Chapter 5 - The Midnight Workshop
Sage’s apartment was located above a dusty industrial supply warehouse on the industrial side of town, about three blocks from the plant where we both worked. It wasn't much—two rooms with exposed brick walls, a kitchenette stacked high with machining trade magazines, and a workbench in the living room where Sage spent his weekends tinkering with custom firearm components and miniature steam engines. He tossed me a spare set of brass keys that jingled on a braided steel ring. “Couch pulls out,” Sage said, kicking off his boots and tossing his flannel shirt over the back of a battered leather armchair. “There’s fresh towels in the bathroom, and if you touch my lathe without cleaning up the metal shavings afterward, I will personally throw your duffel bag out the window.” “Thanks, Sage,” I said, dropping my bag onto the worn Persian rug near the kitchenette. “Don't mention it. Literally. If anyone asks, you’re crashing here because your heater broke and you’re too proud to call a repairman.” Sage walked over to the small refrigerator, pulled out two bottles of dark amber ale, and tossed one across the room. I caught it reflexively by the neck. We sat in silence for a few minutes, listening to the hum of a distant freight train rumbling along the tracks near the river. The adrenaline from the confrontation at the Thanksgiving table was beginning to fade, leaving behind a dull, throbbing ache in my temples and a sharp, crystalline focus in my mind. “So,” Sage said, leaning back in his armchair and popping the cap off his beer with an old bottle opener shaped like a wrench. “They took the Harley. They took the fourteen grand in savings. What about the shop job?” “I’m still on the Monday morning roster,” I said, taking a slow sip of the cold ale. “Doyle doesn't have any pull at the main manufacturing plant. He runs a third-rate body shop on the south side; our plant is heavy industrial CNC fabrication. He can't touch my paycheck unless I sign it over to him—which, as it turns out, I am no longer in the habit of doing.” A slow, wolfish grin spread across Sage’s weathered face. “Good. Because Monday morning, we’re making a phone call.” “To who?” “To Marcus Vance.” I blinked. Marcus Vance was the senior plant manager at our facility—a notoriously strict, no-nonsense veteran engineer who despised office politics, nepotism, and family drama more than he despised broken drill bits. He also happened to be heading up the new automated machining division opening in the spring—a project that came with a thirty-percent pay bump, a dedicated workshop space, and a direct line to corporate headquarters in Chicago. “Vance hates dealing with personal drama,” I said cautiously. “If I walk into his office talking about my parents stealing my savings—” “You don't talk about your parents,” Sage interrupted, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “You talk about asset security. Vance has been trying to weed out unsecured liabilities across the plant workforce for six months. Ever since that kid in assembly got his wages garnished because his uncle used his social security number to buy a bass boat, Vance has been paranoid about external financial interference compromising employee focus.” Sage took a swig of his beer and pointed the bottle at me. “You walk in there on Monday morning with a clean slate. No shared accounts, no joint mortgages, no familial entanglements. You tell him you’re ready to relocate, ready to take on the lead CNC programmer certification, and ready to sign an exclusive non-disclosure and asset-protection rider.” I stared at him, the pieces of a new puzzle clicking into place in my head. For three years, I had let my parents anchor me to that house, convincing myself that loyalty meant enduring financial bleeding. They had severed that anchor themselves when they sold my bike and emptied my savings. They hadn't left me stranded; they had unmoored me. And an unmoored ship could go anywhere. “And what about Harper’s house?” I asked quietly. Sage let out a short, harsh laugh. “What about it? Without your seven-fifty credit score and your signature as a co-signer, that mortgage broker on Weller Road is going to pull their pre-approval faster than a misfiring piston. Harper and Nico are going to realize that a part-time barista salary and a warehouse gig don't qualify for a quarter-million-dollar house on charm alone.” I thought of Harper’s flushed, panicked face when she begged me to sign the papers. I thought of Doyle standing over the Thanksgiving table, radiating arrogant certainty that I would crawl back by midnight. They thought I was dependent on them. They had no idea how much money I had been quietly funneling into their household while starving my own ambitions. Without my monthly seven hundred and fifty dollars, without my grocery money, without my utility contributions, Doyle’s budget for that house was going to implode by Christmas. I set my beer bottle down on the coffee table, the glass clinking softly against the wood. “Let them try to close on Monday,” I said.
TITLE: The Price of a Signature
