Chapter 4: Sauce-Stained Confessions
Marc’s apartment was exactly what she’d imagined, and nothing like she’d expected. It was above the garage, accessed by a steep, narrow staircase hidden behind a door in the back office. The air changed halfway up, shifting from the sharp tang of motor oil and rubber to the scent of old wood, stale coffee, and something faintly savory.
“It’s not much,” he said, pushing the door open, his voice echoing in the small space.
Sydney stepped inside. It was a single room, really. A kitchenette lined one wall, dominated by a deep farmhouse sink under a single grimy window. A small, two-burner stove held a pot bubbling with red sauce. A sofa, its upholstery worn to a nondescript gray, faced a television that looked like it had been rescued from a dumpster in the late 90s. There were no pictures on the walls, just a calendar from an auto parts supplier, three months out of date. The place felt like a temporary camp, not a home. It smelled of solitude.
“It’s perfect,” she said, and meant it.
He moved to the stove, stirring the sauce. “It’s just jarred stuff. Dumped some extra garlic in it.” He glanced back at her, his shoulders tight. “Sorry about the… everything.”
She let her bag drop by the sofa. “Stop apologizing. You cooked. That’s a novelty for me.” She drifted over to the only shelf, a simple pine board supported by bricks. There were a few paperback thrillers, their spines cracked. A stack of car manuals. A dusty, green glass ashtray. And, off to the side, a single framed photograph.
It was of Marc, younger, his hair shorter, with a woman tucked under his arm. Lena. She had a wide, open-mouthed laugh, her eyes crinkled shut. She was pointing at something outside the frame, her other hand on his chest. Marc wasn’t looking at the camera; he was looking at her, with an expression of such unguarded, bewildered joy it made Sydney’s heart clench. They were at a baseball game, she guessed. Sunny day.
She didn’t touch it. She just looked.
“Spaghetti’s done,” Marc announced, his back to her. He ladled the steaming pasta into two mismatched bowls, then drowned them in sauce. He carried them to a small fold-out table by the window, its surface a map of old water rings and ghostly scratches.
They ate. The food was simple, hearty, garlic burning the back of the throat. They talked about nothing important. The city’s plan to repave Elm Street, which Marc distrusted. The new script Sydney was reading, a political thriller she found ridiculous. “They want me to wear a pantsuit and run in heels,” she said, twirling pasta. “I told them nobody outruns an assassin in Louboutins. They said it’s about the aesthetic.”
“What’s aesthetic?” Marc asked, genuinely puzzled.
“It means it looks cool, even if it’s stupid.”
“Ah.” He took a bite, chewed thoughtfully. “Like a convertible in Seattle.”
They laughed. It was easy. The heavy silence from the garage was gone, replaced by a fragile, spinning energy. The kiss on the cheek hung between them, unacknowledged but present, like a third person in the small room.
He got up to refill their glasses of water. As he leaned over her shoulder to set hers down, his arm bumped her elbow.
The jolt was slight, but it sent her fork skidding. A single, perfect droplet of rich, red marinara leapt from the tines. It sailed through the air in a slow, disastrous arc and landed with a soft, wet plop directly on the front of her white t-shirt, just above her left breast.
They both froze, looking at the spreading, scarlet bloom.
“Ah, hell,” Marc muttered. He grabbed a cleanish dish towel from the counter and, without thinking, pressed it against the stain. His hand, broad and calloused, covered the spot entirely, the warm, damp cloth soaking through the thin cotton.
Sydney inhaled sharply. The pressure was firm, immediate. She could feel the heat of his palm through the fabric.
He realized his mistake a second later. His eyes snapped up from the stain to hers. He jerked his hand back as if burned, the towel dropping to the floor. The stain was now a larger, wet, translucent circle. The cool air of the apartment hit the damp patch, making her shiver. The shirt clung, revealing the shape beneath.
“Jesus, I’m—sorry,” he stammered, stepping back so quickly he bumped the table. His face was flushed. “I just… acted. Clumsy.”
Sydney looked down at the stain, then back at him. A slow, warm smile spread across her face, cutting through the awkwardness. Her heart was pounding against her ribs. “Guess I’m marked now,” she said, her voice low, echoing her words from weeks ago in the garage, but this time layered with a new, undeniable meaning.
His gaze held hers. The air was thick, charged, the scent of garlic and tomatoes suddenly overwhelming. The traffic hum from the street below faded into a distant whisper. He wasn’t smiling, but his eyes were dark, focused entirely on her.
He took a single step forward, closing the distance he’d just created. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “You are.”
