Where the Allegheny Meets the Monongahela (4 page)

a widow‘s basement was marked by less relief than usual, since he

faced meeting with this Nick Zales the next day. Logan wondered what

he was like, almost immediately concluding he was probably some

middle-aged stuffed-suit who talked bullshit stuff like ―verbalize‖ and

―self-soothing.‖ In the end, it didn‘t really matter what Zales was like.

18

Felicia Watson

Logan would just have to close in, keep his head down, and weather

it—just like every other misfortune he had faced in life.

AFTER more than one wrong turn, Logan finally found the address on

Arlington. Well, close to it anyway; in this part of Pittsburgh many

buildings weren‘t level with the street but instead seemed to have been

carved into the hills that defined the South Side Slopes. His choices for

getting to Acken‘s Auto Clinic itself were a steep driveway or dozens

of steps that ran alongside it; he swiftly chose the steps and, ignoring

the late July heat, darted up them.

Upon reaching the landing that was level with the repair shop,

Logan was amazed to see a man standing on the top railing. He was

precariously balanced on the pipe rail and had a hand shielding eyes

that were fixed on a spot across the horizon. The dark-haired man

looked down at him, and Logan was caught by a flash of dazzling

white, a mesmerizing smile that lit up an angular face dominated by

deep-set, brown eyes and strong, masculine brows.

The stranger didn‘t seem the least bit embarrassed by Logan‘s

sudden appearance; his smile only widened as he said, ―Great view of

The Mon from here.‖

Feeling suddenly incoherent, Logan croaked, ―The river?‖

―Yeah. I love it. Love ‘em all, really. Allegheny best, though.‖

Logan couldn‘t quite work up the nerve to debate the matter, only

managing to dart the occasional glance at this fervent river devotee

while asking, ―Why‘s that?‖

―Grew up in Kittanning and Freeport—got Allegheny water in my

veins.‖ He finally jumped down from his perch and motioned to the

steps that continued on, climbing upwards to a few houses wedged into

the side of the hill. ―Guess I was in your way. Sorry ‘bout that.‖

Logan peeped back up at the man from under his baseball cap.

―No… I‘m… I‘m meetin‘ someone here.‖

The smile disappeared suddenly, and a puzzled crease marred his

forehead as he asked incredulously, ―Wait a minute. Are you Crane?‖

Where the Allegheny Meets the Monongahela

19

It took him a few confused seconds before he could even claim

his own name. ―Yeah… Logan Crane. That‘s me.‖

―Nick Zales,‖ was offered back along with an extended hand. It

looked like he wanted to say more, judging from the mouth that opened

and closed several times, but nothing escaped beyond those two

syllables.

Logan shook the proffered hand, wondering how the pot-bellied

bureaucrat he‘d been expecting had inexplicably turned into a striking

man about his own age. There was no sign of a suit. Instead Logan was

disconcerted to notice a thin blue T-shirt playing over a muscled chest

before sliding into snug Levi‘s covering legs even longer than his own.

His discomfort was hardly diminished by the fact that Zales

seemed equally startled by his own appearance. He briefly debated

asking the counselor what he‘d found so surprising but quickly decided

against it.
I probably don’t wanta hear the answer to that.

WHEN Nick recovered from the shock, his first coherent thought was:

I am going to kill Trudy Gerard!
As he led his brand-new volunteer

into the garage, Nick fumed to himself,
Why didn’t she tell me this guy

was fucking gorgeous?

A few deep breaths and Nick cooled off enough to admit that a lot

of the fault was his own. Going on what Trudy had told him about her

patient, he‘d developed such a clear and concrete picture of Logan

Crane that it had never occurred to Nick that he might not find a

hulking, belligerent, knuckle-dragger waiting at Dave‘s shop.

Okay—so what if he’s a shy, muscular piece of mouth-watering

male? Just proof that this ugly book sure has one pretty cover. Come

on, Nick, remember what else he is—a goddamned abuser.

Nick tried to distract himself by being briskly business-like. He

turned to Logan, noticing that he‘d finally removed his sunglasses, but

the sky-blue eyes they‘d been shielding flitted around the garage, never

resting anywhere for long. Nick‘s voice echoed around the space

slightly as he explained, ―So, we‘ll have three gir—women in the

group. None of them know the first thing about cars, by the way.‖

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Felicia Watson

―What am I gonna show ‘em on—that?‖ Logan stopped his

pacing across the oil-stained concrete floor long enough to point to a

car hiding under a canvas tarp in the corner.

―No, that‘s an old car Dave—he owns this place—is storing here.

Larry says it needs a lot of work before Dave can unload it. We‘ll use

Norah‘s car; she‘s one of the women in the group. She just got herself a

‘97 Cavalier.‖

Talking more to the wall of tools than Nick, Logan observed,

―Shit, they weren‘t much good brand new, let alone twelve years old.‖

―Yeah, well—that‘s the kind of car these women can afford,‖

Nick answered in a frosty tone. ―That‘s why they need this course.

They generally have old, unreliable cars, live in iffy neighborhoods,

and possibly have some abusive nut stalking them.‖ He eyed Crane to

gauge his reaction to that last salvo.

Logan‘s shoulders merely hunched slightly as he responded,

―Thought they lived in that center of yours?‖

―Cheryl and Tish do, but Norah has moved out. Getting back to

the course, what I want is for you to start with the basic stuff and work

up to auto upkeep—changing oil and stuff like that—and then move on

to a few really easy repairs.‖

There was no immediate response from Logan as he stood, staring

at the tarp-covered car with his hands jammed into his pockets. Nick

waited him out, and Logan finally looked up briefly and mumbled,

―Yeah, sure, sounds good.‖

With that out of the way, the two men quickly agreed on a weekly

course to be held every Thursday from three to five p.m. Logan was

running his hands lightly over some of the equipment as he asked, ―Do

you know if I‘m allowed to use these tools, or should I bring my own?‖

―According to Larry, we can use whatever we want. Apparently

Dave had a heart attack a few months ago and doesn‘t get here much

anymore.‖

Logan finally trained his compelling gaze full-bore on Nick, who

was surprised at the pain hiding in the impossibly blue depths.

