Then the mechanic notices him and steps back, startled. “Hey!” he cries, surprised. His voice is unusually loud in the closed garage. “Didn’t hear you come in.”
White wires snake into his ears, and when he tugs the ear buds away, Terrence can hear tinny music. He lets his gaze travel down the mechanic’s lean frame, over the smoothly muscled chest, the barely-there six-pack abs, the tapered waist, a pair of low-riding jeans that scarcely manage to cling to narrow hips. Just below the mechanic’s navel, a scant dusting of fine hairs starts up, trailing into his jeans. A hand curls into the pocket of his jeans, pulling them down a little as he shoves the ear buds out of sight.