“You are.”
The words hung there, solid as the table between them. Sydney didn’t break eye contact. She reached down, gathered the hem of her stained shirt in both hands, and pulled it up and over her head in one fluid motion. The fabric whispered as it passed her ears, then fell, forgotten, onto the chair behind her.
The apartment air was cool on her skin. She stood there in her jeans and a simple white bra, the lace detailing subtle but clear. The light from the single bulb caught the curve of her shoulders, the dip of her collarbone. She didn’t pose; she just was, watching him.
Marc’s breath stalled in his throat. All the grease, all the engine blocks, all the stubborn bolts in the world hadn’t prepared him for this. His eyes traveled the length of her, a quick, helpless circuit, before fixing on a point on the wall just past her left ear. His face was a sculpture of pure, paralyzed shock. He couldn’t speak.
A slow, knowing smile touched Sydney’s lips. She took a single step toward him, the floorboard creaking under her weight. “So,” she said, her voice a low, warm ripple in the quiet room. “Seeing a woman in her bra can get the great mechanic Marc silent.”
He flinched, as if her words were physical. His hands flexed at his sides, leaving faint, grey smudges on his work pants. “Uh,” he managed, the sound scraping out. He turned, a jerky, aborted movement toward a small dresser shoved against the wall. “I’ll… uhm. I’ll get you a shirt.”
He didn’t get the chance.
She closed the remaining distance in two quick strides. Her hand came up, not tentative, but sure. Her palm was cool as it cupped the side of his jaw, her fingers sliding into the rough, short hair at his temple. She turned his face back toward hers, forcing his wide, startled eyes to meet her steady blue gaze.
Then she kissed him.
It wasn’t a question. It was an answer. Her mouth was soft and insistent against his, a firm pressure that dissolved the last inch of space between them. She tasted like tomatoes and cheap wine and something uniquely, fundamentally her. He remained frozen for one heart-stopping second, every muscle locked.
Then, with a shuddering exhale that seemed to come from the very foundations of the building, he melted. One grease-stained hand came up to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her blonde hair. The other found the bare skin of her waist, his thumb stroking a fierce, grounding arc just above the band of her jeans. He kissed her back with a hunger that felt decades old, a deep, consuming thing that shook them both.
When they finally broke apart, they were both breathing raggedly. Their foreheads rested together. The neon glow from the street below pulsed against the ceiling, painting their skin in fleeting shades of pink and blue.
The neon glow from the street below pulsed against the ceiling, painting their skin in fleeting shades of pink and blue. His hand was still on her waist, his thumb a brand over her hip bone. She could feel the ridge of his erection pressing against the denim of his work pants, a hard, urgent demand. Her own breathing was shallow, every sense hyper-focused on the heat of his palm and the dark, wanting look in his eyes.
“Marc,” she whispered, her voice cracking the silence like thin ice.
She didn’t wait for a reply. Her fingers, steady and sure, went to the buckle of his belt. The leather hissed as she pulled it free. The button of his jeans popped open with a soft, definitive snap. She hooked her thumbs into the waistband of his pants and his boxer briefs, the fabric coarse against her skin. She paused, her gaze lifting to lock with his. The pulse in his jaw was hammering.
“This,” she said, her voice low but clear, leaving no room for misinterpretation. “Is this okay?”
He didn’t speak. His throat worked. He just nodded, a sharp, desperate dip of his chin, his eyes never leaving hers. It was all the permission she needed.
She pushed the fabric down over his hips, letting it fall to his thighs. He was already half-hard, his cock lying thick against his stomach. She wrapped her fingers around him, feeling the weight, the heat, the smooth skin stretched taut. She began to stroke, a firm, slow pull from root to tip. She watched his eyes glaze, his lips part on a silent gasp. Under her hand, he swelled to full, rigid hardness, a flushed and heavy length that made her own stomach clench with wet, aching need.
“Christ,” he breathed, the word ripped from him.
He reached for her then, his movements clumsy with urgency. His hands fumbled with the clasp of her bra between her shoulder blades, his grease-stained fingers trembling slightly. With a final click, the constraint gave way. The lace fell open, and the bra straps slid down her arms. Two perfect, large, round breasts fell free, full and heavy in the cool air.
Marc’s breath caught audibly. A ragged, “Fuck,” escaped him. He was staring, utterly transfixed, as she let the garment drop. He grew even harder in her hand, a twitching, visceral reaction she could feel in her palm. He cupped them both, his calloused hands rough and infinitely gentle on her soft skin, his thumbs brushing over her nipples until they tightened into hard, aching peaks.
