Chapter 7

Fumbling with his wallet, CJ tried to extract

his driver’s license but his fingers trembled and refused to work.

His eyes stung, his throat burned, he wanted to take his board and

go home. “Damn it,” he muttered, yanking at his license. The thin

plastic was caught in the billfold and he couldn’t seem to get it

free. His friends’ laughter only made things worse. Beneath his

breath, he mumbled, “You know I need to ditch them, right? I’m not…

this isn’t really me…”

A warm hand closed over his, and CJ blinked

back tears of embarrassment as he looked up at Richard.

Surprisingly, the guy was smilingat him, CJ couldn’t

imagine why. Unless he was laughing, too. But then, in a soft

voice, he asked, “Want to go for a ride?” When CJ didn’t reply, he

winked. “Don’t worry. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to. You

said you liked the car?”

CJ nodded. Richard’s hand squeezed his and

the trembling in his fingers stopped. “Want to take her for a spin

then?”

He believes in me,CJ thought, that’s

the main thing. Richard believes in him, no matter what anyone else

seems to do or say or think. Take the jerks on the bus—they all

thought he was going to cause trouble. Or the shoppers here, they

look at him like he’s a brazen thief just waiting for his chance to

jump someone. If the police tape wasn’t up, at least he could skate

on the pipe for a bit, away from the traffic and the whispers and

the stares. He considers jumping the tape—there’s no real reason

for it to be here anyway, not that he can tell—but he knows there’s

a cop around here somewhere, casing the lot, waiting for a punk kid

like himself to start up on the pipe so the badge could bust some

ass after lunch.

So CJ guides his board away from the pipe and

onto the sidewalk that runs the length of the strip mall. The

midday shoppers steer clear of him, keeping a wide berth. A handful

of little kids gawk as he passes, two teenaged girls giggle, an old

man hollers after him to watch it, kiddo. CJ iswatching it,

though. These people don’t appreciate the fact that he swerves to

avoid them, he doesn’t hit anyone, he skates like a pro and no one

notices. How much longer until Richard shows up? With the pipe off

limits, what the hell is he supposed to do to kill the next half

hour?

* * * *

At 12:50 CJ notices the two boarders by

Harrison’s EXIT doors. He’s been skating away from the store just

to keep out of the flow of traffic or he might have seen them

sooner. Two boys of indeterminable age—they look young but then

again, CJ’s learned that most skaters look young, regardless of how

old they are. He himself looks twelve on a good day, and he’ll be

able to drink legally in another six months. The first time Richard

ever kissed him, in the car after their third date, he actually

didcheck CJ’s license, just to make sure he was of age. “I

believe you,” he said as he reached around CJ to tuck his wallet

back into his pants. The angle was wrong, though, and Richard only

succeeded in dropping it to the floor. When he reached for it, he

ended up in CJ’s lap, which was right where they both wanted him to

be. “I just don’t want to get in trouble, you know?” he murmured,

kissing the hollow of CJ’s throat—his flannel shirt had come

unbuttoned somehow, and Richard’s hands were slipping into his

pants. “You sure as hell don’t looknineteen—”

“Shh,” CJ purred then, silencing him

with a kiss. Thinking of it now makes him hungry for his lover. How

much longer does he have to wait until Richard shows up? Maybe he

can talk him into taking the rest of the day off from work. CJ

doesn’t want to go back to the empty apartment alone. He could call

Richard this afternoon, but if someone else comes into his guy’s

office, then he’ll disappear again. He hates that shit. Sometimes

he wishes neither of them had to work.

But he still has a few minutes so to pass the

time, he heads over to the other two skaters. He doesn’t know who

they are but they have boards, right? One of them wears a bandanna

over his head, pirate style, hiding his hair. He stands against the

wall as if he’s the only thing holding it up, one foot propped back

against the bricks, cigarette dangling from his lips. His

skateboard rests at his feet and he watches CJ approach with an

unreadable expression on his smooth face. His friend is too busy

trying to grind off the curb to notice CJ or any of the shoppers

who have to dodge his board when it skitters across the pavement

away from him. This boy has short, thick dreadlocks, and when he

bends to retrieve his board, CJ sees kanji letters tattooed on the

back of his neck. The two kids wear a ragtag assortment of clothes,

baggy pants with torn knees, dark T-shirts with logos from

skateboard companies like Spitfire and Ebola—the one with the

dreads has a sweatshirt tied around his waist and his friend wears

a dingy long-sleeved thermal shirt beneath his tee. Skating over to

them, CJ brakes and flips the board up into his hands. The guy with

the headband notices the board and nods. “Nice deck,” he says.