It might even be true.

  And then, when the next Saturday rolls around, there’s the proof.

  It’s a beautiful day. Warm, smelling like the lilac bushes blooming a few houses over, the sun high in a clear sky. We’ve got the garage door open, and Gray’s car is up on a jack, and I’m on a creeper underneath, trying to get the oil drain plug to come out.

  “Whoever did this last time was a jackass,” I say as I put some shoulder into it. “I swear to God, they did a bad job on purpose.”

  “That’s because I pay a high school dropout twenty dollars to do it for me,” Gray says. I can only see his sneakers and joggers; he’s sitting on one of Gran’s totes, even though I told him he could go inside while I did this. “So that I can spend my Saturday with my boyfriend.”

  “You are spending your Saturday with—ah, got you, motherfucker.”

  He’s trying to sound like Gran when he says, “Sammy, your language!”

  “It doesn’t count if it’s when you’re working on a car.”

  I slide the pan into place, pop the plug free, and as the oil begins to drain, I slide out on the creeper. Gray’s still sitting there, watching me like he’s the creeper, only now he gets a huge smile.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’ve got grease on your nose.”

  “Well, shit. Hand me that shop towel.”

  He picks up a clean towel from the pile and hands it to me. I wipe my nose and look at him.

  “Much better,” Gray says. “Also super butch. And extremely hot.”

  I wad up the towel and pitch it at him, and he darts out of its path.

  “What now?” Gray asks.

  “Gotta wait for it to finish draining.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yep. Hold on.” I roll the creeper back a few inches because I don’t like where I put the pan, and as I shift it, the garage door starts to go down.

  “Put it back up,” I tell him. “I need the light.”

  But instead, there’s movement near my feet, and then Gray’s hands on my legs. “I know this is insane, but something about these coveralls is driving me crazy.” He slides me free from under the car and reaches for my zipper. “Stay right there. You don’t have to do anything. I don’t want you to do anything.”

  I laugh and move his hands away. “I’m in the middle of something.”

  “I know, and my balls are going to explode from watching you.”

  “If we start now, we’re going to be messing around all day.”

  “Perfect. Love that plan.”

  “Oh no,” I say, and I move his hands away again. I even manage to sit up a little and give him a look. “I’ve got to finish this, and then we’ve got to move your car so Gran can park in here when she gets back. Besides, you shouldn’t start something unless you plan on finishing it.” I almost say that’s what Dad says, but I don’t.

  “Trust me: we’re both going to finish.”

  When he paws at me again, I say, “Go inside, horn dog. Have something to drink. I’ll be in when I finish.”

  He’s pretending to scowl at me as he stands. “You know, a lot of guys would love having their boyfriends get frisky with them like this.”

  “That’s good information,” I say. “Now go inside.”

  He actually stops at the door to look back. He’s not exactly pouting, but there’s something, the tiniest hint, like he’s been spoiled before and isn’t sure he likes the change. And then he goes inside.

  While the oil finishes draining, I get the new filter, the new oil, everything else I’m going to need. I open the garage door again because I wasn’t joking; I do need the light. And then, when it’s done, I get back on the creeper, put the plug in again, and stare up at the underbelly of the car.

  He’s not mad. At least, not really. Gray likes acting like that. A little like a kid who doesn’t get his way. Not at WISP, of course. Not even at work, not usually. But he likes teasing. And he likes being teased.

  So, he’s not actually upset. He’s not angry.

  But then, I think, I’m sitting out here in the garage. Alone. Just like Dad.

  I get out from under the car, wipe my hands on a fresh shop towel, and head inside. The house is warm. It smells like the curry Gray brought for lunch—as payment, he kept saying, even though he doesn’t need to pay me. He does sweet things like that. He’s thoughtful. He’s so fucking hot, I think, that sometimes none of this seems real. And that’s the thing I’ve got to remember. He can have anybody he wants, and he picked you for some reason. So, you’d better get it right. Or you’re going to be right back out in that fucking garage.