“So fucking beautiful,” he groaned, dipping his head to take one into his mouth.
The sensation was electric, a sharp pull of pleasure that arced straight to her core. She cried out, her head falling back, her fingers tightening in his hair. He suckled deeply, lavishing her with his tongue, then gave the same devoted attention to the other. She was panting, her hips rolling against nothing, every nerve ending screaming. The smell of him—engine grease, soap, pure male sweat—filled her lungs.
“I need you,” she gasped, tugging his hair to bring his mouth back to hers. “Now. I don’t want gentle.”
He kissed her, a brutal, starving clash of teeth and tongue. He walked her backward until her knees hit the edge of the worn sofa. They tumbled onto it together, a tangle of limbs and desperate hands. He yanked her jeans and underwear down her legs in one frantic motion. She kicked them away, spreading her thighs as he settled between them. The coarse fabric of his work pants scratched her inner skin. The blunt, hot head of his cock nudged against her, slick with her own wetness.
“Look at me,” she demanded, her voice shaking.
He did. His eyes, black with need, held hers as he pushed inside. He was big, a stretching, burning fullness that stole her breath. She gasped, her nails biting into his shoulders. He sank deeper, an inexorable, perfect invasion, until he was fully sheathed, their bodies locked together. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, both of them shuddering with the shock of it.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” he gritted out, his forehead dripping sweat onto her collarbone. “So fucking tight and wet.”
“Move,” she begged, arching beneath him. “Just fucking move.”
He pulled back and drove into her again, setting a ruthless, pounding rhythm. The old sofa springs shrieked in protest with every thrust. Each snap of his hips was a raw, carnal punctuation, hitting a spot deep inside her that made her vision whiten at the edges. The sounds were obscene—the wet slap of skin, their ragged moans, the crude, filthy words he growled into her ear.
“Take it,” he grunted, his pace becoming punishing, animal. “Take all of it.”
She was screaming, a raw, broken sound lost in the noise of the city and his own rough cries. The coil in her belly wound tighter, tighter, fed by the brutal friction and the sheer, debasing reality of him—a man she’d found in a garage, whose hands knew engines and now knew her. It shattered. Her climax tore through her, a convulsing, mindless wave that clenched around his driving cock.
Feeling her pulsing around him, his control snapped. With three final, jagged thrusts, he buried himself deep and came with a hoarse shout, his whole body shuddering as he emptied himself inside her. He collapsed on top of her, a heavy, spent weight, their sweat-slick skin sealing them together.
The neon continued its silent, ceaseless pulse. The only sounds were their slowing breaths and the distant, weeping sigh of a bus’s air brakes far below.
For a long time, they didn’t move. The heat between their bodies cooled into a damp, intimate glue. Sydney traced idle patterns through the coarse hair on his chest, feeling the frantic drum of his heart gradually settle into a steady, heavy thud. The neon’s pink and blue light slid across his skin, the same sickly hues that painted his garage floor.
Marc’s breath was warm against her temple. His arm, flung heavily across her waist, pinned her to the sofa and to the moment. She could smell herself on him, a sharp, organic tang mixed with his own salt and sweat.
“The springs in this thing are shot,” he mumbled into her hair, his voice graveled.
She laughed, a short, breathy sound. “You’re just noticing?”
“I usually sit alone.” The words were simple, unadorned. They hung in the dark, confessing more than he’d intended.
She turned her head, her nose brushing his collarbone. She could see the faint, vertical scar on his ribs from a forgotten wrench slip, the permanent grease shadow under his nails. This was a body that worked, that broke and healed and carried weight. It was profoundly different from the smoothed, curated flesh she was surrounded by in her other life. It felt real in a way that left her unmoored.
He shifted finally, lifting his weight off her with a grunt. The cool air rushed in, raising goosebumps on her slick skin. He didn’t go far, just slumped back against the sofa cushions, pulling her with him so her back was against his chest. His knees bracketed her hips. He reached down, fumbled for the worn afghan thrown over the sofa’s arm, and dragged it up over them both.
They were a tangle of limbs under the scratchy wool, naked and spent. His chin rested on the top of her head.
Outside, the city did what it always did. A siren Dopplered past. A trash can clanged. The world was indifferent, which made this pocket of quiet feel stolen and sacred.
“You’re thinking,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
“Aren’t you?”
He was silent for a minute. His fingers found hers where they rested on her stomach, lacing through them. His grip was tight. “Yeah. Mostly about how I should probably get up and find a towel. And how I really don’t want to move.”
