“You know what? I hope I do go to Hell for being gay. In fact, I’d kinda like to go right now, cuz I know it ain’t this hot.”
“Are you saying you’d like a break from the grill?” Spencer asked. Carter did insist on being a drama queen.
“I need to rehydrate,” Carter said, stepping away from the smoking slab of flaming meat. He wiped his hands on the carpenter’s apron that doubled around his minute waist like an over-pocketed mini-skirt, then stuck an open palm out to Spencer, who’d been manning the cash box. “Beer money, please.”
“‘Bout time,” Claudia chimed in. She’d been standing in the puddle of shade under the umbrella that kept the sun from cooking the meat while she prepped it for the grill, but she also clocked in at two-ninety-five—she would have been hot even if she wasn’t slavin