  I unzip the coveralls as I go, push them down to my waist. I’m wearing a plain white tee underneath, but it feels like I’m naked without that extra layer of padding. Like I can feel the air moving against my chest.

  He’s in the kitchen, opening a beer over the sink, and I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist. He leans back into me, his head coming to rest against mine, and he rocks slightly, so our bodies are moving in rhythm.

  “Hey,” he says. “That’s a nice surprise.”

  I kiss his neck.

  He makes a soft, happy sound and puts the beer down, and the glass clicks on the countertop. When I slide my hands past the waistband of his joggers, he makes it again, and then he does this little, startled movement when I finally get my hand on his half-hard dick.

  “Cold,” he says a little scratchily.

  “Guess I’d better warm you up.”

  I play with him for a little while, kissing his neck and shoulder. I like how he feels, pressed against me, like we’re not in a hurry for this to go anywhere. He could have anybody. Literally anybody. I’m not stupid. I see how guys look at him. Hell, I see how women look at him. He’s funny, and he’s smart, and he always knows what to say. But I’ve got him right here, and he’s mine, and I keep running my hand over his dick, letting him get hard and sticky under my fingers.

  “Slow down,” he says in that same scratchy voice.

  You have to get it absolutely right, I remind myself. Or he’ll leave too.

  I draw my hands back, and Gray turns around. By then, I’m already getting down on my knees, and I take his joggers with me. He’s got a nice dick. It’s a good size, no matter what Gray says, and it looks great on him. The right size, if that makes sense. And it’s pretty too. There’s a lot of weird-looking dicks out there, and I’m glad Gray’s is one of the nice ones. He’s cut, and his head is shiny where I’ve been rubbing his pre, and he’s so hard the veins are popping out along the shaft.

  “Oh shit,” Gray says, and his voice sounds destroyed, the way it does sometimes after he lets me sit on his chest and fuck his face. “Hey, hold on, you don’t have to—Christ.”

  It’s less a word and more a sound when I lean forward and lick the tip of his dick. The taste is salty; it’s the smell, right now, that hits me. I’ve smelled it before when we’ve messed around. Funk isn’t the right word, because Gray’s always clean. But it’s the smell of his body, deep and masculine, and it’s stronger here. I’m surprised by the warmth, too. I’ve had my hand on his dick. I know how it feels. But it’s different against my mouth.

  At that first lick, his arms move backward automatically, and he knocks over his beer. He swears, and beer fizzes, and a moment later, he thumps the bottle into the sink because I guess he doesn’t have the presence of mind to pick it up again. It’s a compliment, I decide, but it only registers at the back of my head, because I’m leaning forward again, pressing my lips to the shaft now, parting them, letting my tongue dart out. He keeps himself trimmed, so I’m almost to the root before my nose brushes his pubes. The taste of his body seems to get stronger every time I open my mouth.

  His knee is bouncing, I realize.

  When I pull back, I look up at him. “Is that okay?”

  “Uh, fuck yeah it’s okay. It’s fucking amazing.” But then his brows knit together. “Hey, are you sure you want to do this? If it’s too much—”

  This time, I take him in my mouth, and he doesn’t make a sound. He stops talking, and his stomach tenses, and that knee starts bouncing faster than ever.

  It’s not like there are books on how to give a good blowjob. I mean, maybe there are. Mr. Hazard would probably know. But I know a little, mostly to be careful of my teeth, because guys make jokes about that all the time. I’m surprised at how quickly my mouth seems full. I hit the back of my throat, gag, and pull off.

  “Easy,” Gray says. He runs his fingers through my hair. “Slow down.”

  “I gagged,” I say, which is about the most obvious thing in the world, but I didn’t expect it.

  He gets this huge grin, but only for a moment, and then he’s stroking my hair again. “Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you stick a dick back there. You don’t have to deep-throat me, babe. What you were doing was great.”

