Vindaloo and the T-Bird (Thunderbird)

Vindaloo and the T-Bird Sarah Black All rights reserved. Copyright ©2010 Sarah Black ISBN: 978-1-59596-690-2 Formats Available: HTML, Adobe PDF, EPub MobiPocket, Microsoft Reader Publisher: Changeling Press LLC PO Box 1046 Martinsburg, WV 25402-1046 www.ChangelingPress.com Editor: Katriena Knights Cover Artist: Bryan Keller

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Vindaloo and the T-Bird Sarah Black Race made a mistake when he walked away from Vin, the kind of mistake there’s no fixing. But when he sees the old T-Bird on the sales lot, he starts to wonder… If he can convince Vin to help him, they could bring something beautiful back to life -- something that’s been damaged nearly beyond repair. And maybe he can repair the heart he broke while they’re saving the old T-Bird.

Chapter One She was a ramshackle beauty, an old Thunderbird, aquamarine with a white porthole hardtop and a turquoise leather interior. Race wanted her bad. He’d been on his bike, riding home after work, and the little car had been sitting on the corner sales lot, Main and 13th Street. She hadn’t been there when he’d ridden in to work that morning. “This baby has been kept garaged, my friend, only two owners, and she’s ready for a body-off restoration. You want to check the numbers on the engine?” The salesman was talking too fast, and Race was starting to suspect he knew even less about T-Birds, if that was possible, than Race did himself. “Does it run?” The salesman laughed, tugged up the waistband of his trousers. The buttons on his shirt were straining over a round little potbelly. “You don’t buy old T-Birds to drive. Have you ever been on the classic car circuit? Those old boys would wet their pants to see this cherry little car, ready for resto. Only twenty-four thousand, my friend, and that’s a steal, and I’m giving you a steal because she just hit the lot an hour ago. You’re the first person to check her out.” The salesman eyed his bike. “And you look like a man who needs a car.” Race shook his head. “I don’t need a car,” he said. “I commute on my bike. I just wanted to look, really. These old Thunderbirds, they sure are…” He didn’t know what he wanted to say. The salesman understood him, and dropped some of his huckster. “Yeah,” he said, resting a hand gently on the battered top. “They sure are. Everything that came after this was just trying to be as cool as a T-Bird. Listen, if you’re really thinking about

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taking this car home, maybe you better get your mechanic to look it over, talk to you about what it’ll take to do a decent restoration.” “That’s a good idea,” Race said, shaking his hand. “You’re right, I don’t know anything about cars. But I do know a mechanic.” The salesman slapped him on the shoulder. “You go find your man and bring him out here pronto, my friend. She won’t last long.” Race studied the little car again. She had a long bench seat and the biggest, roundest steering wheel he had ever seen. He remembered the night of his high school graduation, his grandfather’s ’48 Ford pickup, the long bench seat. He had climbed in the truck with Danny Peters, punched in the cigarette lighter on the dashboard and pulled out a couple of smokes. When the lighter popped out, it startled them both, because Race had been staring into tender brown eyes, had been watching the wild rose color flood Danny’s cheeks. Since that night he had loved the taste of damp male skin on Ford leather, couldn’t get anywhere near an old bench seat without his cock giving a thud in his jeans. “How about I give you five hundred bucks, and you hold it until I get back?” The salesman looked startled, but he agreed, and after they concluded the deal Race climbed back on his bike and headed home. It was Tuesday, and he thought he might stop in at Yen Ching for some potstickers. He was a regular there, and they took good care of him. Jeffrey, his usual waiter, had a bit of a crush on him. Race appreciated his soft voice and gentle hands, and the admiring glances out of big eyes the color of caramels. But he’d never slept with Jeffrey. He didn’t want to ruin a good thing, and he was, after all, a regular. Yen Ching was just a block from his apartment at the old Idaho Building, one of the original buildings in downtown Boise. From his apartment he could bike to work at St. Luke’s, hit the bakery, the co-op, the coffee shop, the theater, or Yen Ching for Chinese. He knew a mechanic, and his mechanic knew Thunderbirds. He had a vivid, uncomfortable flash of memory, Vin walking toward him, pulling his T-shirt over his head, his jeans already unbuttoned, flat brown stomach, smooth brown chest. The T-

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shirt he tossed on the floor said American Street Machines over the wide silver wings of a Thunderbird. Shit. What had he just done? Jeffrey brought him a pot of pale green Jasmine tea, and he sat back in the booth and brooded. He didn’t need a car. He didn’t even want a car. Especially not one that didn’t run, and needed, what had the guy said? An off the body restoration? He lived downtown, with no place to park a car, or even clean one up. And he wasn’t a man who was given to sudden crazy impulses. But he was honest with himself, and he ignored Jeffrey’s soft glances and stared at his reflection in the window. Maybe this was about Vin. He’d had a dream a couple of nights ago, so vivid and real he’d awoken with the sheets twisted wet between his thighs, his cock still spurting in his hand. He missed Vin so much some nights that it felt like his heart was weeping in his chest. There was the dream, and then this car appeared as if out of nowhere with those wide, silver wings on the trunk. Thunderbird. Well, that was all over with. He didn’t need that sort of trouble. Vin was, what, twenty-seven? And he was forty. When you were twenty-seven, you wanted to screw anything that moved. He understood that. The difference, he thought, lifting a potsticker to his mouth, was that Vin went down to the baths and screwed anything he wanted. When Race had been twenty-seven, he was studying, working, in the last year of his residency in eye surgery. He hadn’t had time to screw around when he was young. And now he didn’t have any interest. He rubbed hard across his eyes. Okay, maybe there was more to it. The picture he really couldn’t get out of his head was Vin leaning his long, curvy body up against the cool blue tiles of the sauna, his black hair curling in the damp heat, sticking to the skin of his back. And he had looked over his shoulder at Race, let two strangers put their hands on him, two good-looking guys his own age, let them slide their hands over brown skin Race had touched an hour earlier. Race had stood up and walked out, and they hadn’t seen each other since. And every day he wondered if he had blown the best chance he’d ever had.

