When we reach my car, I scrape the paint
around the keyhole in my eagerness to open the door. Ritchie stands
against the side of the car and watches me as he rubs one hand down
the front of his jeans, over the flat part of his hip and along his
upper thigh, as if smoothing out the denim to accentuate the
erection he’s not even trying to hide. I see that hand in the
corner of my vision and the key scratches with a squeal across the
passenger side door. It takes me almost a full minute of fumbling
around in the dark to get the key into the hole, all the while
watching Ritchie’s hand inch closer to the bulge in his pants, and
when I finally pop the lock, the light clicks on inside the car and
just about blinds me.
I drop the keys as I open the door. When I
bend down to retrieve t
