The Mechanic’s Apprentice – Part 25

Everyone in this story is 18+

A Key to New Beginnings

The shop is silent, just the faint buzz of the old radio spitting out a garbled country tune. I stand behind the counter, invoices scattered like fallen leaves, but my mind is elsewhere. Six months since Christmas, since Joe handed Connor that key and made this place ours. Six months since we lay tangled together, his breath warm against my skin, promising we would figure it out. Now it is just me, the dust, and a gnawing ache that will not quit. Connor is gone, and it feels like I am unraveling.

I glance at my phone. No texts, no calls, nothing. I keep waiting for him to barge in, all smirks and smart remarks, but the door stays shut. He is not here, and I am sinking. The For Sale sign sits by the window, its letters cold and final. Maybe it is over.

I know the realtor is coming today, so I force myself to move. I grab a rag and wipe down the counter, sweeping away coffee stains and grease smudges. I straighten a few tools on the pegboard, kick a stray bolt under a shelf. The place still looks rough, but it is something. I shove the invoices into a drawer and run a hand through my hair, trying to look somewhat presentable. The bell will ring soon, and I need to play the part.

◆◆◆

The bell jangles, and I look up. Ms. Hargrove, the realtor, steps in, her smile all business, clipboard in hand. Behind her is a sales rep from some corporate chain, tie knotted too tight for a place like this. I nod, forcing a neutral expression.

“Welcome,” I say, voice flat. “Want a look around?”

Hargrove nods, her heels clicking on the concrete. “Please. We’d love to see the space.”

I lead them through the shop, pointing out the workbench, the lift, the storage room in back. My voice is mechanical, reciting features like I am reading a manual. The rep barely looks up, scribbling on his clipboard, while Hargrove asks about square footage and utilities. I answer, but my heart is not in it. This place is more than numbers. It is where Joe and I rebuilt that old Camaro, and that’s where Connor laughed so hard he snorted. Now it already feels like a museum of what was.

I smile politely as we circle back to the counter, “so, does it look ok?”

The rep finally speaks, waving a hand. “Yeah, sure, whatever. We are probably gonna tear it down and build a new body shop anyway.”

The words hit like a spark in my gut. Tear it down? This place, our place, reduced to rubble for some shiny franchise? I swallow hard, my jaw tight. It stings, sharp and raw, but I push it down. Selling is still for the best. “Right,” I mutter. “Makes sense.”

Hargrove gestures to the counter. “Shall we finish the paperwork?”

We sit, and she spreads out the contract, her pen tapping lightly. The rep leans back, checking his phone. I stare at the pages, my stomach twisting. This is it. The end of something I thought would last.

Hargrove looks up, her tone brisk. “Great. Just need the signature of the co-owner, Connor Elliot.”

My chest tightens, Connor. I lean back, rubbing my neck, trying to keep my voice steady. “Damn, he is not here, and I can’t really reach him on the phone, it’s a bit complicated at the moment..” The words hang heavy, vague enough to hide the truth but sharp enough to cut. Complicated. Like that sums up the nights I have spent staring at the ceiling, just missing him. Hargrove frowns, her pen pausing, and the rep shifts, glancing at me like I am wasting his time. The silence stretches, thick and awkward, every second dragging like a lifetime.

The door slams open, the bell clanging wildly. I jerk upright, and there he is.

Connor, a mess of wild hair and flushed cheeks, clutching a crumpled letter like it is everything. His eyes find mine, bright and alive, and my heart stumbles.

“I got in!” he shouts, voice cracking with joy. “Ryder, I got in! NYAB! They accepted me!”

I freeze, my brain scrambling to catch up. Connor, is finally here, real. His grin, his voice, the way he looks at me like I am his whole world, it hits me all at once. A smile breaks across my face, raw and unstoppable, and he is running, dodging a crate, throwing himself at me.

I catch him, hands on his waist, and he is warm, solid, his thighs hooking around my hips like they belong there. I lift him, my arms remembering every curve.
"You are back," I choke out, voice thick with everything I have held in. I kiss him before he can answer, hard and hungry, tasting the sweetness of him, the home I have missed.