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Back in his apartment, he picked up his cell. Vin’s number was still number two on his phone, though they hadn’t spoken to each other in nearly six months. The ER was number one, of course, and his mother was number three. He punched the speed dial, and Vin picked up after a couple of rings. “Yeah?” He didn’t sound very friendly. “Vin? It’s Race.” “I know, Race. The whole world has Caller ID.” The silence lasted two long beats. “Did you want something, or did you hit my number by mistake?” Jesus, he was in a mood. “Did I call at a bad time?” “I don’t take the phone with me when I’m screwing in the public baths, if that’s what you’re asking. I’m at work. Did you want something?” “Forget it,” he said, and punched the button to end the call. He threw the phone down on the table. What the fuck was wrong with that guy? Why did he sound so pissed? Race was the one who should be pissed. He ignored the phone when it rang, didn’t even bother to look at the Caller ID. In the bathroom he stripped down and stepped into the shower, soaped up and ran his hands over his skin. He thought about a colleague of his, an orthopedic surgeon. They had been in medical school together, and now the man had a gorgeous house in the foothills, a gorgeous wife who worked as a docent at the art museum, a couple of blonde kids who appeared to have a number of creative accomplishments. He drove a Jag and weighed a hundred pounds more than he had in med school, and when Race had gone to the Christmas party at his house, he was disturbed at how much Crown Royal the man had managed to put away. How much they had all put away, while they shook their heads at him. Still not married! Lived in an apartment! Rode a bike to work, for God’s sake! Didn’t he realize he had made it? He was at the top of the American dog pile, and why didn’t he have the material goods to prove it? Race didn’t want what they wanted. He didn’t have any doubts about that. But he also knew that he was floundering a bit. For so long he had been head down, nose to

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the grindstone that he felt a bit lost with free time. He didn’t know what a hobby was. Maybe he needed a new challenge. For the last six months, he’d undertaken a systematic study of the roots of Rock and Roll. He’d just finished reading Hickory Wind, by Ben Fong Torres. Cream was up next, and after Cream, he had Arthur Lee and Love. Race had listened to the Forever Changes album for the first time just a couple of weeks before. He was enjoying this study, but if he was being honest, it felt a little bit like filling his time. He loved his work, but it was just work. It didn’t love him back. He missed… feeling passionate about something. He needed to find something to be passionate about again. He thought about Thunderbirds. Someone knocked on his door while he was drying off from the shower. He stepped into a pair of athletic shorts and opened the door, toweling his hair. Vin still looked pissed. Pissed off, but tired, like he had worked a long day. His jeans were dirty and his T-shirt today said American Muscle. Race didn’t recognize the car under the slogan, but it had big jacked-up wheels and a long hood. He realized for the first time that American sports cars were shaped like penises. “Sorry,” Vin said, stepping inside. “Did you need something, Race?” “You want to sit down?” Race wrapped the towel around his neck. Vin shook his head. “I wanted to ask you if you know a mechanic.” He suddenly felt tongue-tied. He didn’t know what to say. “I’m a mechanic.” Vin hadn’t moved, just looked at him, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. He looked like Race remembered him, creamy brown skin, long, curly black hair tied behind his neck in a loose ponytail, huge, dark eyes with long, curly lashes. Race didn’t remember him looking so tired. And he wasn’t smiling, he realized with a jolt. He always remembered Vin smiling, and now this man was staring at him with a set mouth and a jutting angry chin. “Why don’t you just tell me?”

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“I saw an old T-Bird. The salesman said it was twenty-four thousand. A ‘56 or ‘57, something like that. I wondered if you would look at it with me.” Vin looked interested. “A T-Bird? Sure. Did it have the spare on the back? By the trunk?” Race nodded. “Then it’s a ‘56 or earlier – ‘57’s when they moved the spare back inside the trunk. Did he say who did the restoration?” “It hasn’t been restored. It isn’t running. Something about it needed a body off restoration?” Vin was staring into the ceiling. “You shouldn’t pay more than twelve or thirteen thousand for a Bird that hasn’t been restored. Where is it?” “That lot on the corner of Main and 13th.” “You want to walk down now and take a look? Or do you want me to go see it and let you know?” “I don’t have duty tonight,” Race said. “I can walk down now if you’ve got some free time.” Vin nodded. His face was a little softer, and he rubbed at his right eye. “Yeah, okay.” Race walked into his bedroom and pulled on a sweatshirt. He remembered touching that eye, so dark and beautiful, not as a lover, but as a surgeon. They had met in the ER. Vin had a jagged piece of metal stuck in his eye. His face and chest were sticky with blood. He had been inflating a tire when it exploded. He wasn’t sure where the metal fragment had come from, but he had a cut on his head that was bleeding all over everything, and a piece of metal protruding from his eye. Vin had beautiful eyes, some of the most beautiful Race had ever seen. They were perfect now. Race was a very good surgeon. They went down in the old elevator, not looking at each other, and Race thought Vin breathed a little easier once they were outside. It was early summer, and a warm, sweet breeze was blowing down from the mountains. Race glanced over at him. “How have you been?”

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Vin shrugged, stuck his hands down in his pockets again. “Why do you want an old T-Bird?” Apparently there was to be no small talk. “Just have a craving to own something beautiful? Want to make sure nobody else touches it?” Race stopped walking, turned to look at him. “Can you rein it in? You’re snapping at me like a damn pit bull.” Vin shrugged, turned to look at him for the first time, and Race felt the power of his dark, liquid eyes deep in the pit of his stomach. “Sorry.” Was that it? He didn’t have anything else to say? It didn’t seem to Race like he was all that sorry. “So what’s going on? You have a new interest in classic cars?” Vin’s voice was very polite and cold now, and Race was tempted to pop him in the mouth. “No, I don’t. I have an interest in this car. It’s a mess. It looks like it used to be beautiful. I just felt like… I wanted to make it beautiful again.” He sounded so awkward. Race wasn’t sure Vin would understand. He wasn’t sure he understood, himself. “Okay. I get it. I know you like to fix things that are broken.” Race looked at him, surprised, and Vin was rubbing his right eye again. “Here’s the deal though. Old cars, they’re never really fixed. You have to work on them all the time. Things are always breaking, and they’re money pits. It’s expensive to fix them up, and if you don’t do the full body-off restoration, their value goes down precipitously. Most people who own and work on old T-Birds take them on the show circuit, let them pay their way. Is that what you’re thinking about doing?” Race shook his head. “Where would you keep it?” “I don’t know.” “Do you have a garage in mind?” “Nope.” “So you were just pedaling by, and you saw this car, and you fell in love with it.” “That’s about the size of it.”

