Authors Note: Okay here's the disclaimer. This story is a weird one, even for me. So I warning you beforehand. Some aspects of this story are just plain flat out unbelievable. It won't seem that way at first, but it will get that way so if you're looking for a realistic depiction of a marriage, this ain't it. I think it's a good story never the less though. Also I'm really sorry but to give you a true look into the characters this story is longer than my usual so I had to break it into two parts. The conclusion will run next week, it is finished, but just too big for one week. Lastly most of the first part does read like a traditional LW story until you get to the end. the first part is mostly set up with the pay off coming in the conclusion. Okay my conscience is clear, you've been warned.
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They always say that the third times the charm. I guess I'm hoping that's true. It works in manufacturing. I make my living as a Manufacturing Engineer. I specialize in CNC programming and set up, but I also work with Robotic and CMM applications. I generally run a program three times before I hand it over to the operators. The first time is to just get the bugs out of the program. I kind of expect the parts to be out of tolerance.
I measure the parts, then check the dimensions against the print and make changes in my work coordinate offsets. Then I run the program again. I always expect the second time to give me good parts. Sometimes though, unforeseen things can go wrong. The third time through a program has rarely ever failed to give me good parts. I'm hoping the same thing can be said of my life.
I look at the slumbering form in the seat next to me. Her head is turned towards me and her pretty face is covered by a curtain of dark hair. I'm trying to avoid looking into the cavernous cleavage that her deep V-neck sweater reveals. I don't know what the future will hold for us and honestly, I don't care. I'm sure that we'll face a number of hurdles and challenges. We might not even end up together. But one thing for sure is that whatever we end up doing it'll be better than what we left behind.
The steady thrumming of my Mustang's powerful 5.0 liter V8 is like the passing of the blood through my system. The engine's powerful breaths help to ease the tension in my body and let the adrenaline drain out of my bloodstream now that the need for fight or flight is over.
Long before the sun comes up, I pull into one of those comfy looking little motels that are scattered all over the Midwestern Region of the U.S.
I check in and give the tired looking old lady behind the counter my payment for the next two days, in cash. She gives me a key and points towards one of the freshly painted bungalows.
Returning to the car, I pull into a parking spot in front of the unit without waking my companion. She continues to sleep as I unload the trunk. We've both travelled lightly, with only two bags between us.
She barely makes a sound as I lift her from the car. I lift her with one arm supporting her back and the other under her knees, perhaps it's a reflex as her arms go around my neck. I carry her into the room and notice finally that the room came with only one bed. I place her gently on it and cover her up. Perhaps it's a habit, when I kiss her on her forehead before returning to the trunk, but it's not a habit I've developed with her. It's the first time that I've kissed her in any way, though I've always wanted to.
I pull a small cloth bag out of the trunk and remove the car's cover from it. It's supposed to be sunny tomorrow, but I'm covering the car to keep it from being seen. I'll tell anyone who asks, that it's to protect my custom orange paint from sun damage, but the reality of the situation is that we're on the run. Not from the police or the authorities but from...Nah you'd never believe me unless I start from the beginning.
My name is Preston Collins, and as I said before I'm a manufacturing engineer. I'm not one of those useless white collar wearing, project management, who never get their hands dirty types of engineers. You know, the ones who get on the right committee, and oversee the development of a community access team, or organize the company's youth outreach program. We all know that those guys and their high salaries for things that don't directly impact the product, are part of the reason that cars cost so much these days.
I'm a throwback to the old days. I program CNC machines and Robotic systems. I program CMM machines for quality control systems. I edit, modify, design and fabricate anything we need to get the job done and keep the company in the black.
Since before I could walk I've been taking things apart and putting them back together. 200 years ago I'd have been a blacksmith. 100 years ago I'd have been a craftsman. 50 years ago I'd have been a machinist. This morning however, I'm a fugitive from a psychopath with murderous intentions. Because of the internet and modern tech, she can find me in an instant if I'm not careful. She just has to put an update on her Facebook page, asking if anyone has seen a custom orange Mustang GTR with wide white side stripes, matching orange brake calipers, cross drilled and slotted rotors, and all of the glass blacked out.
She'd probably get five or six tweets on her twitter page from every town I blow through. She plots the tweets on a map, and has a pretty good idea of where I'm going, and can probably get there or have someone else there waiting for me.
Five years ago, I was fresh from U of M engineering. I had a few credits and projects from Lawrence Tech as well. The problem was that I was so new the ink hadn't dried on my degree yet, so no one wanted to take a chance on me.
I finally got a break, just before my money ran out, when I interviewed for an up and coming manufacturing concern. Runaway Technologies, was owned by Sam Stevenson, and they made a lot of different suspension components for several different auto companies. They also made superior components for a few aftermarket companies.
