Zeke suddenly came charging out of the main house’s back door. Diego Zavala-Kim, the baby of the family, aka “Little Z-K” and later anointed “Zeke” by his big brother, Jake, could officially no longer be considered little. The scrawny nuisance kid who’d spent the better part of his life trying to get me, Fletch, and Slick to interrupt our fun to play games with him, from Legos to Pokémon to FIFA to Warcraft, was suddenly over six feet tall and hulked out like a football player. He was wearing black “skinny” jeans that were too tight around his waist, exposing a sweet little roll of grabby chub below his wrinkled, also too-tight, purple Prince T-shirt, which had a picture of two doves crying on it. His side-shaved black hair with a rainbow flag–colored front pouf, and his big, puppy-dog brown eyes rimmed in goth black guyliner announced a semi-adorable, fully realized dork.
Zeke gasped at the heat. “Whoa! It’s gonna be melt-your-dick-off hot today!”
Selena looked at the watch on her black wristband. “A scorching summer morning in the desert. Shocking. Ready to go?”
Zeke cocked his head to the side as he considered his mother’s question. “I might need to reconsider this outfit.”
Selena said, “Your fashion changes take too long and we can’t wait on you, baby. Ask Jake or Mercedes to give you a ride.”
Jon and Selena hopped into the Mexican Seoul truck and Jon turned on the ignition. As it backed out of the driveway, Selena called to Zeke, “And I’ve told you a million times. Liquid liner is much less likely to smear in the heat than pencil liner.”
“I like the smear,” said Zeke.
Jon placed his left hand out of the driver’s side window, his pinky and index fingers extended as he waved in the metalhead death sign. “Rock on, Zeke!” Jon bellowed.
Zeke returned the metalhead sign. “I love you, Daddy!” he called to Jon.
The Mexican Seoul truck completed the distance out of the driveway, and was gone. The driveway gate closed and Zeke turned to me. “I heard you’re throwing a party.”
“How’d you hear so quickly?”
“Mercedes texted me to ask me to program the playlists.”
Of course she did. No worries, I’d fill Slick’s day with other tasks.
“Can my band play at the party?” Zeke asked me.
“Tonight?” I said. “You can’t be serious.” A newly minted junior thought I’d let his band play for the recently graduated senior class? Get a grip, kid. I had a reputation to uphold. Like I’d give over my party’s vibe to some basement band of metalhead wannabes who probably invested more effort in their makeup application than developing their musical skills.
“I’m totally serious,” said Zeke, but I ignored him and walked toward the door to Jake’s upstairs garage apartment. Zeke followed me and inserted himself between me and the door, pressing his arm against the wall to block me. For the first time, I noticed his earlobes stretching down, holding wide silver earring tunnel rings.
“When did you do that?” I asked him, distracted.
“Do what? The hair? It’s awesome, right?” He circled his head, proud to display the side shave and multicolored splash of hair in the middle.
I tugged on my own, nondeviated earlobe to show him what I meant.
“Oh, that?” Zeke smiled proudly and swung his head around again, perhaps to feel the breeze in the air holes blowing through his ears. “Why? Who cares?”
“I care. You shouldn’t do that. It’s unsanitary. Are you auditioning for some Incubus gay cover band or something?”
“You’re just jealous how hot I am now.”
I chuckled. “Yeah, that’s it, junior.”
“So can we play or not?”
“Why do you want to play so badly tonight?”
Zeke said, “Because we need exposure. For future gigs. You’ll have a captive audience there.”
Ugh, there was no way this was a good idea, but I didn’t want to be a big dick to this former little squirt. I needed to talk him out of it gently. “What’s your band’s name? Isn’t it Hipster Trash? Because no one at my party will be into that kind of metal-goth music—”
“We’re called Los Yunkeros now,” Zeke interrupted.
“Los Yunkeros? What kind of fucking name is that?”
“It’s Spanglish for junkyard workers. No hipster music. We’ve evolved beyond metal. We’re, like, a punk-mariachi fusion band now.”
