A wedding hangover wasn’t fun. Just another unpleasant experience to check off his bucket list. Bucket list, what a stupid term. After spending an hour or so applying for studio apartments reasonably close to Buck’s shop, the click of the keyboard and glare of the computer screen like needles piercing his brain, Miguel collapsed back into bed. Hopefully he’d managed to hit “Submit.”

He drifted in and out of waking dreams, oddly patched retakes of the sheet session with Owen Addison, dancing, and Buck and Joey’s poignant exchange of vows. Owen’s hair kept inexplicably turning a deep red, and Miguel wanted to count his freckles. In another dream Justin stood over Miguel, a menacing faceless shadow, except Miguel knew exactly who it was. Justin berated him about his life choices and criticized his job; when was he coming home? The dream was exhausting.

He gave up trying to sleep, but he stayed in bed brooding over Joey’s words and Buck’s worry. Maybe he did need to pull himself together. Act like a grownup, or whatever. Although where the fun in that was, he had no idea. Miguel had a “Rules are for people who can’t make their own decisions” philosophy. He saw something he liked, he pursued and accepted the consequences. That simple. Yes–No. Why did everyone else make it difficult?

The rest of the day was as much of a loss as the beginning. Miguel spent most of it tucked up in the living room on Buck’s couch watching bad TV. Four hours of a cooking show, a reality cop show (why were criminals so stupid?), a show about queer life and drag queens. And he was ready to try to sleep again. He was in charge while Buck was gone; he needed to be well rested.

 

By the Wednesday after the wedding, Miguel was ready to pull his hair out. Hell, he was surprised he wasn’t bald already. Monday morning he, Dom, and Kevin arrived at the shop to find a line of unscheduled people waiting with car emergencies. This was on top of the regular customers who’d dropped their cars off already for scheduled repairs or were planning on dropping them off for a “trip ready” inspection. Summer vacation was hell.

The Fourth of July holiday, less than seven days away, was going to kill them all. Because he was going to kill Kevin. Normally the kid was sharp, but the past couple of days he had been a left foot and all thumbs, all at the same time. His head was somewhere else, and neither Dom nor Miguel knew where.

“Kevin.” Miguel watched as Kevin scrolled aimlessly through the appointment page on Buck’s website. He was supposed to be preparing for tomorrow’s appointments, making sure they had the parts on hand or close, and confirming appointments. He’d been scrolling back and forth for about ten minutes. “Kevin!” Miguel repeated louder.

“Huh?”

Miguel rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, grasping for patience. This was why Buck was the shop owner. Miguel hated being in charge. It was way more fun to be last in line than first. When you were last you could run and catch up, but first meant you always had to be on your toes.

“Have you run the report for tomorrow? One of you—” he cast around for an appropriate description of the brothers. Nothing. He walked over to the counter where Kevin was standing, grabbed the mouse, and clicked the “Update” button. “There, done.”

“Oh.” Kevin gave Miguel a vacant glance.

“Are you high?”

Kevin started. “What? No! Why would you ask that?”

“It’s worse than that. I think,” Dom interjected. He had what could only be categorized as a shit-eating grin on his face.

Miguel turned to him. “What?” Worse than drugs? He couldn’t imagine the phone call he was going to have to make to Buck.

“Love,” Dom chortled.

Now that made sense. The vacant staring; inability to pay attention or retain information. Miguel felt a grin spreading across his face. Love he could deal with.

“Oh, man, Dom…” Kevin whined.

“Yeah, it must have happened last week sometime. He won’t tell me who or where, though.” Dom squinted at his brother. “I’ve narrowed down the places he could possibly have seen-slash-‘met’ someone. Possibly here at the shop—” He ticked a finger. “The Booking Room.” Another finger ticked. “The LGBTQ center where he volunteers, but those kids are underage, and Kevin doesn’t want to know what prison is like.” A third finger ticked. “Or online.” Dom looked over at Kevin, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Fuck off,” Kevin muttered. “I’m sorry, Miguel, I just spaced out.”

“We’re too busy and shorthanded with Buck gone for you to space out. Get your head in the game, kid. I don’t need to be making a trip to the ER while Buck is gone.” He thought for a second. “Or anytime.” He hated hospitals.

“Okay, okay, head in the game. I get it.”

Miguel sincerely hoped he did. “Do we need to talk safe sex? Are you a bottom or a top? Or vers? I can stop by Otto’s Erotica if you need some lube. Heck, we can go together.”

“Miguel,” Kevin ground out, his freckles standing out against the pale skin of his face. “I am not going to a sex store with you. Ever. Or talking about sex with you. Ever again.”

Dom had stopped all pretense of work and was howling with laughter. Tears streamed down his face as he tried, and failed, to get himself under control. He careened toward a late-model Chevy currently occupying the main bay, leaning against it and continuing to guffaw. Miguel started laughing too, and even Kevin dropped his fierce expression to chuckle along with the two of them.

