Bending the Iron - 3. Chapter 3

An incoming text message woke him. With a grunt, he rolled over and groped on the nightstand for his phone.

When Maggie had upgraded her cellular plan a few months ago, she’d purchased a phone with unlimited data, and now Michael could count on at least one message a day from her, usually a rehash of whatever funny email had hit her spam account that morning. She didn’t limit her torture to one person, either—a small consolation. When Maggie had something to say, half of Hickory got a text.

Bleary-eyed, he squinted at the screen. It wasn’t Maggie, but a number he’d never seen before. At least it looked unfamiliar. Working the graveyard shift played havoc with his body. He slept like hell during the day and always woke up disoriented.

Propping himself up on an elbow, he waited another ten seconds for his brain to catch up, but the phone number still didn’t ring any bells. Grinding his teeth, he blinked at the clock across the room. Two-thirty. A full half hour before he needed to be awake. Annoyed at the lost sleep, he swiped his thumb across the screen to unlock it.

The message left him several degrees warmer and confused as hell.

dont worry about pete. hes w me. Sleep in k? C u l8r?

Eric. Michael sank back against his pillow, cradling the phone in both hands while he read the words again. Then he added the number to his contact list, pushed the blankets back, and stumbled to the shower. He wouldn’t be sleeping any more today.

* * *

Muscle memory nearly had him turning into the parking lot of the Hickory Hotel. That was what he got for daydreaming. At the last minute, he cut the steering wheel sharply left, bouncing across the empty intersection and up the hill into the museum’s parking lot. Luckily, the stoplights at the southern end of the borough were set to blink yellow day and night. Still, the maneuver would probably have scored him a reckless driving citation if one of Hickory’s two cops had witnessed it. An event about as likely to happen as Michael being promoted tomorrow.

Hickory’s finest spent the better part of their days pulling over unsuspecting tourists traveling through the 35mph speed zone in town. As this was a main route from Pittsburgh to Erie, the victims were plentiful. The locals never complained about the lack of police presence elsewhere, since the several hundred dollars a day in revenue proved a nice budget cushion. And Hickory needed all the cushion it could get.

Michael parked and sat in the cab for a few seconds, collecting himself. Anticipation had been building since he’d read Eric’s text—hell, since the moment they’d parted last night. He was on the cusp of an adrenaline rush and visibly jittery, something Pete would notice right away. Oddly, the root of his agitation wasn’t completely sexual, but that didn’t make it less powerful. He supposed if Pete called him on his distraction, he could use the loss of the foreman job as an excuse.

At that moment, Eric slipped out the rear door and jogged over to his jeep. Whistling, he pulled the passenger door open, flipped the seat down, and began to rummage in the back. He had to lean halfway over to do it, stretching the material of his shorts tight across his ass.

Michael’s stomach flipped. Yep, an excuse would be crucial. He took a shaky breath, then another when the first didn’t help with his sudden dizziness. The view had his body reacting in a predictable manner...damn it.

Eric shouted a satisfied “Aha!” and slithered out of the car, smiling triumphantly at the crowbar in his hand. Hair disheveled and falling in his face, smudge of dirt across one cheek, he was radiant. Michael clutched the wheel until his knuckles turned white, half hoping Eric wouldn’t see him, but there weren’t too many places to hide a pickup the size of his. A second later, Eric lifted his gaze, caught sight of the truck—and him—and the grin softened into an emotion that Michael didn’t quite recognize, but it punched him right in the gut.

Twirling the crowbar in his hand, Eric sauntered over. Michael rolled the window down and swung an elbow up onto the door, thinking how silly the forced nonchalance was and knowing Eric would see right through it.

He did. Swinging the crowbar up onto his shoulder, he lifted a foot onto the running board and squinted at Michael. “You okay?”

“Honestly?”

“Well, yeah,” Eric said with a laugh. “Honestly. Cause you look like you’re jonesing for a fix or something.”