I break the kiss briefly, trying to look stern. "You were supposed to call, you rascal!"

Connor’s smile melts that sternness. "I wanted to surprise you, babe."

Fuck, I have to kiss him again. His lips move with mine, urgent, desperate, his fingers tangling in my hair, pulling me closer. Heat sparks between us, his body pressed so close I can feel his heartbeat. The ache in my chest melts, replaced by him, by us.

A loud cough snaps me back. Connor is still in my arms, and I glance over. Hargrove’s eyebrow is raised, and the rep is staring at his shoes like they are a masterpiece. Connor slides down but stays glued to my side, arm around my waist, his grin defiant. I laugh, low and unapologetic, and meet Hargrove’s eyes.

“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. “Co-owner’s back. And my boyfriend got into the New York Academy of Ballet, so we are selling. We are headed to New York.”

Connor’s smile could light the city, his hand squeezing mine, the letter still crumpled in his fist. Hargrove recovers, sliding the contract closer. “Signatures, then,” she says, all business.

I grab the pen, my shoulder brushing Connor’s as we lean in together. The shop’s creaks, the oil-stained counters, the weight of being alone, it is fading. Whatever comes next, I have him. That’s enough.

◆◆◆

The contract’s signed, the realtor and her tie-choked sidekick gone, leaving just me and Connor in the shop. The air’s still thick with dust and the faint bite of motor oil, the radio long since fizzled out. Connor’s leaning against the counter, that crumpled NYAB letter still in his fist. His beautiful eyes caught mine, and my chest does that stupid flip it’s done since the day we met. He’s here. After weeks of nothing, he’s fucking here.

I shove my hands in my pockets, trying to play it cool, but my voice betrays me. “So, New York, huh? I knew you’d nail that audition. Never doubted it for a second.” I pause, scuffing my boot on the concrete. “Selling the shop, though… I don’t know. Been stressing me out. This place is us, you know? But I’m thinking maybe I’ll find a body shop in the city. Hell, maybe even get my degree, go full legit car mechanic.”

Connor’s lips quirk, and he steps closer, close enough I can smell his sweet scent, sharp and clean against the shop’s grit. “You, a certified grease monkey? That’s hot.” He tilts his head, studying me. “You sure about selling? I know it’s heavy.”

I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Yeah. It’s time. Can’t run it without you, and you’re off being a ballet superstar. Besides, New York’s got better cars to fix than this town.” I flash a half-smile, but it’s real. With him back, the future doesn’t feel so empty.

He laughs, soft, and sets the letter down, his fingers brushing mine as he closes the gap. “Sorry again I went ghost on you. Auditions were brutal, and I had to lock in, no calls, no texts, just razor focus. Didn’t mean to leave you hanging but when I fucking got in I had to tell you in person..”

“Torture, man,” I say, grinning despite myself. “Never thought I could miss someone this much. Swear I was climbing the walls.” I lean in, my voice dropping, teasing. “Have you become even more handsome, shit. Your so fine.”

Connor’s laugh is loud, head thrown back, and it’s like the shop comes alive again. “Oh, you’re smooth now? Absence makes the heart grow cheesier, huh?” He grabs my flannel, tugging me closer, his eyes glinting. “Missed you too, my grease monkey. Way more than I planned.”

My hands find his waist, and the air shifts, heavy with want. “Prove it,” and he doesn’t hesitate. His lips crash into mine, all urgency and heat, tasting like mint and something sweeter, something that’s just him. I kiss him back, harder, my fingers digging into his hips, pulling him flush against me. The shop’s quiet, but my pulse is loud, pounding in my ears as his hands slide up my chest, tugging at my shirt like he can’t wait another second.

“Back there,” he says, voice rough, nodding toward the garage bay where my car sits, half-restored, its hood gleaming under the fluorescent lights. I raise an eyebrow, but he’s already pulling me, his grin pure trouble. “What? Scared we’ll get caught?”

“Fuck no,” I say, matching his smirk. “Just don’t dent my car, ballerina.”

