Chapter Text
Rhett was totally screwed. His reliable Ford Bronco, which had been getting him from place to place for years, wouldn't start. This normally wouldn't have been cause for too much concern, but he normally would have been in LA, not all alone on a small two-lane road in middle of nowhere Arizona. He hadn't seen any other traffic since discovering the dead vehicle. The lack of people and cell signal had been appealing while camping (it was such a relief to be free from nagging lawyers for a few days), but now it meant he couldn't call for help. So, there he stood, hood open, baking under the heat of the sun, while staring at the components inside as if some instructions would magically appear and tell him what to do.
When none came, he resorted to the same response he'd been giving off and on for the last hour: a loud bellow and a steady stream of colorful curse words. Then, he returned to his position crouched under the hood.
“Need a hand?”
Rhett started, almost hitting his head on the hood at the sound of the voice. He straightened and found himself face to face with a man. Where had he come from? Rhett examined him cautiously. From his awful, outdated moustache to his too-tight light blue polo shirt, nothing about him screamed mechanical knowledge. When Rhett spotted the vintage motorcycle — complete with a damn sidecar — parked behind the Bronco, he was certain that this man wouldn't be able to help him fix whatever was wrong.
But, maybe he had a working phone.
“Uh…”
Before Rhett could ask about the phone, the man offered him a lopsided smile. “Sorry. Didn't mean to scare you”
“I'm not scared. Just don't like people sneaking up on me,” Rhett said, annoyed by the implication in his words. As if he would be frightened by a man who looked like the offspring of Ned Flanders and a bike cop from the 80s. Rhett stretched himself a bit taller to display his full height.
The man seemed undeterred by Rhett’s bad attitude and his height. He waved a hand at the Bronco. “It's a ‘92, right?”
“Yeah.”
“5.8 liter?”
Rhett shrugged. To be honest, mechanical stuff wasn't exactly his speciality.
The man shaded his eyes to look up at Rhett. “Could be an ignition module failure. It’s a known issue on these beasts. But, it could be a lot of other things, too. Might just be a dead battery. If I wasn’t on the Triumph today, I'd offer to jump it and see if that worked. When's the last time you changed the spark plugs?” His gaze was intense; his piercing blue eyes were almost accusatory as he spoke to Rhett.
“Um.” Rhett kicked at the dirt at their feet. “I, uh…”
“Okay, clearly you aren't a gearhead.”
“So?” Rhett shot him a dark look.
The man sighed, holding up both hands in a placating gesture. “Let's start over. Hi. My name is Charles.” He held out a hand.
“Rhett,” he said, taking the proffered hand. He was surprised to find his grip was firm, and his hand callused.
Charles pulled his hand back and smiled at Rhett again. “Listen, Rhett, I own a garage in the next town. Why don't I take you there, and I’ll send one of my guys out with a tow truck? If I can look under the hood properly at my shop, I can probably get your Bronco running in no time.”
Rhett hesitated. Was this guy truly a mechanic? It felt like some kind of trick. Then again, why would he try to trick Rhett? And, really, what choice did he have? He could stay there and camp another night in the desert, but he’d be stuck with the same trouble in the morning. Resigned, he nodded his agreement.
Charles led the way back to his bike, where he pointed at the blue sidecar. “Get in.”
“I can't fit in there. I'm a tall man.”
“Do you have a motorcycle license?”
“Well, no, but — ”
“Then, you aren't driving. So, if you aren't riding, then I guess you're either walking or waiting here for the tow truck to get back.” Charles threw a leg over his bike. “I don't recommend walking. My garage is 10 miles away. It’s hot and that bandana isn't gonna offer much protection from the sun. So, what's it gonna be?”
Charles was right. It was more than simply hot out there. It was oppressively hot; Rhett’s grey shirt clung to him where the sweat had pooled on his chest and back. The road ahead of them looked blurry as heat waves rose from the pavement like in an old cartoon. Grumbling, he gestured to the sidecar. He was about to attempt to figure out how to fold himself into the tiny space when Charles cleared his throat. He held out a helmet and a pair of goggles to Rhett.
“Are you kidding me?”
“We’re in the freakin’ desert. You ever gotten sand in your eyes?” As Charles asked this, he busied himself with putting on his own goggles and helmet.
Rhett tried to disguise his annoyance as he fit the goggles over his eyes and tugged the helmet on. “Happy?”
“I’ll be happier when we’re on the road. Get in there, man. I don’t have all day.”
*****
Rhett paced in front of the garage, stretching his legs. He had spent the entirety of the short ride to the small town gripping the edges of the sidecar while attempting to fight the dueling emotions of amusement and anger at how ridiculous he’d looked crammed into it. As he moved in circles, he listened to the voicemails he’d received while off the grid. There were two messages from his mom, both with updates about what Barbara had been doing while she was with his parents. He smiled as he pictured her begging for food and charming the other residents of the neighborhood. His happiness was short-lived, though. As expected, there was also a message from his lawyers with Aimee’s latest round of demands. He resisted the urge to throw his phone into the road, and instead went back inside where Charles was leaning against a wall. He’d swapped out the polo shirt for a plain black button-up. His eyes were locked on his phone screen, but he looked up when Rhett entered.
“My guy was near your Bronco with the tow truck when I called. He should be here within the next fifteen minutes or so.”
“Oh. Good.” Rhett licked his chapped, dry lips. “Hey, I never said thank you for picking me up. I appreciate the help.”
“No problem.” He gestured at a pair of worn formica chairs sitting along the wall near an old table. “Make yourself comfortable. The coffee in the pot is from yesterday, but I can make a new one if you want.”
