“Sorry, can’t stay long. Did you get my text? About the—”
“Shit, everyone’s too busy for the boy.”
“Sorry—”
“Just playing. I got you.”
When Niño returned from the kitchen, he had an open bottle in one hand and a Ziploc in the other. “These look about right?”
Emmett inspected the three injector pens in the bag: missing their original packaging, but virtually identical to the ones he’d previously received from Halleck. The only difference was the dosage on these was higher. “These are the ones. Where’d you get them?”
“Shit, I’m not sure I can reveal my sources.”
“But you’re sure they’re legit?”
“Double- and triple-checked.”
“How much do I owe you?”
Niño sucked in through his teeth, a gesture Emmett interpreted as bad news. “I can do you a deal since you’re family, but we’re still looking at, fuck, at least ten grand.”
“What?But you said—”
“That was before I knew what we were dealing with. A product like this? I have a few friends at the Del Mar Country Club, I could get three times that, easy.”
“The most I can do is three.”
“Sorry, bro. Wish there was something I could do.”
Emmett briefly seethed, violence flashing white-hot across his mind and dissipating, like a sugar craving defied.
“Fine.” He turned toward the door.
“You leaving already?”
Emmett stopped, sensing something unspoken in Niño’s tone.
He spun, twisting his head, surprised to find his brother’s best friend—Emmett’s boyhood crush since before he knew he was gay—tracing Emmett’s body up and down with his eyes. Chewing his pink, sun-kissed lip, as if to prevent them from spilling secrets.
Emmett grinned.
“You know what?” he said. “I think I will take that beer.”
He walked past Niño into the small, fifties-style kitchen. The decades-old Frigidaire was nearly empty. Corona, orange juice, a Styrofoam takeout container.
Bending down to grab a bottle, Emmett sensed a presence behind him.
A tumescent warmth nestled against his crack.
He smirked. Uncapped the bottle. Drank as hot breath filled his ear. With a backward look, he invited more.
Niño’s hands, unsure but unable to resist, rose to unbutton Emmett’s jeans, unzip his fly. His jeans fell around his ankles.
Silently, Niño dropped to his knees. Emmett stiffened in the cold breeze of the fridge as Niño buried his face between his cheeks.
Perhaps it was inevitable. Niño had always been friendlier than he needed to be. Chris used to give him a hard time about it when they were teenagers, the way he encouraged Emmett, invited him to tag along. Had he sensed something that Emmett hadn’t?
“Stand up.”
