"In Which Reality is a Terrible Match Made in The Garage"

(Pt. 3)

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(Still)The Garage, Downtown Square

7:30 PM

I shake my head in mild distaste, not at all eager for this so-called surprise.

I take those few moments of footfalls as a chance to regain control of my faculties, willing the numb sensation to dissipate as quickly as possible.

Oh, the hell with it! I scramble off the floor, accidentally applying pressure on my latest injury.

"Pop's, what did we talk about using that tone?" I grit out, doubling over at the insurmountable pain striking on the top of my belly.

I spear Dax with a malevolent look, oozing with a vengeful promise.

"Save it for Halloween?" Pops replies, an ingenuous grin plastered on his face as he stops just a foot outside the ring.

"Exactly," I huff, cradling my tender abdomen as I attempt to get up, a bit slower this time.

I watch with wary eyes as his shadow strays a few feet away, surveying the rest of the gym's interior with a thorough gaze.

I immediately straighten up, ignoring the ceaseless cries of pain radiating throughout my body when all it wants is to writhe on the floor in peaceful agony.

"What's he doing here?" I couldn't help but ask — no, demand — when all I wanted was to ignore his very existence.

At least, until his employment gets terminated. Fingers-crossed, it happens soon!

It also didn't help that my voice took on a gravelly texture, riddled with thirst.

What I'm thirsty for, was something I couldn't — admit — say for sure.

Pops holds out both of his hands in the air, his face an image of innocence.

I roll my eyes.

How that would appear on a middle-aged man who looks like he can wrestle a gorilla in close-quarter combat (why did I think of Tarzan when I said that?), eyes glinting like a charismatic villain from every slasher film, with a fashion sense limited to plaid and denim overalls that are perpetually soiled with grease and sweat, deserved to be solely used for scaring children.

Okay, fine. I lied.

He looked terribly good for a man of his wizened age — except for his style of fashion. That one needed a Queer Eye* upgrade (Of course, I'm still waiting for their response!)

"Just showing him around," he explains in a mollifying gesture, "thought he should see the gym if he wants to have a couple of punches out. You know" — he bops his muscly shoulders — "as part of the employee benefits."

"How considerate of you," I remark drily with a blank stare, my head stiffly dropping to one side, "after everything I just said."

I accept the hand towel that Dax just so helpfully provides, conscious of a certain silver blue-eyed gaze settling on me.

I've always been in tune with the men and women coming in and out of the gym, observing and admiring their beautiful sweat-slicked bodies (from a respectable distance, of course!) like a person who would view marvelous pieces of art.

I wasn't kidding when I told Dax, I dated guys because I found them pretty.

I was a visual creature, attracted to shiny things — sue me!

Yet, this strange awareness of wiping the sweat from my body sends a strange foreboding, tingling like needles pricking at the nerves where my brain connects with my spine. Like, I was the artwork hanging on a wall, and not the spectator anymore.

I didn't need a mirror to know that every part of me was flushed pink from the extreme physical — and mental — exertion.

This was, essentially, what typically leads to when neither one of us — specifically, Dax and I — are embroiled in a winner-takes-all fight, where admitting defeat was in no one's lexicon.

Although, it didn't really do any good that victory always favors Dax.

No, I just do it for the sake of getting my body bruised and battered. Purple and red were, as it turns out, my color. Not.

Still, it didn't hurt to try... and try and try, and try until rashes appear underneath the warm crevices of my neck, shoulder, armpits, and boobs! In fact, I'm scratching the one forming at the underside of my left boob, right now.

Pops fishes out a can of beer from one of his deep pockets.

SPRRT, the sound of the lid opening and the compressed air inside, a passing echo.

He raises the can to my face in a mock-salute. "I am, if not the greatest fairy godfather."

"More like the fairly odd father." I didn't want to dignify that immensely flawed statement with a quick retort, but instinct demanded me to. 

I slyly angle my body to the side, tugging the spandex hem of my black sports bra even lower.

Even while standing behind Pops, cast in the dark shadows from the diffused lighting, his gaze strikes me with a penetrating force.

Like a pair of phantom hands, they tread dangerously near the faint white trails of scars spanning all over my entire left side, connecting to the ones on my back and my arm, before disappearing under images inked on my skin.