Surprised to see it or surprised he recognized it, Nick wasn‘t sure.

―This a one-man operation, then?‖

Where the Allegheny Meets the Monongahela

21

Nick wanted to ignore the lonesome longing seeping out from

under that question, but instead his body strummed with the sudden

need to issue a non sequitur in response:
I know, me, too.
Wondering if

he had suddenly lost his mind, he shook his head to clear it before

answering, ―Yeah, think so.‖

To cover his disquiet, Nick walked over and flicked the cover off

the car. His heart leaped at what he found, and he breathed excitedly,

―Oh, wow, a T-bird!‖

There was true reverence in Logan‘s tone as he elaborated, ―A ‘62

Sports Roadster.‖

The sudden appearance of his teenage dream car enthralled Nick,

wholly swamping his revulsion for his companion. ―Wonder if it runs,‖

he said, jumping into the cherry-red convertible and reaching for the

key. He ignored Logan‘s muttered protests about getting permission

and attempted to start the car. It sputtered a few times and died, but

Nick persisted, and the engine finally came reluctantly to life.

By now Logan was fully engaged, saying, ―Let‘s have a look

under the hood.‖

Nick left the car running but got out to peer over Logan‘s

shoulder. The mechanic seemed spellbound, standing transfixed with

ear cocked to the car. ―What are you doing?‖ wondered Nick.

―If you listen to a motor run, they‘ll tell ya most of what ya need

to know. Engines never lie—they‘re great that way.‖ Logan then leaned

in and started poking around, wiggling a few hoses before tugging at

the rusted dipstick.

As Logan worked, he displayed a spectacular view of denim

stretched tight over his well-defined ass, augmented by a damp, worn,

western-style shirt doing little to hide strong back muscles. Nick was

stunned and dismayed when a streak of desire sizzled down his body

straight into his cock; he couldn‘t help but look down at the slowly

plumping traitor and murmur, ―What the fuck‘s wrong with you?‖

Logan straightened up, asking, ―Huh?‖

―I said, looks like there‘s a lot wrong with it,‖ Nick demurred

with a cough, while the reality of who he was addressing splashed ice

water on his sudden ardor. ―I gotta get goin‘,‖ he added tersely,

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Felicia Watson

wanting to make his getaway before things got even weirder.

Companionably examining a classic Thunderbird with a remarkably

arousing, eerily familiar, convicted abuser was plenty weird enough

already.

―Okay,‖ Logan acquiesced, though his reluctance was clear.

The two men said an awkward goodbye before Nick re-covered

the car, locked up, and clattered down the steps to his Jeep. All the

while, he analyzed his disturbing reaction to Trudy‘s patient. Nick

finally shrugged it off as mere horniness brought on by an undeniably

attractive man.

―Obviously, three weeks‘s just too long to go without a workout.

Could probably fuck that car‘s trunk ‘bout now,‖ Nick muttered to

himself as he called home to see if Polly could stay a little late. With

that taken care of, he punched in the number for The Downtown

Athletic Club and asked to speak to the personal trainer, Adam Cecil.

NICK stretched out luxuriantly, enjoying the looseness that always

came into his muscles after a good hard romp. He rolled on his side and

came face-to-face with a bedside table lamp sporting a plastic Steelers

helmet as its base. Nick had already chided Adam more than once on it

being more appropriate for a six-year-old than a twenty-six–year-old,

but his happy-go-lucky friend had always shrugged him off. Still, he

couldn‘t resist another try. ―You ever gonna get rid of this lamp?‖

―Sure,‖ came the mirthful reply over his shoulder. ―When they

come out with one that has a Steelers helmet
and
a Pirates cap.‖ Nick

rolled back towards the auburn-haired man and gave him a playful

swat. Adam rewarded him with a mock scowl, complaining, ―You

know if we could fuck at your place once in a while, I could take

potshots at
your
furniture.‖

―Oh, that would be lovely. I can just see it now—I‘d be sucking

you off, and my mom would come pounding on the door wanting to

know if I‘d finished my math homework.‖

Adam gave a bark of laughter, finally chortling, ―Okay, I can see

where that would kill the mood.‖

Where the Allegheny Meets the Monongahela

23

―Worse than when my Aunt Hetty caught me and Alison Barstow,

‗half-nekkid‘, on her ‗good sofa‘.‖

―When was that?‖

―Twelfth grade.‖

―You were still messing around with girls then?‖

―Yeah—not many other choices in a town like Freeport. Besides,

at that age any chance to shove your dick in something felt good.‖

―Huh,‖ Adam answered. ―Not when what you‘re really craving is

a cock up your ass.‖

―You never bothered with girls?‖

―Not much. I always thought they were a pain in the ass. And not

the good kind.‖ Adam waited for Nick to stop laughing before

continuing in a more serious tone. ―From what I hear at work, it gets

worse when they‘re older. Always whining about
relationships
and

their
feelings
—or wanting guys to dress up and go to stupid things like

the ballet or some goopy chick flick.‖

Adam warmed to his subject, sliding up onto his knees and

affording Nick a chance to admire his muscular form. ―I bet if straight

men really knew how it was for me and you, they‘d die with envy. We

can hook up for sex if that‘s all we got time for, or shoot hoops

together, maybe catch a ballgame, and best of all, you don‘t give a rat‘s

ass what I wear or who I screw when you‘re not around.‖