I tried to keep a straight face. Didn’t want to crush the boy and his punk-mariachi fusion band boyfriends. “No,” I said, kind but firm. I was about to list all the reasons why I couldn’t let Los Yunkeros perform—actually, there was only one reason, that I was 99 percent positive they’d suck, if the sounds I’d heard emanating from behind the Zavala-Kims’ basement during Zeke’s band rehearsals were any indication—when the window above Zeke’s head raised.
“Children,” said Jake, leaning out of the window. My heart fluttered and my knees went a little weak at the sight of Jake’s morning stubble face and bare chest. I assumed (hoped) Jake was wearing his birthday suit below his exposed waist, but already his waking head was adorned with his omnipresent fedora.
“You woke up Daddy. Now please shut the fuck up so I can go back to sleep.”
Jake punctuated his request by dumping water from a glass all over Zeke’s head.
“You ruined my hair!” screeched Zeke. Indeed, the water bomb had deflated Zeke’s polychromatic pompadour pouf.
“You’re welcome,” said Jake, laughing.
Zeke groaned loudly and then skulked to the back entrance of the main house. He lifted his middle finger to his brother, who in return gave him a military salute from the open window. Zeke slammed the door loudly behind him and disappeared to dry off and, probably, to immediately reapply product to re-elevate his middle swatch of hair.
Jake looked down at me. “What’s going on, sexy?” he murmured.
“I’ve got a proposition for you,” I said.
“I’ll be right down,” said Jake.
I didn’t know why I was so hot for such a playboy. Really, I knew better. I guess Jake was the boy next door I’d been fantasizing about since I was thirteen, when I started to realize that boys could be used in ways other than how Lindsay and I used Chester—as a convenient punching bag, and someone to fix broken appliances.
I’d been with two guys since I was sixteen. The first, Troy Ferguson, had been my chem lab partner. One thing led to another in after-school study sessions and the grabbing and grinding that happened between practice quizzes was nice, but mostly, like, scientific study. (Dedicated students.) Awkward under the covers, not bad, but more an experience we wanted to get through quickly than get through skillfully (because we had no actual skills at that point). The second was my real skill teacher, Leandro de Araujo, the Brazilian exchange student I met at soccer camp last summer. “The Roar from Salvador,” the other camp counselors called him. Leandro’s lovemaking was very noisy, which I appreciated, because it made me feel appreciated. With him, I learned what delicious ecstasy could feel like. Raw. Carnal. Explosive. Slow, then quick, then sloooow, and sweeeet, quick again, BOOM, ohmygod wow. Leandro and I only had so much time to try as many positions as the Internet suggested before his student visa expired and he had to return to Salvador, Brazil. We used every minute most wisely. Honestly, though, I was kind of relieved when Leandro left because I was so exhausted.
Jake had almost become my third when we got locked in the freezer room at Happies. I hate jobs that don’t get finished, and I was eager to put the skills Leandro had taught me to good use again.
While I waited for Jake to join me in the driveway, I walked over to his beer truck and admired how far it had come along. It now had a roof that lifted up, resembling a half-domed ceiling, so a tall guy like Jake could more comfortably stand upright in the vehicle when serving beer. The back of the bus had been recrafted with a new back door horizontally split in the middle; the top half lifted up and had customized leg pegs that could be extended to the groun
d to hold the door up, creating an overhead canopy, and the bottom half now had a custom-crafted countertop stored on the interior side that popped up from the floor and swung around to hang over the door to provide exterior counter space behind the bus. The whole vehicle had been painted a bright red with gold trim, and I knew the last and final stage would be black paint inside the CHUG BUG letters now outlined in black Sharpie along the sides of the bus. It was an engineering marvel, thanks to my dad’s carefully drawn plans, and the handiwork that Chester, Jake, and Jon had put in every weekend over the past year.
I found it frustrating that Rancho Soldado was considered such a tumbleweed, nothing town. Just look at the ingenuity of its residents! Why did Rancho have to be a place that people felt they had to escape if they wanted to follow their dreams?
