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The Hot Rod By Sean Michael Jon wandered the convention center main room, the lines of cars and cameras and lights and things looking like odd props from a science fiction movie. The best part about working deep nights on the weekends was that he could explore, spend hours looking at whatever shit the center had booked -- home and garden show, city-wide garage sale, bridal expo, whatever. So far, barring the guitar show -- because what guy didn't want to play air guitar on a Les Paul? -- the car show was the absolute coolest. Jags and 'vettes and a sexy little Lamborghini. Pacers. Midgets. A rainbow colored VW microbus. A Fairlane. Fucking cool. He had a trashed-out Firebird in his garage, gutted and dead in the water, but one day he'd have her running again, maybe show her in a place like this. He walked around, hand stroking a fender, peering in at leather interiors, stealing a chocolate from one of the vendor booths. Finally he walked back to the center of the main floor to see the beauty queen of this particular pageant, a cherry 1969 365 GTB/4 Spyder, restored to the original grigio paint, midnight blue interior. Shiny and sleek and sexy and slick and, damn, but he loved those covered headlights. Craig was there, sweeping up around the dais. Sweeping very thoroughly, mop sliding around the floor in slow careful movements that took the guy around the Spyder one way and then the other. He nodded, trying not to wince. The shittiest part about working deep nights on the weekends was that sometimes he ran into Craig, one of his used-to-be lovers, used-to-be-friend, hell, used-to-be-live-in. Stunning how those passionate affairs turned into violent, screaming breakups in the middle of the night. Craig was looking good, blond hair cut neatly for a change, a bit of color in his cheeks and hands. Not to mention the way Craig's t-shirt clung to new muscles, the overalls top tied at Craig's waist by the arms of the garment. Craig glanced up at him, blue eyes wry. "She's a beaut, yeah?" "Stunning. Worth damned near a half mil, too." He resisted the urge to smooth his uniform shirt, make sure everything looked right. "You ever ridden in one?" Craig asked him, stepping up the first step to run the mop around it. "Nope. You?" Jon stepped out of the way, trying not to watch the motion of muscles on Craig's back. "Hell, no." Craig did the step and then went right up to the dais, careful as he swept not to hit the car with his mop. Reaching, one eye on him, Craig touched the hood. A long low whistle sounded. "I can almost hear her purr." "Yeah... A hundred seventy miles an hour, man. She'd fly." He walked around the back to look, to maybe stroke the bumper. Craig looked at him across the car, grinning. "You got keys, man?" "Shit, no. I'm a rent-a-cop, I'm lucky I have a bathroom key." He looked over, tilted his head, offered those smiling eyes a grin. "Got into the Academy, though. I start in July." "Hey, congrats!" Craig sounded genuinely pleased. "Good show, man." "Thanks." He'd been doing nothing but trying to get into the police academy for over a year, training, shooting, studying. It had been one of the things they'd fought about. Felt good to have made it in. "Soon you'll be chasing these down and handing out tickets." Craig gave the hood another loving pat. "Imagine the make-out points for one of these babies." "Make-out points? Baby, guys who drive these get blow-job points." Craig colored at his slip and looked back down at the Spyder. "I remember those...." "Yeah." He did too. He remembered quick hard fucks in bathroom stalls, long, lazy, rainy Sundays, those lips wrapped around his... |
