Chapter 9
THAT week, Dante drove them out to the HotHead offices in his beat-up jeep. Thursday the thirteenth seemed like shitty luck waiting to happen. Their turnout gear was in duffels in the back. Traffic was minimal and the neighborhood, when they reached it, looked rundown and warehouse-heavy—a ghost town of abandoned factories and storage facilities. The offices were in a former industrial building out on Avenue X. Yes, realy. Avenue XXX: Bow-chicka-bow-mow.
On the way out, Dante tried to thank Griff for coming along, for agreeing, but Griff had gotten so uncomfortable that he gave up.
After they parked, Alek met them in the street wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, rubbing his shiny head. He crooked an arm and gestured them over to a grubby loading dock.
Dante loped up and shook his hand; Griff did not. If he had been alone, he would have been worried about getting mugged.
Alek headed up a long ramp that led along the wal toward an old elevator. “My assistant quit over the weekend. He’s a student at Hunter. So I must wear several hats for the moment.”
They stepped into a creaky metal cage, which took them up five floors and opened onto a warren of crates and dusty boxes. Half-light filtered in through grimy windows, but the labyrinth of boxes kept their pathway shadowed. Alek led the way with Dante a step behind. Griff hung back, thinking about how sketchy it al seemed. Whose boxes were these? He’d expected something a little slicker. Was this the whole operation? Didn’t porno make money? Alek certainly didn’t dress like a bum.
Finaly, they reached a heavy metal door that opened into an open, sheet-rocked space that took up a corner of the building, maybe twenty by twenty-five.
The website’s “studio” was way smaler and less snazzy than Griff had imagined it.
Alek held the door open and ushered them inside, locking it behind them and flicking a switch that turned on fans. The wals were soundproofed with egg crate foam and thick, faded blue curtains. One end of the room was brightly lit, and Griff recognized the hipster apartment set Dante had jerked off in.
It realy was a film set. Funny how real it had looked on the website and how fake it looked now in front of him. A smoldering “HotHead.com” logo was mounted in the air above the seating area, then, in smaler type running underneath the logo, “’Cause real men can’t control themselves.” No shit.
Behind Griff, Alek’s soft accent reminded him what they were about to do. “You wil give me a moment?” Dante moved around the room like he lived here. He headed straight for the hot lights of the sitting room set.
Alek gave them both some clipboards, contracts that needed initials and signatures. Little colored flags stuck out the side, directing Griff’s attention helpfuly.
The language seemed very impersonal and thoughtful, guaranteeing their payments and describing what they’d be doing for HotHead.com in vague euphemisms.
They would get $1,200 each for their services. Dante must have negotiated that. Plus there was an extra $150 if they provided their own uniforms. They agreed that their faces and bodies would be visible on camera, and they relinquished any and al rights to the footage. Then there was something about bonuses if they engaged in certain “extended activities,” whatever that meant. Oh, here it was: they got more cash if they climaxed more than once or penetrated themselves with a “latex toy” provided by the management or let the Russian “assist” them with his own hands/mouth/anus.
Yeah, thanks. No thanks.
Griff scanned his contract with due caution, but Dante had initialed where indicated, flipped quickly to the last page, and was already signing on the dotted line, standing in the fake living room, one leg bouncing. He just wanted to get the money and save his house, and he wanted it over. Griff sighed and stopped wrestling with his conscience. Dante needed him; that was enough.
Alek was on the side of the room fiddling with a slick-looking video camera on a high stand that had a view of the sitting room area. Near the door, a large bank of computers hummed like a hive. A HotHead screensaver blazed on the flat-screen monitor under a corkboard covered with polaroids: mostly built guys flexing in the buff. Shit. Apparently a lot of dudes wanted to jerk it for HotHead.
Trade you, Griff thought.
Dante flopped down into that wide leather armchair Griff had watched so many times in the past few weeks.
By now, Griff figured there had to be a groove running between his laptop and “Monte’s” page on the HotHead website. Griff knew every inch of this fake sitting room—the factory-made art above the fat black chair, the gray-green eggshel wals, even the nubby oatmeal carpet. Standing here looking at it in three dimensions made him feel like he had stepped through his laptop screen into the website, like he was a videogame character. Pornoman! The only unfamiliar furniture sat along the side wal: a matching black leather loveseat with fat arms.
Ha. Love Seat. Good one.
Griff opted for that, trying not to take up too much space. He gave up reading and just signed his clipboard on the dotted lines. What the hel did it matter?