Oh, he was. Killing the engine and pocketing the keys took a brief second, then Michael pushed the door open, forcing Eric back a few steps. He hooked a companionable arm around Eric’s shoulders and steered him toward the museum’s rear door. Eric made a brief, earnest attempt to pull away. Michael quashed it with little effort. “No, you don’t,” he said, aware he’d growled the words and not caring in the slightest.

He felt the tension bleed out of Eric’s body, sensed him unravel and go where he was led, breath quickening to match Michael’s. “Jesus, that’s hot,” he muttered, not saying anything more until they were out of the sun and in the shadow of the stairwell. Michael gave the rubber doorstop a shove, and the door began to swing closed with a noisy creak.

The world shrank to the bubble of space surrounding them. Outside, a train approached the crossing; Michael could hear its warning whistle, but the door sealed shut, cutting it off. The light disappeared, and only their breathing filled the dim space.

“Pete’s busy taking notes,” Eric said into the dark.

Michael nodded. Already his hands had found purchase on Eric’s hips. “What about Maggie?”

“She went to get us food from the hotel,” Eric said breathlessly, then leaned forward to meet Michael’s lips.

After all the waiting, the aching, Michael knew there would be desperation. What he hadn’t anticipated was how the need boiled over into gentleness, not ferocity. And how the kiss was slow and searching, not bitingly rough. He took all the time he hadn’t yesterday, exploring Eric’s mouth, and let Eric do the same.

When they pulled apart several minutes later, Michael’s skin prickled with a thousand hot needles, and waves of lust rolled regularly through his gut, making his hands shake where they’d come to rest on Eric’s body.

Eyes falling closed, Eric tipped his head forward until Michael’s lips met his brow. Hands clutching at Michael’s back, he swallowed several times before speaking. “I missed you. Not in a creepy way, okay? I mean, I didn’t...”

“Jerk off thinking about me?” Michael asked against his skin.

“Um—”

“Because I did.”

Eric shuddered against him. “Same here.”

Worry laced his voice, more self-recrimination than concern of any perceived indiscretion. Michael hated to hear it and made himself step away, giving them both breathing space. “I’m here to work. Show me what needs done.”

“You were supposed to sleep in,” Eric scolded, leading the way up the stairs.

“Couldn’t.” Truthfully, only his bone-deep exhaustion had put him under in the first place. That and a desire to arrive at this moment as quickly as possible. “What are you working on today?”

“Well...” Eric gave a visible wince as they stepped into the model room. “The next step of the project is troublesome, but I really can’t put it off any longer.”

He waved at Pete, who was perched on a stool across the room, notebook propped on his knee, reading glasses low on his nose. Pete waved back, adding, “Hey, Mikey!”

Michael returned the greeting. “Did he eat?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“I made sure. And he only had one beer with lunch. That was a few hours ago.”

Miracles do happen. Whether it would last was another matter, but speculating about the situation wouldn’t help, so Michael gave over a silent prayer of hope and let it go. He followed Eric halfway down the aisle to where a collection of tools were stacked alongside a dark blue jumpsuit. A roll of paper—yellow at the edges, and obviously quite old—lay beside the clothing. Michael smiled at the headlamp sitting on top of the pile. “Going mining?”

Eric added the crowbar to the stack. “Yeah, in a way. Actually, mining is probably a good deal cleaner than this is going to be.” He snatched the jumpsuit off the table and stepped into it, pulling it up over his shorts and shirt. The headlamp came next. Eric fit it over his head, snugging up the loose straps. He laughed at Michael’s amused expression. “Attractive, yes?”

“Yes.” It was, in fact, though it was difficult to say why. “You’re going underneath?”

Eric made a face. “Yeah. I’ve been putting it off, but it’s time. That’s where all the mechanical and electrical equipment is. This model is block wired, with about a dozen toggle switches and at least two transformers. Maybe three—that’d be my guess. I don’t expect it to be well laid out or organized. Basically a jungle of red and black wires and other junk. The original modelers wouldn’t have had any need to make it look pretty. All they needed was enough room to get around under there if there was a problem.” He shot Michael a rueful grin. “Currently, there are lots of problems. Nothing short of a detailed inspection is going to tell me what’s up to code and what isn’t. Could be I’m going to have to rewire the whole thing.”

