“What was that about?” he asked.
Morgan shrugged offhandedly. “Just reminding you I’m not your maiden aunt since you seem to have forgotten.”
The irritation flickered but hung on as Boyd shook his head. “I was keeping it casual,” he said as he pushed himself off Morgan’s chest. “That’s what you wanted, right? Asshole.”
Not exactly. Morgan wanted casual, but Boyd was meant to want more than that.
“Yeah, well, that’s the point, isn’t it,” Morgan grumbled as Boyd climbed off the bed. He watched as Boyd grabbed his T-shirt and impatiently dragged it on. “No way I’m this kid. I bet he’d never be a jerk, right?”
Boyd raked his hair back from his face with both hands. He looked exasperated. “He was my friend,” he said. “My best friend. I loved him. But yeah, he could be an asshole. We were eight. Asshole was built in. If you want to prove you’re not Sammy, there’s better ways than trying to be such a jackass that nobody wants you to be. Call your mom. Your school. Your Boy Scout troop leader. Talk to Shay. Or don’t. Do what you want. It’s not my job to make you into anyone else.”
“Do you want to?” Morgan asked.
“Right now?” Boyd asked as his eyebrows shot up. “Not the time to ask.”
He grabbed his keys and first aid from the dresser and stalked toward the door. Morgan tried to hold his tongue but couldn’t quite manage it.
“What was he like?” he asked. “Sammy. Other than an asshole sometimes?”
Boyd paused with his hand on the door. It took a second, but he finally answered.
“Funny. Mean sometimes. Loyal,” he said. He dipped his chin and added with a laugh, “Shorter than me.”
“Was he missed?”
Boyd took a deep breath and let it out as he looked over his shoulder. “Still is.”
He left. Just like Morgan wanted. The bitter taste in his mouth was just because… well, there was no way he was Sammy Calloway. He knew that already, but the proof was still a tough pill to swallow.
People still missed Sammy, still loved him. Boyd did, even with the smell of Morgan’s sweat still on his skin.
Morgan kicked the sheets down the bed and rubbed his hand over his stomach. His gut ached uncomfortably, and he wished Boyd had stayed to fight with him. When he was out of their lives, people only gave Morgan a second thought if he’d stolen their wallet out the door. No one ever lost sleep over him when he was a kid.
Just call someone? Like anybody in Morgan’s life cared enough to remember he’d even been there, never mind send him to Scouts.
He folded his arm over his face and closed his eyes. The light stayed on. It always did if he had a choice.
In some ways it wouldn’t be so bad to be Sammy Calloway, he thought wistfully, but he knew better. It would be like every foster home that seemed okay, every teacher who seemed interested. They’d realize the truth about who he was, what he was, and then it was over. Back to shitty real life.
Maybe not Boyd, some shit-stupid, hope-springs-eternal part of him clung to. But yeah, even Boyd. Sooner or later. That was the thing about the truth—you couldn’t get away from it.
With that idea chewed loose, his brain was finally quiet enough to let him go to sleep.
A 1969E-series Plymouth Road Runner with a custom candy-apple black-cherry paint job. Twenty grand on the hoof, more if you had the right buyer on the line, and just parked on the curb outside the body shop as though it couldn’t be hot-wired and away in two minutes.
Morgan pulled his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose so he could check out the car. The gloss of the red-black paint was so high that the car looked sticky, like red candy.
He still wanted to touch it.
It hadn’t been difficult to find Shay, even if Boyd forgot to give him the number—not that many Calloways in town, and only one Gear Heads Body Shop on the books.
Morgan could have called. The phone number was on the website too, but that…. It was too many steps. He’d have to call, leave a message, wait for a callback, arrange a meeting, and somewhere in there, he’d flake out. It was better to just turn up, put Shay at the disadvantage.
That was the plan, at least, until he saw a ticket all the way to Mexico just left on the street like a common street car.
Morgan skimmed his fingers along the baby-smooth curve of the bumper as he walked around the Road Runner and peered in through the smoked-glass windows. Someone had done that themselves, and the tinted film had scraped and started to peel at the corners. Morgan could still see the old black leather upholstery and stripped-back minimalist dashboard.
“You like cars?” Shay asked from the other side of the car.
