#does he have scrub auto gas on

[urlthatsumsmeup]

everyone: *freaking out about literally everything going on this episode

meanwhile me: *trying to figure out how the hell Morio Kart supposedly works when there’s not a single button Rei constantly presses to drive

[chasingshhadows]

so just give me all of you

(AO3 link) Post-1x13 Malex ficlet. 

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“Guerin?!”

Michael passed out in his truck a half mile from the junkyard, the fever panic of seeing Max’s lifeless body floating in that pod finally succumbing to the weight of days without sleep, to the adrenaline crash of weeks on edge.

He woke up to the frantic patting of Alex’s hands against his cheeks, to the shout of his name through the alarm beeping of a car door left ajar.

“Guerin, come on, wake up, fuck!” Alex’s voice was panicked as Michael groaned and scrunched his face against the light peeking through his eyelids.

Then relieved. “Guerin, thank god,” he said on a sigh. “Are you hurt? What happened?” Alex’s hands were warm on his face.

“Alex?” He tried opening his eyes again, blinking before he was able to bring Alex’s face into focus, eyes wide and brow scrunched together.

“There you are, hey. Are you okay? Does anything hurt?”

“I-” Michael closed his eyes, shaking his head, exhaling sharply through his nose. When he opened his eyes again, Alex ducked down to catch his line of sight, hands tightening on his cheeks.

“Guerin, talk to me. I need to know if we can move you.”

Michael looked around them. He was in the cab of his truck, engine still rumbling the floorboard under his feet. His hat was resting haphazard on the dashboard like it’d been thrown there, jacket half-slid from the seat to the floor next to him. The beeping noise was coming from his left - Alex’s truck, parked several feet away, driver’s door thrown open. Outside the passenger side window, the junkyard rose out of the desert, the clouds from the night’s storm retreating behind it along the horizon, sun high in the sky.

It shouldn’t be on the right. It should be in front of him.

Michael looked back to Alex. “What happened?”

Alex sighed. “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. You went off the road.” Alex’s hands tilted Michael’s head into the light. “Are you drunk?”

Michael blinked, pulling away from Alex’s grip with a scoff. “No, I’m not fucking drunk, Alex.” He rubbed the bridge between his eyes with his left hand. “I-” He cut off, eyes catching on the colors shimmering on his hand, context sliding like oil into his mind.

Alex drew back in the small space, hands dropping as he pressed against the open truck door. He’d changed since the night before, deep red sweater under a black leather jacket. His hair was gel-spiked, carefully mussed - he hadn’t worn it that way since high school. Michael knew he wasn’t allowed the flush of content he got seeing Alex this way. He glanced away, focusing on his hand, tilting it toward him to get a better look at the shiny, multicolored handprint. It’d been years since Max had left a mark like that on him.

“Guerin. Your hand.”

Michael looked back up, meeting Alex’s wide-eyed stare. He tried not to think of the last time he’d seen Alex look so shell-shocked. Tried not to think of the prison, of buildings exploding, of dozens of voices going quiet in his mind. He swallowed. “Max is dead.”

Alex blinked. “What?”

Michael sighed. He was too tired for this, mind sluggish and heavy, the weight of an exhaustion headache pulling all his senses down. “Look, I know I said we’d talk but right now isn’t much better-”

“Guerin, stop, what do you mean, Max is dead? What happened?” When Michael didn’t say anything, just let his head drop into his hand, taking a deep breath, Alex’s voice went softer. “C’mon. You need to sleep.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Michael mumbled. He reached absently for the gear shift, catching only air before noting with surprise that it was in Drive instead of Park. He glanced down - his foot wasn’t on the brake.

Shit. He’d drifted to a stop. He’d gotten lucky - very lucky. His foot must have slid off the gas pedal when he passed out, but if it hadn’t… He looked up through the windshield, seeing the jutting landscape, heart clenching sharply in his chest at what could’ve happened. The road was off to the right, farther than he was comfortable with. He’d drifted through the cracked desert soil and scrub brush for a couple hundred feet.

Exhaling sharply, Michael moved his foot to the brake out of habit, hand reaching for the gear shift to put it in Reverse, but he was stopped when Alex reached out with lightning quick reflexes, stopping him in an iron grip around his forearm.

“What are you doing?”

“Going to bed? Watch out.” He shrugged out of Alex’s grip, almost surprised when he let go.

“You’re not driving.” His voice was firm, his tone leaving no room for arguments.

Michael was used to ignoring that tone, especially from Alex. “Alex, I’m fine. It’s right there.” He gestured out the window.

“No. Get in my car, I’m driving.”

Michael took a calming breath. “Look, you can follow behind if it makes you feel better, but I’m not leaving my truck out here.”

“Oh, and how is that supposed to help when you go off the road again and crash into Sanders’ house? Or go speeding into the desert and flip your truck on an outcrop?” He was glaring and tilting his head in that way Michael usually found cute.

It wasn’t cute now.

“God, Alex, I’ll be fine, I just want to go to sleep.”

“Fantastic, we’re on the same page for once. Now get out. You can walk if you want, but I doubt you’d make it very far.”

God, but Alex was infuriating. Michael was tired, he was drained beyond capacity, and there were too many memories fighting for space in his head, far more vivid than seemed fair when every other thought was foggy. He couldn’t deal with Alex right now.

“Alex, just go home. I can’t do this right now.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you get out of the truck.”

“I kissed Maria.”

He just blurted it out, thoughtless and sharp, the only thing his weary mind could rummage up to make Alex go away. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Alex to slam the truck door closed and go storming off, maybe. What he wasn’t expecting was for Alex to roll his eyes, mouth dropping open on an exasperated sigh.

“I’m aware. Now get out.”

Michael felt cold in the late November air. “Wh-” What does that mean? How did you know? Why are you still here?

“Maria called,” Alex answered the unspoken question, leaving the others floating dangerously between them. When Michael just stared, Alex leaned back against the door, eyebrows relaxing. “For fuck’s sake, Michael, I’m not leaving until you’re in bed. Either you get out of the car, or I drag you out. Your choice.” He reached around the wheel for the keys, but Michael got there first, batting him away and putting his hand over the keyring, the keys tinging as they knocked together.

“Have you forgotten the part where I’m telekinetic?” Michael was getting mad again.

Alex snorted, mocking smile tugging at his lips, eyebrows rising.

Michael sighed heavily, looking to the side. They both knew Alex was right - he didn’t even have to say it.

Fuck, he was tired. The longer he sat here arguing with Alex, the longer before he could pass out and try to forget this day - these last several days, in fact - ever happened.

“God, you’re fucking stubborn,” he spat out, angry as he gripped the gear shift and put the truck in Park.

Alex smiled, head tilted in sarcasm. “It’s part of my charm. Let’s go.”

Michael grabbed the keys and his jacket, swallowing down a growl of frustration before hopping out of the truck and stepping around Alex, pretending he didn’t notice Alex’s hand reach out when he wobbled on his feet. He shoved the keys into his pocket next to his phone and stepped forward, letting Alex close the door of his truck.

“Make that fucking beeping stop,” he growled as he made his way around the front of the Explorer.

He passed out against Alex’s passenger side window in the time it took Alex to turn his car around and drive the half mile down the dirt road to Sanders’ Auto. Alex was nudging him in the shoulder.

“Wake up, Guerin. I’m not gonna carry you.” He heard the click of a seat belt and sudden quiet of an engine shutting down before the nudging was back. “Let’s go. I know you can hear me.”

“Asshole.” Michael coaxed his eyes open, shoving away from the door enough for his hand to find the handle and pop it open. He tumbled out, hand reaching out to grip the top of the door to stabilize himself. The hubcaps clanged in the wind and he half turned his head back when he heard the driver’s door open. “Go home, Alex.”

“I told you,” he said, closing his door. “I’m not leaving until you’re in bed.”

Michael’s lips started to turn up into a snarl, but he didn’t have the energy to keep arguing. He threw the car door back behind him, letting it slam as he followed Alex into the airstream.

He didn’t think about the last time he’d followed Alex in here. Didn’t think about the events that followed. Didn’t think about the words Alex had said the last time he’d been standing in this space, only hours before. Didn’t think about how Max had still been alive then.

He just shoved past Alex, tossed his jacket on the chair, and flung himself into his bed, kicking off his boots. His eyelids were already too heavy to hold up as he mumbled a final dismissal into the pillow.

When he woke, the Airstream was dark, just a single lamp lit over the table at the other end of the cabin and another light source, bluish, that he couldn’t place amongst his catalogue of possessions. His head didn’t ache anymore, but he still felt groggy, that thick mental sludge of having slept too long. A pressure in his belly gnawed at him - he needed to piss. He lifted his head, squinting to make out the figure sitting in the chair, fingers clacking away on a laptop that definitely wasn’t his.

“Alex?”

Alex came into focus as his fingers paused, looking up at Michael, face half-shaded in the light from the lamp. “Finally.”

Michael groaned, letting his head drop back against the pillow. “I told you to go home.”

Alex’s eyes turned back down to the laptop screen, fingers moving again. “I did. You’ve been out for about... 14 hours.”

Sighing, Michael rolled himself out of the bed, catching his hand on the half wall to stand and only missing the full glass of water resting there by an inch. He stumbled toward the toilet, hands already working on his belt and jeans, pulling himself out with his left hand and dragging the curtain closed with his right, feeling it catch and snag along the rail from misuse. He let himself take a deep breath, resting his head on his forearm against the wall.

His eyes caught on the mirror on the wall behind him when he reached back to drag the curtain back after buttoning up, a flash of color where it shouldn’t be. Another handprint, this one along the front and side of his neck, barely a glimmer in the low light. Michael’s heart thudded painfully. He was covered, covered in Max’s mark on his skin, covered in reminders of the lengths Max went to to save his life, even after Michael betrayed him, attacked him.

Michael tore his eyes from the mirror, twisting out to step toward his bed. He snagged the water glass, downing it in one go. Alex ignored him, didn’t so much as glance up at the soft thud of the empty glass on the wood when Michael set it back down, and Michael didn’t know whether to be irritated or grateful. He’d changed again, layered in a dark t-shirt, yellow plaid button-up, and black hoodie.

Michael dropped back onto the bed, elbows resting on his thighs. He let his head hang low between his shoulders and took a moment to just let himself breathe, soothed by the rhythmic sound of keys clicking.

Max was dead. Died doing exactly what Michael had told him not to do.

Rosa was alive. Standing suspicious and uncharacteristically quiet in the corner of the cave, clutching the blanket tightly around her while Isobel and Liz wiped silver goo from their arms on Max’s clothes.

Liz had told him to go home, to sleep. She’d said he was no good to her like this, that she needed him to think. That she’d take care of Isobel, who was wide-eyed and bone-white in the shifting light of the pod. He’d wanted to protest - Isobel was his to take care of, especially now - but he was barely holding himself upright against the rock of the cave wall, body already sagging with exhaustion.

Liz said they’d figure this out, that they’d fix it, whatever that meant.

Max was dead.

Alex was here.

Alex, who said he wanted to be friends. Who said Michael was his family. Who said he didn’t look away. Who looked at Michael with want and said he wanted to fight his own battles.

Alex, who knew Michael had kissed Maria anyway. Who hadn’t even flinched when Michael threw that in his face.

Guilt burned dark and hot in Michael’s chest, rising up his throat. He was confused and frustrated - Alex never made any goddamn sense, not unless he was naked and panting under Michael’s hands. He didn’t understand what Alex wanted from him. He didn’t understand why Alex always left. He didn’t understand why he always came back.

He didn’t understand why Alex was here.

Michael loved him so fucking much, even after everything. In spite of everything. Because of everything. It was this heavy, intangible thing, pulling at him constantly, pulling him toward Alex, even when Alex pushed him away.

Even when he pushed Alex away.

Fuck.

“I shouldn’t have said that,’ he said, speaking the words to the floor between his dirty socked feet, eyes tracking the shape of Max’s handprint shimmering on his hand dangling between his knees. He saw Alex look up from the corner of his eye and the clacking stopped.