Old man Stevenson took me under his wing, and taught me how to apply all of my theoretical knowledge that I'd obtained in school to the real world. After a couple of years of soaking up everything he could give me, we started modernizing and increased the business even further.
Some of the old line guys who worked there, hated me on sight. After all, some of them had been there for years and I just swooped in from nowhere, and over the course of 24 months become the obvious heir apparent. Nowhere was this made clearer than by the fact that when Stevenson's wayward daughter returned home after flunking out in college, we were practically forced together in a very short period of time.
Sam came in one morning while, I was going over the prints for a new line of control arms we would soon be making for one of our after market clients. I was meeting with all of the department heads of our various areas. The products looked so good that I'd agreed to try them out on my own Mustang. Anyway Sam walked into my meeting, looked over my desk, and told me that it was time I had an assistant of my own, to watch over my interests and keep me organized. I needed someone new who could grow with me and not resent the changes I was bringing.
That second part about not resenting change, was directed at the group of managers I was addressing. The part about needing an assistant was directed at me. He then told me that he'd already hired her and she'd be there the next day. The facilities group was moving me into a bigger office near his where I'd have a separated office from my assistant, so she could screen visitors for me. Needless to say some of the managers didn't take too kindly to that. The floor guys, were looking at it as if I was becoming an office drone, who'd simply be swamped with paperwork, and wouldn't have a clue of what we actually did. The office drones, were looking at it as if some grease monkey with dirty fingernails, was going to be invading their workspace trying to tell them what to do. It was the worst of both worlds.
The next morning Sam came in, dragging a very disinterested young woman with him. Her manner, bearing and posture all spoke volumes about exactly how much she loathed being there. I found out from several of the guys on the floor that she was his daughter. She had apparently just returned home after having been expelled from another college. She had a host of problems with schools and other issues as well. The general consensus was that she was "Nucking Futs." Apparently Sam had decided that she should try working instead of academia and I was supposed to be her new baby sitter.
I spent as much time as I could on operations on the floor, avoiding the inevitable return to the office for the meeting that I dreaded. Eventually I could put it off no longer and headed for my office.
"Hey Press," said Sam, as I walked into the office. "I'd like you to meet your new assistant, Charlotte. I noticed that he didn't give a last name, but in a couple of seconds it no longer mattered, nothing did.
She was about 5'3" and slim, with an obviously enhanced rack. Her red hair was drawn back away from her face in an attempt to appear professional. Her eyes were large and green, and luminous. Her lipstick or lip gloss or whatever she had on those lips just made me want to chew on them. The overall impression I got from her was that she was only being contrite long enough for Daddy to get over whatever she'd just done, and then she'd be off on her next adventure.
She did take a hard look at me, and her gaze lingered on me for just a shade longer than necessary. Her hands as we shook hands were soft and so warm that I expected them to start smoking at any second. Again she maintained the contact for a little bit longer than I thought necessary, and her smile had broadened a tiny bit when she let go.
Something happened though when we locked eyes. It was as if a switch was tripped that opened up all sorts of possibilities.
"Well, I guess I'll let you two get acquainted," said Sam. "Press, is everything alright on the floor?"
"Yep," I replied. "We're wearing out inserts faster than we should on the Miller job. So it's going to cost us a bit more than we expected by the time we get to 5000 pieces. But that's my problem, not something you have to worry about. If I haven't solved it by the 5000 piece mark, I'll re-quote the rest of the job. It's minor but it would reduce our profit margin by about 2 percent. I really believe their castings are actually harder than the specs they sent us. I think their castings came from Mexico so their metallurgical studies are suspect. We could reduce the feed rates by tweaking the program but that might cost us an extra 10 or fifteen seconds per part."
"Alright, you can handle that," said Sam, shaking his head. "If you need any help, I'll be in my second office. I should be in conference until about 2:30, with a follow up therapy session after that." I just smiled and nodded my head.
Charlotte took that opportunity to tap me on the shoulder. "Why, is 15 seconds a problem?" she asked.
I turned to face her so I could answer her question. As she looked at me again I was just stunned. "Uhm, it's 15 seconds per part," I said. "in this initial production run of these parts we're only running 5000 parts to see if the quote we gave them was accurate or not. 15 seconds times 5000 parts, is about 2 and a half days, since we're only running one shift on this project. If we're two and a half days late delivering the parts, our customers aren't going to be happy. Also if we tried a faster shipping option, we'd have to pay a lot more, which would again cut into our profit margin."
"Do you wear glasses?" she asked.
"Contacts," I said.
"I knew it," she replied. "You're a nerd. I like nerds. They're smart, and very creative. I think I'm going to enjoy working with you. I can think of all kinds of ways to use that creativity."
I really didn't know what to say. So I just went into my office. There were several things I needed to organize. I decided to have an impromptu meeting to discuss the Miller job.
"Charlotte, can you get all of the managers together for a quick meeting?" I asked her.