A stranger came in through the open bay door.

“How can I help you?” Miguel asked while Dom finished wiping the tears from his face and Kevin returned to the computer.

“I’d like to speak with the owner or manager.” The man was looking at Dom, who’d managed to pull himself together, somewhat. The stranger was squirrely looking, wearing a rumpled wool suit even though the weather was currently hitting the low eighties. The three remaining hairs on his head were carefully swept across his shiny dome in an attempt to make him appear not bald. Why didn’t these guys just shave it off? The three-hair thing made him look extra skeevy, and the little hairs on the back of Miguel’s neck were uneasy.

“I’m the manager.” Miguel walked over, holding his hand out after wiping any grease off on the rag he was holding.

The man looked down at the offered hand and then up at Miguel. “Are you the owner?” he asked Dom.

It wasn’t often that Miguel felt truly angry. Or, especially since he had come to Skagit, particularly conscious of the skin he lived in. This guy, this jackass—who, even though he was too much of a coward to say it out loud, didn’t want to talk to him because he was not white—couldn’t believe he was the manager. It took a lot for him to feel angry, but Miguel felt his temper start to rise.

“No, I’m just a mechanic,” Dom answered. “Miguel is in charge while the owner is on vacation.”

“That is unfortunate,” the stranger said.

“Excuse me?” Kevin walked back over to where Miguel was standing. “What is wrong with you? You come in here, where we work, and disrespect like that? Next thing you’ll find out I’m a faggot and you’ll never be back. We don’t want your business. Whatever it is.” Kevin’s face was flushed bright red. Where in hell had that tirade come from?

Dom’s eyes widened. Miguel opened his mouth to say something; what, he wasn’t sure, because the situation had gone sideways so fast his head was spinning. In the year or so he had been working with Kevin and Dom, he had never seen either one of them fly off the handle. Neither brother had a temper that Miguel was aware of.

“What do you think, asshole, you wanna brown person or a faggot working on your car? Or my straight brother, who cries over those toilet paper commercials with the little bears?” Kevin continued.

“No,” replied the creep. “But,” he reached into his suit jacket, pulling out a thick envelope, “please see that the business owner receives this notice.” He handed the envelope to Dom, who extended a hand reluctantly to accept it, as if it might explode.

With that, the shitty little man turned and left. The three of them watched him get into a crappy older Saturn and drive off, gravel spitting from under his tires as he left the parking lot.

“What a piece of shit,” Dom said. Miguel wasn’t sure if he was referring to the car or the man. “I hope the timing belt gives out when he’s in the middle of traffic on I-5. On a Friday.” Okay, both.

And what was with Kevin’s rant? Not that he hadn’t said anything Miguel wasn’t thinking at the time.

“Really, Dom? You cry at toilet paper commercials?”

Dom huffed, opening his mouth to answer.

“What did he give you?” Kevin interrupted.

Dom turned the sealed envelope over in his hands. From where he was standing, Miguel could see block letters spelling out Swanfeldt’s Auto and Body—attention Mr. Buck Swanfeldt. Well, fuck.

 

Miguel stashed the envelope in Buck’s office and spent the rest of the day going in circles in his head about what was in the envelope and if he should contact Buck—who was three days into his three-week honeymoon, for fuck’s sake—right away or wait until the weekend so the guy could enjoy some of his honeymoon. Or just leave it until he returned.

Buck would be back in two weeks and a couple days. Surely that would be soon enough for Buck to tell whoever it was to fuck off. Of course, Buck wouldn’t say “Fuck off”; he would be much more polite.

The envelope taunted him. He kept walking by the door to the office, where it lurked on Buck’s desk like a monster under the bed, waiting for Miguel to turn his back. To open or not to open? Buck had been waiting for this moment forever, and Miguel wasn’t going to be the one to cut it short.

He kept trying to imagine what the smarmy skeeve-master could have dropped off. A summons? An eviction notice?

No, he was pretty sure Buck owned the building, or at least the business did. Could it be an offer to buy the building, one so good Buck wouldn’t be able to refuse? The thought made Miguel sick, and it reminded him that he needed to find a new place. He couldn’t drag his feet any longer. The thought of going back to Buck’s empty house brought him further down.

At six-thirty Dom flicked off the radio and the shop filled with silence. Great. The brothers gave him a quick wave before piling into Dom’s pickup and heading home. Miguel ignored the jealousy that sparked in his chest at the thought of the brothers hanging out together. It was wrong to be envious, especially when their parents had thrown Kevin out of the house when he had come out to them. Dom hadn’t been able to help him; he’d been struggling through tech school and looking for work. Buck, the quiet hero, had stepped in and offered both brothers jobs, saving the little family.

