"On camera."
"Yep."
"Your father's going to see it."
"I know."
Three steps. Shoes echoing on concrete.
"That was a clean pass," he said.
"Thanks."
"I mean the one to the media."
I looked at him, and he looked back at me. The hallway was empty in both directions.
"I'm done managing," I said.
"Yeah," he smiled. "I noticed."
We took his car. Eleven minutes. Neither of us spoke.
He shouldered the front door open against the humidity. Dark apartment. Alley light striping the floor. The city glowed through uncurtained windows.
His keys hit the counter. My jacket landed on the hook beside his.
Heath loosened his crooked tie. Pulled it over his head without untying it. Dropped it on the counter.
"Beer first?" he asked.
"No."
"Good answer."
He crossed the kitchen. He held my face in both hands and kissed me with the focused intensity of a man who'd been thinking about it since the first period.
I kissed him back. Pulled him closer by the belt loops. His hips pressed against mine. We were both hard.
Heath pulled back momentarily.
"I have something," he said.
"Okay."
"In the bedroom. I bought it last week. Don't make it weird."
"You haven't told me what it is yet."
"Right. So. Don't make it weird in advance."
He led me down the hallway.
Heath opened the nightstand drawer and pulled out a matte black bag, tasteful, the packaging designed to communicateadults purchase things here and that's fine.He set the contents on the bed with the matter-of-fact efficiency of someone unpacking stick tape.
Lube. The good kind, not the travel-size hotel afterthought we'd been making do with. And beside it, a silicone plug. Dark blue. Modest. Tapered in a way that suggested someone had read the reviews with the same diligence he brought to scouting reports.
"I did homework," he said.