He knew what he was doing, what they were doing. And no way were any extended activities going to take place. He realized that Alek was shifting the cameras around so that they were aimed right at the little loveseat. He realized Dante would have to sit right next to him, which was obviously the idea of having a couch this smal. Shoulder to shoulder, their legs would be pressed together. They’d feel each other’s arms flexing as they gave themselves a salty handshake.
Great.
Dante on his leather throne, Griff in the loveseat, they waited in awkward silence for Alek to finish fiddling with the cameras to refocus them.
“Those lights are gonna kil your eyes, so you should try to keep ’em on the lens.” Dante had turned to him to offer this helpful tip. He jerked his head at the lights on stands.
Griff grunted to let him know he’d been listening and to let out the breath he was holding. “Okay.”
“You good?” Dante leaned forward conspiratorialy, his elbows on his blue-jeaned knees. His voice was a low murmur, like he didn’t want Alek listening in from eight feet away, like he wanted to talk to Griff in private here in this fake room, on this fake furniture.
Alek was busy trying to untangle a long cable over by the door, his shaved head shiny in the overhead lights. He wasn’t paying any attention to them at al, maintaining a kind of polite distance that Griff appreciated.
“Nervous, I think.” Griff’s voice sounded muffled in his own ears. He tried to relax his shoulders. “I’m fine.” Dante winked. “Wel that’s the fucking truth. C’mon, G. You’l be great.”
Griff didn’t laugh, although he knew that was what Dante wanted him to do. Instead he turned toward Alek across the room. “You need any help with that?” Alek stood, wiping his dusty hands on his jeans. “No. It’s nothing. I am sorry for keeping you both waiting. The clutter distresses me, yes?” Under the circumstances, he seemed determined to be respectful, which came as a weird relief to Griff. He didn’t seem pervy at al.
Dante crossed the room to the duffel against the opposite wal.
Alek held up a bottle of shit whiskey and a couple glasses. “Would either of you like a drink? For nerves?” Again he spoke to them with exaggerated manners, as if he were a valet and this were a private gentleman’s club.
Griff reached for the bottle without even thinking. Pouring himself a double shot and then another, as fast as he could down it. And another.
“Whoa, buddy!” Dante raised his black eyebrows. “I’m not that ugly.”
Griff didn’t answer but did a fourth shot of whiskey. His throat and gut burned, but a welcome fog crept over his brain as the rotgut pumped into his system.
He rubbed his chest. “There somewhere we can change?” Modesty seemed pretty ridiculous at this moment.
Alek nodded, his face calm and reassuring. “Your handsome uniforms, yes. Go ahead.” They would change here, Griff realized. Dante was already toeing off his sneakers and shucking out of his pants, shirt on the floor. Griff turned toward the wal and puled his own shirt over his head. Beside him, Dante squatted at the duffel and unzipped it. Behind him, Alek whistled appreciatively.
“You are so pale! Beautiful.” Alek’s accent got thicker from across the room, but Griff kept his eyes on the wal and breathed in the smel of Dante’s freshly showered skin. His heart hammered behind his muscular chest, between his too-pink nipples. He could almost see it thumping away, pounding him into rubble from inside.
Down on the floor, Dante tugged out their bunker pants and jackets, passing one folded pile to Griff. He’d covered their engine and ladder numbers with duct tape. “Suit up, probie.”
Griff nodded and turned to him in time to catch the nervous grin. He felt awkward in his boxer briefs in this half-empty warehouse on Avenue X. Life was so weird sometimes. He noticed Dante was wearing a bulging jockstrap and then dropped his eyes to the folded turnout gear, wishing he hadn’t looked.
Alek was moving one of the cameras beside the loveseat, angling the lens down for a high view of anyone seated there. His shaved head shone under the lights like it was polished. Mr. Clean makes a porno.
Dante and Griff tugged on the quilted pants side by side in silence. Déjà vu spiked through Griff, but maybe he was remembering the two of them suiting up at Randal Island as trainees before Dante had transferred.
Dante hooked a suspender over one tan shoulder and bent to pick up his coat. “Hey, Alek. You want shirts under these?”
“No need, I think. I don’t see any point in covering up Mr. Muir’s beautiful skin more than it is.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Dante poked at Griff. “He gives me a complex. Two hundred forty-five pounds of solid muscle. You can’t believe how the girls eat him up. Sheesh.”
Griff felt the blush starting and covered it with his jacket. He kept his eyes on the floor as much as he could as he went to the loveseat.
