Spring Lake, Texas

One week before Christmas

The irony wasn’t wasted on Phillip Mott that he worked at a car repair place but didn’t own a car. In fact, he didn’t even have a driver’s license.

Dressed in his work clothes—dark blue Dickies pants, light blue shirt with his name embroidered on the pocket—Phillip quickly limped the twenty steps from his tiny trailer to the back door of Smith’s Garage where he worked. His bad knee had bothered him last night and now the strain on it made him wince with each step.

He sorted out the keys to the place, found the right one and unlocked the door. After slipping inside, he punched in the code for the security system, flipped on the lights, then walked through the storeroom filled with metal shelves heavy with assorted parts, past the manager’s office, and to the front counter. He’d been the counter guy—official title—for nearly ten months.

Last year, after he’d climbed out of the big rig he’d hitched a ride on up on the interstate, he’d pulled up his hoodie and walked the few miles in the cold rain down the blacktop farm-to-market road into Spring Lake, looking for a place to land. As he’d made his way down the small town’s main street, the rain had turned to drizzle. He’d spotted the Help Wanted sign in the window of Smith’s Garage and had stepped inside looking mostly to get out of the rain, but he wouldn’t turn down a job.

The minimum wage job and the tiny trailer had fallen out of the sky like the drops of rain clinging to him, and into his lap with a little influencing on the shop manager to hire him. Nothing wrong with that, nothing illegal or dangerous, merely survival. Just a little push to get the owner to overlook Phillip’s lack of references while they shook hands. At eighteen, he’d decided his power’s boundaries weren’t his mother’s, and although he might have tested the limits, he’d stepped back from the cliff’s edge every time.

It wasn’t his dream job, but it’d do. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers’, his mom had always told him each time she’d asked him to use his power. What she’d really meant was he couldn’t be choosy. Don’t worry, Mom, I know exactly what you thought I’m worth—whatever I could get you, and the moment I stopped delivering you put me out.

At the front desk, he turned on the computer, then went to the waiting room and got a pot of coffee started for the customers who’d be rolling in at seven when they opened. He plugged in the sad, one-foot-tall plastic Christmas tree, hung with flashing multi-colored mini-lights, someone had bought a few years ago. It matched his lack of Christmas spirit—sad, short and blinking. That done, he headed to the first of three garage bays, unlocked the roll-up door, bent down to grab the handle and pushed the first one open with a grunt. The bay filled with the brisk morning air of December in central Texas. Better than the inferno of August in Texas with only a few industrial fans to cool the work areas. Thank God for the air conditioning in the office areas.

In fifteen minutes, the two mechanics would show up and his day would begin. The manager, Carl Flynn—the owner’s brother-in-law—would stroll in sometime around nine, go to his office, shut the door and only come out when needed, which wasn’t often, leaving Phillip to deal with whatever came up.

This quiet time, with no one around and only the smells of oil, metal, tires and stale sweat to keep him company, was the best part of his workday. “Christ,” he muttered. Fifteen good minutes out of nine hours. Six days a week. Fuck my life.

He moved to the next bay and opened it. As he gave it a hard pull—this one always stuck in cold weather—a voice called out and ran down his spine like nails on a chalk board. He jerked to the side, twisting his knee, and struggled to keep from wincing.

“Hey, P-dawg! How’s it swinging?” The voice boomed off the metal garage walls.

Jimmy.

God, he hated the guy. Hated the douche nickname. Hated him with all the power of a thousand suns. Homophobic, racist, bigoted Jimmy was an asshole. He checked all Phillip’s bug-the-shit-outta-me boxes. He schooled his face as he turned to Jimmy while he punched his time card. Phillip might be a beggar, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d seen Jimmy in action before, and no way did he want to be on the receiving end of his crap. Jimmy was trouble, but for now, he was trouble that could be managed.

“Fine.” He got the last bay opened, brushed off his hands and headed back to the office. He couldn’t get away fast enough. Trying not to antagonize Jimmy, but not encourage him either, was a delicate balance. Most days, Phillip succeeded. Today?

It was first thing in the morning and Jimmy’s uniform was covered in grease. Fuck. Can’t the guy wear clean clothes at least more than once a week?

“I’ll get the keys from the slot and fill out the work orders.” Phillip closed the door behind him, glad to be out of the garage. Outside, three cars had been dropped off, and the keys, including a note with each owner’s name and their car’s problem, had been shoved through the mail slot in the front door.

After he unlocked it he picked up the keys and notes, careful not to mix them up, and went back to the counter to pull up the forms on the computer. He filled them out in order of ‘Jimmy’ and ‘Estaban’, depending on the work needed.

The door from the bays opened. He braced himself, but it was Estaban, their real mechanic. Phillip relaxed his shoulders as part of him eased and yet a part of him felt excited, something that had been growing stronger over the months. Every day he looked forward to seeing Estaban’s smiling face, so different from the sneer Jimmy greeted him with.

“Morning, Phil. Clocked in.” Estaban gave him a nod, the smile on his face reaching his eyes. So different from Jimmy’s dangerous, shit-eating grin.

