Page 52 of The Fed Sex Man

“Well, we’re seeing each other,” I gloated. “Oh, and he drives a car like your old car. The red one.”

“A Cobra?”

“Yeah. Only it’s silver. He rebuilt it. It’s got bigger thingamajigs and a closer ratio whatchamacallit, though. He told me, but I don’t remember.”

He sighed. “I miss that car. Never should have bought that pickup truck.”

I cut another section of tuna from the steak and pierced it with the tines of my fork. “Maybe he’ll take you for a ride.”

Jarod scooped up a forkful of rice. “Bet it’s not as nice as mine was.”

“I think it’s nicer.” I lifted the chunk of tuna and waited for the right moment. “He keeps it pretty pristine.”

“Have you ridden in it?”

“I have. Twice.”

“Is it fast?”

“It’s really fast. It makes this horrible whining noise when it takes off.”

“Bet it’s a Terminator Cobra. They’ve got a supercharger on ‘em.”

“Yeah,” I said. “It’s got one of those.”

“Bet he put a Kenne Bell on it.”

“I don’t know what that means. You’ll have to ask him.”

“When are you going to invite him for dinner?” my mother asked.

I felt that I’d backed myself into a corner. Asking Tyson to come to my parent’s home for dinner was a huge step, and one I was certain he wasn’t prepared to make. Considering Tyson’s near celebrity status with my father and brother, I was going to be pressured until I complied with their wishes.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “One of these days.”

“Sad he’s driving a FedEx truck,” Jarod said. “He could have been making millions.”

My parents had more money than they could ever spend. Oil leases inherited from generations past provided income in the seven-figure-per-year range. Although I could have relied on my parents for financial assistance, I chose to secure loans for my education, and for my book store.

I didn’t derive happiness from wealth, nor did my parents, or my grandparents. Jarod was different. He seemed to view material objects as a means of measuring his successes.

“Maybe he’s happy driving the truck,” I offered. “He doesn’t seem to care.”

“He was set to get a twenty-million-dollar-a-year contract. I bet he cares plenty,” Jarod argued. “Wouldn’t you?”

“I’m happy with what I’ve got. Maybe he is, too.”

“What he chooses to do for a living has no bearing on the man he is, Jarod,” my mother said. She looked at me. “I don’t care if he’s a hobo, I’d like to meet him.”

“Are you going to eat that piece of tuna or just let it sit there until it dries out?” my father asked.

“I’m going to eat it, just as soon as I get up a little more courage. It’s piece number two,” I said with a smile.

My mother winked at me and then cleared her throat. “There’s a fly on your rice, John.”

His eyes darted to his plate. “Where?”

In one fluid motion, I plucked the tuna from the tip of my fork and tossed it onto the rug beside the first piece. After covering it with my foot, I shoved a forkful of rice into my mouth.