Dante shrugged into his own jacket and reached over to squeeze Griff’s shoulder gently. “Fucking redheads. Griffin’s like marble al over.”
“Pink marble at the moment.” Alek’s smile made the compliment into a tease. “And that fiery hair just peeking out under your arms. Amazing.” Griff snorted on the little sofa and wilted under Alek’s scrutinizing eyes. His heart was pounding. What if he couldn’t get a hard-on? What if he got a hard-on too fast? Which would be worse? His head ached. “Where’d you put that whiskey?” He found it under the coffee table and unscrewed the cap to pour himself another shot of courage.
“Easy, man.” Dante was standing in front of him, holding out his hand for the bottle.
“Yeah. I’m good.” As long as Griff kept his eyes on his friend he could keep it together. Easy enough. He could feel the alcohol starting to blur the edges of his anxiety.
“We’re going to cal you Duff.” Alek was looking at Griff as if asking for permission. He seemed to be asking for other suggestions.
“Yeah. Fine. Sure.” Griff kept his eyes low. Dante had been right about those overhead lights. The air in this part of the room was twenty-five degrees hotter.
They were gonna sweat their changs off before the afternoon was over. Dante sitting sweaty next to him, ankle to elbow. He groaned.
Dante nodded in agreement with the groan, but he was agreeing with something else. “Buff Duff. I like it. Better than fucking Monte. The worst.” He roled his eyes and plopped onto the leather beside Griff. “Sounds like a plumber.”
“No.” Alek shook his shaved head and smiled at them. “It sounds like a working-class straight man. But someone who’s horny enough to… experiment. That is the fantasy.”
“If you say so.” Dante took a swig of whiskey and plunked it on the coffee table next to an IKEA catalog that was there to make this room look less fake.
’Cause HotHeads prefer building shit from a kit. Just add tools. More bulshit.
It was al fucking fake except for what Griff was feeling about the man next to him. His laugh was a grim bark of resignation.
Dante laughed too, although he didn’t know what was so funny. He was trying to help Griff chil out; like it was the two of them doing something else nutty, sneaking out of the house or tag-teaming some chick in the rig. No big deal.
Griff scootched back on the loveseat, his thick thighs wide in his gear, the reflective stripes bright under the overhead glare. Here he was, sitting in his fantasy, next to his fantasy, about to live out a fantasy, and al he wanted to do was flee. A third of a bottle of cheap whiskey simmered in his stomach and coursed through his veins.
As he sat under the hot lights in this fake room he’d visited for weeks, he could feel his muscles go slack, his loose mouth fil with saliva, his nostrils fil with Dante’s musk. He could do this. He groped his soft meat through his pants.
“Now gentlemen… a few things.” Alek was counting off instructions on his fingers. Obviously these were something he repeated often. “Lube is down on the floor beside you. Feel free to use extra. Wet is better. Touch more than just your penis. Testicles, nipples, buttocks, anus. Al are good, but only if you’re comfortable. Even to touch each other if you feel the urge.”
Griff stiffened, and he felt Dante stiffen beside him. He’s freaked out about touching me. Great.
“Or do not!” Alek waved their anxiety away with his hand like he was erasing the suggestion from the air. “I leave that to the two of you.” Alek finished adjusting the lens and sat on the coffee table to talk with them. “Look at the camera. Smile. Make noise. Use your mouths. Our members love it when you are vocal. Dirty talk especialy. Whatever is happening, you should appear to enjoy it. That is the fantasy.”
“Sure.” Griff tried to imagine what he was supposed to say. He tried to imagine saying it with Dante sitting next to him. They realy were pressed together in their gear the ful length of their sides. Once they dropped trou and started sweating, they’d be slipping on the leather and each other. Gulp. His meat plumped in his boxer briefs.
Alek looked between them. “The main thing is that you let me know if you are going to ejaculate. Yes? This is critical. I must get the pop shot on camera from at least two angles.”
“Money shot, yeah.” Dante nodded in understanding and nudged Griff with an elbow, wanting to get the show on the road.
Griff nodded. Thank God for hard alcohol and extreme denial. If he tuned out, a couple hours would fly by without any disasters, and Dante would have close to three grand for his house. His best friend was warm against his side, and his heart turned over.
I love you, Dante Inigo Anastagio. You’ll never know how much.
Alek nodded, like he’d heard the thought. “Shal we begin?”
So they did.
GUH.