As he organized tools to keep from having to go home, Miguel wondered again what had caused Kevin’s outburst earlier. Miguel had grown up so inured to institutionalized racism he often didn’t pay attention when it occurred, and Skagit was, for the most part, an easy place to live. Kevin, though, he was a born-and-bred Skagit white boy; what had crawled up his butt? Miguel was going to have to do some poking around and see if he could figure out what was going on, if Kevin had had other run-ins lately, or if this behavior was as unusual as Miguel suspected. Finally he had no reason to stay, so he went home and binge-watched a true-crime show that left him huddled in bed later with nightmares and thoughts of the paperwork that had been dropped off.

By Friday, Miguel was convinced Dom was right. Kevin was infatuated with someone—he hadn’t figured out who yet, and whenever he broached the subject Kevin turned so red Miguel worried about his blood pressure. Kevin managed to tone down his daydreaming, and by closing time on Friday they were looking at a half day Saturday with a normal closed Sunday; then only Monday and a half day Tuesday. The shop would be closed for the holiday.

What was he going to do with all that free time?

Sara had invited him to watch fireworks at her house, but something about spending the holiday with an ex and her new boyfriend felt weird. Even for him, and Buck constantly told him he had no boundaries. He could only watch so much TV before his eyes felt like portals to another world, and he’d picked over the dollar bin at the used bookstore. There were some things even he wouldn’t read.

By Sunday Miguel was going stir-crazy.

He’d cleaned his room, then moved on to the already-clean house. Cleaned it too. He went to the shop to tinker around on one of Buck’s side projects. Adam Klay had asked Buck to refurbish three vintage cars, and one of them was close to finished. It sat tucked away in the third bay, waiting only for a part that had to be specialty sourced.

The office phone rang over the shop intercom, interrupting his thoughts and scaring the crap out of him. He considered letting it go to voicemail; they weren’t open, after all, but maybe it was Buck with an emergency. Buck, who he needed to call and tell about the envelope.

“Swanfeldt’s Auto.”

A pleasant female voice chirped on the other end. “Hi, I’m calling for Miguel Ramirez?”

Cold dread washed through him. So many bad things in his life started with a phone call from a stranger.

“My name is Toni Choi; Miguel applied for an apartment in my building. I wanted to touch base with him and see if he was still interested?”

Miguel almost laughed out loud with relief. God, that sinking feeling, he hadn’t had it in so long. But obviously it hadn’t gone away, just lurked in his subconscious waiting to ambush him when he least expected it. But unlike those other times when he’d experienced that feeling, the news was good. Not someone telling him he had been let go. Again. That his lease was being broken. That his bank account had mysteriously been emptied. He felt a little light-headed and remembered to take a breath.

“This is Miguel.”

When he hung up he tentatively had his own apartment. He could move in immediately, if he wanted, after taking a look at it. She warned him it was small. Miguel was fine with small. He might feel less alone. For the first time in… years, he would have his own place. He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. Surely this was cause for celebration, so why did he have a different, weird, twisty feeling in his gut?

Inhaling again and letting the breath back out through his nose, he grabbed Sheila’s keys. If he liked what he saw, he’d move on Tuesday, and he couldn’t move his stuff by teleportation. Locking up the bays and shutting off all the lights, Miguel hopped in Sheila and headed home. At the last second he skipped the turn to Buck’s and headed for one of the only places in Skagit where a guy could let loose without judgment.

The Loft was surprisingly busy for the Sunday before the Fourth of July holiday. When Miguel made his way to the bar, he discovered that Sterling, the new owner, was running an amateur bartender night and drinks were half price—but you couldn’t complain about the quality. He ordered something easy, a Manhattan. He drank it quickly and ordered a second before he gave up his spot.

Dance music pulsed through the place, calling for Miguel to move to the beat. He loved dancing and didn’t generally care who with. Hell, he’d dance by himself if he couldn’t find anyone. Not that that happened very often.

Tonight, there were plenty of bodies on the dance floor to choose from. He tossed back his second drink and insinuated himself amongst the mass of people. It felt like coming home. The movement, random hands grabbing his hips and grinding with him. He danced away, tapping the guy in front of him, running his own hand suggestively down the man’s back before plastering himself behind him, letting whoever it was grind his ass into Miguel’s crotch.

The thrum of the music had him in a sort of thrall, and Miguel was able to forget that he was rootless and alone. These guys knew him and let him be, dancing and moving together. It was heavenly. If he hadn’t declared a personal vow of chastity while he got his head on straight (he snorted at his own joke), he would have accepted any one of the numerous overt and covert suggestions that he share some skin time.

After last call he made his way back to Sheila—having danced the alcohol out of his system—and headed back to Buck’s. He managed to stave off the looming sense of loneliness until he fell into bed and the memory of a handsome red-haired stranger pulling the covers up over him returned.