Page 40 of Diesel

Metal clanked in the background on Diesel’s end, followed by the sound of a pneumatic tool. He was at work, and here I was bothering him with senior citizen drama.

“You thinking about going to check on her?” he asked.

“Maybe? I don’t know. She’s not actually my grandmother,” I admitted even though Diesel already knew.

“She’s your friend. Nothing wrong with checking on friends.” More sounds of movement, and then his voice came back clearer. “Want company?”

“You’re working.”

“I can take a break.”

The offer touched me. He was willing to drop what he was doing just to come with me to check on an old woman he barely knew. The gesture was so simple, so sincere, that I almost said yes.

“Thanks,” I said instead, “but you don’t have to do that. I’ll just swing by real quick, make sure she’s not hobbling around on a broken ankle.”

“Offer stands if you change your mind.” A pause then his voice dropped lower. “Thought about you all morning. Kept seeing you on your knees for me.”

Heat scorched my face and several other places. My cock hardened, ready for round two despite the thorough workout my body had gotten last night.

“Diesel,” I said, his name coming out strangled.

“Just stating facts.” The smile was evident in his voice. “You were perfect. Are perfect.”

“You’re trying to kill me.”

“Trying to make you think about me as much as I’m thinking about you.” Something scraped in the background, metal on concrete. “It working?”

“Unfortunately.” My hand found the bite mark again, pressing against the tender skin. “I should go. Let you get back to work.”

“Call me after you check on Greta. Let me know she’s okay.”

“I will.”

“Ollie?”

“Yeah?”

“Glad you’re worried about her. Shows you care. That’s a good thing.”

The words settled something in my stomach that had been twisting since Edith’s call. Caring wasn’t weakness. Worrying about people didn’t make me soft or foolish. It just made me human.

“Thanks,” I said, meaning it.

“Anytime. Now go check on your grandmother.”

“She’s not my—”

But he’d already hung up, his laughter the last thing I heard before the line went dead.

Chapter Eight

Ollie

The drive to Greta’s house took fifteen minutes through Sunday-morning traffic. Her place was a brick bungalow, with a mailbox shaped like a rooster.

Parking at the curb, I climbed out and headed up the cracked walkway. The lawn needed mowing, but then again, Greta’s lawn always needed mowing. She’d told me once that grass could take care of itself, and if the neighbors didn’t like it, they could come mow it for her.

Nobody had taken her up on the offer.