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“Did you tell the salesman you’d fallen in love with the car?” “Not in so many words. But I gave him five hundred bucks so he wouldn’t sell it until I could get you to come look at it.” “Jesus.” They came around the corner and Vin saw the T-Bird. It was dark, but the lights in the parking lot were still on, and one of the lights shone on the little car. “Wow. Would you look at that? What a little honey.” The car looked even cuter than Race remembered, the tiny fins on the back end jaunty, the round lights like big, smiling eyes. Vin pulled a memo book out of his back pocket and flipped to an empty page. He walked around the car slowly, making notes, squatted down to check the wheel wells, lay down flat on his back to peek under the side. He lifted the hood, studied the engine. He pulled out his key ring, shone a little light into the engine compartment, wrote some numbers into the memo book. The salesman was still in the office. Race could make out a light through the cheap trailer window. When he saw them looking, he shrugged his jacket back on and came out to the lot. “Hey, Vinnie! This guy told me he knew a mechanic, but I didn’t know it was you!” Vin stuck the memo book back into his pocket. “Cecil. How you doing, my man?” They shook hands, then the salesman threw a beefy arm around Vin’s shoulders. Race had to work hard to keep himself from reaching out and slapping the guy’s arm away. What was the matter with him? It was Vin. He couldn’t control himself around this guy, even when they hadn’t spoken for six months. Even when Vin looked at him like he wanted to spit on his shoes. “Twenty-four thousand? Cecil, you’re a crook!” Vin was still smiling. “The engine numbers don’t match, brother.” “Yeah, I think the old lady, she let her nephew try to fix it up after her husband died. She thought she’d get a better price. She didn’t know any better, Vin.” “But you do.”

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“Yeah, well. I don’t want the old lady to lose her house! She’s got to put one of those ramps in for her wheelchair.” “Uh, huh.” “When did you get so cynical, man?” Vin grinned at him, then turned back to Race. “Can I talk to you a minute?” He took Race by the arm, and they walked away from the car to the corner of the lot. “Somebody screwed up the engine trying to update it. It matters with restoration that cars have all their original parts. This won’t ever have the value of a car with an original engine. You won’t ever be able to sell it for what you put into it.” “I don’t care. Can you fix it? Can you find a little garage, and fix the engine, and I’ll clean up the body?” “Are you listening to me, Race?” “Yes, I am. Are you listening to me?” “Yes, I am.” Vin studied his face again. “Can you afford twelve thousand?” “Yes.” “Can you afford me?” Unlikely. Race didn’t say anything, just looked at him. Hoped his face didn’t show what his heart and brain and cock were all saying. “Let me talk to the guy, okay? You just stand still and try not to drool on the car too much. Maybe walk around, look at some of the others. That red Camaro, go look at that one, okay? You don’t have a very good poker face.” Race walked away. He could feel the salesman grinning at his back. Vin was rubbing his hands together. “It’s got rust on the underbody. And one of the wheel wells is dented.” “But look at this paint! Original aquamarine, circa 1957.” “Cecil, that’s Willow Green, not aquamarine! Man, you don’t know anything about T-Birds. Nine thousand. You won’t get more than that around Boise.” “Yeah, well, we’re not just in Boise, my man. Once I get this baby washed and waxed, I’ll send her picture all over the country.”

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“Make sure you show those engine numbers, bud. You know it’s gonna cost a fortune to get this car running. He just wants something cute to drive around town. He doesn’t know dick about cars.” “Why don’t you tell him get one of the new Birds, he wants a little sports car? They won’t be as much trouble as the old ones.” “He likes to fix up old things, make them pretty again. He’s a surgeon. He’s the one fixed my eye when I got that piece of metal stuck in it last year.” “Oh! I got you now. You’re doing him a favor, then? Like a thank you?” Vin nodded. “I can go fifteen thousand, brother. Special favor for you. But you’re gonna owe me one.” “How about ten, and I owe you one?” “That old lady, she’s been sitting on this car for more than fifty years. Twelve thousand.” “Let me go talk to him.” Vin walked over to where Race was leaning against the side of the Camaro. “Vin, tell him I can bring him a check in the morning, first thing. Tell him yes.” Vin crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “You’re some tough negotiator. You owe me one.”

Chapter Two Race had a cashier’s check from Wells Fargo before lunchtime, and he rode his bike up to the lot and did the paperwork. Cecil was shaking his head. “You got a sweet deal, my friend. I swear, I don’t know how I let Vin talk me into this.” “Don’t worry. I’ll take good care of the car.” Cecil smiled. “I know you will. Vin left word for me to call him when the deal was done. Said he’s got a friend who’ll tow the car down to the garage. He’s got a space down Bannock and 16th. That okay with you?” “Yeah, fine.” “I think you can trust him. He’s a good mechanic.” Race shook his hand. “I know he is. Thanks very much for holding the car for me.” Cecil still seemed to be hiding the smile. “No, thank you! I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into.” “I’m sure I don’t. But it’ll be interesting!” He felt strangely cheered. He rode back to the hospital, finished his afternoon patients, picked up his pager. Then he climbed back on his bike and rode down to Bannock and 16th. The T-Bird was in an open bay garage carved out of the bottom floor of an old brick warehouse. The walls were soft rose, and the floor was covered with a huge green tarp. The Bird was sitting on the tarp like a little lady. The back wall had a workbench, and tools were hung on a pegboard. Vin already had the hood up and was head-down in the engine. “Is this your garage?”

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“No. I rented it so we had a place to work on the car. You can pay the rent, or I can add it to my bill. It’s only three hundred a month.” “Whatever you want. How’s the engine look?” “Fixable.” Vin didn’t look up. “Will it bother you if I work on the body while you’re working on the engine?” “Nope.” Race climbed back on his bike, rode a block up to the auto parts store and bought some cleaning supplies, a very expensive chamois, and leather conditioner that was designed, he was told, for the beautiful white and turquoise leather inside old T-Birds. He started at the trunk, pulled out the carpet and lifted the spare tire from its space. A bucket of hot water and mild soap, and the chamois felt wonderful in his hand while he scrubbed more than fifty years of dirt from the metal inside the trunk. Vin pointed to the portable vacuum cleaner, and the carpet cleaned up well, a dark bluegreen color. Race thought it probably needed to be shampooed while it was out. He was pulling the rugs out of the front floorboards when his pager went off. Vin stood up while he was on the phone to the ER. “Vin, I’ve got to go. A kid trying to break a piñata with a stick. I swear, piñatas ought to be outlawed. I’ll come back and clean up when I get done.” “Just go do your thing,” Vin said. “I’ll take care of this.” He handed Race a key. “This is to the lock on the garage door, if you want to come in when I’m not working.” “Thanks. Thanks for making all the arrangements.” Vin’s eyes were cool, and he turned away. “Yeah, well, that’s what you pay a mechanic for, isn’t it?” Race tucked the key into his pocket and climbed on his bike without another word. In the Emergency Room, he looked at the bloody and swollen face of a young boy, maybe six or seven. He had been standing in the worst possible place, behind the kid whose turn it was to swing, and he crowded forward to see if candy was falling from the sky, so the backswing, when the kid had tried to hit the piñata again, had hit