Griff opened a bleary eye and tried to figure out what time it was. His unmade bed, his cluttered basement room in his father’s dead house. The dimness didn’t tel him anything worth knowing. Because of his weird schedule, his bedroom had blackout curtains.
Something bad happened.
His mouth felt like someone had rented it out for use as a litter box to a bunch of mangy cats. His head hammered and his tongue was fuzzy as a towel. When he puled himself upright, his stomach turned over, and he quickly staggered toward the john, praying he’d make it before—
Click. Griff turned on the light, and the feeling passed as soon as he felt the cool tile under his feet. Bracing his hands on the sink, he took inventory of his face in the mirror. His skin was chalky and greasy under reddish stubble, his eyes so bloodshot the gray looked almost jade green. His mouth felt putrid and tasted like metal.
Turning on the tap, he tried to spit the flavor out into the sink, watching the water spiral the drain. His stomach turned over again with a gurgle. Abruptly, he sat down on the toilet lid and stared at the floor until the wave of nausea passed again. He dug through his thick, mushy head, trying to remember why he felt like this.
Something bad had made him go get trashed at the Stone Bone on a night off.
Gradualy, Griff registered that he was stark naked and freezing cold. His cock and bals had puled up as high as they could get without actualy disappearing into his pelvis. His hands were shaking, and a sheen of cold sweat covered him. This kind of vertigo indicated many, many shots had been involved. He thought about making himself vomit just to get rid of whatever was left in his stomach but couldn’t do it.
Hot shower.
Griff heaved himself up on his aching joints to get the shower turned on as hot as he could stand it.
His dad had built this miniscule bathroom for him when Griff was nine. Right after his mom had died, when he had wanted to leave his little basement and sleep upstairs on the couch to be closer to his father. This bathroom had gone in as a way to keep him down in his room where his father wanted him.
There was no space for a tub, and the toilet was wedged in between the tiny sink and a narrow prefab shower stal that was raised a bit to alow room for the afterthought plumbing they’d had to fit under the drain. The whole thing felt like a toilet in a camper, and it had only gotten smaler as he had grown.
Now that he was grown, to stand “under” the spil of lukewarm water, Griff had to bend his knees, and when he turned, his elbows knocked al three slick wals and the door. This morning it felt like he was rinsing off inside a vertical fiberglass coffin.
Something bad had made him try to drown himself in a bottle of cheap scotch.
Another roil of nausea shuddered through him. His boyhood bathroom was so miniscule that he could reach from inside the shower to turn off the tap, which he did. The spray from overhead was hotter immediately.
Crouched, Griff made a promise to himself that he’d move out of this basement before the holidays. Living with his dad the past several years had been great for his savings but terrible for the rest of him. He knew his dad loved him, but sometimes it was way too easy to forget that. Griff looked like his mom’s family, and that hadn’t helped matters.
This place never felt like home and hadn’t since the Anastagios had al but adopted him.
Why am I here again?
He shook his head and tried to trace his steps forward from the Twin Towers faling to him standing alone in this shower.
Something bad had made him actualy glad to come back to his horrible room in this cold house.
Then Griff remembered: he’d done stuff with Dante on camera—sex stuff. He’d loved being able to touch Dante, to love him like that, but the rest of it felt like a betrayal. Joking for the camera, playing up the straight-boys-being-sexy-together routine, even belowing his impossible pleasure at the end and spraying a load over his best friend’s torso, kneeling over him and rubbing it into his perfect, perfect, perfect skin while Dante squirmed and yelped and laughed. He’d loved it and hated himself both. The memory of it felt like a sack of nails in his chest.
Griff knew plenty of guys in the FDNY who had lost an arm or a leg. Most of them wound up stuck in crappy cubicles doing deskwork after whatever piece had been lopped off and left them unable to do what they loved.
Those chopped-up guys always said they could feel their missing limb there, after it was gone, that the phantom limbs could itch and ache years after they’d been cut off and taken away. If your heart is broken, do you have a phantom heart?
In the space behind his ribs, Griff remembered sitting pressed against his best friend, the soft scrape of their legs rubbing together, the lights hot on their skin, their dicks standing tal side by side, and Dante’s pirate smile.
They’d gotten money for the bank note; that was good, right? Alek had been thriled ’cause they’d been “wiling to experiment.” Alive! ALIVE! Mad science for dummies.
Why did he have to feel so rotten? Why did he feel like a liar and a fraud and a chump? Against his better judgment, he’d done what everyone wanted.
Except Dante had been fooling around, and Griff had not been fooling anyone but himself.