“Hola, Estaban. Give me a minute to get this sorted out.” Phillip wished he didn’t call him Phil, but it was better than ‘P-dawg.’ And Estaban was a great guy, probably ten years older than Phillip, with dark brown eyes and thick, black hair, and a body built by hard work, not a gym. He was an incredible mechanic. A fucking genius with motors. There wasn’t a car he couldn’t diagnose and fix. He wore a fresh uniform every day, and no matter how dirty he got during the work day, in the morning his nails were clean. Phillip didn’t want to admit he noticed, but the guy even smelled good.

“What you got?” Phillip eyed the brown paper bag in Estaban’s hand.

“I brought you some pork tamales.” Estaban put the bag on the counter.

“For me?” Phillip grinned. “You didn’t have to go to any trouble.” He tried not to be foolishly flattered, but it was damn hard. After close to a year working with the guy, he couldn’t shake his growing attraction.

“Well, it was nada.” Estaban shrugged. “Right before Christmas, my family gets together and makes dozens of tamales. Pork, chicken, beef. It’s a tradition. I’ve got a refrigerator filled with them. Just thought you’d like some.” He gave the bag another push toward Phillip.

“Excellent! I love tamales. Thanks.” For a moment, Phillip stood there, grinning into Estaban’s smiling face. “Thanks for thinking of me.” Wow. Estaban brought them just for me? He picked up the bag and placed it behind the counter. “I’ll put them in the trailer’s fridge later. Looks like dinner tonight.”

“You just have to heat them in the microwave, you know.” Estaban looked all kinds of pleased as he rocked back on his heels, hands buried in his pockets. If Phillip wasn’t mistaken, a touch of pink colored Estaban’s cheeks, but that was probably due to the cold in the garage bays.

“Tell your family thanks. That’s a real nice tradition.”

“Yeah. A lot of Hispanic families do it at Christmas, at least here in Texas.” Estaban spoke without a trace of accent and for the first time, Phillip wondered if he’d been born here. Then he worried if Estaban might be in danger of being deported if he wasn’t. Despite him not knowing one way or the other, Phillip felt odd about the possibility.

“Thanks again.” Really? I need to just shut the fuck up. Master of witty banter I’m not.

“Great.” Estaban nodded, stepped away and leaned against the wall by the door.

“Good.” Could this be any more awkward? Phillip couldn’t take his gaze off Estaban even at the best of times. He forced himself to concentrate on the computer screen and figure out what work was up, but instead he let his mind wander to Estaban’s lips on his, his powerful hands on his skin, his tongue—

The door to the bays opened, breaking the spell, or at least waking Phillip up out of his daydream.

“What’s up first?” Jimmy came in, dragging a deep smell of sweat and grease with him. He leaned on the counter, leaving a smudge of black where his arm rested.

“Oil change. White Chevy truck.” Phillip handed him the keys. Jimmy did the oil changes, minor stuff like fuses, washer blades and tire changes. He wasn’t good for much more than a strong back, even though he acted like he owned the place.

“Got it.” He left and Phillip rolled his eyes. He picked up a rag and wiped away the grease spot.

Estaban snorted. “Now, what you got for me, Phil?”

Oh, I got something long and hard for you…

Phillip coughed, printed out a form, then handed it to Estaban. “The green Bronco? Says it’s running rough.” He shrugged. “Give it a test drive then open the hood, and work your mechanic magic. I’ll call the owner for approval when you figure it out.” He tossed the keys to Estaban, who spun and caught them behind his back.

“Goooaalll!” Estaban grinned. “Back in a few.”

The chime on the front door went off as a customer pushed through. Phillip had one more car to write up, but he paused to give the living person his attention.

“Merry Christmas! Can I help you?” He smiled as a pretty young woman came to the counter. He’d been lectured by the manager the garage was a Christian place of business, and to tell every customer “Merry Christmas” whether they wanted to hear it or not.

No “Happy Holidays” here, folks!

Hell. If they ever found out about his un-Christian activities, he’d put money down on their Christian reaction—goodbye job, goodbye trailer, goodbye Phillip.

“My tire’s flat. I got the spare on, but…” She shrugged and waved in the direction of the parking lot. Through the window, Phillip spotted a little shiny blue Kia.

“Got it. Do you want to wait or just leave it? It’ll be about thirty minutes before we can get to it.”

“Then how long will it take?” She cocked her head at him and batted her lashes. 

Barking up the wrong tree, honey. “Maybe another thirty.”

“That’s good. I’ll wait.” She flung her long brown hair over her shoulder. 

Oh, I recognize that move. “Great. Can you fill this out?” He shoved the form at her and handed her a pen, being sure to let their hands touch while he thought, Go sit down and leave me alone. She wrote her name, number and address, then pushed it back at him.

“I’ll just sit over here.” She pointed to the chairs.

“Help yourself to coffee, it’s fresh.”

Phillip didn’t bother watching her as she sauntered over to the coffee. Head down, he entered the information into the computer then got back to the car left from last night.

Just nine more hours until he was free. Until he could sit on a bar stool, have a beer, and, if he was lucky, meet someone who wanted a quick trip to the bathroom for a blow job.

He’d kill to go on his knees for Estaban. Sure, he might be the man of Phillip’s fantasies, but he wasn’t gay.

Beggars can’t be choosers.