“No, no. I’m fine. Too hot for coffee.” Rhett lowered himself onto one of the chairs. The cracked, tan cushion offered very little in terms of comfort, but he supposed beggars couldn’t be choosers. He pulled off his bandana to wipe at the sweat that had collected on his forehead. From across the room, he heard Charles snort. Rhett lifted his head to find the mechanic’s eyes locked on him, his moustache dancing as he tried unsuccessfully to contain his amusement. Rhett narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“I just...” Charles took a deep breath to compose himself. Then, he continued, “Is that a man bun?”
Rhett felt his cheeks warm as a blush spread across his face. “So what if it is?”
“Nothing. I didn't realize those were still in style.”
“I could say the same thing about that caterpillar on your face.”
“Touch é .” Charles shook his head.
The men stared at each other, each waiting for the other to back down first. Finally, Rhett scoffed, and pulled out his phone. What was this guy’s issue? Why did he care about Rhett’s choice of hairstyle? He should have trusted his instincts about him. Irritated, he began scrolling through his social media accounts, not reading any of the words as he ignored Charles.
In general, Rhett was not a man who was uncomfortable with silence. Most times he not only welcomed it, but actively sought it out. Charles, however, seemed to despise it. Despite Rhett’s obvious lack of interest in continuing the conversation, he spoke again. “Guess we don’t get much info about fashion out here in the sticks.”
“Guess not.” Rhett stared blindly at the images on the screen, willing the man to leave him alone. Instead, he closed the distance between them so he stood above Rhett, far too close for his liking.
“Not like in LA.”
Rhett lifted his head, alarmed. “What? How do you know I’m from LA?”
“You mean aside from your man bun?” Charles laughed. “How about the California plates? Or the Clippers decal on your back window? Or maybe, just maybe, it’s because you gave me your license a few minutes ago so I could write your info down for my records.”
“Oh. Right.”
Charles looked down at him. “You’re awfully defensive. Has anyone ever told you that?”
Rhett crossed his arms on his chest. “You sure do have a lot of opinions about someone you just met.”
He nodded. “I have no filter sometimes.”
“Clearly.”
The sound of the garage door opening interrupted their conversation. Rhett couldn’t say he was upset about this. Charles set to work helping the tow truck driver maneuver the Bronco into the building. Rhett watched as they popped open the hood. Their first solution — jump the truck — was met with no success. Rhett tried to pay attention as the two men talked and joked around while running a series of diagnostic tests, but got lost in their jargon. He turned his focus to the book on his phone and lost himself in the words on his screen.
Several chapters later, Charles approached Rhett. He wiped his hands on a rag as he spoke. “Okay, so I’m about ninety percent sure it’s the ignition module, but I won’t know for sure until I get a replacement part tomorrow.”
Rhett got to his feet, ignoring the twinge in his back from sitting on the uncomfortable chair for so long. “So, what’s the timeframe on that? Do you think I'll be good to go in the morning, or should I expect mid-afternoon?” Outside, dusk had taken over as the sun sank below the horizon. He wasn’t going anywhere that night.
“I have to talk to my parts guy tomorrow. If he has it in stock, this will take me about an hour to fix. If not, he'll have to order it, which could take a couple days,” Charles said. “You might want to call into work for Tuesday just in case.”
“Oh. I’m, uh, between jobs at the moment.” Rhett said, feeling his cheeks warm again. He quickly added, “But, don’t worry. I can still pay.”
“Good,” Charles said. “If you need a place to stay, the motel across the road is reasonably priced. And if you’re looking for food, Joe’s next door is your standard bar fare, or the pizza place will deliver. Not much else to offer on a Sunday night, I’m afraid.”
When he entered the motel room a short while later, Rhett kept his expectations low, but found himself pleasantly surprised. While it was nondescript in every aspect of its decorations, it wasn’t neglected. The room was clean, and the linens weren’t the threadbare towels and bedding he would have anticipated finding. No one would ever call it fancy, but it would be sufficient for one night of rest. Rhett set his backpack and guitar case on the floor before stripping off his clothes and heading to the shower. He let the hot water wash away the collected grime and sweat from a weekend of camping. When he emerged, he pulled on a clean grey shirt, identical to the one he’d been wearing earlier, and a fresh pair of jeans. As he tied his hair back up into a messy bun, he thought about the mechanic’s derisive tone.
“What does he know about what looks good? Everyone’s a critic.” Rhett muttered to himself, smirking at his reflection. In the back of his mind, the echo of another voice, higher-pitched and less kind, commented, “You can't seriously expect me to be seen in public with someone who looks like that, can you?”
He flung himself onto the bed, stuffing the last of his beef jerky into his mouth as he prepared to read more of his book. Within minutes, the silence of the room began to claw its way under his skin. He couldn’t focus on the words on his screen. He thought about the bottle of bourbon in his pack, and his restlessness took over. His legs twitched. He didn’t want to drink alone. He’d been doing that all weekend.
With a sigh, he walked to the window which overlooked the parking lot. The siren song of the rundown bar across the road, next door to Charles’ garage, called to him. Even though he wouldn’t know anyone in the bar, the thought of being anonymous in a crowd sounded much more appealing to him than staying there, finishing off his bottle of bourbon, and jerking off before falling asleep. The harsh neon red of the open sign blinked out a steady pulse to him. Its alluring pull was stronger than his resolve to stay in the room. Before he could think about it too much, Rhett grabbed his wallet and headed out the door.