We stumble into the bay, the air cooler, sharper with the tang of metal and paint. Connor pushes me against the Mustang’s hood, his hands yanking my flannel open, buttons popping like they’re nothing. His fingers rake over my chest, rough and needy, and I hiss at the scrape of his nails, my skin prickling under his touch. I grab his scarf, tossing it to the floor, and peel his shirt off, revealing the lean lines of his dancer’s body, lean muscles noticeable from weeks of training. He’s beautiful, all sharp angles and flushed skin, and I want to memorize every inch.

“Up,” I say, patting the hood, and he hops on, legs spread, pulling me between them. The metal’s cold against my palms as I brace myself, kissing him again, tongues tangling, breaths ragged. His hands fumble with my jeans, zipper down in a heartbeat, and I kick them off, boxers too, my dick hard and aching, wet sheen at the tip. He wraps a hand around it, stroking fast, and I bite my lip, fighting to keep my head.

“Easy, Conn,” I gasp, my voice strained. “Been too long. You’re gonna kill me.”

He laughs, low and wicked, and shoves his own jeans down, kicking them aside. His dick’s out, thick and ready, and I can’t stop staring. “Then hurry up,” he says, grabbing a small bottle of lube from his pocket—fucking prepared, this guy—and slicking his fingers. He leans back, one hand braced on the hood, and works himself open, his breaths sharp, eyes locked on mine. The sight of him, spread out, fingers moving, shop lights catching the sweat on his skin, it’s too much.

I step closer, hands on his thighs, spreading them wider. “You’re a menace,” I mutter, and he grins, pulling me in. I slick myself up, my fingers trembling, and press against his ass, slow at first, feeling the tight heat of him as I slide further in. He gasps, head tilting back, and I pause, letting him adjust, my hands gripping his hips as he wraps his legs around me.

“Fuck me,” he says, voice raw, and I do, thrusting fast, the rhythm sloppy with need. The hood creaks under us, the shop’s silence broken by our breaths, the slap of skin, the low curses spilling from my lips. His legs wrap tighter around me, heels almost digging into my back, urging me deeper. It’s so fucking good, overwhelming, the smell of oil and sweat mixing with the feel of him clenching around my dick, his nails scratching my shoulders. I’m lost in it, in him, every thrust pulling me closer.

Too close. Shit. It’s been weeks, and I’m too wound up. “Conn, I can’t—” I start, but it’s too late. Pleasure crashes through me, and I cum hard, my dick depositing my semen inside him, my vision blurring. I slump against him, panting, embarrassed as hell. “Fuck. Too fast. Sorry.”

Connor laughs, breathless, his hand cupping my face. “It’s fine, Ry. We’re both horned up. We can go again.” His voice is warm, no judgment, and it eases the sting. He’s been training me to last longer, and I’ve gotten better, but tonight’s too raw, too desperate.

I pull out, still catching my breath, and drop to my knees, the concrete biting my skin. “Your turn,” I say, smirking up at him. He’s still on the hood, legs dangling, dick glistening with lube and sweat. I lean in, licking a slow stripe up his length, tasting the salt of him, the way his erection twitches under my tongue. His hand fists in my hair, not pushing, just holding, and I take him in, lips tight, sucking hard. He curses, hips bucking, and I work him faster, tongue swirling, hands gripping his thighs to keep him still.

“Ryder, fuck, you’re too good,” he gasps, voice breaking. I hum around him, the vibrations making him jerk, and I feel him tense, his breaths ragged. I pull back just enough to tease, then dive back in, taking him deep, throat relaxing as I push him over the edge. He cums with a sharp cry, thick and still sweet like him, across my tongue, and I swallow, licking him clean as he slumps back, spent.

I stand, wiping my mouth, and he pulls me into a messy kiss, tasting himself on my lips. We’re a tangle of limbs, laughing, the hood still warm under us.

“That was freaking amazing!”

 “You owe me a slower round next time, though.”

“Deal,” I say, pulling him close, the shop’s shadows wrapping around us. New York’s waiting, but right now, this is all I need.