Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 798(@200wpm)___ 638(@250wpm)___ 532(@300wpm)
You’d think finding out Isaac is gay would bring us closer, and instead, I think I like him less now.
He laughs and makes a gesture of zipping his lips. “I see, I see. Looking forward to officially meeting him tonight. I’m really happy for you even if the issue with the Butchers isn’t over. Just keep us civilians posted.”
“You’ll be the first to know if something happens,” I tell him, wondering if that unsettled feeling at the pit of my stomach is me being uncomfortable with talking about gay sex to anyone but Clyde, or if Isaac is being creepy. Guys talk shit about women all the time, so why should it surprise me gay men would discuss their potential partners the same way? But it does. It felt as if he’s sprung it on me out of nowhere, trying to work out what I like, and if our taste is compatible. Which it is not.
I like good head like every other guy, but it’s disrespectful to talk about Clyde’s potential skill at it when we’re discussing him being my fiancé. Not to mention that comment about rough sex and younger guys, many of whom might not exactly know what they want yet. I’ve been there. I know.
It’s nothing new, really, plenty wannabe Casanovas around, but this whole conversation has left me feeling like I’ve fingered a stranger and forgot to wash my hands after.
There’s not much left to say, we share a few more words about the bikes, the Butchers in general, and I’m off.
But when I pass a large van with one side cut out, I spot the teens from earlier. They’re hanging out inside it, on sun chairs and a few large pillows. They’re drinking something that could be pop but probably has added booze.
I’m headed home, to Clyde, and I still have a lot to deal with once he makes a list of things he needs, but the niggling feeling in my stomach becomes a ringing alarm and I circle back.
“Hey kid,” I call out, zeroing in on the boy who all but came out to me earlier. He pokes his chest, as if not believing I’m wasting my precious time on him, but when I nod, he rises to his feet and walks my way, watched by several pairs of eyes.
As he approaches, I’m stuck wrestling the thought that maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing. I’ve never once heard anyone gossiping about Isaac, and he is not known for hanging out with any kids either. Some guys are just bad about feeling out the audience for their sex jokes, so maybe Isaac’s only crime was assuming I’ll be happy to hear about his sexual preferences? Or maybe not. There was that guy five years ago who liked to talk big about his sexual fantasies, and he turned out to be a creep for real. Bastard snuck into some teenage girl’s room at night, after convincing her he was in love with her. Am I a hypocrite for being more worried about a boy, just because I used to be him? Maybe. Either way, I’d rather blow on cold food than burn my lips.
Big eyes stare at me in attention from under the floppy bangs. “Yes?”
I put my hand on his shoulders and look straight back at him, to convey that my message is serious. A bit of fear won’t hurt him. “This is just between you and me. Your ears only, understood?”
His pupils widen and he nods like one of those dolls with bobble heads. “Yes. Of course. A hundred percent.”
“Good. You know Isaac, the mechanic?” When the kid nods, I go on. “Don’t hang out with him. Especially not solo. Can you do that for me?”
He opens his mouth, and I can almost hear the ‘why?’, but he’s smart enough to hold it in. “Y-yes. Sure.”
“Good.” I ruffle his hair and shove him back to his friends who watch on like hawks. Or vultures for that matter, eager to get their lump of rotting-flesh-gossip, but I have a feeling the kid will do as told and keep his mouth shut. I’m about to walk off when the teen clears his throat.
“Will Clyde Turner be at the bonfire later?”
I keep myself from grinning and nod before hurrying toward the canteen. Fifteen minutes later, I’m climbing my hill with sandwiches for us both. So many issues occupy my thoughts and demand attention that the buzzing of the telephone in my pocket feels like an intrusion, but I pick up the call anyway.
“Hello?”
“Roadkill. That’s what you’ll be soon.” A deep voice I know but can’t place.
“You’re too late, jokester. That’s how they already call me,” I say and sit on a mossy trunk, because I’m not going home until this conversation is over.
“It’s Grizzly, you fuck. And I’m calling you, not Prophet, because we all know Clyde is your call. You saw what he did to Puck. You need to hand him over. And yes, this is a threat.”