“Sounds like a blast.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Party of the century. If I could make heads or tails of these damn schematics, it would make the job about a hundred times easier.” He gestured at the roll of paper. “It’s more confusing than the tax code. There are scribbled notes from one person to another and so many changes and edits that I can’t even tell what the end result was supposed to look like. They might as well have sketched it on a cocktail napkin.”

Brow furrowing, Michael reached for the plans. “Can I take a look?”

“Knock yourself out.” Eric shrugged. “Any help would be welcome, but chances are it’ll look like Greek to you too.” He adjusted the lamp over his forehead. “I’ll cross my fingers though. The less time I have to spend under there, the better.”

“Thought you loved this job,” Michael rolled the diagrams open over a miniature cornfield. He had to lift them a moment later when a train chugged by, trailing four passenger cars behind it.

“I do.” Eric hesitated, then added grudgingly, “I hate spiders though.”

And there’d be spiders by the bucket load. Mice too, if anyone felt like taking bets. Michael had suspected years ago, as one loop after another stopped running, that something was nibbling on the wiring. Still, he was only guessing. And Eric was right. Until they got underneath and saw things for themselves, there was no use taking guesses.

“Okay,” he said, scanning the blueprints. “These are mechanical drawings of each of the loops. One rail line on each page.”

“Yeah, I got that much. But they’re not labeled, and there’s no master schematic, which is what I need, man. A master’s like the Rosetta stone for a project like this.”

“They are labeled.” Michael tapped a finger against his lips as he ran an experienced eye over one drawing after another. “This is a somewhat archaic labeling system, but I recognize it. It fits the era, too. Mid-sixties.”

“What? Really?” Eric peered over his shoulder.

“How do you know that?”

That was a little more complicated, as answers went. “I, uh, thought about studying architecture at one point, and most mechanical drawing is pretty standard. I used to research this kind of thing online—for fun, not for class or anything. These days, pretty much all technical diagrams, whether architectural or engineering, are done on CAD stations. Totally computerized. Actual drawings, with pencil and paper, T-squares and set squares...that’s becoming a lost art.”

Copious scribbling aside, the layouts were beautiful, with neat, precise block lettering around the edge, while the heart of the picture was a maze of shapes and lines. To a layman, they would look like Greek, but they sang to Michael. “Here are your polarities...whoever was using the blue pen marked those. The red stars are your Atlas slide switches. The positive rails are marked in black.”

“They used Atlas switches?” The fact definitely cheered Eric. “All right, then. This might not be as bad as I thought.”

Michael sidestepped the locomotive that was still circling, sidled down to the next circuit, and spread the drawings out with great care, vigilant of their fragility. “Give me a minute. I can put them in order. Then we can use a grid system to decide where you want to start.”

“Very methodical,” Eric agreed, watching Michael’s face. “You didn’t say anything about wanting to be an architect.”

Michael’s face warmed. “That was a long time ago. Right after high school.”

“So it doesn’t interest you anymore?”

The edge of innocence in Eric’s voice was a bit too pronounced. Embarrassed he’d revealed something so personal, Michael drew himself up and answered in a clipped tone. “Not really.” He lifted what he determined to be the first drawing they’d need, the northeast corner of the diorama, where a mountain range cut through the landscape. “I guess we’ll start in this corner. It seems as good a place as any.”

Eric blinked in surprise. “We?”

“Yeah.” Pete had his nose buried in his notebook, so Michael risked one touch, brushing his fingers along the side of Eric’s cheek. “Do you really think I’d let you face the evil spiders all by yourself?”

He’d thought Eric adorable before, in his oversized jumpsuit and headlamp, but the way his mouth dropped open in pleasure tripled his appeal. “Thank you,” Eric said, clearly surprised. The soft look was back on his face, the one Michael had yet to identify. “You really don’t have to.”