Michael sighed, turning to meet Alex’s eyes in the dim light. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.” He knew Alex knew what he was talking about. Hoped he knew how much he meant it.

Alex looked away, mouth opening and closing once before he spoke. “It’s not my business who you kiss, Guerin. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Bullshit.”

Alex snapped his head over to look back at Michael, brows furrowing.

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. You’re angry. You should be.”

Alex swallowed, lips pursing. He nodded. “I’m angry,” he admitted, edge slipping into his voice. “I’m hurt.”

It shouldn’t feel good to hear that, it shouldn’t. It shouldn’t curl happy and satisfied in his chest, quieting that piece of Michael’s heart that always doubted whether he meant anything to Alex. If he was angry, if he was hurt, that meant he cared.

But Michael could never truly relish in hurting Alex, not even the bitter parts that lashed out when Alex walked away. He never wanted to see Alex hurt.

“I don’t want her.” Michael stared down, not meeting Alex’s eyes. “I want to want her. It’d be easier. But I don’t.”

“That’s not fair.” Michael looked over to Alex, expecting pique but seeing only understanding in Alex’s eyes. “Not to her, or me.”

Swallowing, Michael nodded. He took a deep breath, wetting his lips. “I don’t know what you want from me.” I don’t know why you’re here.

It was a beat before Alex reacted, inhaling sharply and glancing back to the laptop long enough to pull the lid closed, cutting off the iridescent blue light. He looked back to Michael, tongue darting out before his mouth popped open on the exhale, long and steady.

In the past, this was the point in the conversation when Alex would stalk over, roll over, lean over, and kiss Michael stupid, make him forget the question. Make him forget his name. And a part of Michael ached for that, for the feel of Alex’s lips on his, but the rest of him knew it wouldn’t do them any good right now. Alex knew it, too.

Alex took another breath before he spoke. “I want... “ He closed his eyes, head shaking before he met Michael’s eyes again. “Everything?” He said it like a question, like he couldn’t not say it. Like he was scared of it.

Of all the things Michael thought he might hear, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t like Alex. It was declarative and undeniable. It was a lot. It was everything.

Michael huffed out a humorless laugh, fingers caught in tangles as he tried to drag his hand through his hair. “I’m a mess.” His voice cracked and he could feel the heat of tears welling at his eyes.

Alex nodded, swallowing. “I know.”

Michael choked back a sob that twitched through his chest, tears burning hot down both cheeks when he closed his eyes. Alex said that like it was simple. Like he could handle it. Like he wanted to.

Michael shook his head, drowning in the well of everything he was feeling- love and hope colliding with fear and worry, swirling around and making his head spin. He couldn’t catch up, couldn’t hold on, thoughts and feelings sliding out of grasp.

Movement caught his eye and he watched Alex set his laptop on the table and twist around to reach for something leaned against the door, standing up as he lifted it.

Michael’s eyes went wide when he recognized the shape of the black bag in the low light, breath hitching when Alex stepped across the small space toward him. His throat clicked on a swallow when Alex extended the bag to him, just waiting patiently for Michael to find his hands.

He did, accepting the guitar, brow furrowed in confusion. Alex gave a small smile before turning on his heel and stepping back to the other side of the Airstream. “That one is probably out of tune, hasn’t been played in years.” His voice was sharp, the heaviness already forgotten in the change of topics.

“I-” Michael let his hand drift down the bag, feeling the shape of the instrument underneath. He looked over to Alex, who had leaned against the table, arms braced against the edges on either side of his thighs.

“Thank you.” He felt the tingle of déjà vu against his skin, a moment relived. It was so similar, and yet everything had changed. Everything had changed, and it was still the two of them. Still Michael and Alex; except this time, Alex knew the gift he was giving. And Michael knew what Alex was saying.

Alex’s lips turned up, this smile more genuine than the last. He didn’t answer, just nodded, before slipping back into the chair and reaching for his laptop.

Michael unzipped the bag, pulling out the guitar and dropping the bag to the side. It felt good in his hands as he pulled it up into his lap, familiar in the way the guitar at the Pony hadn’t. The clicking had started up again, Alex seemingly paying him no attention as he worked. Michael started picking at the strings, listening and pausing to tune, plucking and tuning, again and again, until it finally sounded right.

Then he started to play. He took a deep breath as the feel of the strings’ vibrations reverberated through the fingers of his left hand, still unused to sensation after ten years of aching numbness. The music rolled through his mind, silencing the chaos, like the way the lid on a pot of boiling water quieted the babble.

His eyes drifted shut and he tilted his head into the void.

He wasn’t sure how long he played. When one song ended, another flowed through his fingers right behind it, seamlessly picking up the beat. He absently noted Alex getting up to leave the Airstream, returning a song or so later. Michael kept playing, letting the melody break through the churn of emotions - through the dual walls of grief, through the confusion, the heartbreak, the love, and the fear. He kept playing until everything settled, a peace within his mind that he hadn’t reached since the last time Alex had extended a hand to him.

His fingers stilled and Michael noted the light peeking through the newspaper-covered windows, sun rising on a new day.

Alex was still there. Still clicking away at his laptop. He paused when the music stopped, looking over to Michael with eyebrows raised.

“Hey.”

Michael swallowed. “Hey.” He pulled the guitar from his lap, bracing it on the floor between his feet. It was so similar, sitting here on the edge of a threadbare cot, Alex to his right, the weight of words said and unsaid hanging between them.

Shaking his head, Michael stood, propping the guitar against the wall and marching across the Airstream. Alex just watched like he was waiting, hand settling on the lid of the laptop and dropping it closed, placing it on the table as Michael reached him.

Michael bent down, hand wrapping around Alex’s neck as Alex’s hand slid into his hair, pulling together until their lips finally met. Michael sighed into the kiss, into the feeling, into the way his chest dropped in relief. Alex braced his free hand on the arm of the chair, pressing up and crowding against Michael as he stood, hand slipping against Michael’s waist when he was on his feet.

God, but nothing felt like this. Every nerve in Michael’s body was pinging, sounding off to his brain that this, this was right. This was it. Everywhere Alex was touching him was on fire, licking at him from the inside out, compelling him to step into the flames.

Alex walked him back to the fridge, cold and firm against Michael’s shoulders, as his fingers tightened around Michael’s hair, making him gasp into Alex’s mouth. The other hand slipped around to press against the small of Michael’s back, pulling him closer. He twisted into Michael, thigh pressing between Michael’s legs, and rolled his hips into Michael’s. Michael moaned and Alex nipped at his bottom lip before he drew back, breaking the kiss.

“You’re not the only mess here,” he said breathlessly, like he needed to say it, like he needed Michael to understand. He was staring into Michael’s eyes like he was pleading.

Michael just laughed softly, fingers brushing gently against Alex’s face. “I know,” he said, squeezing where his hand had landed on Alex’s hip, slipped beneath the hoodie. Alex huffed, nodding and smiling as he kissed Michael again.

Michael could stay here forever, locked in this moment with Alex. It was easy, when they were like this. When they were just two bodies fighting to share space, aching to touch more, feel more. To chase the energy that crackled whenever they were near, that simmered when they weren’t.

Michael had told Alex once that playing music was the only thing that made him feel quiet. It had been true, at the time; it just hadn’t been true for long.

Something vibrated against Michael’s leg and Alex jerked back, startled for a moment before his hand dropped from Michael’s back, leaving a cold spot as Alex shoved his hand into his pocket to pull out the ringing phone.

Liz’s name and smiling face lit up the display of Alex’s phone. He sighed, the hand still buried in Michael’s hair gripping lightly as he swiped to answer and brought the phone to his ear, letting his forehead drop against Michael’s.

“Hey, Liz. Any updates?” Alex was looking directly into Michael’s eyes, unblinking. Michael could only stare back, chest rising and falling against Alex’s.

“Isobel’s awake.” Michael heard Liz’s voice, tinny and low through the phone speaker. “Michael needs to get here.” Something crashed in the background, a loud boom accented with the shatter of glass. “Now. She’s throwing furniture around the room and I don’t think she knows how to stop.”

Shit. Fuck Max for being right and leaving Michael to deal with it on his own.

Alex sighed. “We’re on our way. Is Rosa still with Kyle?”

Liz answered in the affirmative, trailing off in a mutter of Spanish curses as another thud echoed through the phone. Michael’s eyebrows scrunched together, looking down as Alex asked another question, confirming some detail they must have discussed while Michael was passed out.

It was baffling - and a bit terrifying - just how much had changed in the last few months. Last June, it was just the three of them: Isobel, Michael, and Max. Them against the world. Aliens hiding in a hostile world.

And now there were these humans - Alex, Liz, even Kyle Valenti - that were helping them. Taking care of them. Protecting them. Watching over Isobel as she slept off her grief. Making sure Michael didn’t drive his truck off a cliff. Hiding away their secrets while they recovered.

Alex dropped the phone from his ear, tucking it back in his pocket with a frown. He took a deep breath, meeting Michael’s eyes, flicking down to his lips when Michael wet them. Michael surged forward, inhaling into the kiss, breathing Alex in, feeling that pleasure curl when Alex pulled at his hair to draw him closer.

It was so good, fuck, nothing ever felt so good. But it didn’t last, Alex shifting back, panting into the space between them.

“Isobel needs you,” he breathed out, eyebrows betraying how much he resented the words.

Michael nodded, swallowing. He was all Isobel had left - and wasn’t that a terrifying thought? He let himself drop back against the fridge, nodding again and loosening his hold on Alex, hand sliding down his neck to his chest as Alex stepped back, licking his lips and sniffing.

Michael put on his boots, newly-healed fingers clumsy on the laces, as Alex slid his laptop into its case and grabbed his backpack.

“C’mon,” he said as Michael was finishing up. “They’re at Isobel’s. I’ll drive you.”

Michael swallowed back an irritated sigh. Not this again. He looked up from his boots to see Alex standing over him, eyebrows raised expectantly. “I can drive.”

Alex’s jaw tensed and his eyes rolled, but he sighed and conceded. “Fine, I’ll take you to your truck.”

Cursing, Michael stood. He’d forgotten it was still out there, parked in the middle of the shrubs. “If someone stole my truck,” he started.

At that, Alex actually started laughing, that easy, giggling laughter that meant Michael had just said something ridiculous. “Guerin, I know you love that truck, but you’re the only one. Literally no one is gonna steal it.”

Michael frowned. “Liar. You love my truck.” He raised his eyebrows, daring Alex to deny it.

Alex’s expression softened, lips spreading from a mocking smile to a more gentle, sincere one. He opened his mouth, closing it again and swallowing before speaking. “She’s a good truck.”

“Damn right.” He reached over his head to pull his shirt off, twisting to grab the gray one that had fallen onto the pillow from the half wall. He sniffed it before pulling it over his head - it wasn’t freshly washed, but it was better than the bloodstained one on the floor and the one he’d slept in.

When he turned back, Alex had hitched his backpack over his shoulder and was watching him unabashedly. He met Michael’s eyes, inhaling. “Let’s go.” He chucked his head toward the door and spun around, Michael following, stretching to grab his jacket from where Alex had lain it across the back of the chair.

The air outside was chill as Michael shoved his arms through the sleeves, crossing the front of the Explorer to the passenger side. The sun was rising, painting the east in oranges and pinks that blended across the sky to the deep blues of the pre-dawn west.

They were silent as Alex turned around and exited the junkyard, following the dirt road out towards where Michael’s truck sat stark and blue against the tawny landscape.

“I thought you were kidding about the rattle,” Michael commented.

“Huh?” Alex glanced over, eyebrows pressed together in confusion before the expression cleared and he looked back out the windshield. “Oh. That’s been there forever.”

Michael suppressed a groan, running a hand over his face. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that.” Alex laughed. “You’re lucky it’s just a loose exhaust.”

Alex’s eyes narrowed out the windshield. “Do you actually know what that sounds like, or did you…” His hand lifted off the wheel, rotating on its wrist, before dropping back down. “Ya know?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “I don’t need to use my powers to know what a loose exhaust pipe sounds like.”

