Dark Storage

Rain hammered against the corrugated metal roof of the facility, a relentless, drumming rhythm that competed with the grinding roar of the machinery inside. It was a heavy, industrial downpour, turning the air inside the plant thick, humid, and smelling of wet concrete.

Jax wiped a smear of black grease across his forehead, leaving a dark streak against his deep tan skin. He was wedged into the cramped crawlspace behind Press #4—Misty’s machine. The heat back here was suffocating, radiating off the massive hydraulic pistons that drove the press.

"Pass me the wrench," he called out, raising his voice over the hum of the plant.

A moment later, the cold steel tool slapped into his open palm.

"You know," Misty’s voice drifted from the side of the machine, teasing and light. "Most guys take a girl out to dinner before they get this demanding."

Jax grunted, fitting the wrench around the heavy clamp on the main hydraulic hose. "And most machines don't try to shake themselves apart every shift."

"She's just got a lot of power, Jax. She likes to slam."

"Yeah, well, she's slamming the fittings loose."

Jax gave the bolt a hard, final torque. The metal groaned, friction singing out before the clamp bit down, securing the hose. It wasn't damaged—just shaken loose by the sheer violence of the press cycling thousands of times a day. He checked the seal. The weeping of hydraulic fluid stopped.

"That should hold it," he muttered. He wiped his hands on his pants, the grease staining the dark denim, and grabbed his tool bag.

He squeezed out from behind the massive steel frame of the press, sweat sticking his t-shirt to his chest.

Misty was waiting right there. The space between the back of the press and the walkway wall was narrow, a shadowed corridor of pipes and steam. She was leaning against the safety rail, wearing tight jeans that had seen better days and a tank top that clung to her damp skin.

"All fixed?" she asked, her eyes tracking a bead of sweat running down his neck.

"Clamp was loose. Just watch the cycle speed."

He tried to squeeze past her, but she didn't step back. She stayed planted, forcing him to turn sideways to get by. As he moved, she reached out, her hand sliding slowly down his bicep, her fingers digging slightly into the muscle.

"You're stronger than you look, Jax," she murmured, her voice dropping an octave. Her fingers lingered on his forearm, tracing the veins. "Always fixing things for us."

Jax froze for a second. The heat from her hand seemed to burn right through his shirt. He looked down at her, catching the scent of her peppermint gum mixed with the industrial oil. His heart gave a traitorous thud against his ribs.

"I need to go log this," he said, his voice rougher than he intended.

He pulled his arm away—not abruptly, but firmly—and walked toward the main floor. He didn't look back, but his skin prickled with the awareness that she was watching him go. His mind was racing. He should have been thinking about Stacy. He tried to think about Stacy. But all he could think about was the pressure of Misty's fingers on his arm and the fact that Stacy hadn't looked at him like that in six months.

Misty watched him disappear around the corner, a satisfied smirk playing on her lips. She waited a beat, then headed straight for the break room.

Rhonda was sitting at one of the round plastic tables, scrolling on her phone. She looked up as Misty pushed through the doors.

"Well?" Rhonda asked, noting the flush on Misty's cheeks.

Misty grabbed a water bottle and sat down, leaning in close. "He's ready to snap, Rhonda. I had him cornered behind the press. When I touched his arm? He tensed up like a live wire. He wanted to stay. I could see it in his eyes."

Rhonda raised an eyebrow, a slow grin spreading across her face. "Saint Jax is finally cracking, huh?"

"He just needs a push. Somewhere quiet. The floor is too loud, too many eyes." Misty tapped her fingers on the table. "I need him alone. Really alone."

Rhonda nodded, understanding immediately. She reached for her radio, unclipping it from her belt. "The back storage room. The one with the breaker panels. It's soundproofed because of the generators next door. And there's no cameras back there."

"Perfect."

Rhonda winked and keyed her radio. "Operations, this is Rhonda. I've got a situation in the South Storage room. Looks like a water leak right above the main electrical box. I need Maintenance there immediately before it shorts the grid."

She released the button. "Go. I'll make sure the floor supervisor is busy."

Jax was still trying to cool down when the call came through. A leak near an electrical box was priority one; water and high voltage didn't mix. He grabbed his bag and jogged toward the South Storage room, the urgency of the job momentarily pushing the thoughts of Misty out of his head.

He pushed open the heavy steel door. The room was dim, lit only by the safety lights on the generator panels. It was quiet in here, the roar of the rain muffled to a distant, rhythmic hum.

"Hello?" Jax called out, scanning the ceiling for the leak. "I got a call about water near the—"

The door clicked shut behind him, the lock engaging with a heavy thud.

Jax turned. Misty was standing there, leaning back against the door, effectively blocking the exit.

"There's no leak, Jax," she said softly.

Jax lowered his tool bag to the floor, the metal clinking against the concrete. His pulse skyrocketed. "Misty, you can't be calling in fake work orders. Rhonda could get fired. I could get fired."

"Nobody's getting fired." She walked toward him, her hips swaying with a slow, deliberate rhythm. "We're just checking the equipment."

She stopped inches from him. In the dim light, the tension that had been building all shift seemed to snap.

"Misty—"

"Don't," she whispered. She reached up, her hands landing on his chest, feeling the heat radiating through his shirt. "Don't tell me to stop. I know you don't want me to."

Jax opened his mouth to argue, to tell her about his wife, about his vows, but the words died in his throat. Stacy. The name felt heavy, like a stone in his gut. It had been four years since he got Stacy pregnant, four years of doing the right thing, and what did he have to show for it? A cold bed.

