Page 247

I don’t want to be the dude who can’t hang with the scene, or with the bodies, or the money.

But I am also done.

“I want to leave.”

“Thank God.”

He’s on his feet before the words are fully out, his chair scratching along the floor. Alby doesn’t even look over when we slip down the stairs.

The air hits me like an apology. I bend over with both hands on my knees and breathe until the blue light is behind us and the door to Wet stays closed.

“Is an Irish exit acceptable in this situation?”

Paul looks back at the club. “Not really.”

Then he looks at me, and whatever irritated, polished thing was holding his face together finally breaks.

He laughs. I laugh too, too hard and too loud, because escaping a dick market with your maybe-boyfriend is funny once you’re on the other side of it.

“We should get out of here before one of them finishes,” Paul says.

“Gross.”

“But true.”

We take a different route back. Paul cuts through unknown streets, walking fast enough that I have to hurry to keep up.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I guess I’m not ready for the full gay scene.”

“That wasn’t the gay scene.” His answer comes quick. “That was the Alby-and-Brad show. I can’t believe I forgot what assholes they are.”

I bump his arm. “At least I had my papi to protect me.”

Paul nearly stops walking, then he laughs. “Absolutely not.”

I grin. “Too soon?”

“Too never.”

“Okay, Pauly.”

“That may be worse.”

He keeps walking.

“We should get home,” he says. “Forget the night happened.”

“Yeah,” I say.

The streets rise toward the house, dark and steep and familiar now. I stay close behind him.

Home sounds good.

Forgetting sounds harder.

Chapter forty

Happy Birthday