“Don’t,” she said. She squeezed his hand.
They lay there, listening. Her mind replayed the jarring shift from spaghetti to this—the splash of sauce, the shocking cool of the wet cloth, the decisive way she’d removed her shirt. The look on his face. It hadn’t been planned. It had been a truth, acted upon.
“I never do that,” she said softly.
“Do what?”
“Any of that. Bring a car to a random garage. Go upstairs. Start… that.” She paused. “Finish that.”
His chest rose and fell against her back. “Why this time?”
She considered it. “The garage, I guess. It felt like a place where things get fixed, not just polished. You looked at the Bronco, not at me. Not until…”
“Until you took your shirt off,” he finished, a rough laugh in his voice.
“You were talking about Lena. About her perfume. Your voice broke.” She turned her head slightly, speaking to the dark room. “I guess I wanted you to see something alive. Right in front of you.”
His arms tightened around her. He didn’t speak for a long time. When he did, his voice was thick, stripped raw. “I saw you. I see you.”
They lay naked together. Well, that happened, she thought, a curl of warmth in her chest that had nothing to do with the blanket. She could feel the curve of his mouth against her hair. They smiled together in the dark, a private, quiet thing unseen by anyone.
“Marc?” she whispered.
“Hmm?”
“That was the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”
He held her closer, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle and silent gratitude. He pressed his lips to the crown of her head, a kiss that was a seal, a promise, a thank you. “Yeah,” he murmured, the word vibrating through her. “Me too.”
The word dissolved into the quiet, leaving only the sound of their breathing. The stickiness between her thighs was beginning to cool. Sydney shifted, the afghan scratching her hip. “We’re a mess,” she said, her voice practical, but a smile in it.
He nodded against her hair. “I’ve got industrial-grade soap downstairs.” A pause. “Or, there’s a shower. Here. It’s small.”
“How small?”
“You’ll have to decide if you’re claustrophobic.”
She untangled herself from his arms and the blanket, the air hitting her skin. She stood, naked in the middle of his dim apartment, and held out a hand. “Lead the way.”
The bathroom was just off the kitchenette, a closet really. Marc reached in and yanked a chain; a bare bulb flickered on, illuminating cracked white tiles and a narrow porcelain tub with a faded curtain patterned with ducks. The showerhead was a chrome knob on the wall. It was utilitarian, clean but worn, a shrine to function.
“See?” he said, a slight, self-conscious wave of his hand. “Compact.”
Sydney stepped past him, her skin brushing his in the tight doorway. She tested the taps. A groan echoed in the pipes, then a sputter of cold, then a rush of steaming hot water that quickly fogged the small room. The scent of mineral-heavy city water and Marc’s plain bar soap filled the damp air. She turned, her back to the spray, and looked at him. Water beaded on her shoulders.
“Well?” she said.
He moved then, stepping into the tub and pulling the curtain closed with a rattle of plastic rings. The space was instantly, intimately enclosed, a warm, wet cube of steam and sound. They were inches apart, water sluicing over them.
He took the bar of soap. It was grey, unperfumed. He worked it between his palms until a lather built, then began to wash her. His hands were methodical, as if detailing a fine engine. Over her shoulders, down the slope of her back, the suds tracing the line of her spine. He was thorough, removing the salt and the sweat and the scent of their sex. His touch was neither clinical nor overtly sexual; it was a ritual of care.
She took the soap from him. Her turn. She started with his hands, scrubbing the ingrained grease from his knuckles and cuticles, the black lines that seemed part of him. She moved up his arms, over the hard, rounded muscles of his shoulders, the dark hair on his chest laying flat under the water. She saw every old scar, every burn, the history of his work written on his skin. She washed his neck, his jaw, her thumbs smoothing over the stubble on his cheeks.
He stood still, his eyes closed, water streaming down his face. It was a vulnerability more profound than sex.
“The marinara’s gone,” she said, her voice softened by the shower’s echo.
His eyes opened. He looked at the spot on her chest where the stain had been, now just clean, pink skin. “Good.”
She rinsed the last of the soap from his chest. The water began to run cool. He reached past her and shut it off. The sudden silence was heavy, broken only by the drip from the showerhead and their breath in the steam.
They stood there, dripping onto the duck-patterned tub floor. He pushed a wet strand of hair from her forehead. The gesture was unbearably tender.
“I should get you a towel,” he said, but didn’t move.
“You should,” she agreed, and kissed him, a slow, water-cooled kiss that tasted of nothing but clean.