Alex’s fingers extended outward, head tilting to the side slightly. “Touchy.” He took a deep breath, lips pursing before he reached over and grabbed Michael’s hand. Michael looked down, confused, as Alex wrapped his hand around Michael’s, thumb rubbing along the top of his scarless fingers, shimmering pink and blue in the light.

Michael swallowed, resisting the urge to pull away. “I told him not to.” The words felt weird on his lips, like he was violating some rule about speaking ill of the dead, but he needed Alex to know that. “He wouldn’t listen.”

Alex looked over, meeting Michael’s eyes long enough to nod. He dropped Michael’s hand to turn the wheel, pulling off the road to rumble over the desert towards Michael’s truck, parking alongside and leaving several feet between the two driver’s side doors.

Michael got out, feet crunching on the dried soil and spindly plants as he made his way around. Alex was already rolling his window down when Michael approached, resting his forearms through the open window. “Are you meeting us at Isobel’s?”

Alex nodded. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Michael sighed, looking to the side, already weary with what was awaiting him.

“Guerin?” Michael looked back to Alex. “We’re gonna figure this out.”

Taking a deep breath, Michael stared at him. It didn’t make sense, that Alex could be so good, that this could be so right, when everything else was so wrong. They weren’t perfect, weren’t done talking, and it certainly wouldn’t be easy.

But it was something, that Alex was here, that Alex was looking at him like that, that Michael could duck through the window and press a kiss to Alex’s lips like it was normal, like that was just a thing he got to do.

Alex waited while Michael climbed into his truck, sliding his hat over his head and digging out his keys. His truck turned over on the first try, rumbling to life beneath his hands as he put her in Reverse and backed out around Alex’s front end, turning back for the road.

He didn’t know how he was going to face everything before him. Isobel and the horrifying reality of losing her husband and twin within days of each other. Having to teach her a kind of control he’d only been able to master out of sheer survivalistic need. The reality of a dead girl resurrected in a town that scorned her name. A shadowy government conspiracy he was sure they’d only scratched the surface of. Maria, and a conversation he really didn’t want to have, but owed her anyway.

Michael’s eyes flicked to his rearview mirror, seeing Alex through the dusty windshield of his Explorer, both hands on the wheel.

No, he wasn’t sure how he was going to face it all. But for the first time in his life, he knew he wouldn’t be facing it alone.

[elcorreodetorreon]

Mexico's drugs war: in the city of death

It was just another massacre in a country plagued by violence. But this time it was carried out by prison inmates – who'd been let out specially



Rory Carroll

 @rorycarroll72

Thu 16 Sep 2010 15.30 EDTFirst published on Thu 16 Sep 2010 15.30 EDT

It was past midnight and the hired band had launched into a raucous ballad, La Cabrona, to wind up the party. Guests joined in, belting out lyrics in a singsong under a Chihuahuan desert moon: "Dime si ya no me quieres cabrona . . ."

The Italia Inn, a walled compound for rent with a courtyard, kitchen and swimming pool, was a great spot for the fiesta. "Everything was going really well," says Hector, the band's 17-year-old trumpet player.

Nobody heard the vehicles pull up on the dirt track outside or saw the gunmen surround the compound. The first salvo, fired from outside, tore through the garage doors. The band members bore the brunt. Five collapsed in a tangled, bloodied heap. Moments later, the killers stormed into the yard, assault rifles blazing. People screamed and scrambled for cover. Bodies crumpled.

One gunman picked his way through the wounded and taunted them before finishing them off, recalls Hector, who does not want his full name published. "Cry!" the gunman ordered one of the musicians, putting a gun to his temple. "Cry!" The terrified man could only pray. The gunman prepared to fire when a command rang out. "Trabajo hecho, vámonos!"Job done, let's go. The killer lowered his rifle and grinned at the musician. "You're lucky."

Seventeen people died and dozens were injured in the 18 July attack, one of the worst massacres in Mexico's drug war. The crime scene is supposed to be guarded but on a recent morning it was possible to step over the yellow police tape, trodden into the dirt, and pick over the courtyard debris: a scuffed brown shoe, whisky bottles, plates with decomposing sludge. Beer cans bobbed in the stagnant pool and sunlight seeped through 24 raisin-sized holes in the kitchen door. Blood smeared the floor and fridge. Windows were smashed, walls pockmarked. Only the silence was unbroken.

A massacre in Mexico tends to have a short news life. Perpetrators vanish and the deed is eclipsed by the next atrocity, and the one after that. Horrors flow so fast that they lose definition and morph into a single, numbing narrative.

This one was different. When the killers sped away that night it was not the end of the story, but the beginning. The attack set in motion a saga of kidnapping, YouTube video clips, revenge and media blackmail, which exposed a harsh, revealing truth about Mexico in the run-up to this week's celebrations for the 200th anniversary of independence. It is a state colonised by organised crime.

Fly north from Mexico City and the landscape below browns into cauterised scrub. Roads and railway lines, black etchings in caramel plains, eventually converge on a glinting sea of tin-roofed sheds, houses and factories. This is Torreón –"the city that conquered the desert". The first thing you notice is the blinding glare of the sun. The second is a relentless, throbbing heat.

The main drag, Boulevard Independencia, could be Texas: pick-up trucks, gas stations, strip malls, Wal-Mart, Baskin-Robbins. You know the Rio Grande must be close because the coffee – watery americano and only watery americano – sucks. The radio, at least, boasts Latin flavour: upbeat, foot-tapping cumbia music. "For dancing with beautiful women!" smiles the taxi-driver. It is about the cheeriest statement I will hear in Torreón.

The local tabloid, Express, seems to have been written by Dante. Page after page of shootings, stranglings, stabbings, burnings, shallow graves, deep graves, mass graves. Advertisements for spiritual healing compete with those for funeral homes. "Miguel's: best quality coffins at affordable prices." One bright spot is an ad for 600 new jobs to armour-plate cars.

For a country in the throes of a war that has claimed 28,000 lives in four years it is perhaps little surprise that a transport hub such as Torreón, intersection for cocaine, heroin, marijuana and methamphetamines, is grim. Murders among the population of 550,000 average three per day. Two massacres in city bars preceded the attack on the Italia Inn party, a bloodbath made worse by the fact the victims had no connection to drug trafficking.

The atrocity's apparent motive was a display of strength by the Sinaloa cartel in its battle to oust a rival group, the Zetas, from Torreón. "It's a turf war, and they'll kill anyone," says Carlos Bibiano Villa, Torreón's police chief. The day after the attack, the Zetas, keen to show they still controlled the city, left four human heads with a note saying the massacre's perpetrators had been punished. Decapitation, once unheard of in Mexico, has become routine.

 The scene of the 18 July massacre in Torreón. Photograph: STR/Associated Press

What came next, however, was new. The Zetas, after killing the four probably random and innocent unfortunates, really did investigate the massacre. The result was a harrowing video uploaded on YouTube. Rodolfo Nájera, bruised, swollen and stripped, gazed into the camera with a confession. The 35-year-old kidnapped policeman, flanked by masked gunmen, must have guessed how the video would end. Asked by an off-camera interrogator about the Italia Inn massacre, Nájera said the killers were Sinaloa members allowed out of prison for nocturnal hits. Guards lent them guns and vehicles. "Who let them out?" barked the voice. "The director," replied the doomed man. The video ends minutes later with a shot to the head.

A tortured confession would hardly be credible except that in this case it was true. The attorney general confirmed the story. Forensic results showed the massacre victims were shot with R-15 rifles – standard issue for prison guards. Federal authorities swooped on the prison and detained the guards. The director, a stout, formidable blonde named Margarita Rojas Rodriguez, who had recently been named "woman of the year 2010" by the state governor, was also arrested. "Disbelief. I just couldn't believe it. I had never heard of something like this," says Eduardo Olmos, Torreón's mayor.

The prison is in Gómez Palacio, a city in Durango state, whereas Torreón is in Coahuila state. But it takes just a few minutes to cross the bridge linking them. Along with the city of Lerdo, they really form one metropolis of just over one million people in a desert bowl that used to be a lagoon. Each state and city has its own police force and jail, a byzantine mess of overlapping institutions and rivalries. It has helped drug traffickers with ample "plomo y plata" – lead and silver, bullets and money – to worm through officialdom like a ripe mango.

From the outside, Gómez Palacio's jail, rising from a dusty plain, looks the part: high white walls, barriers, watch-towers. Officially, it is a "centre for social readaptation", an Orwellian touch. Mothers, wives and girlfriends, the latter in their best jeans and makeup, queue with groceries to get in. The Sinaloa cartel, Mexico's oldest and most powerful, in effect runs the place. A state surrender coyly termed "auto-gobierno", self-government. If you belong to a rival group, odds are you will be carried out in a bodybag. If you cannot pay "cuota", a levy, you sleep outdoors or in a sort of kennel.

Waiting gunmen recently killed three prisoners who had served their time and were leaving the jail on what turned out to be a short walk to freedom. Guards are routinely murdered inside and outside the jail. It is thought Rojas possibly acted more out of fear than greed in allegedly allowing hitmen to borrow guards' vehicles and weapons for nocturnal murder missions.

The next twist came when inmates rioted in protest at Rojas's removal and demanded her reinstatement. The media drove down the one, potholed road leading to the jail to cover the disturbances – and were duly kidnapped: two cameramen from the Televisa network and two reporters from the newspaper group Milenio. The Sinaloa cartel, jealous of the Zetas' YouTube success, demanded that local networks air three of their own videos in return for the hostages.

"This was totally unprecedented. It was brazen blackmail," says one media executive, who asked not to be named. "You couldn't believe these guys were doing this. Things kept reaching new levels of, of . . ." – he searches for the word – "incredibleness." The TV stations broadcast the videos, which turned out to be of frightened police officers accusing colleagues of working for the Zetas. The cameramen and reporters were freed and moved to safe houses in Mexico City. The fate of the police in the videos was unclear.

Javier Garza, sipping Starbucks coffee under a broiling sun, shakes his head. "This is not the place I grew up in." The director of El Siglo de Torreón, the main local newspaper, used to associate the city with progress. Torreón had a bloody role in Pancho Villa's campaign against federal forces in the Mexican revolution but later grew into an economic and industrial hub for ranching, textiles, metallurgy and engineering. It built universities, fountains, a music academy, a championship-winning football team. By the 1990s, when Garza left to study and work in Mexico City and the US, Torreón embodied a newly confident, democratic, thriving Mexico. A hilltop Christ the Redeemer statue, just marginally shorter than Rio's, opened its arms to embrace the city that conquered the desert.

When Garza returned in 2006 to take the reins at El Siglo, local news focused on water scarcity, schools, public works and the football club's battle against relegation. Drugs flowed discreetly north, and flash millionaires built fancy properties, but that was hardly new. Narco-trafficking co-existed with society. "It was peaceful. You could go out and have fun without any problem," says Garza.

That same year, however, things began to change. A drug pusher was shot dead, then a taxi driver, then there was an attack on a wealthy former mayor, the kidnap of a police commander. Homicide rates soared. The same pattern unfolded across much of Mexico. President Felipe Calderón had declared war on the cartels but not anticipated a bloodbath.

Torreón, patrolled by soldiers and police with masks, with shootouts and corpses daily, is enduring violence not seen since the revolution, says Garza. "Instead of being a city of the future, it's like we've closed a circle with the past," he says.

 Eduardo Olmos, mayor of Torreón: 'What people tell me is that they want things to go back to the way they were.' Photograph: Rory Carroll for the Guardian

Streets empty after dusk. Staff at the hospital stack corpses for want of space and cower when narcos with AK-47s storm through the wards, seeking rivals. Tens of thousands of Facebook users pledged to attend two protest rallies against the violence but, after rumours of planned attacks, just dozens showed up.

In his city hall office overlooking Plaza de Armas, the mayor, Eduardo Olmos, with a retinue of eight bodyguards, ponders the question of how it all happened. "The police," he sighs. "They came in through the police. They bribed, threatened and recruited them and were able to use their radios, vehicles, weapons, bulletproof vests, everything." By some estimates the cartels have a $100m budget for infiltrating police nationwide. It was a gradual process, says the mayor. "The police relaxed their ethics and discipline and just gave in. In the end they weren't working for them. They were them."

