Free Say Cheese by Michael P. Thomas Page A

trunk of Billy’s car, which some bottle-blond twink in a tank top had just jacked from in front of the IHOP while Shep was paying for Billy’s breakfast. In heavy traffic, the IHOP was forty-five seconds away from the Louis Armstrong airport. Even accounting for their late start—never mind Shep’s howling hangover, Billy was still half-drunk—stopping to load up on pancakes hadn’t cost them much in the way of valuable time. But they’d built in very little car chase cushion, and Shep was more interested in his watch than what was happening on the road in front of them.
    As, apparently, was the driver. At least the car he rear-ended was Billy’s. The buddies scrambled from the backseat into traffic in time to see Tank Top and his bloody lip bail out of Billy’s car. He whirled to accost them, oblivious to the horns and middle fingers popping off like popcorn.
    â€œSeriously? You just ran into me?”
    â€œSeriously?” Billy mimicked. “You’re stealing my car?”
    â€œI’m okay.” The cab driver’s declaration was muffled by the air bag that had blown his glasses off.
    â€œYou’re one to talk about stealing,” Tank Top cried.
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” Billy asked.
    The kid pointed a quivering arm at Shep. “He steals you, I steal your car.”
    â€œYou two know each other?”
    â€œGrover Shepherd, Brant Mattachine,” Billy, ever the Southern belle, said by rote. Honking cars inched around them. “Brant, this is Shep.”
    â€œHey,” Shep said with a nod. Brant Mattachine snarled.
    â€œWhat’s his deal?” Shep asked.
    Billy shrugged. “We’re kinda hanging out.”
    â€œYou and this kid?”
    â€œI’m not a kid, asshole.”
    â€œHe’s nineteen,” Billy explained.
    â€œAnd a half,” the kid added.
    â€œI hate to break it to you,” Shep said, “but if you’re still using halves, you’re a kid.”
    â€œYeah? Well, I’d rather rob the cradle than the grave.”
    â€œThe grave?” Shep laughed. “I’m thirty-three.”
    â€œWhatever you say, Gramps.”
    â€œGramps? Billy’s thirty-four.”
    â€œHe’s
twenty
-four, asshole. See? You’re already fuckin’ senile.”
    Shep turned to his friend. “Really, Billy? Ten years? With those crow’s feet?”
    Billy shrugged. “Hey, I moisturize. I’m young at heart.”
    Shep laughed. “You’re an idiot at heart.” He turned back to Brant, who was tenderly pressing his cut lip, pouting to inspect the damage. “And you believed him?”
    â€œOf course I believed him. We’re in love, he wouldn’t lie to me. He lied to
you
when he picked you up last night.”
    â€œIs that what you think happened?”
    â€œI was at Big Sheila’s last night, asshole. I saw you leave together.” A mom in a minivan had some decidedly unladylike commentary on the accident scene as she squeezed past, and Brant began to cry. “Billy, how could you?”
    â€œYou wanna step in here?” Shep suggested. Billy rolled his eyes as he carefully picked his flip-flopped way through shards of taillight to snuggle Brant to him. “There, there,” he murmured. “You got it all wrong, Baby. I can explain. See,
he
came on to
me
....”
    Shep laughed. “You wanna at least pop the trunk so I can get my shit and try to make my flight?” This was
classic
Billy Bonami—he framed even the most mundane details of his life in terms of a sexual conquest, and he was always, but always, the trophy. They’d been friends since Tulane, hadn’t had sex together since their freshman year. Shep had come home to New Orleans to welcome his sister’s new baby into the family, spent his last night in town with his best buddy Billy, and now he was just trying to get his ass home. It wasn’t a