Although there was a high possibility that he already saw them last Friday night, it didn't mean he deserved another unwarranted peepshow.

A fluffy navy-blue bath towel suddenly drops over me.

I clutch the edges tight around me and turn my head towards Dax.

He winks at me before jumping over the ropes and landing on the floor with a loud THUMP!

Ooh-kay, maybe I was a bit too hard with my plan for retribution.

Meanwhile, Pops continues to guzzle his beer like it was premium-quality water. 

I've never seen him drink anything other than beer or whiskey — except for a sip of wine that he spat out, and washed off with (yup, you guessed it!) another bottle of beer. 

I don't want to point any finger right now, but Oz's nephew is partial to be blamed.

After all, he does own one of the local leading breweries in the area. Pops, by extension, just happens to be in on the friends-and-family discount.

Meanwhile, the well-endowed leather-jacket-stealing dick-rental (make that Goldilocks) is currently wandering a few yards away, stopping in front of a glass case that housed some of Pops's proud mementos.

I wind my arms across my chest, one eyebrow raised. "What happened to 'All men are beneath my daughter?'" I ask, seamlessly transitioning into a deep voice meant to pay a comedic homage to Pop's distinct and robust timbre.

Pops rolls his eyes, wiping his mouth — and beard, don't forget his beard — with the sleeve of his sweat-stained shirt. "That was before I gave up on those unrealistic standards."

"What's with people and unrealistic standards?" I slide in between the ropes like I was on a casting call for a remake of the Entrapment laser scene*, mildly convinced I can be as limber as C. Zeta-Jones.*

That is, until I had to choke back tears of pain, remembering just now about my recent injury. Its ebbing pinpricks come back with a vengeance, scorching hot like brandy (sans the joyful sensation firing in my gut.)

Sohn einerHündin!* I heatedly suck my lower lip.

Suck it up, Michaels! Mind over matter. 

Just because some devastatingly handsome man is in the room doesn't mean you should cry and hope he'll kiss your boo-boo. Or, is that what you really want?

I instantly straighten in response to the outrageously insane thought and jump down from the ring with a subtle thud.

"I don't see you"— I throw a gesticulating hand towards him — "complaining as a wrinkly old man."

Pops swallows a gasp and sassily (is that a word? Whatever, I'm gonna go with this) holds out one finger (looks like somebody has been watching the copy 2 Broke Girls I've uploaded in the shop's main server. So what if it's supposed to be a place of work? I needed something with my time!).

"I'll have you know. Some people get better with age like fine-aged wine — including me," he gestures at his body with a downward sweep of his hand.

"Not if it's been exposed to open air for quite some time now!"* I fire back.

Pops ignores the not-so-delicate jab at his lack of a dating life and instead turns to the elephant in the room.

"Come here, son," Pops waves him over.

My body stiffens, eyes glowering at his quickly approaching figure.

So, it's son now?!

What is the deal with this guy that automatically makes everyone like him?

It couldn't just be because he's white (Pops and the others are above that — the rest of the town, I'm not so sure. I know — sensitive topic, but it makes perfect sense, so get over it!)

Okay, fine. He might've fooled them with his strong and silent demeanor; those dependable-looking shoulders; that face and body, as if carved from marble and chiseled into exquisite perfection by the likes of Michelangelo and Bernini.*

Not to mention, this ineffable charisma he exudes so freely and unconsciously. Couple that with the voice of a baritone angel and that piercingly intense gaze oozing with a quiet serenity that makes you feel like you're being seen and heard—ugh.

What the fuck am I thinking?!

The starkness between my receding body heat and the cold air wafting through sends tremors down to my spine.

Yeah, it's probably just the subsiding adrenaline talking. I shake my head, Pops's deep voice helping me find my way back to the conversation.

"... This is my eldest and one of my gifted mechanics. Dax. He's been with me for the last four years, and he's also in charge of the gym. He teaches a class for self-defense, in case you wanna try a few rounds in the ring."

Dax sends him an upward nod, shaking his outstretched hand with a high-five combo.

