Heat Wave: Tucson

Heat Wave: Tucson By T.A. Creech “I’m coming!” With a longing glance at his tiny bathtub, barely big enough to hold his five-foot-nine frame, Chris pulled his jeans back on and ambled to the front door of his bland, shoebox-sized apartment. He worried the cheap bit of pressboard wouldn’t hold up to the pounding it was getting, the hits were so heavy. Chris wrenched the door open, and his annoyance evaporated under the laughing, blue-green eyes and happy grin that greeted him. “How many times have I told you, Will? Be nice to my door.” Chris smiled when his best friend simply chuckled and flapped a big grease-stained hand at him. “If it hasn’t broken after all the door slamming during one of your rage quits, I doubt some knocking is gonna do it in.” Chris leaned against the jamb and crossed his arms, tipping his head back to properly look at his friend. “Yeah, well, you wouldn’t be the one paying to have the door replaced if you broke it.” The smile slid off Will’s face. “C’mon, Chris, you think I would screw you like that?” No, he didn’t. They had been best friends for nearly eleven years and never had Will put him in a bad position and left Chris to fix it alone. Will was honestly too good to pull that kind of s**t. “Of course not, but it makes me feel better to say something about it. Just in case you listen to me, for once in your life,” Chris teased. “Hey! I listen to you all the time.” “Uh huh.” Chris nodded skeptically. “Anyway, what’s up?” For a second, Will’s stunning eyes went blank. “Oh! What are you doing for the rest of the day? And you better say nothing. I know you got off work half an hour ago, and it’s too hot for you to have planned one of your weekend hiking trips.” Chris huffed in exasperation. “I was going to relax, but now I guess I’m doing something with you?” “Damn right you are.” Will lit up like the over-excited cowboy he was at heart, though Chris had to admit he liked it, considering how hot he got under the collar when Will got Southern with him. Why did his friend have to be so gorgeous? Cropped blond hair shone like spun gold in the blazing sunlight, bright turquoise eyes, the good old-fashioned farmers tan, and as tall as a house. Well, maybe not that tall, but damned if Will’s near six and a half feet didn’t seem like it to Chris. And since Will was a mechanic, he had the muscle to match. Even the car grease streaked on his skin and work clothes did nothing but enhance Will’s rugged handsomeness. Which brought Chris’ attention to something else. “What’s such a big deal that you couldn’t stop home to shower first?” “Alex Bowman.” Will’s eyes glazed over like the star-struck fanboi he was. “He’s doing a charity exhibition race at TRP tonight. The pre-show starts in…” He glanced at the old, clunky watch Chris had given him for Will’s fifteenth birthday, continually shocked Will even had it every time they saw each other. Chris figured, with as hard as Will was on his stuff, he would’ve broken it long before now. Damn thing still looked practically brand new. “It starts in an hour. Friday night rush hour is always a b***h. So get that ass in gear and find a shirt.” Rolling his eyes, Chris shouldered off the doorjamb. “I’m guessing I don’t have time to shower either?” “f**k for? You smell great. Like cinnamon rolls.” The exaggerated leer Will shot him was playful. Chris glared at his friend. It wasn’t his fault the sugary dough was stuck to his skin and he could only wash so much of it off at work. “You try working at Cinnabon and see if you come out smelling like anything else.” Chris stomped back to his room, over to his dresser, and grabbed the first clean shirt he saw in the basket that held his recently clean laundry. The green T-shirt was wrinkled to hell since he hadn’t had time to fold the load in the last three days, but he tugged it on anyway. Between the heat and sweat outside, wrinkles won’t last long. That brought up a whole different issue. “We’re going to have stop and buy water.” As he plopped on the couch and worked at getting his sneakers on, he watched Will edge into the apartment. It was weird. Up until a couple of months ago, his friend never had a problem with just barging in to Chris’ space. “Bought eight bottles of that Fiji crap you like before I left work.” Will rocked back onto his boot heels. “Besides, I’m buying tonight. All that mandatory overtime left me flush.” Chris stood and grabbed his wallet, phone, and keys off his tiny coffee table on the way out, Will following faithfully behind. “You’re buying me an horchata on the way.” Will waited until Chris locked his apartment, then reached up and gently squeezed the nape of his neck. Chris fought the impulse to lean against the big hand, just like always. “Don’t I always?” “Well…” Letting out a boisterous laugh, Will released him. “Not on your life are you bringing that up. I settled that debt.” Chris grinned. Even the blistering, dry, hundred-and-ten-degree heat couldn’t overpower the memory. Both barely twenty-one, and Will would not give up on going to the Pima Fair for Beerfest. It took a lot of wheedling, but Will had finally talked Chris into going. They’d been having far too much fun to stop when Will’s measly fifty bucks had run out, so Chris kept picking up the tab. The night had been certainly worth the four hundred it ended up costing. Especially when Will had paid him back with an all-access pass to Comicon that year. “Touché.” As soon as they reached the parking lot, Chris groaned. Really, he should have known. Sitting on the sweltering asphalt of the lot, like an exotic beast from an ancient tale, was Will’s ‘57 Chevy. A beauty of pearlescent sea-foam green paint, polished chrome, and black leather seats. They had spent years working on this car. “Why didn’t you bring your truck?” Will shrugged. “Do I ever take my truck to a race?” “Fine. Let’s go.” Chris pointed a finger at his friend. “But if I bake to death in there, you’re paying for my funeral.”