Page 39 of The Gaybor War

"I don’t do flattery."

"You don’t do fun," Kiki counters.

Benji smirks. "He’s trying. You should’ve seen what we did to his closet the other day."

The room freezes. Then the girls lose it.

"You were in Carter’s bedroom?!" Malia squeals, nearly tipping over a box of sequined tops.

"I thought you were both, you know… out of the closet," Candace says, eyebrows shooting up.

I feel my face betray me before I can even think. Heat blooms across my chest, crawling up to my ears. Every eye is on me, and I can practically hear the collective gasp of judgment—or delight.

But Benji? He just stands there, that ridiculous smirk still in place, looking far too pleased with himself.

The unspoken implication hangs in the air: that two gay men alone in a bedroom can only mean one thing. I resent it. It’s absolute bullshit. Except…

I had wanted to do that very thing.

Still want to.

My hands tighten around a feathered boa someone’s tossed near me. I should say something witty, deflect, defuse. Instead, all I can do is watch Benji laugh, watch the way he tilts his head like he knows exactly how much power he has over me.

I hate this. I hate that it’s true.

I hate that it makes me want to smile.

And somehow, that’s exactly what I do.

The room keeps spinning around us—voices, clinking glasses, the faint music from someone’s phone—but it all fades to background noise. Because Benji’s leaning against the arm of my couch, watching me roll my sleeves past my elbows as with the focus of a judge at an Olympic sport.

And I keep catching him at it.

Every time I look up, he’s already looking back. Amused. Knowing. As if he’s figured something out about me I haven’t admitted yet.

Then someone calls me "handsome," and I can feel the smirk deepen across the room.

I tell myself the warmth crawling up my neck is from the wine. But I know better.

It’s him. It’s always him.

When the last of the wine-fueled melee departs, my house smells like perfume, fabric softener, and a hint of repressed sexual energy. Boxes are strewn across the floor, and scarves and feather boas hang off chairs like casualties of battle.

And Benji? Of course, he lingers.

"I’ll just… help clean up," he says smoothly, but the way he moves is deliberate. Close. Too close.

I sigh, dragging a pile of tie-dye toward the donation box, trying not to notice the curve of his smile, or the way the lamplight turns the slight tan on his arms a deep bronze when he bends over to pick up a sock.

He straightens, holding a shirt he found on the floor. In a low, teasing voice he says, "You looked like you were having fun, Mr. Lemon Taffy. Should I be worried you’re replacing me as your favorite neighborhood nuisance?"

I scoff, but the sound is softer than intended. "Don’t flatter yourself."

Benji grins. "Flattery implies I’m exaggerating."

There’s a pause that hums between us like static electricity. I want to say something smart, witty, or crushingly ironic, but my brain short-circuits.

Finally, I manage, "You should go."