Chapter 2

Dean carried on, following a familiar route while his attention wandered to a bad place.

Cars were his vocation. Writing…he refused to call it a hobby. Initial attempts led to a short course, a few published works. In time, a plot nagged, from which he produced a first novel. After submitting the manuscript, things appeared promising, but his stories so far…Well, the term niche applied. Unable to show the narrative to his family or friends, his pursuit remained secondary. If he shared, people would get the wrong idea.

No matter the genre, publication meant hard work. He approached the job the same way he intended to manage the garage, and there…a smile at last flourished.

The cars Dean anticipated working on were nothing like the tin boxes seeking passage through the not-so-sweet clog of the high street. His father owned no ordinary repair service. The company specialised in vintage vehicles.

Of the cars on the premises, George Chapman admired the Aston Martin—in all probability some penile connection to James Bond. Dean loved the Jaguar. The beautiful blue of the XK150 reflected the hue of his eyes, the deliberation of which made him all but quake. Not too pricey so he flirted with hope, but such a purchase must wait until the day he paid off a portion of another new reliability otherwise known as a mortgage. With a little help from his parents’, he would soon be searching for his own place. Other complications made his lust for the car impractical. No way would the owner sell, and Dean lived close enough to save money by walking to work. Jokes all round, all on him.

Still, touching the car almost gave him as big a hard-on as his date for the evening. The relationship wasn’t serious, just good sex. He referred to Stephanie, of course, not the car. Dean sniggered, fantasies winging, bringing the two into proximity with notions of Stephanie in the backseat of the XK150. Ride of a lifetime if he dared risk the upholstery.

So taken was he with an image of Stephanie’s legs hiked over his shoulders, leather interior creaking under her and her squeaking under him, he almost missed the turn to quieter roads. Stephanie—his girlfriend, if he chose to use the word—acted what his mother classed as a little kinky. Nothing wrong with a little kink between friends as long as the ‘fun’ didn’t gouge the leather of a fine motor.

Now his ruminations went to intercourse, he again sported a boner. Good thing he left the multitude behind and moved on to less-busy, tree-lined streets. A quick shift and squeeze; he, at last, made his cock a little more comfortable.

Stephanie. She was the good reason he walked out of the pub, not fifteen minutes before, with a woman’s name caressing his erection as certain as her lips so often did.

Speaking of women…In the increasing gloom, as he neared the overgrown area under the railway bridge…Yes, he recognised her hair anywhere. The one thing he regretted about living away was the lack of opportunity for anything to develop between him and April Reid.

Dean pursed his lips, shortened his stride. A vivid imagination created mental impressions of sinking his fingers into the long, luscious waves. Some of these daydreams produced images only the resulting visualisation of ‘castration by April’ managed to obliterate. Unlike others, Dean kept such fancies locked away, confined to his mind and surreptitious stimulation.

Prior to college, even he believed them too young for any kind of relationship, and April would never have welcomed a one-night stand. She might have even deemed it weird since they had as good as grown up together. April must have been seven when her family moved into the neighbourhood, Dean merely four—a detail he recalled because of his mother’s teasing. According to her, his crush meant he followed the Reid girl panting, drooling, and maybe even peeing a little like an excited puppy. He had forgotten the analogy until now, buried his emotions, as his mother described them. He did recollect April, age twelve, growing her hair, and he, falling in love with every lengthening inch.

Chestnut failed to characterise the deep shade highlighted with hints of auburn and red mahogany. The tint didn’t exist in a bottle, possessed a small right to prevail in nature. Girls grew envious, some glared. Remarks from teens were sometimes appalling, culminating in less than respectful propositions. While Dean endured the pangs of his own attraction, he never put up with insolence from outsiders. He suffered so they could, too. April became his to protect.

“And didn’t she get a kick out of that.” His words fluttered away in the breeze. April needed protection from no one, but owing to his size, when Dean told others to show her respect, they listened, and he remembered the expression in her eyes when he did. God, what a fool. Even at the time, he had been astute enough to comprehend safety as a reason she allowed him to hang around. A couple of years of growth—physical, mental, emotional—provided him with insight as to what an idiot it made him. The ‘good puppy dog’ lapped up any chance to stand at her side.