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him square in the eye. It looked to Race as if the nail on the end of the broom handle had gone through his eyebrow before lodging deep into the eye below -- then someone, one of the kids, a hysterical parent, had tried to pull it free. The boy’s mother was huddled in the corner, weeping, but the child himself was quiet. One of the nurses had given him morphine. Race tried to explain to her about surgery, but she just shook her head. Maybe she didn’t speak English. She was short and dark, Central American, maybe. He pulled one of the nursing assistants into the room to translate for him, and the more they spoke, the more the woman wept, but she signed the papers with a trembling hand. Then she clutched one of Race’s hands, put it to her cheek, and he understood that she wanted to feel the hand of the man who was about to remove the remains of her little boy’s eye. Two hours later, and the boy was sleeping peacefully on the pediatrics ward. Race hugged the young mother, who was weeping again. Maybe she would never stop weeping. He was hungry when he climbed back on his bike. It was nearly nine, and he hadn’t eaten supper yet. But he thought he would just ride down to the little garage and look at the T-Bird again. Vin was still working, and had set up a complicated system of plastic Zip-Loc bags to hold pieces of the engine. He had set a small CD player on the workbench behind him, and Robert Cray’s silken, dark voice was filling the small space. He looked so content, concentrating on the engine under his hands, singing under his breath, that Race hesitated to interrupt him. He leaned his bike up against the brick wall and picked up the bucket of cleaning supplies. Vin looked up and nodded at him. “You hungry? My grandmother’s bringing some food.” “Yeah, I’m starving, thanks.” “I had a feeling you’d be back.” Race looked at him, surprised. “Really?” “I’ve seen you fall in love before. You’ve got that look. Like you can’t stay away. We’ll see how long it lasts this time.”

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Kiss my ass. Race didn’t say anything. He was so tired, suddenly. Too tired to fight. But Vin didn’t look like he was trying to pick a fight. He was head-down over the engine again. Race opened the passenger door of the little car, studied the leather seat, then went to the sink and filled his bucket with hot water and saddle soap. He got most of the long bench seat washed before an elderly Indian woman climbed off a scooter out front. She unwrapped a basket from the back. Vin stood up and came around the side of the car. “Hey, Grandma. What’d you bring?” “Leftovers,” she said, “which is more than you deserve.” She straightened when she saw Race, spoke more formally. “Chicken curry, Vinay, and some naan. And a thermos of tea.” Race shook her hand, introduced himself. “He’s the surgeon who fixed my eye, Grandma.” Vin lifted the basket and pulled the top open. “I know that!” She shooed him away with tiny dark hands. “I always know what is happening with you, Vinay. Don’t forget that.” Race grinned down at her. “Is his name Vinay? He told me his name was Vindaloo.” Grandma let out a small shriek. “Would we name our son after curry? No! Vinay means ‘modest’, and how we were so wrong with his name, I don’t know. Vindaloo. What is the matter with you? You’re ashamed of your name? Ashamed of your grandfather’s name? You tell people I named you after curry?” Vin set the basket down and wrapped her up in his arms. “Stop fussing, Grandma. It was a joke.” She sniffed, but let him pat her gently on the back. Her tiny hands looked like toys against his chest. She turned to Race. “He tells me you’re the surgeon who fixed his eye, but why doesn’t he say you’re the man who broke his heart? Does he think I don’t know? And why are you calling him to work on your car? Are you going to make him cry again?” Vin put her away from him. “Grandma, would you please go home?”

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Race slid onto the newly cleaned seat of the little car, rested his head back. He was exhausted. He heard the little scooter putt-putt away, smelled chicken curry. Vin dumped a plastic plate on his lap, stuck a fork in a pile of rice. He lifted the plate and started eating. “Where is your family from?” “Goa. The old Portuguese colony on the coast of India.” “I didn’t break your heart. You broke my heart.” “You don’t know dick about my heart. Just shut up, Race.” Race thought about forcing it, throwing his plate of curry, dragging Vin to the floor and fucking him until he screamed for mercy, or screamed for more, but he was too hungry to waste good curry and too tired to fuck anybody. He shoved some rice into his mouth. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? You’re not stupid. Ever heard of the word virus? You stand right in front of me, let other men put their hands on you?” Vin pulled out a chair and sat down. “Just keep pushing it, asshole. I’ll say it again. You don’t know dick about me.” His voice turned silky. “Virus? What a crock. You think a couple of guys rubbing lotion on my back is gonna give me a virus? You just like to own the things you love, Race. You’ll do better with a pretty little Thunderbird than you did with me. I’m not for sale.” Silence filled the little garage. The leather bench seat was soft, long, and it smelled like saddle soap. He felt himself drifting off, the melting chocolate voice of Robert Cray in his ears. All the great erotic adventures of his life had taken place on leather bench seats, in old Fords. Danny Peters, ’48 Ford pickup. Solomon Dama. He was from the Ivory Coast, had the most beautiful golden skin. They’d made love on a white leather bench seat, in the backseat of the old Ford Fairlane Race had driven in college. And there was Vin. Vin in a T-Bird. He felt his cock lurch helplessly, yearning and desire mixed with the smell of Vindaloo curry and sweat and Ford leather, and he had to bite down on his bottom lip to keep from moaning out loud. Vin took the plate

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from his lap, and Race leaned over, curled up on the seat. “I’m just gonna rest for a minute. Ten minutes, then I’ll be ready to work again.” “Why don’t you go home? I’ll close up the garage for tonight. It’s gonna take a long time to get your baby up and running. We don’t have to finish anything tonight.” But Race felt like there was something he needed to finish tonight. He just didn’t know what it was.

*** He wasn’t sure how much later it was when Vin tugged on his shoulder. “Get up, Race. You can’t sleep here.” Race yawned and sat up. “Yeah, okay. Sorry. It was a long day.” Vin studied him, his hands on his hips. “How did the emergency go? I didn’t ask you.” Race ran his hands back through his hair, rubbed down hard over his face. “A little boy lost his eye. I couldn’t fix it.” Vin stared down at the floor. “That happens, I guess. Some things you can’t fix. Come on. I’ll give you a ride home. You can pick up your bike in the morning.” They walked outside, and Race opened the passenger door of a 1955 T-Bird, black with a black and white interior. The car was hot, Vin’s pride and joy. It looked like a tiny Batmobile, but Race thought his little beauty was prettier. Vin’s was the only TBird he’d ever been in. He popped open the glove box, peeked inside. Vin still kept his condoms in the car. Vin had taken him for a ride in his Thunderbird a couple of months after his eye healed. Race remembered watching his rough hands on the steering wheel, his fingers gripping hard enough his knuckles turned white, and Race ran his hands over the bench seat, said, Can we fuck now? Vin looked at him under his lashes, pulled his long hair over his shoulder so he wouldn’t sit on it. And when he turned the key, the car wouldn’t start. He sat calmly, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. Yoga breathing, Race thought. Vin tried again. Nothing. He got out, stood next to the car and stared up at the

