Chapter 13: The Grease and the Temptation
The carburetor demanded everything I had. I leaned over the engine bay, wrench turned against a stubborn bolt, and let the ache in my forearms chase away everything else. The numbers, the measurements, the precise order of disassembly: that was my language. That was Justin's language, and it still worked in this body.
Allan worked the fuel lines beside me, close enough that I caught the clean soap smell of his skin underneath the engine grease. My prickle rose along my arms every time he shifted.
"Could you hand me the half-inch socket?" he asked.
I turned too fast. My hip caught the fender, and the socket slipped from my fingers, clattering against the concrete floor.
He laughed, easy and warm. "Guess we're both a little rusty."
I laughed with him, but my eyes stayed fixed on the carburetor's brass fittings, not his face. I cranked the wrench harder. The grunt of metal on metal filled the space between us, and I let it drown out the hum of my own pulse.
The afternoon bled into evening. The carburetor fought me, and I fought back, and somewhere between the third and fourth stubborn bolt, Allan started narrating his work like a nature documentary.
"Behold," he said, holding up a corroded fuel line, "the intestine of a 1966 beast. Clogged with the fossilized remains of a glorious past."
I snorted, a real laugh that surprised me. "You should have a show on PBS."
"Funding's tight," he said gravely. He tossed the line into a bucket and picked up the next one. "But my audience is passionate. You should see my fan mail. It's mostly my mother."
"Mostly?"
"She says the rest is from 'devoted viewers' but it's just the dispatcher, Carol, who likes to mess with me."
I grinned despite myself, turning back to the carburetor. The bolt gave way with a satisfying groan. "I bet Carol's a real fan."
"She sends me memes. That's not a joke. She finds out about memes from her grandson and sends me ones about donuts." He paused, wiping his hands on a grease rag. "She thinks it's part of my 'training.'"
The image of a middle-aged dispatcher sending donut memes to a deputy made me snicker. I leaned over the engine to reach a fitting, and my bra strap slipped down my shoulder. I shifted, tugging it back, but not before Allan looked away, a faint flush on his neck.
I pretended not to notice. "You sound like a guy with a lot of complicated professional relationships."
He laughed, that easy, warm sound that made my chest feel strange. "You have no idea. The town's got a hundred and twelve people. The mayor's also the undertaker. The postmistress is my aunt."
"Small town."
"Smaller than small. But it grows on you." He held up the cleaned fuel line. "This is ready."
We fell into a rhythm after that, jokes coming easier. He told me about the time a cow got loose and wandered into the town hall during a budget meeting. I told him about the time I rebuilt a lawnmower engine at twelve and had six parts left over.
"Six parts?" he asked, eyebrows raised.
"Ran better than before," I said, defensive.
"Sure it did."
"It did. Old man Whitfield never complained."
He shook his head, smiling. "You're a menace with tools."
I was not, that was the whole point. I had been precise, methodical, the kind of man who double-checked torque settings. But here, in this body, with him looking at me like I was something curious and charming, I found myself playing along.
The sun dipped lower, painting the barn in amber. The engine bay looked better than it had all day: the new carburetor seated, fuel lines connected, the starter wiring stripped and reconnected. I stepped back, wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, smearing grease across my skin.
Allan handed me a rag. "You've got a bit of engine on your face."
"I know."
He didn't wipe it off this time. Just smiled and leaned against the fender, crossing his arms. The shirt he'd changed into earlier, a clean flannel, was now as dirty as mine. He looked good like that. Tired, satisfied, human.
"I think that's enough for today," he said.
I looked at the truck, then at the darkening barn, then at him. "Yeah. I think you're right."
We cleaned up in silence, coiling the tools and losing them back in the battered toolbox. My hands ached. My back ached. But there was a lightness in my chest I hadn't felt since before the procedure, before the body, before everything.
Allan stretched, and his shirt rode up, showing a strip of skin. I looked away quickly.
"So," he said, casual, "it's getting late. I could stay over again. That guest room is genuinely comfortable. Best sleep I've had in months."
"Yes," I said, before he even finished. The word was out of my mouth, fast and eager, and I felt my face heat.
He raised an eyebrow, a slow smile spreading. "I'll take that as a yes."
"I meant, yes, it's fine," I said, backpedaling. "The room's there. No sense driving back in the dark."
"Right," he said, and the smile didn't leave his face.
I grabbed a rag and wiped my hands again, trying to look busy. But the truth was I didn't want him to leave. The house felt too big when he wasn't there, all the quiet corners filled with the ghost of a man I used to be. With him, the emptiness had somewhere to go.
We walked out of the barn into the cool evening. The sky was still deep blue near the horizon, a few stars poking through overhead. The smell of dry hay and pine was thick and sweet.
"Hey," I said, my voice coming out softer than I meant, "do you want to have a fire before bed? There's a fire pit behind the house."
He paused, looking at me, his eyes catching the last light. "You have a fire pit?"
"I found it this morning. It's got some wood by it. Probably dry."
He nodded, that slow smile widening. "Yeah. I'd like that."