Poverty and unemployment, said Olmos, helped organised crime to recruit and work at street level. "Here the gangs don't hand out free meals like in other cities. They don't have popular support. But there is a lot of tolerance for them. If that turns into support, that will be very dangerous. The only answer is education and employment. And a new police force."

Few would argue with that, but what about legalising drugs? Or allowing one cartel to prevail and restore the era of peaceful co-existence with narco-trafficking? The mayor shifts in his seat. The first option, though backed by thinktanks and at least two Mexican ex-presidents, remains controversial. The second remains taboo, at least officially. "What people tell me is they want tranquility, for things to go back to the way they were," says Olmos, choosing his words carefully. "I may have my own views on the subject, but as an elected official I can't talk about benefitting one cartel or another."

It is alleged that across Mexico some authorities are indeed picking sides in the hope a "winning" cartel or coalition will emerge and end the mayhem. Torreón, at least for now, appears to be betting on a new police force. The city recently fired its entire 1,200-strong force and hired an ex-army general, Carlos Bibiano Villa, to build a new one from scratch. Other cities, notably Ciudad Juárez, have tried that and failed. Villa, however, does not lack confidence. A bear of a man with a moustache and .44 Magnum strapped to his thigh, he keeps a helmet, flak jacket, assault rifle and four walkie-talkies within reach of his desk.

"There were 1,200 police when I arrived and they were all corrupt, the enemy within. I couldn't trust any of them. Now I've got 526 new ones and we're recruiting more." Does he trust them? The general guffaws. "I don't trust my own shadow. That's how I survived 43 years in the army."

Villa, 61, has a PhD in satellite communications but comes across as a wannabe Rambo. With cartels and former police officers gunning for him he sleeps in a small room beside his office where there is another Magnum under the pillow. His family lives in an undisclosed state. He acknowledges geography and economics mean that drugs will always pass through Torreón, yet remains bullish. "We are going to win!" How? "With a hard hand."

Later that night, one of Villa's 12 personal bodyguards is kidnapped and beheaded.

The force's model officer is Raquel Quezada. The 40-year-old mother of two is the sole member of the previous force who passed the vetting and exams. Hollywood would probably dub her the Last Honest Cop. In fact, the former secretary was inspired to sign up by Demi Moore's character being "pushed to the limit" in the film G.I. Jane. On patrol, the soft-spoken Quezada is transformed by body armour, a rifle and skull-painted mask. To prepare for her new job, Quezada ran 10km every day and lost 6kg in gruelling training. "They taught me to control fear and manage risk. This work is dangerous but noble."

Authorities hope to keep the new force honest by promising a free house to every officer who completes 10 years without blemish. A significant carrot, but it is questionable if it can compete with narco threats and cash.

In a different part of the city, a family in a small, pink house makes its own calculations. A dead father and husband. A dead uncle and brother. Three wounded family members. A baby on the way. Funeral and medical bills. It adds up, says Carmen, 37, the eight-months pregnant head of the family and mother of Hector. "I just don't know what we'll do." Hector, who took two bullets, moves slowly and stiffly, a colostomy bag beneath his T-shirt.

Asked if he will play trumpet again Hector shakes his head. "Music, music is . . ." his voice trails off. His mother finishes the sentence. "Music is not really an option any more."

[grovestep]

Skate Into My  Heart [LucioxJR Ch.1]

Author’s Notes: I have recently discovered the amazing ship that is BoomBox, and I can't get enough. They definitely don't have enough fics around. So I decided to remedy that in my own way. I introduce to you: Skate Into My Heart Setting: A modern AU. In which Junkrat and Roadhog run an auto repair shop, and Lucio is still a renowned musician and DJ.  Chapter Summary: A dashing young man skates into Jamison Fawkes' life. Jamison, eccentric, messy, and manic is a stark juxtaposition to Lucio's calm, cool demeanor. Jamie doesn't know how to deal with it. Chapter warnings: Language, mentions/hints at sex 

Chapter 1: The Mechanic and the Frog

Jamison Fawkes stared at the underbelly of an over-stylized '59 Cadillac, mulling over the inner workings of the vehicle as he wiped his hands with a dingy cloth. Footsteps broke his train of thought as someone approached the front of the vehicle, dropping something heavy on the concrete floor of the shop. Jamison finished messing with the oil pan before sliding out from the underbelly on his mechanic's creeper. "What do ya want now, ya big bloke?" Jamison asked, expecting to be greeted by the giant stomach of his boss, Mako Rutledge. Instead, Jamison stared up at the toned calves and dark thighs of a man in shorts. A style that Mako failed to pull off. The man above him let out an awkward laugh, stepping back so Jamison wasn't staring directly up at his crotch. Jamie played it cool, sliding back under the car only to appear on the other side. He walked around the Cadillac back to his original position in front of the stranger.