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stars. “This is what I meant about old cars! You just can’t depend on them. Something’s always going wrong. I mean, shit, it’s past midnight, we’ve got two cars between us, and we’re gonna be walking home.” “You can’t walk up to Warm Springs this late, Vin.” “I’ll sleep in the garage.” “You can sleep on my couch. Don’t be such a pain in the ass.” Vin locked up his car, and they walked up Bannock until they hit 8th. Vin walked with his hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, and Race remembered standing behind him once, watching him walk, that long tail of curly black hair swaying back and forth over his ass. “Vinay. I like your name.” Vin glanced at him, a flash of his bright dark eyes, then looked away and stared down the street. It started to sprinkle. Race didn’t say anything else. They climbed into the old elevator at the Idaho Building, went up to the sixth floor. Race’s apartment was in the corner, overlooking the Capital Building and the foothills that surrounded Boise. He pulled the curtains closed when they got inside. The windows were the building’s original glass, and they let the cold in at night. “You can take the first shower,” Race said, and he pulled a towel out of the linen closet and set it on the bathroom sink. “I’ve got some clean sweats.” Vin nodded, went into the bathroom. Race heard the shower start. When the water turned off, he opened the door a crack. The steam smelled like his sandalwood soap, and he opened the door wider. “Vin. Here’s a T-shirt and some sweats.” Vin pulled back the shower curtain. He was drying his hair with the towel, his long dark body slender as an arrow. He didn’t try to hide himself, and Race couldn’t look away. Vin’s hands moved slower. His skin was still wet, water beading up on creamy brown shoulders, down across the bump of his biceps. His chest was as wide as Race remembered, his belly as flat and smooth, and his cock was heavy and full between his legs. He leaned back against the tile wall, threw the wet towel hard at Race. He caught it in one hand.

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“What are you doing?” Vin slid his hands down across his belly, wet hair plastered across his chest. “Don’t you know?” Race took a step back. “Stop it. We’re not doing this again.” “Yeah, we are. You called me, Race.” Vin had his cock in his hands now, and Race watched it fill and swell. The heat in the little bathroom, and sandalwood soap, was making his head spin. Race reached for him, splayed his white hand out across Vin’s dark belly. “But this time I’m gonna walk out on you before you walk out on me.” Race shoved him away. “This is bullshit. I don’t want…” “Yes, you do. I know what you want better than you do. You just won’t admit it.” Race leaned back against the bathroom sink, tried to get his ragged breathing under control, and they stared at each other. “What is it you think you know?” His voice was soft. “You like to watch.” He stared at Vin’s dark hands, his dark cock, and he could almost taste it, the slick drop of fluid on the head of his cock. What was he talking about? “It’s a problem, isn’t it? I let those guys rub their hands all over me because I knew it would turn you on to watch it. And you turned around and walked out on me. I haven’t figured out if you were mad at me because I knew what you liked, or if you were mad at yourself for wanting to watch me with other men.” Vin reached out, pulled the T-shirt and sweats out of Race’s hands. “Thanks for the clothes.” Race went into his bedroom, fell down across the bed. What had Vin said? Something about him wanting to own the things he loved. He was so tired. He was a creep, he liked to watch, he wanted to own the things he loved, but he couldn’t worry about hating himself right now because he was too tired to keep his eyes open. “Vin, I’m sorry.” “Skip it.”

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Race thought a moment. What was he sorry for? “I’m sorry I walked out on you. I should have tried to figure out what was going on. Maybe I’ve got a little problem with being possessive. It’s never happened with anyone else, though. You’re the only one.” Vin came in, pulled the covers back. “Come on, get into bed. It’s after midnight. Do you have surgery in the morning? Did you set your alarm already?” “Yeah.” Race crawled between the sheets. “I think you’ve punished me enough. Can you give it a rest for tonight?” “Maybe.” Vin reached over and turned off the light. “You got an extra pillow for the couch? And a blanket?” “Sleep with me.” His eyes were so heavy, exhaustion dragging his arms and legs into the mattress. “Please, Vin. I won’t…” And he felt Vin slip underneath the covers, felt his warm body roll close, back on his side of the bed, where he belonged. Race reached out, put his hand on Vin’s chest, over his heart, and fell asleep.

*** He slept like he’d been tasered into unconsciousness, but he woke before the alarm to the smell of coffee brewing. The Forever Changes album was playing softly, and Vin was leaning against the doorframe, watching him sleep. He was drinking a cup of coffee, and Race was pleased to see he was still wearing the sweats and T-shirt he had put on last night, after his shower. They looked at each other, the weight of unfinished business between them, then Vin turned away, went into the kitchen and poured another cup of coffee. He brought it into the bedroom, and Race sat up on the side of the bed and took it. “Thanks.” He sipped, looked over at the alarm clock. It was already 0500, and he had his first surgery scheduled for just after six. He stood up. “Vin, I’ve got to be at the hospital this morning. Can I see you later?” Vin stood up and tugged the T-shirt over his head. “I’ll scrub your back. Get in the shower.”

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Race walked into the bathroom, pulling his clothes off. Maybe he had been tasered. He couldn’t seem to think. Vin reached over his shoulder, turned on the hot water, stepped past him into the tub. “Come on, Race,” he said. “You don’t have much time.” Race stood under the water, let Vin lather up the soap and start rubbing him down, his hands moving quickly, neck, shoulders, chest, belly, back. He slowed down a bit when he got to his groin, hands moving inside his thighs, over his balls, then he caught Race’s cock in his hand. Race pushed the wet hair out of his eyes, pulled Vin to him. “Can I kiss you?” Vin gave his cock a long, slow stroke, then he smiled into his eyes. “Yeah. I haven’t forgiven you yet, but you can kiss me.” His mouth was sweet, lips curving into a smile. Race felt their chests moving, sliding together wet and warm, and Vin wrapped his free hand around Race’s waist, held his ass while his other hand stroked slick soap bubbles up and down Race’s cock. “I missed you.” The words were a whisper so quiet in the noise from the shower Race wasn’t sure if he’d heard them right. He held Vin’s face, looked into his beautiful eyes. Sometimes he thought he could see the stars in Vin’s eyes, like they were tiny dark universes. Vin’s hand was moving faster, and Race felt his thighs trembling, that magical slick hand between his legs jacking his nerves up to breaking. “Oh, baby, I can’t…” “Yeah, you can.” Vin pulled him in tighter, fist moving like a piston between his thighs, and Race leaned into his arms, put his head on Vin’s shoulder, pressed his face into dark wet hair that smelled like sandalwood. When he came, it felt like a scream rising from his cock -- his back arched, muscles in spasm. His fingers dug into Vin’s shoulders, and he jerked, over and over, spurted semen into Vin’s hands. He clung to him, that wild hair in his mouth, between his teeth. He was glad for the hair, hoping it had muffled his voice, and Vin hadn’t heard him saying, over and over, I love you I love you I love you…

