Paol lets Adam lead him out into the night. He doesn’t realize how hot it is inside the club until he feels the sweat cool on his skin from the scant breeze in the parking lot. He’s still holding onto Adam’s jeans, only now Adam takes his hand and pulls him closer. “I’m parked around here somewhere,” Adam says. The way he stumbles tells Paol he can’t hold his alcohol. He only had what, two drinks?
The parking lot is small—four rows of broken tarmac, with gravel and shattered glass littering the ground. Paol’s Cherokee is parked on the street two blocks away. He hates these crowded lots and he knew he’d have a few drinks so he’ll walk them off before he has to drive home. Home, a tiny condo that set him back a pretty penny for the nice view it has of the rapids on the James River. Home,