"And, this"— Pops dotingly wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me into their cozy little man-circle " — is The Garage's infamous muse and my most beloved princess."

A sour expression settles on my face, the kind where I — figuratively — accidentally swallowed a few drops of Dax's sweat... from his pits.

I roughly shrug Pops's arm off and scoff. "Princess? Did you accidentally puff Deck's special vape pen again? You do know it's weed, right?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," he dismisses his earlier statement with a wave of his hand.

Out of the blue, he grabs my head in a semi-choke-hold between his elbow (Ph-ew! No amount of Old Spice can mask this stink!). "Until she opens her mouth, then this hyperactive, relentlessly annoying — bordering on sociopathic who can kill you in cold blood, but, hopefully, she won't — piece of trouble is my youngest, Ave."

I scowl at them, teeth bared as I wrench my head free.

Atlas extends a formal hand.

I quirk a brow at him, making no move to take it.

Look at him, trying to be the bigger man!

And, damn, is he big! I secretly steal a glance at his feet, just to see whether he was wearing stilts or not.

Focus, Ave. You don't give a shit about this guy!

He lets it drop, stuffing his hand into his pocket. A wall of ice blocks any emotion from escaping in the captivating hue of his eyes.

Look at him like he was something God projectile-vomited on your eyes. Disgusting, but visualize that!

All the while, Pops, whose eyes bounce back-and-forth between the two of us with his steepled hands over his semi-puckered lips, watching us like we're a couple of predators ready to battle it out on a BBC nature documentary, decides to cut into the strangling silence. 

"Ave" — Pops turns to me — "Ciarán here" — he motions at Atlas — "has just been given the honor of fixing your bike."

https://youtu.be/OHmmjnEdtx8

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OOF, I'VE FINALLY DONE IT!

After a month-long not-so-hiatus of posting new chapters, I've finally closed the whole chapter for  "In Which Reality is a Terrible Match Made in The Garage".

I am just so stoked that I get to share this with you!

Granted, it might not be as strong of an end for a chapter, but I promise the story just gets better from this point. 

What do you think will be Ave's reaction to this revelation?  Will she accept this without a fight (I mean, it's Pops who said it, after all)?

Comment down your answers and suggestions in the comment section. Don't forget to vote and share!

Now, to our Shout-Out of the Chapter, we have...

MeSpilledVanilla_, author of "Fault in our Galaxy"! 

If you're a K-Drama fan who's into romance, then her book will leave you gushing for more!  

P. S. Scroll down below for a short sneak-peek of my next chapter: "In Which Reality is Stuck with Incongruous Names".

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PLAYLIST

(in order)

Why Can't We Be Friends — War

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TRANSLATION/S:

Sohn einerHündin — Son of a bitch

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*[F/N]*

Queer Eye — a television franchise based upon a team of gay professionals (the "Fab 5") giving lifestyle and fashion makeovers to guests.

Entrapment Laser Scene — Entrapment is a 1999 American heist film that revolves around the story of an undercover investigator who convinces a master thief to pull off a heist. The laser scene is considered to be an iconic action scene where Catherine Zeta-Jones showed her limber body while dodging the lasers.

C. Zeta-Jones — (Catherine Zeta-Jones) a Welsh actress. Known for her versatility, she is the recipient of various accolades, including an Academy Award, a British Academy Film Award, and a Tony Award. Some of her films include Mask of Zorro, Entrapment, Chicago, etc. 

Not if it's been exposed to air for quite some time — refers to a YouTube video showcasing a timelapse of white wine gradually growing mold when exposed to open air. 

Michelangelo and Bernini — (respectively, Michelangelo and Gian Lorenzo Bernini) Italian master sculptors from the Quattrocento (High Renaissance Period).

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SNEAK PEEK

"Easy with the 'L' word there, Braveheart. Someone might think you" — my mouth shrugs — "watched too much 'Outlander' that now you're trying too hard to sound Scottish, or" — I look him up and down — "you're a sad creep who uses foreign words as part of a pick-up line."

There are 3 possible ways this conversation might lead to :

First, he admits to using foreign terms to charm women who have a fetish for foreign men (or, historical romance novels involving English lords and highland warriors). If so, poor choice.

