Stepping Up to the Plate

Chapter 2-3

That first night Stacy had no plans, nowhere to go, nothing but what he managed to grab before leaving his mother and Cal behind. Lamar said he was welcome to stay at his place as long as he needed, but if it was going to be a while then he’d have to get a job and carry his own weight. Maybe it wouldn’t be long, Stacy thought. A few days with Lamar, a few with Ange, who lived in his father’s garage but the two were practically strangers, maybe one day with Colin here or there, but only if he was desperate because the kid still lived with his parents and Stacy wasn’t about to go back to that. He’d get a job, like Lamar said, and he’d get a place of his own, save up for a car, get started with the life he felt had been put on hold while he was in school.

But a few days with Lamar turned into a week, a week into a month, and the longer he stayed, the harder it was to move on. It was somewhere to live, someone to f**k, a place to crash if nothing else, and Stacy didn’t have to answer to his step-dad or tell his mom where he’d been. As he settled in, his clothes scattered among his friend’s, and his plan of moving onto Ange’s place dissolved like a dream upon waking.

Lamar’s full-sized futon fit the two of them easily enough, the blankets covered them both. He got a job at the body shop, same as his friends, and though he thought of moving on, why bother? He had a place to sleep, a warm body to curl back against, someone to take him to work…if Lamar was on a different shift then Ange was there to pick him up, and when they clocked out at the same time Ange brought him back to the pad. Sometimes, if Lamar was still at work, they had s*x, Ange kneeling on Lamar’s futon with Stacy naked in front of him, on his stomach, ass in the air as his friend worked his way in.

Stacy loved these stolen moments with Ange above him, his friend’s hands smooth and cool on his own heated skin. Afterwards they’d lay together across the bed and Ange would say there was something good in him, something real. “You,” Stacy teased. When they got like this he was afraid to say much of anything, afraid to close his eyes or even breathe, in case Ange had only dropped him at the door and everything after that was just his imagination—this tender afterplay, these hands on his body, this hair loosened from its bandanna to fall across his brow. At times like this it was all he could do not to pack up his clothes again and tell Ange he was moving in.

“You’re different, Stace,” Ange would say, curled up against Stacy like a long, lean cat. His fingers tickled over Stacy’s chest like whiskers, stopping to pluck his n*****s erect before dancing away again. “You ain’t stupid like Colin, and you ain’t mean like Lamar. I’m telling you, there’s something in you that isn’t meant for this sort of life.” He’d tap one long finger against Stacy’s still-hairless chest, just above his heart, and Stacy would imagine he felt the vibrations echo through him to the mattress below. “You’re too good, Stace,” Ange would whisper, “for f****d up guys like us.”

“You’re not—”

Ange’s hand would come up to cover his mouth, silencing him. The late afternoon light would slant through the curtains to dapple over Ange’s face like sun on the beach. Sometimes they’d f**k again. Sometimes they’d just lie there, quiet, and listen to each other breath, steady sounds crashing around them like the rolling surf.

By the time Lamar came home, they would both be dressed and in the living room, watching tv or playing a racer on the Playstation. The way Lamar glared at them as he came in made Stacy angry for no real reason. He’d look at Ange, trying to catch his eye, but his friend wouldn’t meet his gaze. It was an unspoken agreement between them that what they did in the bedroom stayed there—and Lamar didn’t need to know of it.