  I give his dick another considering look, trying to figure out how it can feel so much bigger in my mouth. Then I take him again.

  I’m slower this time, more careful of how far down I go. At first, I bob up and down the way they do in porn, but then, mostly by accident, my tongue flicks high on his shaft, and Gray actually has to catch himself on the sink with one elbow. After that, I alternate—moving up and down, and teasing that spot that drives him wild. He must be trying hard not to grab my hair because he’s got his hand on the back of my head, and his fingers keep opening and closing, and now it’s not just his knee anymore, it’s his whole body, trembling. The jitters against the cabinets sound like somebody tapping out Morse code.

  “Sammy, I’m close—hey, pull off, oh God!”

  I don’t know what to expect when he starts shooting. I guess I thought—well, I didn’t expect it to feel like somebody blasting away with a squirt gun. And the taste. It’s different. Strong. I’m not sure it’s good, but it’s not terrible either, and I don’t think I’m ever going to love it.

  But what I do love is how Gray has both elbows hooked over the sink to keep himself upright. And I love the look on his face, his eyes half-closed. And I love this sharp, savage feeling that I did that. I got him off. And he liked it.

  18

  Gray

  Two weeks after Sam and I start hooking up, I finally understand the meaning of fuck buddy.

  It’s not only the sex—although the sex is fantastic. It was good from the beginning, the way sex is good if there’s chemistry, if you genuinely like the other person, if you want to touch them and be with them, and all the rest of the fumbling around and matching up your bits, that’s kind of a bonus. Sam doesn’t know it, but that’s because this is his baseline, and there’s this part of me that hopes he never figures out that sex isn’t always like that, and there are much worse things than being inexperienced.

  And inexperienced doesn’t last long because Sammy is a quick learner and, on top of that, intensely determined to be good at, well, everything. It would be a little disturbing, to be honest, if he weren’t such a sweetheart. Every time we’re together, it’s better. And I keep thinking there’s going to be some kind of plateau, some kind of leveling off where we find our natural stopping point. But it doesn’t happen. He relaxes. He learns what I like. He starts being playful, finding ways to wind me up, learning how to make it fun instead of just hot and heavy and fast. When it’s not time to be playful, he’s serious in that incredibly earnest way he has. He pays attention to me, to what I like, and he does it again and again, and he does it better and better. He pays attention to everything, as a matter of fact, and every once in a while, I catch myself second guessing myself, because I don’t want to—

  To what?

  To ruin him is what I almost said. But that’s not what I mean. But I don’t want this part to end because, well, it’s perfect.

  I don’t want to ruin his life. That’s what it is. I don’t want whatever this is, how good it is, to come back and bite him in the ass. That’s what keeps me up at nights, after I leave Sam, after I kiss him goodnight, after I text him that I’m back at my apartment, safe, after I text him goodnight and sweet dreams and see you tomorrow. After one final text, when I know he’s trying to go to sleep, because I like the fact that if I send Sam a dog meme, he will one hundred percent respond, even if he has to rise from the dead.

  But it’s hard to think about ruining his life because most of the time, everything seems so good. Everything seems…perfect.

  So, like I said, it’s not only the fuck part of fuck buddy that we’ve got locked in. For the first time in a long time—my internal bitch is writhing in agony as I say this—I’ve got a friend. I see him at work, even if it’s in passing. We see each other at the bulletin board and shoot the shit. I catch him checking the tire pressure on his cruiser in the parking lot, and I want to throw him in the back and pull his pants down. I don’t, mostly because they’ve got cameras all over that lot, but God, Sammy-in-uniform makes it really fucking difficult sometimes.

  When I’m not at work, I’m with Sam—unless he’s on duty, and I’m starting to realize that putting patrol on a rotating schedule is fucked up, because why the fuck should Sam have to work nights when that’s when I’m off? The only good thing is that, most of the time, Wahredua is so quiet that I can track Sammy down wherever he happens to be on patrol. Some nights I take him dinner, and we eat in the car, or in a park, or on a bench. Some nights, I don’t have time to stay, but I drop something off. One time, I get sandwiches from the Wahredua Family Bakery, and on a whim, I throw in a sugar cookie at the register.

