Page 93 of The Gaybor War

"That's generally how shirts work."

"You know exactly what I'm asking."

"I do." He beams. "And yes."

"People are going to see you."

"I certainly hope so."

This is how the trip starts. Not with traffic or coffee or polite small talk, but with Benji Stewart’s ass and a declaration of gay literary smut standing in my driveway at seven in the morning.

I open the driver’s door before I can say anything else incriminating. "Get in the car."

He chuckles as he rounds the hood. "Bossy already. Road trips really bring that out in you, huh?"

I do not respond. Instead, I start the engine. As he settles into the passenger seat, I catch movement across the street.

Kiki is standing on her porch holding a mug. Watching.

Candace is beside her. Watching.

Shania is actually using binoculars.

I close my eyes. "Don't."

"They're waving."

"I know."

"Should we wave back?"

"We absolutely should not."

Benji immediately rolls down the window and waves.

The women lose their minds. I pull away from the curb before they can organize a parade.

We make it exactly three minutes before the next problem presents itself.

Benji reaches for the radio.

"Don’t."

He freezes, hand hovering. "Wow. That was immediate."

"I just—" I sigh. "We haven’t even merged onto the highway."

"That’s when the real passive-aggressive damage happens."

Undeterred, he clicks the knob. The speakers fill with something upbeat and aggressively pop. Glittery. Optimistic. Sung by a man who sounds like he owns at least three mesh tank tops.

I glance at him. "Is this… a Broadway dance remix?"

"It’s joy, Carter."

"It's aggressively enthusiastic."

"You say that like it's illegal."