“It needs more,” I heard Jake say as I was observing the masterwork of the Chug Bug’s roof.
I turned to watch him approach the truck. His tall, lean body was clothed in a white beater top, slightly exposing his taut stomach and the beginnings of a happy trail that was otherwise covered by long panama shorts.
“What does?” I asked, wanting to yank the fedora off his head and run my fingers through his mop top of scraggly black hair.
“The roof. I was going to install a chalkboard menu on it, but I’m not sure people would be able to see it clearly enough.”
I said, “Can you put a flat-screen TV there? Then you could throw some beanbag chairs around the ground during serving times, and the whole area would be, like, the ultimate man cave. Add a server girl dressed in lederhosen with long braids and her boobs pushing out of her costume, park next to an artisanal Cheetos snack truck, and you’ve got a potential gold mine.”
He grinned, and my skin felt warm and my heart tap-tappy. “That’s not a bad idea, actually.” His eyes moved down to my chest, which was covered in a barely there camisole top that I hadn’t changed out of when I woke up. “Are you volunteering to be ale wench?”
“Give me twenty percent commission on all sales plus one hundred percent of the tip jar, and maybe.” I wanted to tap myself on the shoulder in congratulations, for flirting with Jake while simultaneously discussing my most distracting sideline obsession: money, honey.
“I could only offer that generous of a profit share to a C cup. You’re a…what?” Jake squinted, like he was peering more closely. “Solid B?” he teased.
“Depends on what time of the month,” I joked. Jake would have to work a lot harder to offend me by objectifying me. That was a sign he liked me, right? Like-liked me? Still, I crossed my arms over my chest awkwardly, not needing to further advertise that my cleavage got the same score as my GPA that didn’t earn my admission to USC. Average. Unspectacular. Whatever. The thing about boobs that most straight guys don’t get is that size is only part of the party. Volume is just as meaningful, along with the heart residing just below. Don’t think I’m being deep, so to speak. That’s a direct quote from Zeke, at the start of last summer when he counseled me to ditch the sports bra and buy a push-up one already. Always trust a gay with these fashion choices. Zeke was right; the push-up bra made a huge difference. It magically made volume appear, and my heart felt peace knowing the cleavage got more male appreciation, especially from the Roar from Salvador.
Jake removed my arms from my chest, and then leaned so close to my face that I could smell his minty toothpaste breath. (Nice, indeed.) “So what’s your proposition?”
Now we could get to business and I would not swoon. I wouldn’t. I said, “I’m throwing a party tonight. I need a Beer Master.”
“Sorry, Vic. I have a card game in Vegas planned for tonight. I win enough, and I’ll have the last seed money I need to launch the Chug Bug.”
I’d anticipated his response, and had my superior pitch ready. “You can earn all that money at the party. Guaranteed.”
“How do you figure?” He sounded skeptical.
“Bev Happie just called to authorize me to throw a last senior class party at Happies. Tonight. The perfect audience for you to launch your beer business and get the word out!”
Jake whistled, impressed. Then he said, “Come on. You really think Thrope’s gonna let that happen?”
“Thrope won’t find out till it’s over. I’ll make sure of that. And what better payback for you to give Thrope than providing the beer at Rancho Soldado’s last senior class party at Happies? I mean, its second last party.”
Jake had been right alongside Chester digging that fateful well on Thrope’s property back in the day. Paying for that damage was one of the reasons the two of them still lived at home. That, and they hadn’t yet decided to spread their wings further. Why would they, when Sin City was just an hour’s drive away? They could have all their fun there, and be back in their easy, comfy, air-conditioned, rent-free homes immediately after Vegas revelry.
Jake raised an eyebrow. “I’m intrigued by the prospect.”
My loins might have experienced a tiny orgasm. Few topics make me hotter than commerce. And Jake talking about commerce? Epic hotness. But then Jake looked toward the barrels stored inside the Chug Bug and said, “But I don’t see how it could work. I’ve only got three kegs. I can’t have enough of my home brew ready by tonight.”
