Chapter 9

Jobe walks into his grandfather’s house. It’s not really an appropriate time to study his jeans-covered ass, but I can’t resist, unable to control my attraction to him. Shame on me. Will I everlearn when to be less of a Neanderthal?

To my surprise, approximately twenty minutes after Jobe’s arrival on Shelton Street, he ends up on my doorstep just as the blue-purple-orange sun is about to completely set over the city. He taps on the screen door’s aluminum frame three times.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Kasey isn’t at home. He’s probably out screwing around, fucking some stranger in a queer bar’s dirtybathroom, so I get the door.

“Parker,” Jobe says my name, semi-smiling.

“Jobe.” I check him out from toes to head. “Thank God you’re alive.” I pause for a second and begin to ramble, “How are you feeling? I saw on the news that you were in an accident.”

“Beer,” he whispers, sounding depleted. “I need a beer and this stoop.”

“Two beers and a stoop coming right up. I’ll be out in a second.”