"Sorry, mate, though ya were m'boss," he said, holding out one hand for a shake. He looked down at his palm, which was covered in grease despite his efforts with the cloth, and gave a lopsided grin. "Er, maybe hold off on the shake for now, yea?" he wiped his hand down his bare chest before shoving it in his pocket. The man's eyes creased at the sides as he smiled, something that Jamie found subtly charming. He wrinkled his nose at the intrusive thought. "What can I do ya for?" The man picked up a pair of roller skates off the floor, "Think you can repair my skates? I had a bad wipe-out earlier playing street hockey," he said. Jamison paused. He stared at the man through squinted eyes, sizing him up. The man didn't look daft. A little posh, maybe, but that didn't always mean missing a few marbles. "Mate...you know you're at a car repair shop, right?" he asked and pointed to the sign that read "Rutledge Repair and Body". Skate-Man let out a laugh. It was melodic, almost like music. It echoed through the repair shop's garage, carrying on even after he was done. "I know very well where I'm at. These aren't just any skates. They're more car than anything," he said with a wink. Jamison blinked, his brow creasing. "Wot?" "They're motorized and have a special function that helps you keep your balance. Something about centrifugal force..." Jamison tuned out of his explanation of the car-skates. His short attention span resented lengthy explanations of things he could figure out himself by taking something apart. He stared at the man, his eyes flicking across his features. Something was familiar about him. He reeked of posh life, even if he was covered in sweat and slumming it in a repair shop. Jamie clicked his tongue as he tried to place him. "AH-HAH!" he exclaimed, interrupting the man's tirade and making his eyes widen in surprise. "You're that Brazilian froggy bloke who does the music!" "Oh, uh. That," the man said. Jamie watched him withdraw, seeming to fold in on himself. He gave Jamie a shrug. This was the opposite of the pumped up DJ he sometimes saw on TV. "Lucio. Um, none of the 'froggy bloke' thing, please." Jamie straightened his back, regaining a professional composure. At least, as professional as he could manage. "Well, Lucio, I'm not so sure--" "Rat!" Jamie jumped, whipping around as the hulking shape of his boss appeared out of the back office. Mako's piercing blue eyes leveled Jamie with a hardened stare over the gas mask he wore for paint jobs. Jamie looked at his boss with saucer-wide eyes. Mako motioned to Lucio before disappearing back into his office to do god knows what. Jamison gulped. "Right-o. What I meant to say was, we'd be happy to take a look at your, uhm, more-car-than-skates." Lucio seemed to perk up at that, handing the skates over to Jamie. Their fingers met for a moment, sending a jolt all the way from Jamie's fingertips, through his spine, and to the tips of his toes. He managed a smile, exposing one of the gold caps on his canines. If Lucio felt the same surge of electricity, he didn't let on. Jamie shrugged it off as nerves from having an actual celebrity in his shop, wanting his assistance. "When can I expect them done?" Lucio asked, shoving his hands in his pockets before leaning against the wall with one shoulder, his legs crossed at the ankle. It was then Jamison realized he was barefoot. Each toenail was panted a different color of the rainbow and, somehow, Jamie wasn't surprised. Lucio cleared his throat, startling the mechanic out of his trance. "Oi, sorry, mate. Got a lot on me mind today. Big order, this," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand as he jerked his chin toward the '59 Caddy. "If you come by tomorrow, though, I should have them fixed right up. Do you have a number I, er, we can contact when these are done?" Jamie expected Lucio to pull out a business card, but instead he pulled out a small pen from one of his many pants pockets. It was lime green and topped with a frog. Jamie snorted. "Do ya have a piece of paper?" he asked, twirling and weaving the pen through his fingers with ease. "'Fraid we're all out," Jamie said, "And me brain ain't the best at keepin' things like that in the ol' memory." "That's fine, uh, do you mind then?" Lucio asked, motioning to Jamie's bare arm and mimicking the act of writing with the pen. Jamie shook his head, extending his arm for the DJ to scrawl his number. Lucio looped his fingers around Jamie's wrist, keeping his arm still as he wrote. The mechanic had to stifle raucous giggles as the pen pressed and tickled at the flesh of his arm. He practically vibrated with the effort. Lucio's tongue poked out from between his lips as he wrote, a quirk that Jamie's brain didn't fail to commit to memory. When he was done, Lucio ran a finger over the carefully inked number, making sure it didn't smear. He was oblivious to the mechanic's elevated heartbeat, which was inevitably noticeable through the coursing of his veins and pulse point on his wrist. Jamie looked at the number on his arm, which was in handwriting that just embodied the DJ. He bit back the urge to tell him he wrote like a sheila. At the end of the number looked like a signature, but stylized into the shape of...a frog? "I didn't give ya permission to go drawin' amphibians on me arm now," Jamie said. Lucio stammered, starting to apologize before noticing the manic grin on the mechanics face. Ah, a joke. He returned the grin with his own easy smile. "Well, thanks for helpin' me out, ah..." Lucio said, leaving his mouth agape and brow knit together in thought as he fished for the man's name. His cheeks darkened a bit as he didn't come up with one. "Don't worry, I didn't tell ya m'name. It's Jamison. Was never one for a posh name like that, so you can call me Jamie," he said, "I'll contact you tomorrow 'bout your skates. Fix 'em right up, good as when ya bought 'em at the mart." "Thanks again, then, Jamie," Lucio said, turning on his heel to leave the auto shop. He looked over his shoulder at the mechanic, giving him an open-palmed wave goodbye and a smile. Jamie stood in place for a moment, listening to the gentle pap-pap-pap of Lucio's bare feet against the sidewalk as he disappeared. He collapsed against a wall, dropping the skates and running a hand through his dirty blonde hair. "Fuck, what is wrong with me?" he muttered, scrubbing both hands over his face. Acting like a damn sheila over a barefooted, posh, froggy bloke. He stared at the skates with distaste. They were probably just regular old skates the bastard was too lazy to take to a skate shop. Jamie decided he'd deal with them immediately. Maybe he'd "accidentally" drop a glob of his lunch into the skates and conveniently forget about it. He picked them back up and trudged to his office, slamming the door behind him. --Much to Jamison's distaste, the skates were more car than anything else. Taking the damn things apart without ruining the whole pair was exhausting and tedious work. He used his long and deft fingers to poke and prod at the various mechanisms, trying to figure out what each of them did. As much as he hated to admit it, he was enjoying tinkering with the skates. They were unlike anything he'd ever seen before. He sat back in his chair and stared at them as he stretched his arms above his head. His shoulders creaked and cracked like gravel. Jamie stifled a yawn, looking at the digital clock on the wall. 1:30AM. Shit, he was not pulling an all-nighter for this bloke. He'd have to continue the work tomorrow at home if he wanted to get it done in time. He grabbed a duffel from the corner, scooping the skates and his tools into the bag. He hauled the bag over his shoulder, hurrying out of the shop and locking up before hoofing it down to the block to his flat. Once he was inside the messy apartment, he cast the duffel-bag aside, collapsing on his bed and falling into a deep sleep. He awoke a few hours later refreshed and ready to work. He dumped the contents of the bag out onto his kitchen table, taking a seat on his dilapidated chair. He worked well into the afternoon, damn near taking the skates entirely apart and putting them back together again. His eyes happened to glance down at his arm where Lucio's number was smudged from sweat. He panicked for a moment, realizing that the man might show up at the shop looking for his finished skates. If Jamison wasn't there, he might complain to Mako, and if he complained to Mako... Jamie gulped, not wanting to think about that. He dug in his pocket, pulling out his phone. He dialed the number, pressing the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he continued to work on the skates. The phone rang once, twice... "Olá?" The man's melodic voice answered. Jamie paused for a moment. He had expected the number to route him to the celebrity's agent, butler, voicemail...anything but the man himself. "Uh, hello, mate, it's Jamie from the shop," he said, muttering a curse under his breath as he dropped his screwdriver. "Oh, yea! I've been waitin' for a call from you. How're my skates coming? They ready?" "Uh, not quite. They're givin' me a little trouble, nothin' too big. I wasn't 'suppose to work today, so when I didn't finish them yesterday I, uh, brought them home with me to finish the job. I hope ya don't mind," he said. There was a pause on the other end, and Jamie's heart raced. The bugger was probably racing over to tell his boss. "That's no problem! So long as they're getting fixed. Do you want me to pick them up at your place, then?" Lucio said, and Jamie's shoulders slouched in relief. Dodged a bullet there. And then he tensed again, his mind registering Lucio's question. "Oh, uh, I mean if you want to. I won't make you go outta yer way or anythin'. It's uh, not company policy," Jamie said as he prodded at what he assumed was the centrifugal whatsit Lucio was on about yesterday. "No, no, it's fine. I don't mind, really. You're fixin' up my babies, it's the least I can do in return besides, you know, pay you," Lucio said, and Jamie could hear the smile in his voice. The way he was about to laugh. He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his palm against the space between his brows. Actin' like a bloody sheila, again. "Right-o, I'll try to have 'em done by the time ya get here. M'flat is just down the block from the shop. Shimada Apartments. Just tell the bloke at the front desk you wanna see Junkrat, he'll know what you mean," Jamie said. He heard the man on the other end say the nickname under his breath. "Oh-kay, I'll be there soon," Lucio said. Jamie could hear the questioning tone in his voice, but knew he was too polite to ask about it. Jamie decided he wouldn't supply answers to unspoken questions. He exchanged goodbyes with Lucio before hanging up the phone. He stood up from his chair, looking around his apartment. It was...a mess. The embodiment of his nickname. Old food boxes were strewn across the counters. His vintage Playboy mags were stacked in one corner, leaning precariously to one side. He knew he shouldn't care, but apart of him was embarrassed to no end thinking that the pretty froggy bloke would see what a mess he lived in. Of course, he could just stick his head out and hand over the skates. But what if they weren't done? He couldn't make the lad stay out in the hallway. He didn't live with the best of people, and Lucio reeked of social status and money. It would be like making him hold a sign that said, "Mug me!" So, Jamie set to work cleaning to the best of his ability. He swept the trash off the counter and into the bin. He shoved as much laundry as he could into the washing machine, and kicked the rest into the hamper. The dishes in the sink that were growing alien colonies he threw in the trash, too embarrassed and disgusted with himself to clean them. His eyes landed on the Playboy magazines, and he thrummed his fingers against his chin in thought. He grabbed one of the blankets covering the couch and threw it over the stack. He stood back and looked at his handiwork. Now it looked like a disorganized person lived there, and not a lazy hoarder. It wasn't long after he sat back down to finish the skates that a knock came on the door. Jamie was startled out of his work trance, his head swinging up to the door. "Just a secoooond!" he said as he tightened one of the screws on the skates. He hurried over to the door before any potential muggers descended upon his guest. He opened the door was was greeted with a sweat drenched Lucio, bare chested and his dreads pulled back off his face by a bandanna. Jamie felt his breath catch in his throat. "Hey there," Lucio said, and Jamie damned his ever-cool attitude. Of course, he wasn't staring directly at a glistening set of abs and biceps. In fact, he was staring at a sleep deprived slob of an Australian. Jamie shuffled to the side, opening the door wider so Lucio could come in. The shorter man slipped into the doorway, and to Jamie's relief, didn't seem to pay attention to the surroundings. The man's eyes were trained on the skates. "Just about got 'em finished. Ya weren't lying when ya said they were more car than skates. Took me 'alf the night and most of the day jus' to put 'em back together," Jamie said as he closed to door and came up behind Lucio. He dwarfed the man in size, but Jamie had a feeling the shorter man could still kick his arse if he felt like it. He skirted around Lucio to reclaim his seat. "Sorry about that, I know it's probably not something you're used to," Lucio said, rubbing the back of his neck and offering Jamie an apologetic smile. "No sweat off my back. I like takin' things apart, seein' what makes 'em tick," Jamie said, using that fact to distract himself from Lucio's abs. He resumed prodding at the skates, set on fixing the centrifugal doo-dad once and for all. "You seem to be that sort of guy," Lucio said as he watched Jamie, "You have a...calculating gaze." "That so?" Jamie asked, quirking a brow but not looking up from the skates. His cheeks flushed a light pink. He hoped the shitty lighting in his apartment would cover it up. "Yea, it's like..." Lucio took a seat across from him at the table, splaying his hands on the wood, "When I came into the shop, your stare felt like you were picking me apart from the inside. It was kinda unnerving," he said. "Oh, sorry 'bout that, uh, I..." Jamie floundered for an answer, feeling like he was caught in the act of stealing. He didn't look up from the skates to see Lucio's expression. He could see it in his head. Accusatory. Angry. "Then when you opened the door, that look was there again. Picking me apart..." Was that a hitch in his voice that Jamie heard? He dared a glance up from the skates. Lucio was watching him, his eyes half-lidded and that damned easy smile on his face. The flush on Jamie's cheeks strengthened, and he averted his eyes again. "It's almost like you can see right into my soul. You know, not many people look at me like that. They only see DJ Lucio, the celebrity. I was afraid it was like that when you figured out who I was," Lucio said, letting out a chuckle. There was a creak as he leaned back in the chair, "But the way you looked at me. I knew that wasn't so." Jamie worked faster, and, dammit, why were his hands shaking? He reached for his screwdriver, but his palms were too sweaty and hands too shaky to keep a grip on it. It fell from the table, spiraling to the floor. He startled from his seat to catch it, and before he knew it, Lucio was right there, leaning down to catch it, too. The DJ's reflexes were faster than his own, and he caught it in his palm. They were so close it was driving Jamie mad. He could smell Lucio's citrus cologne and the tangy scent of his sweat. He could feel Lucio's breath by his ear, the heat radiating off his body. He stifled a whine, biting his lip. Lucio pressed the screwdriver into his open palm, clasping his hand to stop Jamie's shaking. "Easy, easy, lindo," he said, and a shiver ran through Jamie's spine at how close those words were breathed right up against his ear, and his head was swimming with too many racing thoughts to ask what lindo meant. Probably idiot, stupid, or a million other insults, but Jamie didn't care. This man could call him the worst names in the book and it would still sound like music. "Th-th-thank you," Jamie stammered, and when he looked at Lucio the man had already withdrawn, leaning back in his chair with that easy grin on those plump kissable lips, and, fuck, what was he thinking? Lucio just gave him a wink, acting as though nothing happened. Had anything happened? Had he imagined it? A droplet of sweat ran down his forehead, and he wiped it off with the back of his arm, leaving a smear of ink from the number Lucio had written on it. "Hey, now, you might need that later," Lucio said, motioning to the number. Jamie boggled at him with wide eyes. "You know, in case I have another skate emergency," he explained as though it were obvious, but there was something in his voice that made Jamie's stomach heavy and his pants tighten. This man was toying with him. "Oh, right. Well, I have it in me phone already. I'll keep in there, then, if ya like," Jamie said, finishing up the skates and trying with all his might to keep the quiver out of his voice. "Mm, yea, keep it there. You never know when I'll go flying ass over elbows and break a skate," Lucio said as he took the finished skates as Jamie pushed them across the table. Or head over heels, Jamie thought, mentally berating himself for being such a fuckin' sheila as of late. Reading into this man's actions like he meant something to him. "Well, thank you again. I really appreciate it. I'll head down to the shop to make the payment. I wish there were more I could do to show my gratitude," Lucio said as he got up from his seat. I'll tell you what you can do, you sexy piece of--, "Uh-ha, it's no problem. Don't worry about it, mate," Jamie said, following Lucio to the door. The man was almost out into the hallway when he turned around again. "Oh, and Jamie?" "Whazzat, mate?" "You have something on your forehead." Jamie had only time to blink before Lucio brushed his bangs off his forehead, rubbing the heel of his palm across the ink mark from earlier. Jamie's amber eyes stared into Lucio's chocolate brown ones, their noses brushing tips. Jamie swore he could feel Lucio's lips against his own, feather light, chaste. But just like that, Lucio was gone, walking down the hallway, his melodic chuckle trailing behind him. Jamie stared after him, his fingers going to brush against his lips. What the fuck just happened?

[whitakergottlieb3-blog]

Gain Beneficial Automobile Repair Understanding By Studying The Next Post

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[mx-fawkes]

This Homemade Pork Rub Will Have Everyone Squealing With Delight ...

Thank you @sillyscrunchy for your continual support! 

I went with Junkrat taking care of injured Roadhog because I live for that good stuff .

It was Junkrat's fault.

A simple job he'd said. Just stroll into an unguarded building, set up a bomb, and blow it up. The people paying them didn't want anything stolen, just wanted the records in the building destroyed.

Couple timed bombs in the server room would take care of that, and they could be safely on their way before anything started to detonate.

That was before he'd seen the safe on their way out. It was probably just some petty cash, but they'd agreed that no score was too small for them. It wouldn't take long to blow the lock, they could still easily make it out in time.

They were pulling out the loot when the first bomb went off, eyes meeting in panic before sprinting for the door. The second explosion sent Junkrat tumbling to the floor, and Roadhog didn't hesitate to throw himself over his partner,  shielding him as the ceiling began to cave in.

It came down all at once, a sudden blanket of pain.

Roadhog couldn't move, muscles frozen in place and shaking with the effort of holding the weight of the rubble above them. Shale and plaster slid to the floor, invisible behind clouds of dust.

He almost didn't notice Junkrat wriggling around underneath him, barely heard the small explosions as Junkrat tried to clear some of the debris surrounding them. It wasn't until Junkrat fully crawled free that he collapsed, the weight above too heavy to even draw a breath.  

Everything was fading out fast, and he couldn't find the strength to push himself free. Was he really going to die like this, surviving a hundred police shootouts, surviving the apocalypse, just to die in a shitty office building because they were too greedy to run from a ticking time bomb?

Eyes sliding closed, he resigned himself to his fate.

Hopefully, Junkrat had managed to get himself free and had the sense to start running.

The blast above snapped his back into alertness, as his Junkrat's panicked screeching as he pushed the remaining rubble from Roadhog's broad back.

"No! No! No! Get up!"

He felt Junkrats hands pat him down until they pulled a canister free, shoving it into his mask with a soft hiss. Desperately pulling in shallow breaths he could feel the gas start to take effect, body twitching as he coughed wetly. His mouth tasted of blood.  

Another canister clicked into place and he took deeper breaths, feeling joints snapping back into place as he slowly pulled himself upright. Junkrat slipped under his arm, helping keep him upright as they made their way to the bike. slower than either of them would have liked, but even with the gas Roadhog felt like he'd been hit by a truck

Collapsing on the bike with a wheeze, he started the engine with Junkrat clinging to his back. They were moving by the time they heard the first sirens, Junkrat shouting directions right into Roadhog's ear as he drove on auto-pilot muscle memory handing the driving while his brain hadn't quite caught up after the near-death experience.

He made it three steps into their hotel room before collapsing on the bed. Junkrat hovered nearby, nervous energy radiating from him.

"Roadie? You still with me?"

A grunt.

"You want some more gas?"

He slowly shook his head. He wasn't wounded anymore, just tired and sore.  

"Alright, You get some rest, I'll-"

It felt like he'd only closed his eyes for a moment, but when Junkrat shook him awake the sun had risen. Junkrat had changed too, scrubbed mostly clean and wearing the baggy hoodie and trackie-daks he wore when they pretended to be citizens.

