Page 81 of Following Their Heart

“How?” His tone is skeptical, but he’s not saying no. That’s good.

“By showing you how much it meant to me,” I say honestly. “And to someone else.”

Heavy boots crunch over the gravel, coming from the direction of the lodge.

Scrap squints past the edge of the spotlight beam, shading his eyes. “Is that Brawn?”

“Invited him to join us.”

Before Scrap has a chance to react, Brawn strides into the light carrying the camp chairs I told him to bring.

“Thought the three of us would hang tonight,” I say, taking a chair from Brawn and unfolding it for Scrap. As an added invitation, I pop the top off a chilled bottle of IPA and slip it into the cupholder.

I pop the tops off two more beers, handing one to Brawn.

After settling myself in a camp chair, I hold up my bottle and say, “To Jud. Hang in there, buddy. We’re comin’ for ya.”

Scrap sits and lifts his bottle. Brawn does the same.

“Cheers,” Brawn says. “Salud,” Scrap says, and they both drink.

Both men shift in their camp chairs, clearly feeling awkward in each other’s presence. And in mine. That’s why I organized this little get-together. After noticing definite signs of flirtation from Brawn this afternoon and witnessing the way Brawn and Scrap interacted today, with a different kind of chemistry than they’ve ever showed before, I figured I’d see if that chemistry went three ways.

Scrap raises an eyebrow at me, curious, suspicious. But he’s not balking. He wants to see where I’ll take this. Brawn taps his fingers on the arm of his camp chair, uncomfortable, but I sense he’s curious, too.

“Time for Show and Tell,” I say, sipping the cold, hoppy brew. Small talk will dispel the awkwardness.

At dinner, we all shared updates on how we pushed our Gifts today. But those were summaries. I want these two guys to share details of their day. I want them to understand how very special it is that the Working has Gifted them with such amazing powers. I want them to feel good about what they’ve accomplished in such a short time.

“Scrappy boy was just tuning up Bessy,” I say to Brawn. “Says his Gift made quick work of it.”

“Yeah?” Brawn says. The beer bottle looks like a doll’s toy in his big hand. What I wouldn’t give to see those hands rove over my Scrappy boy’s tanned and toned body. “Cool,” he adds with an agreeable nod.

“And he got those clunky old radios transmitting more than a mile to each other,” I say. “Not to mention the Wi-Fi signal. And seeing the feed from the security cams in his head. Shit,” I say. “That’s some cool stuff, son.” I’m talking to Scrap now, and I see a ghost of a smile on his lips. “How ’bout a demonstration. What can you show me?” I motion to the vehicles parked all around us, knowing Scrap never ignores a chance to show off. There are tow trucks, ATVs, jeeps, tankers, pickups, Humvees. You name it, we’ve got it, and Scrap keeps it all in good working order.

He grins and wraps his smiling lips around his bottle, taking a long drag. “You want a demonstration,” he says when he’s done. “I’ll give you a demonstration.”

He puts on a show of shoving up the sleeves of his hoodie, holds both hands in front of him, like he’s a surgeon about to be gloved up by his nurse, and he snaps.

Simultaneously, Bessy’s engine roars to life.

Scrap spreads his arms wide and takes a mock bow from his camp chair. “Thank you, thank you very much.”

I clap and shout a celebratory, “Whoop!” over the sound of all those cylinders firing in unison. “She sounds tight!” I offer Scrap my fist, and he gives it a bump. One side of his mouth quirks up, and I suspect he’s starting to forgive me.

“Sweet,” Brawn says.

“Ye-up,” Scrap says, hooking his thumbs in the waistband of his track pants. “I’m the man.” With a hand lifted in a stage whisper, he adds, “I don’t actually have to snap. I just thought it would look cool.”

Brawn snorts.

“It did,” I assure him, feeling myself grin at his antics.

“Your turn,” Scrap says to Brawn. “Let’s see you lift something with your mind.”

Brawn turns his head as he looks around the lot. Finally, he points at a rusted-out school bus Scrap has salvaged for parts. The wheels on the side facing us lift off the ground. The bus creaks as, in seeming slow motion, it tilts farther and farther. With a thud that shakes the ground, it drops heavily onto its side. The undercarriage with all its axles and tanks stares at us.

Scrap’s jaw falls open. Then he shoots to his feet, laughing, “What the fuck, dude!” He pulls at his hair. “That was awesome! Right on, man!”

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