Safe in His Arms (23 page)

nothing. See you Wednesday and don‘t be late.‖

He hung up before Hank could reply, which was a good thing, as the words on the

tip of his tongue came out just the same. ―You fucking prick,‖ he swore. ―I‘d like to

wring your scrawny neck.‖

He looked at the clock—it was a little after six. So much for sleeping in—he was

wide awake now, and still furious. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly,

willing himself to calm down. Who knew, maybe a year from now he‘d be laughing

about this. Laughing with Russell. Meanwhile, he needed to bide his time, work his

program, show up for work and keep his head down.

His next day on the job Hank arrived at work a few minutes late, thanks to the

damn bus being late to his stop. As he was clocking in, Sullivan appeared by his side.

―Decided to show up, huh?‖

―Sorry.‖ He grabbed a cup of the tepid, bitter coffee that was set up for customers to

drink while they waited, hoping it might stave off the headache he felt coming on. He

got down into his pit and set about readying it for another day.

It was nearly the end of the shift. Hank had just finished a job and was about to step

outside for a breath of fresh air when Sullivan approached him, tapping at a clipboard

he held in his hand. Hank sighed, the chance for a break receding.

Sullivan moved close, too close. The guy didn‘t seem to have a good grasp on

personal space. Hank backed up a little, but Sullivan just moved forward. ―You‘re not

meeting your quota, bud. Either speed it up, or start looking for a new job.‖

―If I had better tools, maybe I could get the job done,‖ Hank snapped, suddenly

pushed beyond endurance.

Sullivan‘s eyes narrowed into slits. ―Yeah, well that ain‘t gonna happen. You better

watch your step. There‘s plenty of guys in line to take your spot, asshole.‖

Hank‘s neck felt hot and he found it difficult to breathe. Who the fuck did this little

bastard think he was? How did the other guys tolerate being talked to like this? He

glanced around the garage, but no one seemed to be paying them the slightest attention.

His hands had curled into fists and he realized he would love nothing so much as to

punch Sullivan‘s ugly, pockmarked face. Then he thought of Russell, and what Russell

would think if he handled the situation that way. He would certainly be fired at the

very least, and they might bring assault charges against him. Was that the man he

wanted to be?

Though he was still furious, Hank met the pit manager‘s angry gaze. ―Yes, sir,‖ he

managed through gritted teeth.

While struggling with yet another stuck filter with his old strap wrench, an idea

suddenly popped into his head. What if he could find a way to utilize the power of the

air compressor that was used to remove various nuts and bolts, and adapt it to the strap

wrench?

On the way home that evening, he stopped at the local Home Depot. The man there

was very helpful with ideas, once he‘d explained what he was after. He showed him

some simple plumbing fittings that could be used, which Hank purchased for only a

few dollars.

Friday dawned bright and Hank awoke before the alarm with a sense of

anticipation. Today was his first payday, the day he could finally to prove to Russell

that he was making the changes necessary to be in Russell‘s life. He whispered a silent

prayer that it wasn‘t too late, and then pushed that possibility from his mind.

He arrived early, eager to try out his new tool design. He didn‘t tell anyone what he

was doing, aware Sullivan would probably ridicule him, if he didn‘t outright forbid him

from tinkering with the equipment and procedures already in place. It took about

twenty minutes and a few false starts, but Hank managed to get the strap wrench

secured to the air drill. Now, instead of minutes wrestling with antiquated or dried out

filters, he was taking seconds.

It was around eleven when Mr. Dickson came out with sealed envelopes and

handed one to Hank. Hank ripped it open excitedly. His first paycheck! He was

unpleasantly shocked when he saw the total, which was considerably less than he‘d

calculated in his head. What the hell was FICA anyway? He tried to swallow his

disappointment. After all, it wasn‘t about the money so much, as it was the fact he‘d

proved he could do it.

When Hank was clocking out he saw Sullivan moving toward him and he groaned

inwardly. What now? Sullivan pointed to his ever-present clipboard. ―Your tally‘s way

up. Unless there‘s been a mistake,‖ he paused, staring again at the numbers and

squinting at Hank, ―the numbers are indicating you‘ve managed to increase production

today by forty-five percent over your prior performance. In fact, today you‘ve done

more oil changes than anyone on the team. What I want to know is, how the fuck are

you doing it? I better not find out that you‘re cutting corners, Seeley.‖

Hank shrugged, suppressing a triumphant grin. ―No, sir. Actually I just modified

the strap wrench a little. I can show you if you like.‖ He felt a rush of satisfaction as

Sullivan raised his eyebrows skeptically.

Hank hopped down into the pit and showed Sullivan the adaption he‘d made to the

strap wrench. Sullivan actually looked impressed, and made a few notes on his

clipboard. ―Good job,‖ he said. To Hank‘s surprise, the pit manager actually patted

Hank‘s shoulder, offering a sneer that very nearly approximated a smile. ―We could use

a few guys who can think on their feet. Maybe you‘ll last a while longer, Seeley.‖

Hank grinned. ―Thank, boss,‖ he said.

Russell sank into his favorite chair, tired but satisfied. After a morning spent on a

four hour construction gig, he‘d worked six more hours at the brewery with Nolan,

bottling the latest batch for secondary fermentation. They were both excited about the

latest recipe, which was finally coming together into something really unique and

delicious. Nolan had secured a booth at the upcoming Denver Beer Fest, and with only

a few weeks to go, they were scrambling to get enough product ready for the big event.