  That’s the night I learn Sammy has a sweet tooth.

  And WISP—

  Well, I’m vaguely aware that WISP is becoming a problem.

  Not the organization itself. And not my responsibilities there. I still care about the work. I’m proud of what we’re doing. I’m showing up, attending meetings, running trainings. I don’t drop any balls.

  But there’s this growing feeling of—I don’t know. Resentment. WISP takes up so much time. And not too long ago, that was a good thing. All I had was time. I went to work, I went to the gym, I went to WISP. It kept me busy. It kept my head on straight. I wasn’t dicking around—figuratively or literally. But now, it seems like I’m always juggling, and it’s hard to remember how I used to do this, how it used to seem like I had all the time in the world.

  It helps that when Sam’s shifts allow, he’s at WISP almost as much as I am. I find another office chair in the Closet of Broken Things (left to us by the college), and this one is only slightly broken, which means Sam has to be careful not to lean back too far. We set it up at my desk, and there’s room for both of us to work. The first night we do, it’s surreal. I keep looking up, surprised to see Sam there. He doesn’t even look at me; he’s too busy with his plans for the Greek Life outreach. But by the end of the night, it’s like he’s always been there.

  When Robin leaves that night, he slams the door.

  It doesn’t help that we’re all stressed because everything with WISP is picking up momentum. The school year is wrapping up, and Sam and I are spending almost every night in the office—me on the phone, talking to anyone I can get to talk to me, and Sam working on the outreach event. If he cares half as much about being a detective as he does about getting this right, he’s going to be one hell of an addition to the team. And the thing is, I know he does. And I know he will be.

  But I’m focused on getting my own shit done. One night, I get in touch with Rashad from the Mid-Missouri LGBTQ Alliance. It’s a good conversation, and even though there’s nothing he can do directly, he puts me in touch with a friend at the Missouri Council for Mental Health, and they know somebody who does DV outreach and might know about additional grant opportunities—and on and on like that, chasing down leads—which, in the end, means chasing down money.

  I talk to Dr. Jordan, the Unitarian minister who works with the Wroxall students, several times. In part because she’s local and gives good advice. And in part because she and I vibe. And in part because she has two older women in her congregation who are looking for a passion project, and they’ve got an influential group of friends. She thinks I should meet them over lunch. And she says bring Sam.

  But Ben Fields is the big fish I’m trying to land—or the whale, or however that saying goes because he’s got real money, and he’s got connections, he’s the kind of person who, to borrow Orion’s phrase, could bankroll WISP for years. And Kayla finally agrees to put us in contact.

  Pretty soon, I start to suspect he’s playing hard to get.

  When I call, I get his assistant. Or I get voicemail. I ask for a time to call when he’ll definitely be available—an appointment, in other words—and I get it. But something comes up. And so I try again.

  Until, finally, one night I’m sitting in the WISP offices while Sam plays Wizard Cheeseburger 3—turns out, he’s not perfect, especially after eleven when he’s tired, and he’s only sticking around because, well, he wants to be with you—and my phone buzzes with a call from Mr. Fields.

  “Detective Dulac,” he says. “It’s Ben Fields.”

  “Evening, Mr. Fields. Just Gray, please. I’m not on duty, and this doesn’t have any official connection to the Wahredua PD.”

  “All right then. Gray, I’m not going to beat around the bush. I’ve had my people looking into this program you’ve started, and they tell me it’s impressive, very impressive. And I like what I hear. It’s important work, and it’s good for the community, and nobody’s doing quite what you’re doing—and all of those things make me think this is a good place for me to spend a little coin.”

  My chest is so tight I can’t breathe, but somehow I say, “I’m happy to hear it. I started WISP because I believe—”