Chapter Three Race was finished with surgery by eleven, and his last clinic patient was scheduled for three-thirty. He didn’t stay to work on medical records, like he usually did, but slipped out of the office, ran by his apartment and got a couple of CDs. Cream this week. Somehow Cream seemed the right music to listen to while he was working on the Thunderbird. Race had had a long talk with himself through the course of the day, and he had concluded the following: 1) He would drive Vin away again if he acted like a jealous asshole. 2) He would drive himself crazy if he couldn’t get his feelings under control. He might even turn into some lunatic obsessive stalker. Look at those astronauts. Stranger things had happened. Vin had this wild idea that Race liked to watch him having sex with other men. Where had that come from? Did this mean that Vin really liked having Race watch him, or did he want to watch Race? Race didn’t want to have sex with a stranger, even if Vin might get off watching him. So the best thing to do would be just to ask him flat out if he got off being watched. If he did, then Race would indulge him, even if it killed him. Because he didn’t think he would make it if he lost Vin again. Even if he hadn’t yet been forgiven. He rode by the Yen Ching bakery, got a couple of bacon rolls and a sweet milk bun for Vin. The garage door was still closed and locked when he got there, and he used his key and rolled up the metal door. “Hey, beautiful.” He thought the car winked up at him. “You’re such a fine girl. I’m going to make you look so pretty you’re gonna think you’re seventeen again.”

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Maybe the white leather on the hard top. He could try some of that leather conditioner he’d bought at the auto parts store. He put his CD of Fresh Cream on the player and turned the volume up. He thought the car seemed to respond to the music, and decided to call her “Ginger.” He had most of the leather top cleaned when Vin called. “Hey, Race. I’m stuck at work. How’s the baby look?” “I only see two small patches on the top where the leather’s worn. I think it’s good like this.” “You gonna pull the carpet out?” “Yep.” “Check underneath for rust. Don’t put the carpet back in until I look at it, okay?” “Okay.” Race waited for a moment. “You coming home with me tonight, Vin?” “If you want me to.” “I do. Very much.” Was he being too possessive again? “Do you really think I want to own you?” His voice was soft over the phone. “Sometimes I think so. Sometimes I think you’re just being you.” Race didn’t know what to say. “Later, baby.” He hit the button to end the call. Maybe the best thing to say was nothing at all. He ate his bacon roll, thought about Vin. Thought about Thunderbirds. Vin’s TBird had been gone from outside the garage when he got here. He must have gotten it running. This was a good sign, Race thought. The babies were temperamental, as all beauties were. But they came around quickly. Vin was a beauty. Maybe he was just a bit more high maintenance than Race realized? If he thought about it, he was more a Honda, sturdy and dependable. Vin was a T-Bird. Not everybody could go two hundred thousand miles on a couple of oil changes, like he could. Some beautiful babies needed a bit more attention, a gentle touch. Maybe his boy was more delicate than he’d realized.

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He spent a pleasant hour having fantasies of being gentle with Vin, and watching him blossom under his hands like a rare Hawaiian flower. The visual put him in such a good mood that when Vin roared up on the back of a motorcycle, climbed off, and handed his helmet to the driver, then swaggered into the garage like a big dog, Race just smiled. He gave the motorcycle a little salute when it roared off. Vin wandered over, and Race caught him around the waist and pulled him in for a kiss on the neck. He was sweaty from work, smelled like oil and rubber and the faintest trace of sandalwood soap. Race felt his cock lurch, and Vin could feel it, too, against his thigh, and he grinned and pulled away. Race turned back to the dashboard. He was scrubbing out the glove box. “I got you something from the new Chinese bakery.” “Cool.” Vin picked up the milk bun, opened it first. Race grinned at the dashboard. He knew his baby liked sweet milk buns. “What have you been doing all day?” “Dealing with assholes who think they know more than me.” Race looked at him through the windshield. “Mostly my patients are unconscious, under strong anesthetics, or they’re trying to get on my good side. People are usually on their best behavior at the doctor’s office.” “Not the garage. They start out assuming someone’s going to cheat them, and they’re going to make sure I know who’s in charge from the first minute we go toe to toe. I swear, men are such jerks. I always like women to bring their cars in, because they go read a magazine in the office and leave me in peace. But not too many women own old sports cars.” “Maybe they’re smarter than us.” “Maybe so.” “You’ve had your head down in engines all day. Why don’t you take a break and come over here and talk to me?”

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Through the windshield, he watched Vin shrug. “I’m good. I can actually think better when my hands are working through a problem. And the problem I think we have here is distributor caps.” He leaned in closer to the engine. Race walked over to the CD player and changed out Sweet Cream for Disraeli Gears. “Is this Eric Clapton?” “Cream. I’m studying the roots of Rock and Roll.” Vin looked at him carefully. “How come?” Race shrugged. “I’m not sure. Just interested, I guess. I thought I would go about it in a systematic way, so I’m listening to the albums in order and reading the biographies at the same time. The baby’s name is Ginger, by the way.” Vin leaned over, ran his hand across the engine block like he was stroking a kitten. “Hi, Ginger. I call mine Max. Did I ever tell you that?” “No, you never did.” And I never asked.

*** After another hour of puttering around, Race could tell he needed to do some research. “The thing is,” he said, and he sounded as if he was continuing a conversation with himself, “I don’t really know what I’m doing. Anybody can clean, but I wonder if I shouldn’t be reading and making a schedule or something.” “You have me for that,” Vin said, lifting up from the engine well and stretching his back. “Why don’t you read some stories about Thunderbirds? You know, their myths and legends. All great sports cars have their own mythology, but Thunderbirds are something special. I think you can do the basic cleaning up like you’ve been doing, but there comes a point when you’ll want the experts to do the work. So it will look topnotch. Or you can keep Ginger looking pretty close to the way she looks now. The chrome isn’t in bad shape, and the body is excellent. A good paint job may be all you want to invest in the body.” “Maybe I should look at some cars that have been restored.” “That’s a good idea.” He yawned behind his hand.