Misty didn't wait for him to spiral. She kissed him. It was wet and demanding. Jax hesitated for a fraction of a second before his hands came up, gripping her waist, pulling her into him. He backed her up until she hit a stack of crates, pressing his body against hers.

"That's it," she breathed against his mouth. Her hands roamed over his shoulders, down his back, and then around to the front.

She didn't waste time. Her hand slid down the front of his jeans, cupping him through the rough denim. Jax groaned, his head falling back, his eyes squeezing shut. The sensation was overwhelming.

"You want this," she whispered, her voice husky near his ear. "I know you do."

She undid his belt, the buckle jingling in the quiet room. Then the button. Then the zipper.

When her hand slipped inside his boxers and wrapped around him, Jax’s knees nearly buckled. He had to grab the metal shelving unit beside them to stay upright, the steel digging into his palm. Her grip was firm, confident, her skin soft against him. She started to move her hand, a slow, tightening stroke that dragged a ragged gasp from his throat.

"Misty..." he choked out, his hips snapping forward involuntarily.

"I got you," she soothed, picking up the pace. She used her other hand to hold his hip, keeping him pinned against her as she worked him.

It was intense. Too intense. It had been six months since Stacy had touched him, and even then, it had been a transaction—something she did because she wanted him to sign off on a new car loan. This was different. Misty wanted him .

Every stroke sent a shockwave through his system, burning away the frustration. He watched her hand moving, the rhythmic friction driving him toward the edge. He was panting, sweat beading on his forehead.

"That's right," she murmured, watching his face, watching him unravel. "Let go, Jax."

He was close. He was seeing stars. The smell of her perfume and the heat of her hand were the only things in the world. He was ready to forget everything—Stacy, the argument this morning, the loneliness—just to chase this feeling over the edge.

BZZZT.

The radio on his belt screamed, shattering the silence.

"All Maintenance personnel. Major fault on Line 1. All hands on deck. Repeat, Line 1 is down."

The voice was a bucket of ice water.

Jax froze. His body went rigid. Misty’s hand faltered, stopping mid-stroke, but she didn't let go immediately. She looked up at him, eyes wide and dark, lips parted.

"Jax, report," the radio demanded.

Jax scrambled back, pulling away from her touch as if he’d been burned. He fumbled with his jeans, zipping them up with shaking hands, his breath coming in harsh, panting gasps.

"I... I have to go," he stammered, his voice wrecked.

"Jax, wait—" Misty started, reaching for him.

"No!" He grabbed his tool bag, his face burning. He hit the door release and stumbled out into the hallway, back into the noise of the factory.

He walked fast, putting distance between himself and the storage room. But as the cool air of the hallway hit his flushed face, the crushing guilt he expected didn't come.

Instead, a different thought took root.

He touched his belt, steadying his breathing. He was still hard, still aching from where she had touched him.

Why shouldn't I? The thought was a whisper at first, then a shout.

He had spent four years trying to make it work. Four years since the pregnancy test that changed his life. He provided. He worked overtime. And what did he get? A roommate who barely spoke to him and a wife who only touched him when the credit card bill was due.

He wiped the sweat from his forehead. The memory of Misty’s hand on him didn't make him feel sick. It made him feel... wanted.

I'm a man, he told himself, the rhythm of his boots on the concrete matching the new resolve in his chest. I have needs. If Stacy doesn't want me, maybe I'm done begging.

He keyed his radio. "This is Jax. Copy that, Ops. I'm on my way to Line 1."

His voice was steady. He wasn't running away this time. He was just going to work, and for the first time in years, he wasn't thinking about going home.

***

Down the hall, near the row of battered grey lockers outside the women’s bathroom, Tammy and Barb were wasting the last five minutes of their break. They were both wearing blue work smocks, with yellow earplugs dangling around their necks like cheap jewelry.

Tammy was scrubbing a spot of oil off her hand with gritty orange soap when she stopped, nudging Barb with her elbow.

"Don't look now," Tammy whispered, immediately looking. "But here comes Wonder Boy."

Barb leaned against the wall, wiping her hands on a brown paper towel. She watched as Jax strode past them toward Line 1. He was walking fast, head down, adjusting his tool belt with a little too much force. His face was flushed a dark red under his tan, and his hair was messed up in the back.

"He looks like he just ran a marathon," Barb muttered. "Or got chased by a bear."

"Or a cougar," Tammy snickered.

Before Barb could ask what she meant, the heavy steel door to the South Storage corridor creaked open again. Misty stepped out. She paused to check her reflection in the fire extinguisher glass, smoothed her tank top, and then walked casually in the opposite direction.

Barb’s jaw dropped. She tossed the paper towel into the trash can. "No way."

"Way," Tammy said, drying her hands and leaning in close. "Rhonda called in a leak back there ten minutes ago. I heard it on the scanner."

Barb frowned, thinking it through. "South Storage? That’s where the electrical panels are. It's dry storage. There ain't no water pipes back there."

"Exactly," Tammy said, a wicked grin spreading across her face. "And look at Misty. She looks like the cat that just licked the spoon."

Barb looked back down the hall where Jax had disappeared. "Damn. Poor Stacy. She thinks she's got him on a leash, but it looks like the collar just snapped."

"If you ask me," Tammy said, pushing open the door to the factory floor, letting the roar of the machines wash over them, "it looks like he didn't mind snapping it one bit."