I turned toward the house, and he fell into step beside me. We walked close enough that our shoulders almost brushed, and I didn't move away.
We climbed the porch steps, and the screen door creaked on its hinges. Inside, the house held the warmth of the evening, the kitchen still smelling faintly of this morning's coffee and the lingering scent of Allan's cooking.
"I'll use the guest bath," he said, nodding toward the hallway. "If that's okay."
"Yeah. Towels are in the closet."
He disappeared down the hall, and I stood in the kitchen for a moment, listening to the water run. The house felt different with him in it. The quiet corners didn't press in quite so hard.
I went to the master bathroom and turned on the tap. The water ran cold for a moment, then hot. I scrubbed my hands and arms with the bar soap, watching the grey sludge spiral down the drain. My face took longer: a smudge of grease had dried along my jawline, and I had to work at it with a washcloth until my skin felt raw and clean.
I dried off and stood in front of the mirror, my reflection looking back at me with those bright blue eyes I still didn't quite recognize. I reached for the hem of my tank top and pulled it over my head, then shimmied out of the denim shorts. The bra I'd wrestled into that morning was still snug, the underwire digging in just slightly under the weight of my breasts.
I looked away from the mirror and pulled on a pair of black yoga pants, the fabric soft and forgiving. Then I grabbed the grey zip-up hoodie from the hook on the back of the bathroom door, a fleece-lined thing I'd found in the dresser earlier. I zipped it up to just below my collarbone, the metal pull resting in the hollow of my throat.
I paused. The hoodie was soft against my skin, but there was nothing between it and the bra. I tugged the zipper up another inch, then down again, then left it where it was, just barely covering the swell of my chest. It was comfortable. It was fine. It was nothing.
I stepped out into the hallway, and Allan was coming out of the guest room at the same moment.
He'd found clothes in there. I hadn't even known there were clothes in there. He wore a long-sleeve flannel shirt that was a size too small, pulling tight across his shoulders, the cuffs reaching just past his wrists. Below that, a pair of grey sweatpants that hugged his hips and thighs, clinging in a way that made my mouth go dry.
I looked at his face. Then I looked at his face again, because the alternative was staring at his ass, and I was not going to do that.
"They fit," he said, a note of surprise in his voice. "Kind of. Whose are these?"
"I don't know," I said, and my voice came out a little breathy. "They were just in there. A previous tenant, maybe."
"Lucky me." He tugged at the collar of the flannel. "A little snug, but I've had worse."
He filled out that shirt in a way that made the word snug do a lot of work. The fabric stretched across his chest, the buttons pulling just slightly. Every time he moved, the seams strained.
I forced myself to look at the hallway wall. "There's a fire pit out back. I checked earlier, there's a stack of wood under a tarp."
"Perfect." He rubbed his hands together. "I'll grab the wood, you get the chairs. Or whatever you have."
"I don't have chairs. I have a couple of logs."
"Logs work. Rustic."
We went out the back door, and the night air hit my face, cool and clean. The stars were brighter now, scattered like salt on dark felt. I gathered two dry logs and set them near the fire pit, a ring of blackened stones I'd found that morning under a layer of dead leaves.
Allan came back with an armful of split wood, dropped it beside the pit, and knelt to arrange it. The motion pulled the flannel tight across his back, and I caught myself staring at the shape of his shoulders.
I looked at the stars. Then I looked at the stars a little harder.
"You got a lighter?" he asked.
"On the kitchen counter. I'll grab it."
I walked back inside, and the cool air had raised goosebumps on my arms. I grabbed the lighter from the counter, a red plastic one that had been in the junk drawer, and stepped back outside. Allan had the fire laid, a careful teepee of kindling and small branches. I handed him the lighter.
He flicked it once, twice, and the kindling caught. The flames licked up into the wood, crackling and spitting, casting dancing shadows across his face.
"There we go," he said, sitting back on one of the logs. The firelight caught the planes of his face, the line of his jaw. His eyes reflected the flame, warm and bright.
I sat on the other log, close enough that if I leaned forward our knees would almost touch. The warmth of the fire reached me, a pleasant heat against the evening chill.
We sat in silence for a moment, watching the flames. The wood popped and settled. The smell of smoke was thick and good.
"You know what I like about fires?" Allan said, his voice low and easy. "They're honest. No pretending. Just burn until there's nothing left."
I thought about that. About the man I used to be, reduced to ash. About the woman sitting in his place.
"Honesty's overrated," I said.
He turned to look at me, his expression unreadable in the firelight. "Maybe. But it's a nice change of pace."
I tucked my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. The hoodie rode up slightly at the hem, exposing a strip of skin above my yoga pants. I didn't notice until I saw him glance down.
I pulled the hoodie back down quickly, and he looked away, a faint flush creeping up his neck.
"Sorry," he said. "I wasn't trying to stare."
"It's fine." The words came out before I could stop them. "This whole thing… it's new. Being seen, I mean. Like this."
He was quiet for a long moment. The fire crackled between us.
"You're doing a good job at it," he said finally. "Being seen."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I just watched the fire, letting the warmth settle into my bones.