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“You ready to wrap up for tonight?” “Sure.” They walked together through the dark streets, close enough their shoulders brushed. Race remembered a time he would hold Vin’s hand any time they were out in public. He liked it, he liked the touch of warm skin against his own, liked announcing to the world that they were together. But there was something utterly sexy about not touching him. About the casual graze, the heat of an arm that was close to his own. The anticipation. “How’s Max? Up and running?” Vin shook his head. “I’ve put him in Time-Out until he straightens up. Hey, you know what Ginger’s got under the hood?” “Nope.” “You’ve got a hot-shit engine, 340 horses, 312 cubic inch V-8. I bet Cecil didn’t even realize.” What does that mean exactly?” “You’ve got a hot-shit engine.” “That’s good. Vin, I need to talk to you. Try to explain. I’ve been thinking about us all day, and I want to make sure I don’t screw up again. I haven’t had very many relationships. Lovers, quick fucks, but not like this. Not boyfriends. Did you know that?” “No, I didn’t.” “I know a great deal about eyes and even more about eye surgery. I know a little bit about the roots of Rock and Roll. Maybe I’m an idiot about everything else. Have you considered that?” “So it’s not your fault, the way you act? You don’t strike me as an idiot.” “If the options are to assume I’m an idiot or assume I’m an asshole, are you willing to at least suspect idiot?” They climbed into the elevator and Race punched the button for six.

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Vin rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know, Race. I’m not sure I know what we’re talking about.” Race pushed open his apartment door and turned on the light. Vin looked at him, his arms crossed over his chest. “You hungry?” Vin shook his head. Race touched his cheek, his fingers tentative. “I don’t want to screw this up. I mean, I’ve just got you talking to me again. Can I ask you something, and you don’t get pissed off and storm out of here?” “Sure.” His arms were still crossed. “Why did you think I wanted to watch you with other guys? Cause I would rather be beat with sticks.” His mouth fell open. “But… you were always saying it! Let me look at you, let me watch you.” It was Race’s turn to stare. “Baby, I meant you. Just you. Don’t you know what you look like? How could I not want to look at you?” Vin dropped his arms. “Most of the guys I’ve known, they think it’s kind of cool. You know, a threesome. Watching each other get off.” He stopped speaking, stared at Race. Race flopped down on the couch. “You’re making me feel old. I don’t know what twenty-seven thinks. I just know what forty thinks. And forty isn’t into threesomes. Watch each other get off? That sounds like something you’d do at Scout camp.” “I’m twenty-eight,” Vin said. “My birthday was last month. And I’ve never been to Scout camp. Listen, can I get into the shower? I’ve been working all day. I smell like a garage.” “Yeah, go ahead.” Race stretched out, shoved a pillow behind his head. Fuck me. Twenty-eight. Well, that was so much better! Thirteen years must be an unlucky number. He stared up at the ceiling, feeling a tiny cold draft from one of the big loft windows.

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Vin took a three minute shower, came into the living room with a towel wrapped around his waist and another around his neck. “I borrowed your comb. Is that okay?” “Sure,” Race said, and rolled over to watch him. Vin took his time toweling his hair dry, then combed the wild curls out over his shoulder. When he had all the tangles smooth, he took the towel from around his neck, scrubbed at his face, dried his neck and shoulders, pulled the towel tight back and forth across his back. Then he stood up, put one foot on the edge of the couch, next to Race’s head, dried his foot and his ankle and calf and knee and thigh, and by the time he pulled the towel from around his waist, handed it to Race for the last bits to be carefully patted dry, Race had a raging hard-on and Vin was grinning down at him. “Is this what you’re talking about? I feel like a porn star. I’ll stand over you and jack off, if you want.” Race couldn’t speak. He grabbed him around the waist, lifted him onto the couch and buried his face in the soft damp hair between his legs. Vin slid onto his chest, knees on either side of Race’s head, and Race opened his mouth, let that long dark cock slide between his teeth. He tasted like something rare and precious. Race held Vin’s thighs apart, skin silky and damp under his fingers, listened to his moans. Vin leaned over, hair falling around them like a curtain, and Race dug his fingers in tighter, sucked him down so deep he might have swallowed him whole, and Vin reached for his head, traced his fingertips over Race’s eyes, his nose, his mouth, circled the base of his cock, then he was coming, his thighs shaking against Race’s face, a splash of heat in the back of his throat, and he was swallowing him, that hot-sweet taste that was Vin’s own, something like burnt chocolate, or Vindaloo.

*** Vin was spread-eagled on the bed, a faint sheen of sweat drying on his skin. Race lay on his stomach, listening to him breathe. They had kicked the covers to the floor. “I had just about decided you wanted to get your rocks off watching me with another guy,” Race said. “And I was gonna do it, too.”

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“Not your thing, huh?” “I’d rather go swimming in a shark tank.” Vin laughed, stretched his hand down and ran his fingers through the sticky come on his belly. He lifted a finger and licked it, then held it to Race’s mouth. He slid the finger between his lips, tasted the two of them on Vin’s rough skin. “I can’t stay with you tomorrow night, Race. I’ve got a date.” Race didn’t say anything. He could feel his heart start beating double-time, and he reached for Vin’s chest, slid his hand up until it was resting over his heart. “You got a thing going with somebody else?” Vin shrugged. “I’m not really sure. I’ve been seeing this guy for a while.” Race carefully wrapped his fingers around Vin’s wrist, lifted the hand up and put it against his mouth. “You’re not sure if you’ve got something going with him? Have you slept with him?” “Yeah.” “Are you gonna sleep with him again?” “I’ll let you know. There’s something else, too. You’re not going to like it.” “What?” “My grandmother. She’s invited you to come to the restaurant tomorrow night and eat with her. I don’t know what it’s about. You can have an emergency if you want to get out of it. She’ll understand. She knows you’re a surgeon.” “What time?” Vin winced. “Seven. But you don’t have to…” “Oh, yes, I do. Vin?” “Yeah?” “When do we get to fuck in the car?” “Not until I get the engine running.”