“I know.” Michael carefully rolled up the first set of plans and gestured at Eric’s headlamp. “You got another one of those around here somewhere?”

* * *

Dirty didn’t half cover it. The crawlspace was a sty. And Michael saw the collection of paper and other scraps that indicated a rodent’s nest before they’d crawled even five feet. Thick as paper, the cobwebs clung to his face. Michael almost balked, reconsidering whether he really needed to be doing this, until he heard the wobble in Eric’s voice. “Oh look, giant spiderwebs. Awesome.”

“Is this where I give the speech about them being more afraid of you than you are of them?” Distracted, Michael dipped his head so that his lamp panned over the schematic. “Left at the next turn.”

“I prefer creatures with the proper amount of legs. Two or four are good. Six, eight, or none...that’s just not right.” Eric shuffled along behind Michael, crawling on his hands and knees, headlamp throwing long shadows in front of them.

The crawlspace was, literally, a maze. Platforms held dusty circuit boards, while walls of plywood occasionally rose, covering—randomly, as far as Michael could guess—the two-by-four support frame. He inspected it as they crawled through, searching for anything that might have compromised the structure: mold, termites or general wear. He sensed Eric doing the same.

They came to another junction, and Michael consulted the drawing before glancing upward. Loose wires dangled above them, frayed at the ends. “Watch yourself,” he warned, and heard Eric hiss in frustration.

“That sucks. There’s at least three different loops affected there. See how many wires feed through the junction? Shit.”

Michael nodded, not that Eric could see him. Wordlessly, he moved on, and Eric followed, grumbling under his breath. He went noticeably silent near the end of their expedition, and as soon as they emerged into the light, Michael took a good look at his face. It was the first time he’d seen the other man look grim. He slipped the light off his head and pushed back his sweaty hair. “That bad?”

“It isn’t good. But it isn’t unfixable.” Eric reached to swipe a cobweb from his face, then slithered out of the jumpsuit and kicked it out of the way. Only then did he focus on Michael. “You’re filthy.”

He’d figured. Eric’s clothing hadn’t come through unscathed either, even with the protective jumpsuit. “No big deal. I should have time before work to shower and change.” He rubbed a layer of dust off his wrist to inspect his watch.

“Huh.” Eric bit his lip. “Well...”

Brushing at the spiderwebs accomplished nothing. Michael gave up and tried not to think about what might be crawling on him. “Or I can stick around longer, if you want. Was there something else that needed doing today?”

“No. Christ, no. You’ve done enough. I was...” Eric blew out a breath. “I was just going to offer my shower and washing machine. I’m renting an apartment down the street. Basically a two-minute walk. I mean, if you want...just to clean up...”

Michael continued to wipe his hands with one of the white chamois cloths while he contemplated Eric’s tone. “Are you sure? Because you don’t sound like you’re a hundred percent comfortable with that.”

Eric nodded, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. I’m sure. Fair warning, I can be every bit the teenage girl sometimes. Just ignore me.”

“Ignoring you,” Michael said, throwing the cloth onto the growing pile on the floor, “would not be possible.” As he’d hoped, Eric’s shoulders relaxed and some of the anxiety faded from his eyes.

“You always say the right thing.”

“Does that worry you?”

Lips pursed, Eric nodded. “Yeah. A little.”

That made things a bit clearer and riled up Michael’s protective instincts. “You don’t have to worry about that with me.” Smooth-talker, he wasn’t. Pete might have his prejudices, but he also had a strong code of honor. One Michael had learned the hard way. Honesty above everything, even when it hurt. “I’m a pretty straightforward guy.”

“Okay,” Eric said breezily, wry smile tugging at his lips. This thing between us is going to end badly, he might as well have screamed. Michael could read the thought on his face. For the first time he wondered whether Eric was really over this other guy. Or maybe the lingering memories were a lot worse than he’d let on. Neither were comfortable thoughts, and Michael couldn’t decide which he feared more.