Freshly showered, he was lounging in a sleeveless undershirt and jeans, a bottle of

the pale ale Nolan and he had been experimenting with in his hand. The knock on the

loft door startled him. There were only two people who had the key to the building

besides him. Nolan would have called first…

Russell‘s heart picked up its pace as he moved toward the door. It had to be Hank,

but why now, after all these weeks? Russell‘s guard was instantly up. Had Hank found

a new guy to put up with his crap and so had stopped by to return the building key? Or

was he there to continue the fight where they‘d left it, still wallowing in self-righteous

outrage?

He opened the door and stopped short, his mind struggling to reconcile the

disheveled man in a work shirt standing in front of him with the impeccably groomed

Hank he knew, a man who favored cashmere and fine leather. Several days‘ beard

shadowed Hank‘s jaw, and he looked like he could use a haircut and a good hot

shower. He was wearing some kind of uniform with writing stitched over the breast

pocket. It was stained with what looked like motor oil. His arms were also smeared

with the black residue, his fingernails black with grease.

Russell kept his arms at his sides and his face impassive. Though taken aback by

Hank‘s appearance, Russell was still wary, unsure what Hank‘s intentions were. He

steeled himself for whatever Hank had come over to dish out.

Russell had been through hell these past weeks, after Hank had walked out without

looking back. He was done being used by guys like Hank, whose emotional tanks were

perennially empty and waiting for him to fill it. That, Russell vowed to himself, would

not happen again. Period.

Hank stood with his head down, shoulders slumped. Russell crossed his arms and

waited, silently resolving to stand firm. Slowly Hank lifted his head, pulled back his

shoulders and squared them. He stood taller and looked Russell in the eye.

Despite his proud, almost defiant stance, there was a raw, naked pleading in

Hank‘s expression. Russell understood then that Hank hadn‘t come spoiling for a fight.

Despite his best effort to remain steadfast, a whisper of hoped flared in Russell.

He waited.

―I‘m sorry,‖ Hank said quietly.

Conflicting emotions warred inside Russell. He knew what it had taken for Hank to

admit there was even anything to apologize for. By the same token, if Hank now

thought things would just automatically go back to how they were, just because he‘d

uttered those two little words, he could think again. Russell had been deeply hurt by

Hank‘s walking out and he wasn‘t ready to let go of that. Not yet.

―For?‖ Russell finally said.

―For pretty much everything, I guess.‖ Hank offered a rueful smile. ―I‘m sorry I

walked out on you, I‘m sorry I haven‘t even tried to get in touch with you, I‘m sorry I

hurt you, I‘m sorry I didn‘t trust you or believe in you or believe in us.‖

Russell lifted his eyebrows, impressed despite himself with the speech, but still not

convinced. Sorry was one thing. Action was another.

―I want another chance,‖ Hank continued. ―Please give me a chance at least to

explain.‖

―I‘m listening.‖

―Okay.‖ Hank ran his hands over his face and blew out a breath. There was

something different about Hank, something Russell found himself responding to on a

visceral level, something that went beyond mere sexual attraction. The slick, entitled

rich boy persona had been ripped away, revealing a vulnerability beneath, but also a

newfound strength.

Russell‘s felt as if his head and heart were spinning. He could feel the protective

walls he‘d built to contain his emotions over the past weeks begin to crumble. It took

every ounce of control not to reach out and take Hank into his arms.

Hank leaned toward him, as if about to reach out himself, but at the last moment

caught himself, looking down. After a moment he looked up again. ―Look, I understand

if you want nothing to do with me. I know I acted like a spoiled brat but…but…‖

―Are you trying to say you‘ve changed? You‘ve been taking the steps we talked

about?‖

―Yes!‖ Hank nodded gratefully. ―I‘ve really been trying, Russell. Trying to live a

better life. Not just for you, but for myself.‖

―Jesus, Hank, couldn‘t you have let me know? Given me some sign you were still

on the planet? At least let me know you were alive? It‘s been six weeks.‖

―Yeah. I know. I spent the first couple of weeks in a nosedive. It wasn‘t until I

crashed and burned that I figured out I had probably lost the best thing ever to happen

to me. I started to realize I‘d better make a fucking change, and not just for you, but for

myself.‖ Hank sighed.

―The thing is,‖ he went on, ―I didn‘t forget what you said, and I knew if I wanted to

see you again, I needed to start to make those changes. The funny thing is, this started

out to be about you—about pleasing you and making you want me again. But it‘s

become more. Much more. I understand now what you were trying to tell me. And I‘ve

been trying—really trying.‖

Hank still hadn‘t said what exactly he‘d been trying to do. Yeah, it was clear at least

that he had a job, some kind of job. That was a good start. But what about the internal

changes? The owning up to what a shambles he‘d made of his life, and some concrete

steps to change it? Just getting a job at some garage wasn‘t enough, not by a long shot.

And yet…

And yet it was something at least. Just the act of trying, of taking that first step. Of

admitting things did have to change, and then trying to change them. For a guy like

Hank, used to as he was of acting in a completely self-centered way, that in itself was

huge.

Hank was watching him, his liquid brown eyes bright with unshed tears. Moved,

but not yet ready to let him off the hook, Russell said, ―Go on.‖

―Okay. First, as you can see, I got a job.‖ Hank looked down at the uniform shirt,

his laugh self-deprecating. ―Not exactly CEO of Seeley Construction, but I got the job

myself, and I‘ve been there two weeks and today…‖ He paused, reaching into his back

pocket. ―Well, today I got this.‖

Hank held out his hand, which contained an opened envelope. ―It‘s not much. But I

earned it. Every penny.‖

Russell took the offered envelope. Inside was a paycheck, the sum paltry, but

payable to the order of Henry Seeley. He looked at Hank, and saw the quiet pride

burning in his eyes. ―That‘s a good first step.‖

Hank moved closer but Russell didn‘t budge. ―Please, Russ. Can I come in? I just