"How ya feelin'? Went out to pick up a couple of things. Figured I'd try and, well, I ran you a bath."

Roadhog sighed. Sleeping had helped, but now he was alert enough to feel how filthy he was. He raised a hand, letting Junkrat pull him from the bed.

Clothing and armour fell to the floor, leaving outlines in the thick dust covering his skin. He looked like a tanning session gone horribly wrong.

The en-suite bathroom was the best part of this hotel, a large green room with a bath big enough for even Roadhog to fit in comfortably. It looked inviting, steam rising through the thick layer of bubbles.

He was about to climb in when Junkrat put a hand on his shoulder. "Want your mask off? I can wash your hair."

What was this?

He nodded, closing his eyes as Junkrat undid the straps and pulled it off. When he opened them Junkrat was looking at him with a pained expression. Blood was spattered all over the inside of the mask, he could imagine how bad his face looked.

He took a deep breath, inhaling the strangely spicy scent in the air before the steam flooded his lungs, leaving him clinging to the wall as he hacked up what felt like half a lungs worth of blood.

"-need more gas?"

"I'm fine."

The bathwater was almost scalding, and he slowly sank into the tub with a heavy sigh. It had been a while since he'd had anything other than a quick scrub down in the shower, they rarely had time to rest and recover.

"I got some bubble bath that said it was good for muscle pain, also got you some good shampoo and- Oh!" Junkrat bolted from the room, nearly slipping on the tile. Three steam filled breaths and he was back, carefully carrying a glass of orange liquid. "Thought I'd get ya some juice too, might make you feel better?"

Honestly, he'd rather have a beer, but the cool sweetness of the drink was welcome, washing the taste of blood and dust from his mouth. He handed the glass back to Junkrat, closing his eyes and trying to relax.

It was a little difficult when he could feel Junkrat's orange eyes boring into his skull. He cracked one eye open, staring back.

"Do you want me to help you clean off or anything? You can just relax and let me take care of ya."

Roadhog nodded, zoning out while Junkrat grabbed a loofah.

He'd gotten hurt on heists before, and Junkrat was rarely this attentive afterwards. The last time he'd gotten like this had been... Italy maybe? When they'd started that oil fire in the kitchen. When Junkrat found out that Roadhog had been burnt he'd been beside himself with worry. It wasn't serious, not even worth wasting gas on, but he'd insisted on applying burn cream every day, constantly asking Roadhog to remind him when it needed doing.

Then there had been the time back in Australia when he'd crashed his rip-tire into a pile of scrap in the middle of a fight, bringing the whole thing down on top of everybody. Back then he thought Junkrat's attempts to help were born from fear that Roadhog would end their partnership, throw him out of the farmhouse and leave him to fend for himself.

He wasn't so sure now. Junkrat trying to himself feel better about his mistakes, or an attempt at an apology he would never say aloud?

Either way, it was nice.

Junkrat was humming something as he carefully pulled bits of debris from silver hair, a soothing half-waltz. It sounded familiar, and if he had the energy he'd ask what it was.

By the time he was clean, the bathwater had turned into a cold grey slurry. Junkrat gave him a quick rinse with the showerhead before helping him to his feet, towelling off before they headed for the bedroom.

"Want me to give you a rub before we go to sleep?"

What.

His confusion must have shown on his face, Junkrat barking an embarrassed laugh before looking away.

"A massage, just a nice friendly massage between mates! I've done 'em before, I know what I'm doing."

Doubtful, but he followed Junkrat's instruction to lie on his front anyway, shoving a couple of pillows under himself. He always found lying on his stomach awkward, worried about putting too much pressure on his lungs.

Long fingers trailed over his exposed back, and he shivered. There was the snap of a bottle cap, and oil was poured onto his back. He recognised the smell, the ginger oil Junkrat used on his own muscle pains.

Exploratory fingers spread the oil out, roaming over muscle groups to find the places where the muscles were at their worst.

They found a spot to the left of his spine, pressing harder and rubbing the muscle until it relaxed before moving on.

The slow unwinding of his muscles felt both amazing and terrible. Junkrat seemingly knowing just how far he could push without causing actual pain, moving to different spots as soon as it got too much. Had he always been so tense?

"Should do this for you more often."

That sounded good.

Roadhog had no idea where or when Junkrat learnt massage techniques, he seemed unlikely to land a job in any of the places in Junkertown that offered the service.

"Had a mate teach me." He was never sure if Junkrat was able to read him that well or if his chatter just happened to align with Roadhog's thoughts.

"He did it for a living, helped me with the muscle pain when I first got my prosthetics. Returned the favour for him whenever he had a bad day."

Junkrat continued to work away the ache of the day and the tension of years. Groans of pleasure began to slip from Roadhog's lips, too tired and relaxed to fight against it. He felt like he'd melted into a puddle. Even when Junkrat moved away he just lay there, idly watching his partner put things away and missing the feel of those hands on his skin.

"What do you say we order some food in and figure out where we're gonna go next? Reckon we can find somewhere that does those dumplings you like."

"Sounds good."

Roadhog pulled himself into a sitting position, leaning against the headboard. "Thanks."

[thesassybooskter]

COLLISION POINT by Lora Leigh: Review & Excerpt

Collision Point by Lora Leigh Series: Brute Force #1 Published by St. Martin's Paperbacks Publication Date: February 27th 2018 Genres: Romantic Suspense Pages: 336 Source: Publisher Format: eARC Goodreads Buy Online: Amazon ♥ Barnes & Noble ♥ Kobo ♥ Apple Books

Disclaimer: I voluntarily reviewed a copy of this book. All opinions stated are solely mine.

Riordan “Rory” Malone is a force to be reckoned with. A member of the Brute Force Protection Agency and an operative working with the Elite Ops, Rory is the fiercest of warriors and protectors. Honed from the strong Irish stock of their grandfather and sharpened to a razor’s edge, Malone men live for one single purpose: to protect the women who own them, body and soul. From the moment he saw Amara Resnova, he knew she could be that woman.

But Amara, daughter of an alleged notorious crime lord, is a force in her own right. When she betrays her father, she’s finds herself in the arms of a man who is dangerous for her body and soul.

Can Rory keep Amara safe while protecting his own heart? Can Amara trust Rory not to break hers even as the danger mounts, threatening to take them and their passion to a breaking point?

  Review

I am a huge fan of Ms. Leigh’s Elite Ops and Nauti series and any of her books tangentially related to those series is an automatic read for me, so imagine my pleasure at finding a spin-off in the Brute Force series.

Riordan “Rory” Malone was a young man just coming into his own when he was introduced to us in Wild Card. Fast forward a few years and he has become a honed and skillful warrior, following in his brother’s footsteps. Like all Malone men before him, he has also found the one woman who owns him, body and soul. She comes with a lot of complications, but Rory is willing to fight to the death to protect her.

Amara Resnova is daddy’s little princess even though daddy is allegedly a notorious crime lord. The one time she decides to go her own way, she finds herself in life-threatening danger and the only person who can keep her alive is the one man she can’t have; the one she was willing to break the rules for.

Amara may be a daddy’s girl, but she is also very sweet, thoughtful, and kind. Rory is the perfect foil for her because he is protective and strong enough to make the tough choices needed to secure her well-being. That does not mean she is a pushover because she is ready to go head to head with him when needed.

One thing Ms. Leigh will always give you is lots of passion and suspense and this book is no different. Lots of scorching hot passion and lots of action like her Elite Ops and Nauti series and while loosely connected, every story stands on its own. Every time I finish a new book by this author, I’m sure to go on a binge of my favorites, just like now and I am really looking forward to the rest of this series.

  Excerpt

Chapter One

Six Months Later

She’d been told that West Texas in the spring wasn’t much different from West Texas in the fall, but as Amara Resnova pulled in the driveway of the small house outside Alpin, she felt she had to disagree with that summation.

Stretched out in front of the house with its wraparound porch was a lush green valley fed by a lazily running stream winding through it. Sunlight speared from the cloudless blue sky, bright and warm, spreading its heat in a comforting embrace.

And the charming little house sat just beneath the warming sunlight. Spreading out in front of it was the picturesque valley; behind it, the normal West Texas part-grass, part-scrub, potential-desert landscape that never failed to amaze her.

On a rising knoll stood a lone tree, thickly branched and heavily leafed, shading what appeared to be a small cemetery. Rather than looking desolate and lonely, that little plot of land with its surrounding black iron fence, appeared instead to keep watch over the land below it. As though those buried there kept a gentle eye on those who came after them.

As isolated as the property was, it should have appeared stark. Instead, an air of contentment and peace lay over it. As though the land, the house, the vibrant green of the valley, and the cemetery that overlooked it all, knew all there was about life and love and had locked all those secrets within it to sustain it.

Drawing in a deep breath to steady herself against the fears she hadn’t been able to push behind her even in such a lovely setting, Amara turned off the engine, forced her hands not to shake, and opened the door before stepping into the warmth that filled the valley.

It wasn’t a blazing heat, but rather a gentle wave that filled the air and wafted around her. And in it there was a strange sense of familiarity. A “been there before” feeling that had her heart racing, her mouth drying as she stared around and drew in the sights and whispered sounds of a land as yet untouched by civilized life.

Here, a person could see the stars at night rather than the city lights. The sound of the lonely coyote rather than the rush of traffic. Peace rather than a hectic race.

Here, perhaps, she could find some answers. And maybe there was a chance to find everything she’d lost.

Tugging the hem of her tank, she straightened it over the band of her jeans beneath the light denim jacket she wore as she walked slowly from the car to the stone path that led to the porch. The thick carpet of grass stretched from the valley to surround the house, but she’d noticed as she parked that it became sparser at the back. As though that carpet of green with its lazy stream could only struggle so far to embrace the weathered home.

The dark blue pickup parked at the side of the house attested that someone lived there. And she knew the vehicle belonged to the man those in town called Grandpops Malone.

Riordan Malone Sr. was grandfather to Riordan Malone the younger, she’d been told, when she stopped at the gas station and auto repair garage outside town that bore the name MALONE AND BLAKE—SERVICE AND REPAIR. There, she’d learned Riordan the younger was part owner but currently out at his “grandpops’” place.

Riordan.

That name haunted her dreams, her fantasies. Though the man in those dreams wasn’t an old man. The one who came to her in those nightly images was tall, strong, impossibly sexy.

As Amara forced herself to walk to the porch, she looked around, searching for the face, listening for the voice of a man she knew only in those dreams. The man she’d escaped her father’s protection to go search for.

Was he friend or foe?

Even she couldn’t answer that question, not fully. But for some reason, she couldn’t seem to help the need to learn which he would be.

As her foot lifted to the first step, the front door creaked, causing her to pause, to wait with bated breath as it slowly opened to reveal an aged, gray-haired gentleman she suspected was Riordan Sr., Grandpops.

In his worn loose jeans, well-washed white shirt with sleeves folded neatly back below his elbows, scuffed leather boots, and with that serene expression, the man looked as old and wise as the mountains themselves. And there was no doubt he was just as damn stubborn.

“Well, hello there.” The smile that lifted the corners of his mouth was reflected in his dark blue eyes. “Can I help ya, young lady?”

There was a whisper of a lyrical accent. Irish. Just a whisper though, not the full, male lilt she sometimes heard in memories that never fully revealed themselves.

“I’m looking…” She swallowed nervously. “I’m looking for Riordan Malone.”

His head tilted to the side, his thick graying hair neatly trimmed but giving a hint of the rogue he must have been in his youth.

“I’d say you’re looking for my grandson rather than myself,” he said gently. “He should be along in a bit. His da just called to say he’s done stole that wild pony again and headed this way.” A chuckle filled the air. “Come along up to the porch and sit with me till he arrives. That wild beast always gives a show when he comes barreling through the valley.”

Moving gingerly up the steps to the porch, she followed him to the comfortable-looking cushioned rockers that faced the valley.

“Does he steal ponies often?” She frowned as she sat down, feeling more off balance than she’d felt in her life—which was saying something considering the past six months.

