It was as if Lathe was Angelo’s cat-nip, and Anjelo was Lathe’s whiskey on ice.
Anjelo could feel Lathe’s breath on his face and tried to speak, but nothing would come out.
“That’s usually the way I leave them,” Lathe whispered as he moved closer, “speechless and wanting more.”
Clearly shaken, Anjelo looked up at him, and said, “Don’t…don’t go any further.”
Lathe lifted his hands in surrender. “Sure. I wouldn’t even try. By the time I made my way through all that lace the moment would be lost anyway.”
“You smartass, it’s clear to me now that I’m wasting my time. Goodbye.”
“Look, I’m sorry if I came on too strong, but I’m not kidding. You go out on that street with all that lace, and you’ll never make it home…or wherever it is you’re going.”
“I’ve been walking around all day in these clothes.”
“Not in this neighborhood. And not at night.”
Anjelo hesitated. “Well…”
“Come with me, Anjelo…with a j, and I’ll walk with you a few blocks.”