Tyler held Lamar’s hand on his thigh, their
fingers laced together like the keys of a piano. Each time Lamar
extracted his hand to shift gears, Tyler caught it again before it
got too close to the bulge at his crotch. With a growl of
frustration, Lamar gunned the car ahead, faster, tearing through
the night as Tyler thwarted him again and again. Finally he pulled
off the interstate, a few exits shy of Richmond’s skyline, and
rolled to a stop at a well-lit 7-11. He cut off the engine and the
music died, the silence deafening in its wake. “Beer stop,
bitches.”
Ange knew what that meant—Lamar wasn’t
getting the response he wanted from Tyler, so he thought it time to
get the boy drunk, see how he opened up then. The three of them
climbed out of the car but when Colin held the door