“Just that wild-assed black son of a satan that took a liking to him.” He grinned back at her, his gnarled hands gripping the arms of the rocker loosely. “His da threatens to kill the beast every time Riordan takes it out. He swears it’s gonna kill the boy.”

Boy.

That didn’t sound like the man she was searching for. But, everything she learned assured her this was the one place she was certain to find him.

“Ahh, here he comes now.” Fondness filled the old man’s tone as he motioned to the valley.

He appeared at first as no more than a storm of dust rising beyond the verdant green of the valley.

Amara watched, her heart racing as that trail of dust grew steadily closer.

It was an imposing sight, she had to admit.

A sensual, exhilarating sight.

The horse, black as midnight, neck extended, flying across the deserted landscape, was enough to hold the eye. But the sight of the man, bent low to the horse’s neck, black hair flying back from his face, riding without a saddle, was a bit more than simply imposing.

It was exhilarating.

Imposing and savage and wildly erotic.

Amara could feel her body responding to the sight, weakening, filling with a sensual lassitude she couldn’t combat.

“Be watching this now. That horse loves ta take him on a wild ride he does,” Grandpops said softly.

The horse flew over a gully as though he had wings, before jumping the stream, neck and legs extended as it went airborne for precious seconds. The animal then took a series of fences as though they were nothing, and as she stared, she felt she knew how those women felt from centuries past as they watched a conquering warrior bearing down on them.

When the horse flew over the fence that enclosed the house yard, Amara was certain there was no way it could pull up before slamming headfirst into the porch itself.

With no more than a few yards to spare, the beast came up on his hind legs, a triumphant equine scream filling the air before landing again and prancing about with pure high-spirited joy before finally settling.

And Riordan sat firm on the animal’s back the whole time, holding onto the horse’s mane rather than a bridle, thighs gripping the animal’s heaving sides as he stared at her with blazing, furious blue eyes before turning them on his grandfather.

The younger Riordan dismounted smoothly, the soles of his moccasined feet hitting the ground as he slapped the beast on the rump. It came up on its hind legs once more in another display of savage beauty as it reared up, pawed the air, then shot off back the way it came the second it landed.

Flying like the wind, strong legs launching it over the fence, the gully, then the stream before a trail of dust followed it around the bend of the mountain.

So much beauty, she thought. A display of savage male temper and strength, and no less showed in Riordan’s expression as he propped his hands on his lean waist and glared up at her where she sat next to his grandfather on the porch.

Well-worn denim encased his hips and legs, and the moccasins that covered his feet weren’t fringed or fancy, just well made. A black T-shirt stretched across a broad chest, emphasizing his muscular abs and making her fingers itch to remove it.

Yes, this was him. The savage who invaded her dreams, the fury who slashed at her nightmares. Vivid sapphire eyes, daunting features, proud, imposing. A man who knew his own demons as well as those that inhabited other men. Or women.

She rose slowly to her feet, aware of Riordan’s “grandpops” as he sat comfortably in his rocker, watching in interest.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” the words that passed from his lips caused her to flinch; their icy tone caused her heart to sink.

The tender tone, the edge of lust and hunger she’d dreamed of, was nowhere in sight.

His gaze raked over her and there was none of the sensual promise she’s seen in his eyes when he’d invaded her dreams, none of the dominant sensualist who tormented her with his touch in her fantasies.

She hadn’t expected this. This wild fury and enraged demand. He didn’t seem the least bit glad to see her, she had to admit. What made her think he would be? she wondered.

Was she wrong? Did she not know him?

She was certain she had to have known him, certain that somehow, someway, they must have meant something to each other. Could she have been so wrong?

“Riordan!” Grandpops’ surprised tone had a grimace contorting Riordan’s face.

Evidently the grandfather thought little of the grandson’s language.

“Grandpops, perhaps you should go back to Grant’s.” He turned to his grandfather, his voice firm. “Noah, Sabella, and the babies will be there in a bit.”

Grandpops continued to glower at him.

“I’m certain I can handle whatever language he wants to use, Mr. Malone,” she assured the older man. “I’m not exactly a stranger to it these days.”

Her father cursed more often, brooded more often, and Amara knew the situation she’d found herself in was weighing on him. If she didn’t do something, didn’t fix things, then she was terrified of what may happen. Of what her father would do to fix things himself.

“But can his grandmother?” The old man sounded disappointed rather than angry. “Remember whose home your using that language in, boy.”

Rising from his chair, Grandpops moved to the steps stiffly and made his way down, casting his grandson yet another warning glare.

“Drive carefully, Grandpops. No more racing with those Brickford boys,” Riordan stated as his grandfather passed by.

And Amara could have sworn she saw a gleeful grin tease at the older man’s lips. But he merely grunted as he passed.

A few moments later the truck started, and they watched Grandpops ease around the circular drive and onto the road that led to the small valley.

The silence that stretched between them was heavy—with his anger and her uncertainty.

As the truck took the curve around the rising hill, she turned back to Riordan and tucked her hands into the pockets of her light jacket, her fingers curling into fists.

She’d faked the last six months with friends and most of her family. Taking cues from her father and his assistant Nikolai, she’d smiled and faked her way through every damn meeting and gathering she’d been forced to attend until she slipped silently from her father’s estate the week before and, in essence, ran away from home.

Not that he was letting her run without giving chase. He and his men weren’t far behind her and she knew it. They’d almost caught up with her the night before, outside Houston. If she didn’t do something, if she didn’t find a way to eliminate the threat shadowing her, then her poppa could do something she may not be able to live with. And it was that decision that sent her running to Alpine and the man who shadowed her dreams.

She was here now. She’d found the man she’d gone searching for, and she knew the days of lying and pretending to be who she’d been six months before were over.

She lifted her head, straightened her shoulders, and stared up at him in determination.

“Whatever I did to you, I’m sorry,” she told him, miserably aware that if she’d offended him in the past, angered him, then there was the possibility it couldn’t be fixed with an apology. She hadn’t been the nicest person she could have been in the past.

His eyes narrowed on her before once again moving to sweep over the landscape. There was a tension that surrounded him, a steady watchfulness she’d noticed her father and Ilya always carried as well. That prepared and ready-for-action thing strong men always seemed to carry with them.

“Go home, Amara,” he told her when those brilliant eyes turned back to her. “Go back to daddy. This is no place for you.”

He knew her. He was angry, but for a second, she swore she saw something more in that flash of heat in his expression.

“No. Riordan, please.” He couldn’t make her leave. Not yet, not until he knew what was coming, because what was coming didn’t affect just her. She could sense it, her dreams assured her of it.

Turning, Riordan dismissed her just that easily and strode up the steps to the porch, leaving her to stand alone as the storm door slammed behind his retreating back.

Alone.

Strange, but this feeling of “alone” didn’t seem nearly as unfamiliar as it should have.

Inhaling deeply, she followed him rather than doing as ordered. Not that she often did as she was ordered. That was probably how she found herself where she was now. Opening the door quietly, she stepped into the house, her gaze taking in the homey atmosphere of the large living area.

A comfortable leather couch, recliner, and matching chairs were grouped around a cold fireplace. The mantle held a variety of family pictures that she would have loved to have time to check out. The wood floor was smooth, aged with a sheen of time and caring.

There were more family pictures in frames on the wall, many appeared old and passed down through the years, the frames lovingly polished, the photos a bit faded from time.

As she stepped into the room, Riordan watched her silently, leaning against the wide doorframe into the kitchen, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he simply stared at her, his expression still and remote.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, that rumble of his deep voice sending a stroke of sensation up her spine.

What was she doing here?

Trying to survive, to live.

“I need your help.” She had to force herself to say the words, and still they came out as barely more than a whisper. “Please, Riordan. I need your help.”

* * *

Six months.

For six bloody months this damn woman had tormented his dreams while asleep and his thoughts while awake. He’d given his life for her on a dark, blood-filled night, then again on an operating table, only to be told she never wanted to see him again when he’d been released. And now, two months after he’d returned to Texas, here she was.

Son of a bitch. Just when he thought he could get through a night without being tormented by her, she just showed up out of the blue. And it was all he could do not to touch her, to jerk her to him and show her exactly what she was dealing with in coming to him.

But, she’d been his weakness from the moment he’d met her, hadn’t she? From the second his gaze touched hers, she’d been the one woman he couldn’t get out his head. And God knew he’d fought it.

Tiny and delicate, she made a man want to wrap her in cotton and hide her away from the world. Resilient, stubborn, and independent, she made a man realize fast that she wouldn’t allow him to do so.

Her once-long, straight silky black hair was shorter now, courtesy of her abductors. At first jagged and close to her scalp, it had grown a good six inches or so and feathered around her delicate face becomingly. Piercing gray-blue eyes stared back at him, somberly.

Frightened.

Riordan straightened from the doorframe, his eyes narrowing on her. That was fear in her eyes, along with the uncertainty and the heat he always saw there.

“You need my help?” he couldn’t help the mockery that tinged his voice simply because it flooded every corner of his mind. “Strange, two months ago you never wanted to see my damn lying ass again. What changed?”

What had changed? For a moment, that question had her pausing.

God, if only she could tell him. She was damned if she knew herself what had changed. All she knew was that now, six months after she’d awakened, she was unable to remember what had happened or who had abducted her or what they had wanted. The nightmares had grown worse, the sense of imminent danger and panic that fueled them had become overwhelming. In each one, this man stood with his hand outstretched, his voice whispering to her, urging her to find him. To come to him.

She swallowed tightly, uncertain what to say, how to explain. She didn’t trust him, not by any means. But she didn’t trust anyone now. She didn’t know who to trust.

“I’m sorry.” But she was damned if she could remember telling him he wasn’t wanted.

No doubt she’d had a good reason. Savagely hewn, rough and sexy, and a cowboy to boot. No doubt he had a wandering eye and hands that had no idea how to be faithful. The one type of man she despised. But personal fidelity and the ability to protect weren’t always intimately acquainted, she’d since learned. The man who cheated on his wife and walked away from his children could also be the very man willing to give his life for that same woman, or those children.

Men had never made sense to her, even from an early age. But she didn’t need him to make sense to her, she needed him to fulfill the promise he made in her dreams and help her figure out who was determined to see her dead and why she was so certain it was someone she knew and loved.

“You’re sorry?” he snorted, flashing her a look filled with disgust. “Fine, go home and be sorry there. I don’t have time for it here.”

The panic was beginning to build inside her chest. It thundered through her veins and raced to her heart. If he made her leave, if he threw her out and forced her to run again, she was going to die, and she knew it.

“You promised you’d help me,” she snapped, her tone more demanding than she would like despite her uncertainty and the fact that the words tore from her almost involuntarily. “You swore it. You can’t renege now.”

Had he really promised, or had she just dreamed it? Was the memory of that dark little hole and the pain that filled her just another nightmare? Had he really been there, swearing he’d always save her, or had she just imagined it?

“Did I now?” Softly voiced, the question held that bit of Irish sexy, lyrical sound that she often heard in those fantasy dreams filled with pleasure rather than pain. “And when did that happen?”

She shook her head. Memory or nightmare?

“You swore you’d always be there if I needed you.” She fought to believe it was memory. “All I had to do was reach out to you. Well, dammit, I’m reaching out. Do you want me to beg too?”

She could see his hand outstretched, his expression somber, demanding. He wouldn’t come to her, she had to go to him.

Riordan felt as though his world had narrowed, that nothing existed but this moment, this woman, and the dreams that had haunted him. Dreams of her cries, her pleas that he come to her. And no matter how desperately he tried to reach her, she was always but a touch away. No matter how often he’d urged her to take his hand, to come to him, just reach out to him, she never did.

The dreams had become so insistent over the months, he’d actually contacted his former security team members who still worked for her father to check up on her.

All was well, he’d been told. Princess Resnova was still the princess, and the czar still protected her like the cherished daughter she would always be. And still, he dreamed, reached out to her, and urged her to take his hand.

I’ll always be here for you. Just reach out to me.

He hadn’t told her that, he’d whispered those words in a dream.

And son of a bitch if that wasn’t enough to make a man force himself not to shake in his boots.

