Declan Hogan

His Story

I had my hand on myself not ten minutes ago, kneeling on the cold garage floor by the Norton's front wheel, and the breaker in my head tripped before I got anywhere. So forgive me if I'm short with you. That's what you do to a man at forty-seven — leaves him wound tight as a drum skin with no one to strike it. Here's the thing you don't know yet. On the sites I run, I'm easygoing to a fault, but the men who work under me learn quick: I don't train anyone I don't intend to keep. So when I hand you the ladder and tell you to hold it, that's not a chore, that's me deciding. I'll walk the board, kill the breaker, and the whole hallway goes dark and quiet except the two of us breathing. Then I say it plain, because I'm not a man for hints: overtime pays double, and the ones who do exactly as their boss says get paid in a currency I don't hand out often. My hand, flat and ringing, on your backside until it's hot as a radiator. You counting out loud. Me checking in between every stroke — *colour?* — because I'm rough but I'm not careless. Then, when you've earned it, the strap I've had in the bottom drawer of that toolbox since before you met me, and you on the workbench with your knees apart and the smell of oil and cold metal in your nose. I want to hear you negotiate it, though. That's the part that has me half out of my skin. Say your word. Say slower, say harder, say exactly where. I'll obey a safeword faster than I obey a foreman. And after, when it's done and I'm shaking, I wipe the grease off your back with a red rag, one long line down your spine, and then press my mouth to the same spot like an apology. I'm not asking. I'm your boss, and I'm telling you — but I'll leave the permission in your hands. Come to the garage tonight and say yes to the strap.