“Nobody wants your craft beer, maestro. No offense. They want someone’s older brother with a legal ID to buy cases of cheap beer, put them in ice, and sell it to them for a couple bucks a pop.”
“Shame, ’cuz I could really use customer input on the stout I just crafted.” Jake rubbed the scruff on his chin like a pensive professor. “It’s got a chocolate aroma with a malt spine and subtle espresso finish. It would pair so well with Happies’ ice cream and pie.”
“Unless it’s free, doubt you’d have many takers.”
“I know. I wouldn’t want to waste my craft beer on a bunch of dull-palate eighteen-year-olds, anyway. How many people ya got?”
“Three hundred fifty in our graduating class. I don’t know how many people will show up.”
“Do they know there will be beer for sale without watchdog ID checks?”
“Will there be?” I didn’t want to tell people there would be beer if I couldn’t guarantee it. Recipe for disaster.
“Which comes first, the chicken or the egg?”
“I don’t know!” I said, starting to feel exasperated. This no-brainer proposition was taking him forever to accept. “Just answer the question. Are you in or aren’t you?”
“I gotta figure out the math,” said Jake. “Let’s lowball, so…say you get two hundred people there. Of those, at least half will want beer. That’s a hundred beers right there. Times at least two or three beers a head? We’re talking a lot of beer. And that’s a conservative estimate.”
“If you can assure me there will be beer available, I’ll ensure that prospective guests are aware.”
“Then it’s worth my effort,” said Jake. “Gotta protect my investment. But here’s the other problem. I don’t have enough cash to buy that many cases up front.”
I’d already factored in Jake’s perpetual brokedness. Every dollar he earned he either put into the Chug Bug or gambled away on Vegas jaunts. “Your parents have a ton of cases they bought wholesale that are stored in the basement for the Mexican Seoul truck,” I reminded him. “You’ll make back enough to double their supply in return, like a thank-you note for a present they never wanted to give.”
Jake shook his head. “They don’t really care if you underage children occasionally drink a beer responsibly blah blah blah, but no way in hell they’ll supply it for the whole Rancho senior class.”
I shook my index finger. “But! They’re staying in Orange County tonight at your aunt’s house. You know your mom will want to take advantage of some beach time tomorrow morning, since they’re already there. They won’t be home till tomorrow evening at the earliest. That leaves you plenty of time to replenish their supply at Costco in the morning.”
“I didn’t realize you were s
o sneaky. I like it. I guess I could ‘borrow’ their supply.”
“You’re in?”
“I’m in!”
We high-fived. We were partners in crime now. Already I felt like a cooler, sexier person, someone like Selena. And like her, maybe I could also be a lover and a business partner to a Zavala-Kim male. It would be a temporary transaction, of course, because I was moving to San Francisco. But it would be a profitable fling on many levels, with dollar bills to boot on Jake’s delectable booty.
“You’re kind of a genius, General Navarro,” said Jake. A minor, sensational tremor passed through the center of my body. Maybe this heat really was earthquake weather.
“Can you be set up at Happies by seven thirty tonight?” I asked.
Jake lifted his fedora with his hand, nodded at me, and returned the hat to his head, his signature gentleman’s salute. I grinned. “Park in the back. There’s no AC inside so buy lots of ice and make sure the brews are super cold.”
“I will,” said Jake. “This is going to be killer. Thanks for bringing me in. Maybe after the party, you and me. We oughta, you know…count the money or something together.”
“For sure,” I said, trying to sound casual, when what I was thinking was, OH HELL YES! Great minds do think alike.
Jake leaned into me and I thought he was going to place a kiss on my cheek, but the soft touch landed directly on my lips—a quick sizzle of a kiss that promised more. Then he pulled back with all the casualness of that kiss having been a handshake and said, “You’ll take care of Thrope? Because I can’t handle that problem.”
“Oh, I’ll handle Thrope,” I said confidently.
I had no idea whatsoever how to handle Thrope.
But I could figure that out later. For now, I walked away, offering a strut to my hips, hoping Jake was admiring my backside.
I couldn’t be more ready.
Pre-party Chores Accomplished: