1 Chapter 1
1
Jacksonville, FL
“WILL YOU COME down off that fucking roof?” Mike was yelling in an effort to make himself heard
By way of answering, I started hammering roofing nails into the shingles even harder, making much more noise than was necessary in the hope that he would go away. But it was not to be, for a few minutes later his head appeared at the top of the ladder.
“George,” he said, “you promised to go to the club with me tonight… and this fucking roof can wait.”
“I have to finish this bundle of shingles,” I said, furiously hammering away.
“No, you don’t. The roof will still be here tomorrow.”
“True, but the weather won’t be quite as good.”
“So what? All those shingles do is protect the felt. The felt is what keeps the house dry, and all of the felt is in place.”
“The weather is still important. If it rains tomorrow, I won’t be able to get anything done.”
“Fuck the weather and fuck the roof. You’re coming down now, even if I have to drag your sorry ass down myself.”
“Think you’re man enough?”
“Only one way to find out.”
He scrambled onto the roof and walked over to me.
“Two ticks,” I said.
“Two ticks, my ass. It looks like you’ve settled down to stay up here all night.”
He was looking at the floodlights I’d arranged in the branches of a live oak tree, which in contrast to the gloom elsewhere brightly illuminated my work area.
“What time is it?” I said.
“After eight.”
“I need another hour.”
“Another hour? Not on your life.”
Mike walked back to the ladder and disappeared from sight. Two minutes later the lights went out, and I was left in darkness. Shit, I thought, he pulled the plug. I put the bag of roofing nails in a pouch of the carpenter’s apron I was wearing, tucked my hammer into the little loop on my belt, and used the faint glow from the nearest streetlight to find my way across the roof to the ladder and then down. When I reached the ground, I went looking for the power cord and found that the first fifty-foot section of it had been removed, leaving the plug on the second section dangling from the eaves.
Mike was waiting for me in the kitchen, a smug look on his face. “I guess I was man enough after all,” he said.
“Damn it, Mike, where’s that extension cord?”
“In a safe place. Its work is done for the day, and so is yours. You can’t hide up there on that roof forever, George.”
“What do you mean?”
“You caught that prick with someone else’s prick up his ass, and you did the right thing by kicking him out. But that was six months ago, so get over it… stop hiding on the roof… and get on with your life.”
“Is that what you think I’ve been doing? Hiding?” He had me there. I’d caught my boyfriend of two years in my bed with his legs in the air, and I hadn’t been the guy kneeling between them. After I’d kicked him out, various acquaintances had shared their suspicions that there had been other infidelities as well. Aren’t friends wonderful? But to be honest, if they’d told me of their suspicions before I’d caught himin flagrante delicto, I wouldn’t have believed them—not without the all-important empirical evidence.
“Well, haven’t you?”
“In someone’s immortal words: ‘Not only no, but hell no’.”
“Methinks thee doth protest too much. This is me you’re talking to, not some twit who hasn’t known you for more than two-thirds of your life, so I’ll ask you again. Haven’t you?”
“Well, maybe just a little.” Damn, I hate it when he’s right.
“Now that wasn’t so hard to admit, was it?”
“What do you think?”
“Get your ass in the bathroom and clean up. We’re going out on the town, and you’re going to forget that prick—and the roof—at least for an evening.”
“All right, I guess I can stand an evening at the club, especially if it will shut you up.”
“Damn straight. You’re going to enjoy this evening, even if it kills you.”
I couldn’t stay angry with him—we’d known each other too long and too well for that. Twenty minutes later, having showered and shaved, I was standing naked in front of the bathroom vanity toweling my hair dry. I hung the towel up, brushed my hair, and was inspecting myself in the mirror when Mike came into the bathroom. He was already naked and reached into the shower to turn the water on
Turning to me, he said, “Taking inventory, are we?”
“Not really.”
“Sure you are. I’ll give you a hand, speaking metaphorically. Let’s see, on a ten point scale, I’d say, face nine, body eight (you need to work on those pecs), ass ten, dick seven and a half, personality needs a bit of improvement.”
I had to chuckle at that. “You’re no slouch, yourself.”
“True, and my dick is half an inch longer than yours when it’s angry.”
In point of fact, we shared the same vital statistics: age thirty, six foot two, waist thirty-four, and size eleven-D shoes. We’d borrowed each other’s clothes since we were kids. The principal difference between us was that his black hair was worn in a buzz cut, where my thick blond hair was just a bit longer. He was right about the dick size as well—we’d first compared erections at age thirteen or thereabouts.
