Wrangled

“Why would I care if Robby comes or not?” Chad spits back.

Jeremiah and Owen share a look. “Well,” starts Jeremiah, gently pulling the answer out of his sticky, molasses brain, “maybe ‘cause … you two … hate each other’s guts …? And you—”

“I don’t hate no one’s guts.”

“Huh. Alright.” Jeremiah eyes me, then nudges Owen. “Seems like we’re interrupting somethin’. C’mon, Owen.” The guys head back inside, with Owen’s gaze lingering suspiciously on me as they go. The door shuts.

Chad sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. After a moment of thought, he lets out one derisive snort of laughter and shakes his head, annoyed about something.

I lift an eyebrow. “Thought you and Robby were friends, being wrestlers and all.”

“Rivals, more like. A rivalry that went way beyond the mat.” Chad gestures at the door. “And then Jeremiah and Robby sing in the Fellowship choir together, so they’re super tight now.”

“That is one thing I do not miss,” I say with a dark chuckle.

Chad eyes me. “What?”

“All of this small-town drama.”

He gives me a humored look. “You tellin’ me LA is free from drama? You don’t have to deal with testy friendships, lies, secrets, and betrayals?” He smirks. “Hell, even you don’t believe that.”

I picture Salvador eating dinner in my kitchen with Richie.

I picture Salvador snuggling on my couch with Richie.

I picture Salvador in my bed with Richie.

“Okay,” I concede with a labored huff. “Touché. Checkmate.”

An explosion of cheering and noise comes from the other side of the door, muffled and echoing.

Chad and I turn to it, momentarily distracted from each other.

“My guess is that Tanner finally brought in his husband Billy through the front entrance,” mutters Chad. He eyes me. “They’re kinda like local celebs around here, the Tucker-Strongs.”

I stare at that gymnasium door, deadpan, as the muffled noise continues.

It takes everything in me not to roll my eyes.

Tucker-Strong?

They went with a hyphened last name, really?

“Fantastic,” I mumble to myself.

When I look back at Chad, I find him staring at me and looking plenty amused about something.

It doesn’t take long before I ask, “What are you staring at me like that for?”

He shakes his head. “You aren’t the kinda guy who hides what you’re feelin’ from your face, are ya?”

I look away with a shrug. “Tragic character flaw.”

“We all got those.”

“We sure do.” I pick at one of my nails, annoyed.

Chad seems to weigh something over in his head. “So … you wanna go back inside?”

“Not really,” I admit.

“Me neither.”

I lift my eyes to Chad’s.

After a moment, he gives me a chin-lift. “Tell me, Lance, you wanna get the fuck out of this place? Grab a drink? Maybe give you a little chance to see I’m not the … uh … monstrous asshole I was when we were kids?”

“Kids.” I shake my head. “Kids. You keep saying ‘kids’ as if we weren’t grown-up teenagers fully capable of making our own intelligent decisions. As if your terrible behavior was just … just an innocent byproduct of being young and dumb.”

“So is that a no?”

I give a brief, troubled glance at the gymnasium doors. The muffled noise of everyone still cheering and laughing vibrates its very hinges. Soon, the thump of dance music is heard.

I turn back to Chad. “Get me the fuck out of this place.”

4

Just Us Boys

We leave in his truck.

Me. In Chad Landry’s truck.

You know, since I don’t have a vehicle.

I would have bet everything in my LA studio apartment that I wouldn’t end up in a truck Friday night driven by the man who was almost singlehandedly responsible for my childhood traumas.

Blame it on the five reckless cups of spiked punch I downed.

Blame it on what that tight, sleeveless thing he’s wearing does to me.

Blame it on his thick shoulders and toned, muscled arms.

Whatever is to blame, it hooked its devilish talons into me, and I’m now Chad’s passenger—or victim, if you will—driving off into the night to God-knows-where.

Speaking of: “Where are we headed?”

Chad, driving with one hand hanging limp on the steering wheel and the other resting on his lap, shrugs. “Someplace quiet, someplace nice, someplace with a lot of drink-drink.”

“Drink-drink?” I roll my eyes. “I’m not gonna imbibe some backyard moonshine and lose my head the night before my high school reunion. I’ve blacked out at plenty enough parties with my irresponsible west-coast friends to know better.”

Chad snorts and shakes his head. “It ain’t moonshine.”

“I’ll believe it when I taste it.”

The rumble of the road fills our ears, the windows down and the night wind rushing in, cool and refreshing. It’s making a total mess of my hair, but I put my trust in the product I styled it with to keep it in a decent-enough shape for our destination.

Wherever it is.

“We’re way off the main road,” I point out, glancing over my shoulder. “The last streetlight I saw was, like, a mile ago. Do you know where the hell—?”