guard; it was horrible. But something else stopped me in my tracks.
Someone actually.
A new guy it seemed.
He stood with his back to me, shirtless and drenched in sweat, bent over the hood of a cherry-red Mustang like it owed him money. His tattooed brown skin gleamed like bronzed honey, his muscles rippling with tension as he worked the socket wrench.
More tattoos curled over his biceps and trailed down the lean lines of his back—snakes, flames, or just spirals, I couldn't quite understand what they were. I was too lost in him.
He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, neck flexing, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. My God! It felt like I'd just walked into black Zeus in his element.
His jeans sat low on his waist, grease stains on his thigh area like paint on canvas. A chain hung from his belt loop, swaying with each movement.
His hair—those short twisted curls—were damp with sweat, and roughly packed in a loose pony tail. He moved with precision. Like he knew people were watching. Like his body deserved an audience.
And yes I was watching. I was his audience.
My heart started crazy gymnastics in my chest. My throat dried. I clutched my sketchpad tighter, suddenly aware of every inch of myself and my surroundings.
Before I could shake off the lust, he turned, catching me in the act.
His eyes met mine and he arched his eyebrows, wearing an expression that I couldn't quite decipher. He looked gangster so I couldn't tell if he was weirded out, or he was genuinely amused.
I didn't care to find out. The last thing I wanted was to make the people around me uncomfortable, or suspicious like back in Harlem.
I turned around immediately, but before I could land a second step, his voice coiled through the air like warm silk and stopped me cold.
"Yo man, what's up" he asked, the words thick and gravel-edged, each syllable curling around me like smoke.
His voice—deep, calm, and smooth—rumbled low like distant thunder. It wasn’t loud, but it held weight. Just enough to still the air.
I cleared my throat. "Hey."
Before I could say anything else, and thankfully so, Mr. Wayne walked out from the inner room and stepped between us, wiping his hands on a rag.
"Jalen! You’re here just in time. I see you've met Trey. He's the newest addition to the team. He just got into Soho. He knows his way around a classic... He's cool."
Trey nodded again, this time with an easy smile. He wiped his hand before offered it to me in an handshake. His grip was firm, warm, and maybe too long. A wave of goosebumps spread through me as my body spasmed with excitement.
"Aye man! Cool to meet you. Where you from? I rep Philly. West side." He asked, slowly loosening his grip on me.
His gaze flickered down my body and back up again. Not crude. Just… curious. And just like that, I felt it. My d**k grew hard, poking a hole through my pants.
"Ni— nice to meet you too, I'm from Harlem." I managed to reply, voice cracking. I finally withdrew my arm, using my sketchpad to cover up my situation.
Mr. Wayne moved on to give orders to the other mechanics, leaving me there with my brain melting out of my ears. I turned toward the back bench where I kept my stuff, willing myself to breathe like a normal human.
"Wow," a voice said behind me. "You were staring so hard, I thought you turned into stone"
My body glitched in shock. "Nyla! What the hell?"
She grinned, leaning against the metal locker beside me, arms crossed, and her smile mischievous.
"Girl, you need holy water. He ain’t even been here a full day and you already melting into him. Stand up!"
"Shut the f**k up!"
She cackled. "Not until you admit you want him to pop your engine."
"Nyla!"
"Say it with your chest, baby."
I groaned, burying my face in my sketchpad. "Please, can we not do this now or ever?"
I tried to shut her up, and shake off the feeling, but it was too late. The heat in my chest had spread to my face. Trey was still in the corner of my vision, laughing with another mechanic. Every move he made felt intentional. Dangerous.
And I wanted more.
Nyla leaned in close, whispering like a devil on my shoulder. "You better be careful, Jay. Boys like that come with sharp teeth and no warning signs."
"I know." I replied, my eyes still locked on him.
But I was already gone.
- Writer