“Why?” he demanded. “Why the hell do you need me when your father has over fifty protection agents, and every damn one of them is on call in case they’re needed to protect you? What the fuck do you need with me?”

Damn her. She’d waited six months to come to him. She’d let him lie in a hospital out of the country, half alive for weeks, and hadn’t once called or reached out him. Why the hell was she short circuiting his brain now?

“I need you to help me,” she whispered again. “I need someone I can trust with my life, Riordan, before I die because I don’t know anymore who’s a friend and who’s the enemy. But you might know. I need someone I can trust to watch my back while I figure out who the hell is trying to kill me and why.”

Kill her?

According to every source he had in her father’s organization, she was safe. The men at the farmhouse where they’d found her were all killed. The bodyguard they’d identified as being behind the abduction and her beating was dead as well.

“Your father’s men can protect you.” God help him. If he even tried, he’d get them both killed—because he wouldn’t be able to stay out of her bed.

She was shaking her head even as he spoke. “I don’t trust them. I don’t trust anyone.” Desperation filled her expression now. “You don’t understand, Riordan. All I have are these crazy dreams of you. Every nightmare I have you’re at my back, protecting me. That’s all I have because I don’t remember what happened before my abduction or the abduction itself. I’ve lost a year of my life and I don’t know why and I damn sure can’t force those memories back,” she cried out, fury filling her tone. “All I have are the nightmares and dreams, and the only person I can see, the only person I can trust in them is you. And by God, I want to know why.”

She faced him, fists clenched, anger flushing her face, but that was heat in her eyes. It wasn’t just nightmares she had, it wasn’t simply dreams.

It was this bond he could sense between them even as she stared back at him, furious, frightened.

And he’d waited long enough.

Taking the steps that separated them, he jerked her into his arms, his lips stilling her cries, his arms tightening around her, holding her to him.

Her lips parted in shock, and he took full advantage of it. He tasted her. Lips and tongue possessed her kiss, and he let his senses grow drunk on her.

Because somehow, someway, she’d shared not just her dreams with him, but those incredibly erotic fantasies that filled his head as well.

And now, he wanted a taste of all that passion, that feminine hunger and need he hadn’t nearly had enough of before her abduction.

Then they could discuss the rest.

Copyright © 2018 by Lora Leigh in Collision Point and reprinted with permission from St. Martin’s Paperbacks.

  About Lora Leigh

#1 New York Times bestseller, LORA LEIGH is the author of the Navy SEALS, the Breeds, the Elite Ops, the Callahans, the Bound Hearts, and the Nauti series.

Lora Leigh dreams in bright, vivid images of the characters’ intent on taking over her writing life, and fights a constant battle to put them on the hard drive of her computer before they can disappear as fast as they appeared.

Lora’s family and her writing life coexist, if not in harmony, in relative peace with each other. Surrounded by a menagerie of pets, friends, and a son who keeps her quick wit engaged, Lora finds her life filled with joys, aided by her fans whose hearts remind her daily why she writes.

Website | Facebook | Goodreads

  COLLISION POINT by Lora Leigh: Review & Excerpt was originally published on The Sassy Bookster

[itsworn]

Wallet-Friendly Carbureted LS Transplant into a 1967 Camaro

There’s always a cheaper way to do most anything. That’s especially true of LS engine swaps to classic Chevy muscle. If you go all out it’s pretty easy to spend $15,000-$20,000 on a complete “high-end” engine and trans swap. But it doesn’t have to be that way. By picking your battles you can do it for far less and still have a good looking, solid performing LS mill under your hood.

Given all of that, we decided to tackle a budget-friendly LS swap using as few electronics as possible. Yeah, there’s a way to ditch the coils and add a distributor, but in the end the cost outweighs the benefits. A carburetor is one piece of vintage tech that still works great and makes an LS install a lot easier, both in terms of effort and cost. So we’re going to mix in a little old to a little new and come up with solid compromise between looks, performance, and cost.

The main player in our project is a rebuilt 6.0L LQ4 LS truck engine. It’s a great example of how the LS platform can make great power for not a lot of coin. These engines are plentiful and ours, with a mild cam and a carb, made 465 hp. Without all the bells and whistles this engine could be duplicated for well under $4,000. Want to spend even less? Then check out the 5.3L variant. These engines are relatively dirt cheap since GM has churned out hundreds of thousands of them. We commonly get over 400 hp with a small cam and very little effort. There are all sorts of ways to get an LS under your hood without going broke. Heck, you can even bolt a TH350 or Powerglide to one with a couple of spacers. We opted to split the difference and go with a 700-R4 from Performance Automatic. This way we get the benefits of an overdrive transmission without the hassles and expense of more computers. In short, the exercise can be as inexpensive, or expensive, as you want it to be.

As we said, the carburetor is one of the ways this exercise is made easier. It lets you skip all the computers and wiring needed for an EFI system. But you’ll need an MSD ignition box to track the cam/crank and fire the coils. Many gearheads prefer carbs since they are already used to tuning them and let’s face it, cars have been running on them for decades. While EFI does have benefits, there’s nothing wrong with a properly tuned carburetor.

Our project is a ’67 Camaro with a tired 350 small-block and a non-overdrive TH350 transmission. The owner, Mike Recchia, wanted better highway cruising manners and, of course, more power. He also wanted it nice, but didn’t want to donate an arm and most of a leg to medical science to pay for it. So follow along as we take a reasonable approach to dropping an LS mill into a vintage Chevy.

1. Our starting point was this rather shoddy looking engine bay. The 350 small-block ran, but it was pretty anemic.

2. The old small-block and TH350 were pulled and then we spent a few days scrubbing the engine bay and detailing it with some fresh black paint.

3. The engine we’re dropping in is this refreshed LQ4 LS engine. It’s pretty much a low-compression iron 6.0L LS with a cam upgrade. On the dyno it made 464 hp and 437 lb-ft of torque, quite a bit more than our tired small-block. This engine would set you back just under $5,000 without the Holley LS Swap Headers, but with the sweet Holley LS swap oil pan (PN 302-2) and the intake/carb setup. As always, you can save cash by running factory exhaust manifolds, stock valve covers, or by finding a used GM LS1 F-body oil pan.

4. Another place you can spend a lot of money is on a front drive system. We’re not planning on A/C right now so the perfect option was a wallet-friendly used drive system from an early (1998-’02) Camaro or Firebird. It’s compact and the accessories are relatively inexpensive. For a tensioner, we used a solid one from Comp that we had at the shop.

5. For engine mounts we went with Hooker brackets (PN 12618HKR). These mate to clamshell style mounts on the frame and situate the engine perfectly for the oil pan and headers to clear. For the clamshells you can go buy stockers or Hooker sells the clamshells (PN 71221004HKR) and polyurethane inserts (PN 71221014HKR).

6. Oil pressure for the Camaro’s existing AutoMeter gauges was picked up at the back of the engine, just behind the valley cover. You can also spot the cam sensor plug that will be used for our MSD coil controller box.

7. We were then able to easily lower the carbureted LS engine into the Camaro’s refreshed engine bay. We chose to do the engine by itself and then install the new Performance Automatic 700-R4 four-speed trans from the bottom.

8. The aforementioned Performance Automatic 700-R4 is a great option since it doesn’t require a computer, yet still gives us an overdrive gear. The PA 700-R4 (PN PA70104) came with a lockup converter (2,200-2,400 rpm) and was internally upgraded with Alto Racing clutches, shift package, and their high-performance band/servo package. It came fully dyno tested with a lifetime warranty and was rated for up to 500 hp, perfect for our budget LS engine. If your wallet is a bit on the light side you could find a stock 700-R4 or even keep your TH350 three-speed.

9. Like we said, the PA 700-R4 came with a 2,400-stall lockup torque converter. The lockup function did require hooking up two simple wires (per the instructions) and should help the Camaro knock down considerably better gas mileage. The trans cooling lines (with the red caps) were in roughly the same spot as they were on the old TH350 so hooking everything up was easy.

10. The coated Hooker Blackheart swap headers cleared everything, even the sometimes problematic steering box. The headers are available in a variety of materials from 1 3/4-inch painted steel for $548 (PN 70101507HKR) to 1 7/8-inch stainless for right around $1,000. So they fit the car and they have a header to fit your budget. Mid-length headers or exhaust manifolds could save you even more cash.

11. Since our old Gen I small-block had long-tube headers, mating to the existing exhaust system was very easy. We were also able to reuse the Camaro’s transmission crossmember, along with a polyurethane mount from Energy Suspension, by just opening up a few of the holes. We also had to have the Camaro’s driveshaft shortened a few inches at Inland Empire Driveline.

12. We needed to grab water temperature for our electric fan controller so we opted for the top of the water pump. It just required drilling a 1/8-inch hole and using a pipe thread tap. This is also a good spot to tap in your steam return line, if you decided to run one.

13. The Camaro’s existing water temperature gauge was ran to a sensor on the back of the passenger-side head. To mount the 1/8-inch pipe fitting to the head we used a special 12mm adapter offered by AutoMeter.

14. The Camaro’s existing aluminum radiator leaked so we swapped to a three-row core replacement from Mishimoto (PN MMRAD-FIR-67X). It was an affordable option with features like billet aluminum fill neck, all aluminum construction, increased coolant capacity, magnetic drain plug, and internal transmission cooler. The radiator was paired with their aluminum fan shroud, which included a 1,850-cfm 16-inch fan (PN MMFS-FIR-67).

15. Even with the increased fluid capacity, the Mishimoto radiator bolted up to the factory core support.

16. We were then able to run the overflow hose and plumb it to the PA 700-R4 transmission using some Earl’s fittings and push-lock hose.

17. We ended up taking some radiator hose mock-ups (made with welding rod) to our local auto parts store and found hoses that would work for our Camaro/LS engine combination. The upper hose was from a 1970 C10 Chevy truck.

18. Holley was able to get us the right linkage to mount our 670-cfm Ultra Street Avenger (PN 86670HP) and get it tied into our throttle and the 700-R4’s TVS cable.

19. The engine is carbureted so the fuel system was as easy as hooking up a Holley Red electric fuel pump.

20. The LS engine’s ignition system is controlled by an MSD 6LS box (PN 6010). It reads the signal from the engine’s 24x crank sensor and 1x cam sensor to properly fire the coils. It’s also programmable and can map a timing curve as well as setting a vacuum advance curve and it has a two-step rev limiter.

21. We mounted a small breather tank from Summit Racing to the firewall and plumped it to the Holley valve covers. We also hooked up the CPP vacuum brake booster to the Holley intake manifold.

22. OK, the engine bay was looking so good we decided to splurge on some eye candy in the form of billet hood hinges from Eddie Motorsports. We also added their billet fender braces. Hey, in for a penny, in for a pound.

23. And with that, our LS swap was done.

24. With the Summit Racing air cleaner added you almost forget it’s an LS engine under the hood. If you wanted to carry the illusion further then it’s a pretty straightforward operation to hide the coil packs. Personally, we like the mix of retro and tech and think our engine bay looks immeasurably better than it did when we started.

25. Of course, the real reason we installed the budget LS in our 1967 Camaro was performance. So we drove the Chevy over to Westech Performance for some chassis dyno tuning using MSD’s Pro-Data+ software. When all was said and done the modded LQ4 put down 365 horsepower and 384 lb-ft of torque to the tires.

  Sources:

Competition Cams

800.999.0853

compcams.com

Eddie Motorsports

888.813.1293

eddiemotorsports.com

Energy Suspension

949.361.3935

energysuspension.com

Holley / Hooker / Earls

270.781.9741

holley.com

Inland Empire Driveline

909.390.3030

iedls.com

Mishimoto

877.466.4744

mishimoto.com

MSD Performance

888.258.3835

msdperformance.com

Performance Automatic

240.439.4650

performanceautomatic.com

Summit Racing

800.230.3030

summitracing.com

Westech Performance

951.685.4767

westechperformance.com

The post Wallet-Friendly Carbureted LS Transplant into a 1967 Camaro appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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[harlanfoley5-blog]

Samsung Universe S6 Troubles And also How To Repair Them.

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[cleowyman550-blog]

Whiteley's Ranch.

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