Page 117
“You’re sick, Chris.”
He sighed and leaned back with his fingers laced behind his head. “That’s what my parents said when they sent me to conversion camp.”
Shit. Suddenly, I felt like an asshole. Not because I was being homophobic, get it how you like, but because I knew Christiansen’s relationship with his parents was non-existent, and that had to dredge up some painful memories.
“Sorry, man,” I apologized.
That wicked grin returned. “Don’t apologize to me. I had the whole camp shut down when the camp director was outted.”
“You didn’t,” Marlon asked, turning in his seat.
“Listen, I had my phone recording for my personal safety. It’s not my fault he entered my cabin begging to be topped.”
Marlon turned back around. “Never a dull moment, Chris.”
My attention returned to my phone when I received a FaceTime request from Vera. I answered, but it was Monica instead.
“Oh… who’s that?” Christiansen asked, leaning into the front seat.
“Vera’s roommate.”
“Interesting,” he mumbled.
I tuned him out and watched them approach a group of guys.
“Hey! I bet $200.00 my bestie can do more push-ups than you!” Monica dared the biggest guy in the group. He and his friends laughed, holding their bellies, some bent over with their hands on their knees.
“You’re not serious,” the guy replied once he had his laugh.
Monica flashed the money. “What’s the matter?” You’re an absolute unit. This should be the easiest $200 you’ll ever make.”
His gaze wandered to Vera, who took a shot of something before shaking her arms out. The guy shrugged and pulled out his wallet. He handed folded bills to Monica, and she counted them with the speed of a bill counter machine.
Vera and the guy dropped down to the floor, facing off from each other.
“Damn. What did she drink? Liquid crack?” Marlon asked, stunned that not only was my lady keeping up with the guy, but outpacing him, and from the looks of it, she didn’t look like she planned on slowing down. His arms started to shake around 32, and Vera started talking shit.
“You should call it. I can do this all night.”
“Look at that form,” Christiansen admired. “Impressive.”
The guy collapsed at 38, and Vera kept going just to twist the knife in the wound. She popped to her feet at 50 and flexed on him and his friends before her and Monica giddily celebrated while the loser asked for a rematch. His buddies were wise enough to tell him to let it go and that he lost fair and square.
“Yo, your lady is the definition of sleeper build. My God. Cap, did you see those triceps?”
“I did. And I’m man enough to say hers are cut harder than mine. Better act right, Myers.”
“Imagine her putting you in a headlock,” Christiansen added.
I shook my head, trying to erase the image because I didn’t want to sport wood in front of them.
Monica finally remembered I was there and smiled into the camera. “On to the next victim!”
The call ended, and Marlon patted my arm sympathetically. “You got your hands full, buddy, and I don’t envy you.”
“Thanks, man,” I muttered, pulling up Vera’s location and entering it into the GPS.
Vera is gonna have me gray before I’m 30.