A chill ran up my spine, sharp and sudden against the warmth of the fire. I shifted forward on the log, edging closer to the flames, and my thigh brushed against his. The contact sent a jolt through me, electric and immediate. I didn't pull back. Neither did he.
The firelight danced between us, and I felt the solid warmth of his leg against mine through the thin fabric of my yoga pants. My breath caught in my throat. I kept my eyes on the flames, but every nerve in my body was alive to the place where we touched.
"It's getting cold," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
He shifted beside me, and I felt his arm come around my shoulders, warm and solid. I didn't think about it. I just leaned into him, letting my head rest against the hollow of his shoulder, feeling the rough flannel against my cheek. The fire crackled, and for a moment, the whole world was just this: his heartbeat under my ear, the smell of woodsmoke, the weight of his arm keeping me steady.
"Better?" he asked, his voice low.
I nodded against his shoulder, not trusting my own voice. It was better. Too much better. The kind of better that made me want to close my eyes and stay right there, letting the fire burn down to embers, letting the night stretch on forever.
I let the moment hold, the crackle of the fire and the steady rhythm of his heartbeat under my ear. My hand resting on his leg felt natural, like it had always belonged there. The warmth of his thigh through the grey sweatpants seeped into my palm. I was hyperaware of my own body. The dampness between my legs had started the moment his arm came around me, and now it was a steady ache. My nipples were hard against the soft fleece of the hoodie, and shifting even slightly made me remember they were there.
I didn't want to move. I wanted to stay in this pocket of warmth, feeling his arm around my shoulders, the fire painting the inside of my eyelids red and gold.
I shuffled closer, the log shifting beneath us. My hand on his leg tightened, almost imperceptibly. I felt the muscles there, the solid warmth of his body.
"Allan?" His name came out soft, barely a breath.
"Yeah?"
I didn't know what I wanted to say. I just wanted to say his name again, to feel it on my tongue. So I said nothing, just pressed my cheek deeper into the flannel of his shoulder, feeling the rough fabric against my skin.
The fire popped, sending a shower of sparks into the darkness. Allan's hand moved on my shoulder, rubbing a slow, soothing circle through the fleece of my hoodie. It wasn't sexual, that touch. It was comfort. But it sent a shiver down my spine anyway.
I wanted his hand lower. I wanted his skin against mine. The thought scared me, but it didn't stop the ache.
He shifted, and I felt him look down at me. I kept my eyes closed, afraid that if I opened them, he would see all the tangled, messy things I was feeling.
"Hey," he said, his voice a low murmur. "You're falling asleep."
"Mmm." I let the sound hang in the air, not a yes, not a no.
The fire was dying down, the flames lower now, glowing coals at the base of the pit. The night air was getting colder, raising goosebumps on the skin of my arms. The place where his arm wrapped around my shoulders was warm, but the rest of me was starting to chill.
I shifted again, pushing myself closer to his side, and this time his arm tightened, pulling me fully against him. I felt the solid warmth of his chest against my shoulder, the strong plane of his thigh pressed against mine. The dampness between my legs grew sharper, more urgent.
My hoodie had ridden up, and the strip of skin at my waist was exposed. I felt his hand brush against it, an accidental touch that sent a jolt through me. I didn't pull away. I tilted my hips a little, just enough that his hand pressed more firmly against my side.
"Your skin is cold," he said softly.
"I know."
He hesitated for a moment, and then his hand slipped under the hem of my hoodie, his warm palm spanning my waist. His skin was warm, calloused from the work, and the contact made my breath catch. I was trembling, a fine shiver that ran through me like a current.
"Is this okay?" he asked.
I nodded against his shoulder, not trusting my voice. My hand on his leg moved, sliding just slightly higher, resting on the firm muscle of his thigh. I felt him tense, the breath catching in his throat.
The fire crackled between us, exposing the raw current running through me. I wanted to turn to him, to kiss him, to feel his mouth on mine. But there was a part of me, the ghost of Justin, that was screaming. A man who had never felt this in his own skin, never craved closeness and warmth with this kind of desperate hunger.
I fought that voice down. I pressed my hand deeper into his thigh, and he made a low sound in his chest.
"Sabrina," he said, and my name was a question, uncertain and rough.
"Don't," I whispered, not even knowing what I meant. Don't stop. Don't leave. Don't ask me to put words to this. Just stay.
He didn't ask again. His hand on my waist slid around to my belly, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the thin fabric of my yoga pants. Every nerve in my body was alive to that touch, a signal jamming the ghost of a man I had left behind.
The fire had burned down to a bed of glowing coals, and the cold crept back in around the edges of the warmth. Allan's hand still rested on my belly, a steady pressure that grounded me. I felt my eyelids growing heavy, the exhaustion of the day pulling at me like a tide. Sleep came slowly, then all at once. I was aware of the sound of his breathing, the rough flannel against my cheek, the way his arm tightened around me as I sagged against him. Then there was nothing but warmth and safety, a soft darkness that wrapped around me like a blanket. The fire popped once, twice, and I slipped under, letting the night hold me.