Chapter 3

I wave at the cowboy: upraised right arm, flick of wrist. Maybe the wave is too feminine. Damn. “Umby, you’re faithful until your end. I know this.”

“Fuck you,” he says.

The cowboy can’t hear our chatter. Thank God.

Jobe places the two bags of groceries in the truck’s shade, semi-beneath the driver’s door. He crosses the street and steps up to our twosome. He tips his cream-colored Stetson cowboy hat, proving he’s a gentleman. “It’s damn hot today, boys.”

I about die when he pulls his T-shirt off. Things happen between my legs that shouldn’t happen on a summer afternoon. I die and go to heaven. Jobe Rider is some kind of beautiful angel who has been dropped out of the clouds for my personal use.

Umby says, “It’s almost one hundred out.”

“Feels like back home,” Jobe replies, holding his balled-up shirt in his left hand.