Sweet Revenge (m|m)

Four - Blake

I have a confession to make. I have basically no tolerance for spicy food.

The truffle thing I ate was delicious—heavenly, even—but it was also really spicy, and I need to get away from the cute candy-maker guy before I lose my shit.

I dash back across the street, not even bothering to look this time, and take refuge in my shop, where I promptly chug half a liter of water. It doesn't help at all, but it's all I have on hand.

Ten uncomfortable minutes later, the burning subsides, and I'm able to think of something other than pain.

Well, actually I think of high school, which is almost the same thing.

What I told candy-guy—Aaron—was true. I was an asshole in high school. I was the star of the track team, friends with a bunch of dickhead jocks, and so deep in the closet, I didn't even know it had a door.

But I don't remember being any worse than any other dumbass kid, and I certainly don't remember doing anything that would make someone still hate me for it ten years down the road.

It makes me curious—and nervous. I've been assured that the accident didn't affect my memory in any way, but I still worry that the doctors might be wrong. If I'd done something terrible, how could I make up for it if I don't remember what it was? I write myself a note to ask Dr. Patreski about it after physical therapy the following day.

~♡~

The next morning, though, I get a nasty surprise when I walk down from my little apartment behind my store and go to start my truck. The engine makes a grinding, grating noise, there's a muffled, 'pop,' and then... nothing.

"Shit! Shit shit shit!" I bang my fist on the steering wheel. I've already missed the last two appointments, and if I miss this one, Dr. Patreski's office has threatened to drop me as a patient. It's not like she's the only physical therapist in the area, but I trust her, and I like her, and I promised I wouldn't fuck things up for myself yet again.

I pop the hood and get out to see a cloud of steam rising from beneath it.

"Motherfucking piece of shit!" I kick the tire and instantly regret it. I do it with my good leg but my bad one goes out on me and I lose my balance.

I catch myself on the side of the truck and a whole new flock of curses escapes my mouth on filthy wings.

"Hey, everything okay?"

I turn and see Aaron the candy-guy looking at me with a curious expression, like I'm something strange and unexpected, and not altogether welcome—an unknown substance, or a weird stain maybe. But even in my distressed state, I appreciate how trim and neat he looks in his black slacks, white shirt, and candy-striped apron.

I tear my eyes away from the patch of smooth, pale skin revealed by his open collar.

"No. My goddamn truck just blew up, and I have an appointment in Felton I can't miss," I say digging out my phone. "Does Uber work around here? Or is there a bus or something?"

He stands for a minute without moving or speaking, and I begin to wonder if he's just going to watch me have my crisis like it's the local 5 o'clock news.

I'm just about to lose my temper when he speaks.

"I was planning to go into Felton this afternoon for supplies... But I can go now and give you a lift, if you want," he says, looking at my truck's steaming hood.

"Yes! Oh my God, yes, please. I'll give you gas money," I pull out my wallet. "Here." I try to hand him a twenty but he just makes a face.

"I don't want your money. When's your appointment?"

"Ten-thirty."

"Alright. Let me get my stuff and we'll go. That's my car there," he points to a little gray Fiat further down the street. "Here," he tosses me his set of keys. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll be back in a minute."

He turns and walks back to his own store, vanishing inside.

I feel kind of weird, but I go and unlock his car and get in on the passenger side. It's compact, more than a few years old, and definitely a base model. On the other hand, it's clean and obviously well-cared for. I like it, and it seems to fit him somehow.

A minute later he returns. He's changed into dark jeans and a black t-shirt, and somehow the casual clothes make him look even younger than he already does. When I first saw him in the store, I'd assumed he was an employee because I'd thought he was twenty-two at most. Now he looks barely legal.

"What?" he snaps, frowning at me.

I realize I was staring. "Sorry. I'm just... er... upset about my truck. Is it really okay for you to leave your store like this? Won't it impact your business?"

"I've got someone coming in. At least, as long as no one dies, and all the alligators are accounted for."

"Um," I'm kind of lost, but I forge on. "Anyway, thanks for offering to drive me."

"Sure, don't mention it. Where are we going, anyway?"

I give him the address and he puts it into his phone's GPS.

"A doctor's office?" he asks, then blushes. "Sorry. None of my business."

"No, it's okay. It's just physical therapy."

"Oh."

He doesn't press, but after a few seconds, I'm compelled to tell him anyway.

"I got hit by a drunk driver about two years ago. I was riding my bike through this quiet little town—the kind of place you never expect anything bad to happen—and BOOM! out of nowhere, this guy just hits me coming off a side street. Shattered my left leg. I'm just glad they could save it—although from the X-Rays it looks like I've got more metal than bone in there at this point. That's kinda why I opened the shop. I'm not competing in any rides any time soon, but at least I can provide some fuel for other people's dreams."

He keeps his eyes on the road, but I can see from his profile that his expression is troubled.

"I'm sorry. That sounds... rough."

"Well, it ain't been smooth," I laugh. "That's for sure. But I know it could've been a hell of a lot worse, and I've got a lot to be grateful for."

The corner of his mouth dips down in a little twitch of a frown.

"What about you?" I prompt.

He looks over, and his crystal blue eyes are wide and bright. "What about me?" he asks.

"What are you going into Felton for? Supplies, you said, right?"

I don't know what I said wrong, but the iron curtain drops again, and his face is suddenly as expressionless as a porcelain doll's.

"Oh, yeah," he says. "That's right. Supplies."