Griff’s knees buckled, his guts knotted, and he doubled over gasping inside that narrow, slick space. Without realizing it, he let his hands slide down the close wals until he was huddled kneeling on the cheap fiberglass floor, retching right into the drain.
The water fel on his broad back from far above, washing the scalding tears down with everything else he’d had inside of him until it ran cold-cold-cold into the sewers under the city.
GRIFF got himself dried off and into clean clothes and upstairs to his dad’s kitchen by eleven. He wanted to eat a bowl of oatmeal, get something in his stomach before he had to work at the Stone Bone tonight. It was Friday and he wasn’t back at the firehouse til tomorrow morning; he needed to pul it together before he showed up there and faced Dante.
The kitchen was almost unbearably bright. Back in the day, his mom had loved light kitchens because they looked so clean. Griff’s dad had put in a white kitchen and painted the wals an icy blue.
When Griff was a little kid, this had been a homey, happy room, but it hadn’t realy been cleaned thoroughly since she had died.
So after twenty years, the wals were stil pale and the cabinets were stil white, but the room had a kind of dingy glare. Greasy smoke stains high up the wal over the stove. The paint peeling on the ceiling. A box of cornflakes and leftover Chinese and a half an onion, wrapped in wax paper, sitting in a fridge too old to stay cold. No one came in here much anymore.
Squinting against the oily daylight, Griff filed a kettle with water and put it on the stove. The air outside the windows looked chily. Griff opened a cabinet to take down one of his mother’s scuffed bowls and filed it with two packets of instant oatmeal.
He felt something like déjà vu standing here making himself breakfast; suddenly, he was eleven again and his mom had just died and he was making himself breakfast before taking the bus to school. Al of a sudden, his hands felt weirdly big as he wiped his mouth.
Griff looked down at the garden and saw the corpse standing in the middle of the dead plants.
But it wasn’t a dead man down there, just his dad. Close enough. In the last month, he’d almost forgotten he wasn’t alone in the house.
His father must have just gotten home, or else he was getting ready to leave on an investigation, because he was wearing his work clothes: blue polyester pants and a shirt and tie under a windbreaker. Arsonists didn’t keep regular hours, and his dad tended to work whenever he wasn’t asleep or drinking until he got that way.
Griff opened the back door to say good morning. In the crisp air, his legs were shakier than he’d realized, so he leaned against the porch rail. They hadn’t seen each other in over a week, even in passing.
His dad spoke without turning around, startling him. “I thought you were at the firehouse.” Griff flinched, and for no good reason, his heart thumped in his chest. Get a grip. His dad had this way of making him feel like he was under constant, invisible scrutiny. Between that and the rotten hangover, he kept moving a little slowly so he didn’t yack.
Standing in one of the dry, gray flowerbeds, ankle-deep in dead oak leaves, Griff’s dad looked over his shoulder at Griff and nodded helo. He hefted a smal, heavy bag of tulip bulbs, weighing them in his hand. The stark orange flowers on the label were the only color in the entire barren back yard, except maybe the fiery hair on Griff’s own head.
Griff’s eyes went right to the tiny blotch of orange petals. “You putting in bulbs? Those wil look nice, huh?” He clumped down the steps.
“Wel, it always looks like Satan’s balsack back here. It’s almost too late to get these in the ground, but I thought a little color come spring would be nice.”
“That’l look great.” He nodded and patted his dad’s hard, narrow back through the windbreaker.
Griff was about seven inches taler and forty pounds heavier, and the difference always caught him by surprise. His rugged build and fair complexion came from his mom’s side. He felt vaguely guilty being bigger because he knew it annoyed his dad to no end. When he was eight, his father had towered over him.
It was cold out here. He wished he had grabbed a sweater, but it seemed like his old man was in a chatty mood, and those moments were too rare to be wasted.
“Your mother always said waiting for flowers makes the spring come faster. I can’t take this fucking cold anymore.” Mr. Muir pushed his hands in the pockets of his uniform pants to fiddle with his keys. The badge on his belt flashed in the gray light. “I should retire and move to Tampa before I’m stuck in a wheelchair.”
Griff bobbed his head in agreement but knew his dad was just bluffing. Investigations for the FDNY were just about the only reason his old man got up and put one foot in front of the other. Al his time, al his friends, al of his human contact was tied up in being a fire marshal.
His dad opened the tulip bag, unroling the paper to reach inside. “Nah. Florida is al Jews and fags nowadays. Disgusting.” Fuck you.