A day ago, it had been Michael fighting a bout of insecurity. Good thing their respective crises ran on different timetables. But anything intimate was out of the question until they managed to sync their moods. Michael refused to be responsible for those shadows in Eric’s eyes.

“That would be great,” Michael said. “It would save me forty minutes of driving.”

Although it had the potential to become torture—the two of them alone, with no danger of being disturbed. Still, as long as Eric had that mild look of panic, Michael was keeping his hands to himself. He could do it. He wasn’t an animal.

His grandfather’s voice hit like a bucket of cold water. “Mikey?”

Eric’s eyes met Michael’s. Their combined realization that they’d totally forgotten about Pete drew an abashed laugh from both of them. “Change of plans,” Michael said with a sad smile. “I’ll have to get him home anyway, so I might as well get cleaned up there.”

“Yeah. Maybe some other time.” The pinched frown did more to convince Michael of his disappointment than any words he could’ve uttered. Even so, he masked it well, turning to smile as Pete appeared out of the alcove near the end of the room.

Michael buried his own half-formed fantasies and turned, a greeting on his lips, but as Pete sauntered down the aisle toward them, the words flew out of his head. “What the hell are you wearing?” he asked, awed.

Eric’s low, appreciative whistle made Pete grin. “You forgot your old grandpap could clean up, huh?”

Pete turned in a circle as he spoke, showing off the chinos—freshly pressed, for God’s sake—and blue-striped dress shirt. His hair was clean and combed. He’d even shaved. The subtle scent of sandalwood wafted forward with him.

“I...had,” Michael admitted, smiling despite his confusion. Too many years of pouring the old guy into bed every night, still dressed and reeking of scotch, would account for that. For a moment, the memory of a very different man filled his thoughts. One who had held a weeping Michael over the grave of his parents, and who had taken him in and shaped him into the sort of man his father would have been proud of.

It reminded him all over again of why he could never leave Hickory while Pete needed caring for. “You look good, Paps,” Michael said, voice rough.

He sensed Eric’s gaze on him and ignored it. “What’s the occasion?”

Pete stroked his chin and winked. “Taking Maggie to dinner.”

Eric’s approving “All right! Way to go, man” gave Michael the few seconds he needed to form his next question.

“Really? Does she know she’s going?”

“Eh?” Pete squinted at Michael. “What kind of asinine question is that? Of course she knows. When was the last time you took someone on a date without telling them about it first?”

Good point. Pete had a good fifteen years on Maggie, but who was Michael to judge? “Okay, then. Have fun.” He bit off the “When will you be home?” before he embarrassed them both. Time to put some faith where it used to reside. Plus, if he knew Maggie, a prerequisite of the dinner would be a ban on alcohol.

Pete straightened his cuffs, distracting Michael again with his transformation. Enough so that it took a minute for the implications of the change in plans to sink in. He cut his eyes to Eric and found an answering hopeful gleam.

Pete lifted his nose to the air and sniffed. “Something smells.”

“That would be us,” Eric piped in. “We were just talking about fixing that problem.”

Michael nodded. Preferably with a long, hot shower and Eric pressed against the wall, slick and willing. Wait. Michael shook his head, trying to physically evict the traitorous thought. No, he’d promised himself to back off. But he sure as hell wasn’t making any promises about what he’d be doing to himself in that shower—especially with Eric a room away, fueling his fantasies.

“Less talking and more washing.” Pete wrinkled his nose. “I better get moving before I pick up your stink.”

He made a crisp turn on his heel and started off for the stairs. “Don’t wait up, Mikey,” he called, cackling as he started down.

Michael groaned. “I could have done without the parting shot.”

“He knew that, too,” Eric said, laughing. “Wicked sense of humor, that guy.”

Another forgotten fact. The day was full of them. Michael sighed. “Ready to go?”

Eric made a sour face as he inspected the filth under his nails. “Definitely.”