Second, he admits to obsessing over 'Outlander', maybe too much that the jargon stuck. Though, I won't blame him. Ginger-haired Sam Heughan in a kilt is like a hard meal to turn down.

Third, he denies both claims and lies with his pants on fire.

"As a matter of fact" — he cuts into my thoughts — "I am Scottish."

Or, fourth, he is Scottish, and it's natural for him to use the term.

DING, DING, DING! I can see the hotness scale-o-meter shoot up by just those two words. That does explain his Nordic/highlander-esque (a.k.a. primeval brute) vibes — not to mention that physique.

Broad shoulders, well-defined pecs, and hard washboard abs covered by tight tapered skin. If I hadn't met him last Friday, I would've pounced on him right this instant.

No, Ave, focus! Stop picturing him half-naked! Do not let that sight of masculine perfection cause your panties to melt.

Seriously, why do I hate him again? asks my thirsty inner-me.

Two fucking words: Leather Jacket!, says rational inner-me.

Ah! — Both my inner-me(s) scream — Our baby!

"But"— I clear my throat, stopping before my words become a series of stutters, and release a shallow breath.

Apparently, my common sense needs a minute more to catch up. Ooh, I think it just came back!

Arms crossed, I pin him with a skeptical look. "You almost sound and talk like an American."

He simply shrugs it off, mimicking my folded arms. "I live here now. Isn't that what they all say, 'When in Rome, do as the Romans do'?"

I scoff, not at all amused by that sardonic lift on his full kissable lips-WHACK!

Dammit, even if they're imaginary, these slaps packed a wallop!

"Well this is America, and there are things here Americans do that people shouldn't do in general."

He strokes his well-defined jaw. His expression could've been mistaken as pensive and stoic, if not for the dark stony look he's boring into my eye sockets.

"Like sneaking out without saying a word? Or, unable to hold your bevvy?"*

"Or, shutting up!" Why the hell would I have a bevy, anyway?! I don't even own a single swan!

I jut my chin, averting my gaze away from his and focusing them on the tip of his nose.

Dammit! Even his nose looks great at this angle — and not even a tell-tale sign of a single booger inside!

I squint my eyes, angling my head back just so I can peer at his whole face. "Also, quick tip, you might want to drop the final consonants if you want to lose the accent. It doesn't really help you blend in. The nuanced lifts and dips in your brogue is a dead giveaway." Although, why I didn't notice this sooner is what irks me!

I may not be an accent expert, but I'm faithfully subscribed to one. And, trust me, that's the closest thing to a relationship I'll ever commit to.

"I'll take note of that," he replies with a contemplative nod, the small movement sending silky waves of burnished gold to slide past his shoulders.

I lift my jaw. "Good!" — I prop my hands on either side of my waist (mostly as a poor attempt to stop my itching fingers from stroking their satiny texture)— "and while you're at it, I would like my jacket back."

He covers his mouth with his hand, thumb pressed to his cheek, and his face — surprise, surprise — unreadable again. "That, I may not guarantee."

My jaw drops wide open.

I close it.

It drops again. "What did you just say?"

"I said, I can't guarantee that."

"Oh, come on!" — I flap my arms in the air, stomping my foot — "It's not like it would fit you!"

He lazily scans my face for a second, noting the flaring look of outrage. A slow smirk forms across his lips. "I heard there's a Goodwill store nearby."

I stare at him and do a double-take, my mouth moving wordlessly.

All that came out was an inaudible sound, resembling a tiny whimper, escaping my lips as I imagined the terrible state my leather jacket would find itself in — alone and hanging on a rusted rack, crying for me to find her.

A wave of newfound fury rips through my current thoughts. Like a magical beanstalk, my blood pressure rises, boiling under the sweltering heat from the sun. Or, in this case, a fair-haired Gaelic god of evil.

Oh. No. He. Did. Not. Just. Say. That.

Ciaràn-Whatever-His-Last-Name-Is has officially topped my list of people to murder.

And, I know just where to do it.

Standing on the balls of my feet and my side to him, I slant my head back and jut my jaw. "That's it" — I stab his chest with my forefinger— " you and" — I point my thumb — "me. Spar. I win, I get my jacket back."

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André