But Griff kept his mouth shut. He knew his father had a bigoted streak. A lot of the old-timers did. Out of nowhere, Mr. Anastagio popped into his head, short and loud and laughing. You’re fine, kid. Griff decided to believe his other father.
Mr. Muir rummaged behind the orange-tulipped label and puled out a knotty bulb. He held it up gently as an egg to look at it. “You ought to take Leslie someplace warm. A cruise maybe.”
“Dad, we’re divorced.” Griff spoke softly and stood on the little steps that led to the back door. “Leslie and I split up almost ten years ago. She’s back with her parents.”
“Right. Right. I’d forgotten. After the Towers. You’re right.” He dropped the bulb into the bag and wiped his hands and looked sideways at Griff. He looked so shrunken standing in the leaves. “I knew you’d screw the pooch on that one. She was a good woman, Leslie.” The fuck?! Griff stared at his dad, knowing how crazy this was, knowing this house was slowly suffocating him. Worse, he realized this feeling was familiar.
In probie school, they’d al gone to the smokehouse on the Rock and learned how not to smother in a bad fire without oxygen: you drop and crawl like a baby. No matter how much your throat burns and your chest cramps, you drag yourself to the air before you let yourself fil your lungs. You have to get out without letting anything in.
Griff watched his dad watching the dry flowerbeds, keeping his breathing shalow. I have to get away from this place before I’m like him.
For one irrational moment, Griff wanted to tel him about HotHead, about jerking off, and worse, for milions of horny, hunky homosexuals with his best friend he loved, yeslikethat ’cause I’m a fag-fag-fag, you bitter sack of shit.
He wanted to see the shock on his father’s jowled, gray face; to make him feel uncomfortable and smal; to get a living, breathing reaction out of this angry husk who didn’t love anything but ashes and smoke. Blame was something his dad thrived on.
Griff tried to swalow, but his mouth was dry. The hangover headache was an icepick behind his right eye.
The old man kicked the dead leaves, clearing the hard flowerbed. He didn’t even realize what he’d said about his son’s marriage.
Griff was shaky enough to register the hurt, watching his father rustling around a garden that would never bloom. As if his anger and grief were too wild to keep trapped, Griff felt his terrible confession gathering on the tip of his dry tongue.
- Rustle - Crickle - Fustle -
Mr. Muir had the bag of bulbs open and was peering inside to fish around as if he might find a Cracker Jack prize inside.
Saying anything about the porn was the worst thing Griff could do, and God, he wanted to. Hel, his dad would beat the hel out of anyone just for saying the word “masturbation” under his roof. That his worthless son had done the unspeakable with that asshole Dante would only make it worse.
Griff knew how much his old man resented the Anastagios, their loud energy and warmth and laughter. It was an irrational loathing Mr. Muir couldn’t admit to, even though he’d been content to abandon his teenaged son into their care. They were just everything he was not.
Griff tried to imagine the rage and the relief his father would feel at finaly being able to disown his only kid and haunt this house alone.
Squeeeeeeeeee. Inside the kitchen, the kettle wailed on the stove. Griff managed to swalow his anger al the way back down.
“Oatmeal’s on.” Griff was halfway to the door already. “You should eat. Can I make you a bowl, Pop?” His dad shook his gray head. “Nah. Your mother wil make me something before I go.”
Griff blinked and slid his eyes away quickly. Pfft. Any HotHeaded, homosexual confessions snuffed right out.
Whatever his dad was doing inside his own head was worse than any punishment Griff could inflict. He tugged the door open and got his ass inside before his dad went on or explained any further about his mom or his marriage or any other morbid topics.
He thought about what Dante would say if he’d witnessed that in the back yard.
Time to go, genius.
He could almost imagine Dante’s clean profile watching in comic horror from the window, Dante yanking the door open and teling him to leave the fucking oatmeal and run for the exit.
Griff would pick up a paper today and start looking for an apartment nearby. That or put his head in an oven. Having no family at al and living like a monk would be better than this.
Keep back at least two hundred feet.
Griff turned off the stove but left the water to cool on its own. He headed to the front door to pick up his jacket. He wished he could go hang at Dante’s, but after yesterday that seemed iffy, even dangerous. He didn’t have to be at the Stone Bone til six. He decided to walk over to Ferdinando’s for an early lunch by himself. If they weren’t open, he’d wait on the bench out front. He could buy a paper on the way to check the classifieds under “last-minute escapes.”