Chapter 65

“Joaquin,” I told him, “you seem like a nice guy. I got nothing against you and I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I’m having kind of a shitty night.” I’m not saying this was me at my most eloquent, but his trunks were cling-wrap tight—he was the one who put them on display, I was just working with what I’d been given: “If you call me ‘Dickie’ again I’m gonna have to kick those nuts up your neck.”

He laughed. “I hoped you hated it.” Without waiting for an invitation—or perhaps understanding that none was forthcoming—he sauntered into my room and plopped his little butt onto the edge of the unmade bed. “I don’t love ‘Quinoa,’ but now I see I got lucky.” I bristled, but only briefly; he was carrying two beers, and when he handed one to me I was instantly more grateful than grouchy. “You don’t really strike me as the type who’d choose to go through life as a ‘Dickie.’”