*** Vin’s grandmother was older and shorter than Race remembered. She peered up at him over the top of her glasses, patting his arm and talking the whole time, and he

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felt the collar of his white dress shirt getting tighter and tighter, the more food that appeared on the table. “You try this grilled chicken first. Too much curry isn’t good, and I have some spicy Vindaloo for you, but not until later. Have you eaten Tandoori before? No? Lamb stew made in a clay pot? No? Have some tea.” She poured a cup of pale green tea, still talking. “So what is going on with you and my grandson? Is Vinay in love with you again? He tells me he is fixing a car for you, a Thunderbird. Did he ever tell you about the Thunderbird he drives? It was his grandfather’s car. We made love in that car before we were married, which is not the sort of thing Vinay needs to know, but we were in America, not India anymore, and so that was okay. It was how we celebrated becoming American. Have you made love to Vinay in the car?” There was quite a bit more, including detailed questioning about his “family” rate for cataract removals. When Race finally staggered out of the restaurant, holding bags and bags of leftovers, he decided to walk down to the garage and check on Ginger. He pulled up the rolling metal door and turned on the lights, set the bags of food on the workbench. She looked like she wanted a chat. “So how is your engine coming along, my little Ginger? I want you to start very soon so Vin and I can make love on your pretty bench seat.” He decided to apply some leather conditioner, because Vin was an excellent mechanic and a fast worker. He would not be able to sit in Max again without thinking about the old lady making love in the car, before she was married, because she was an American now. Something else she had said, just in passing -- something about Vin’s father, to be careful, because that’s why he was sensitive to men walking out on him. Race had promised her he would never walk out on Vin again, not if they lived to be a hundred, and she had patted his hand and told him he was a good boy. He decided to take a look under the hood. What did a hot-shit engine look like? He tried to follow the loops and coils of metal, to make some sort of sense of it all, but he didn’t know what he was looking at. Maybe he could get Vin to explain it all to him. Distributor caps. Hadn’t Vin said something about distributor caps? He traced his

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fingers over the strange bits and pieces of the engine, thinking -- Vin has touched right here. His hands have been on this tube, his fingers have stroked this piece of metal. He had a hard-on, just smelling engine oil and gasoline. Race reached for the piece of metal propping the hood up, and it slipped out of the small notch it was resting in. Ginger’s hood dropped fast, with a horrible metallic clang, and it was a few seconds before he realized that the fingers of his left hand were under the edge of the hood. The pain was unbelievable. His vision shaded to gray, wave after wave of sickly yellow-gray pain. He couldn’t pull the fingers out, and he couldn’t reach the latch to lift up the hood again. He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and hit the speed dial for the ER. When the call connected, Race slid to his knees, spoke into the receiver. “This is Dr. Race Thomas. Can you send an ambulance? I’m at a garage on the corner of Bannock and 16th.” “Race, what’s wrong?” There was music in the background, and Vin sounded pissed. “I’m on a date here. Remember?” Was he at a club? Hip hop. Race hated hip hop. But at least there wasn’t any heavy breathing coming through the receiver. “Vin. Sorry, I hit your number by mistake. I didn’t mean to interrupt your date, I promise. I was trying to get the hospital. No sweat. Everything’s fine. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” He hit the disconnect button, tried for the ER again. Race was trying to stretch out and reach the latch that opened the hood when Max came screaming around the corner of Bannock Street. He could hear the sound of a siren in the distance, coming closer. Vin jumped out of the car, ran into the garage. “What the hell did you do? Did you mess with that engine? Is that an ambulance coming here?” “Just open the fucking hood, would you?” He thought his voice was very polite. Race was seeing patches of red and black, Rorschach blots across his vision. Vin lifted Ginger’s hood and propped it up. “Jesus, are those pieces of bone?” Race’s hand was splayed out on the edge of the metal. Four fingers, broken and bloody. Race took one look and turned away. “Shit. That’s torn it.”

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The lights from the ambulance were filling the little garage now, red and blue strobe across the brick wall. Open fractures. They were going to have to do surgery, probably splint his hand for a month. What about his OR schedule? “Were you fucking around with that engine? Why’d you have the hood up, anyway? I’m the mechanic. You’re the helper. You’re supposed to be cleaning, nothing else. Just cleaning.” “Vin?” Race was on the gurney now, being lifted into the back of the ambulance. “Vin, I left a bunch of food on the workbench. From your grandmother. Better take it home.” One of the paramedics gave him an injection of morphine, and Race waited, teeth clenched, for the edge of the pain to ease. “Race? You don’t know dick about that engine.” “Hey, did you know your grandmother had sex in Max before she married your grandfather?” Vin’s face looked horrified, and Race laughed under his breath. He turned to look at Ginger. “Are they like man-eaters? Once they get a taste of blood…” “I didn’t even have a date. I just told you that so you wouldn’t think I was giving in too easy. Jesus, I can’t leave you alone for a minute!” “You didn’t have a date? Put our baby to bed, okay? Tell her I’m not mad at her.” The paramedics looked at each other. “I think it’s time to go, Dr. Thomas.” “I’m going to follow you,” Vin said, but Race could hear the sounds of Max, refusing to start, and the sound of livid, florid mechanic’s cursing before the doors of the ambulance closed.

*** Two days later, and Race was lying in a hospital bed thinking about Vin. Vin and Ginger, Ginger and Vin. Long brown legs sprawled out over a turquoise and white bench seat. The taste of sticky damp skin when it peeled slowly away from warm leather. What would it be like when they made love? He could picture Vin, grinning at him, his cock in his hand. Maybe he’d be on his knees. Race could see his hands, no, just one hand, not the broken one, an ivory hand running down over the smooth brown

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curve of his ass. Maybe Vin would look at him, hair spilling like a waterfall down his back, kneeling on Ginger’s beautiful leather seat, and say, “I love you, Race.” And Race would reach for him, pull him into his arms, taste the warm soft skin of his throat, say, “I love you, too. Vin, I’m sorry I hurt you.” One of the nurses came into his room, and he signed the discharge instructions, promised to keep his follow up appointments and get his prescriptions filled. When he was alone again, Race picked up the phone and punched the number two speed dial button. “Hey, baby. I’m ready to blow this joint. Can you come get me? Is Max up and running?” “I’m already here, outside the east entrance. You need help with your bag?” “No, I got it. I’m on my way.” Race stuck his phone in his pocket, swung the overnight bag onto his right shoulder. The left hand was in a ridiculous-looking contraption with rubber bands and braces and leather splints holding his fingers apart. It looked like Dr. Frankenstein had done the surgery. The orthopedic surgeons had assured him it was all completely necessary. He got off the elevator and walked outside. The glare of the summer sun was in his eyes, so he didn’t see Vin for a moment. He was leaning up against Ginger, wearing a T-shirt and jeans, his long hair caught up in a ponytail. Ginger’s V-8 engine was rumbling like a big dog. “Hey! You got the baby running! Does that mean…” Vin swung the keys around his index finger, let them slap into his palm. “I think you just got lucky.”

Sarah Black Sarah Black is a fiction writer living in beautiful Boise, Idaho. By day she is a family nurse practitioner, working in a medical clinic that serves the uninsured and homeless. Her current obsessions are old T-Birds, antique circular sock knitting machines,

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