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Ricky nodded. “Yeah.”

“Can I borrow one?”

“No way! I’d get in so much trouble if my parents found out.”

Omar studied him before snorting. “You’re full of it.”

“I would!”

“No, I mean I don’t believe your parents have pornos. I bet you’ve never even seen one.”

Ricky jutted out his chin defiantly. “I’ll prove it!”

Good old reverse psychology. Omar’s mouth was dry as hestood and followed Ricky through the house. He felt weird about being in the bedroom they entered, and downright uncomfortable when standing in a walk-in closet filled with starchy suits, way too many dresses, and stiff leather shoes. Adult clothes. The subtle scent of the house was more concentrated here, making him feel like he was invading the personal space of complete strangers. Which of course he was.

Ricky shoved some of the hanging clothes down the rack, revealing a department store shopping bag on the floor. He carefully set aside two folded sweaters that hid the true contents of the bag. Omar didn’t ask how Ricky knew it was there. He’d already snooped through absolutely everything in his own home.

“They have six different movies,” Ricky was saying. “This one is about naughty nurses. It’s pretty good. Or there’s this one—”

“Perfect,” Omar snapped. His pulse had picked up, both in anticipation and fear. “When do your parents get home?”

“Another hour or so.”

“Great. Let’s watch one.”

Ricky shrugged and brought the tape to the bedroom. His parents had a decent sized TV across from their bed. Ricky turned this on, fed the tape into the player, and grabbed a remote. Omar sat on the end of the mattress. His attention was locked on to the screen, which after a whirring of gears, jumped and became an image of a nude man and woman lying in bed together. This scene faded, implying the tape hadn’t been rewound. The glimpse of naked flesh already had Omar on high alert. He was about to see people having actual sex!

The next scene began, revealing the interior of some random house. The front door in particular. The doorbell rang, a blond woman bounding toward it. She had on the sort of workout clothes people wore in the eighties, her hair a massive perm, but he didn’t linger on such details for long. Only the cut-off T-shirt and everything that bounced beneath it. The woman opened the door. A black dude dressed as a pizza delivery guy stood there, already making bedroom eyes at her.

“Did someone order a big Italian sausage?” the man asked.

“I never thought that line made sense,” Ricky murmured. “He’s obviously not—”

“Shut up,” Omar hissed. He never tolerated talking during movies.

“Oh no,” the woman deadpanned. “I don’t have any cash and can’t find my checkbook.”

“Lady,” the delivery guy replied, “if I don’t get something in return for this pizza, my boss is going to fire me.”

The solution they came up with was painfully obvious. Omar didn’t care about any of that. The man was invited in, they made out briefly, and then… Holy fucking shit! Their clothes were tossed aside, the camera zooming in on all the details he normally only fantasized about when locked in his bedroom late at night. Speaking of which, as the scene continued, he had to continually resist the urge to adjust himself. Which was becoming a real pain, both figuratively and literally.

Ricky seemed to notice him squirming and said, “I usually jack off while watching these.”

That was Omar’s favorite hobby. He practiced often enough to be a pro, but he’d never admitted that to another guy. He was willing to now, if it let him do what he wanted. “Let’s take turns,” he said. “Wait outside. I wanna go first.”

“I’m not going to leave you alone in my parents’ bedroom,” Ricky said. Then he moved his hand to the button of his shorts, like he was about to undo them. “I promise not to look.”

Omar hesitated before his gaze flicked back to the screen. When would he get another chance like this? Rational thought was shoved aside by the raging demands of his hormones as he scrambled to get his jeans open, eager for the familiar pleasure of his right hand.

CHAPTER 5

September 9th, 1992

The morning was overcast and wet. Anthony chose music that would keep his spirits high while meshing with the dour sky. The Smiths seemed the perfect fit, although he could have found justification in listening to them no matter the weather or time of day. Morrissey, the lead singer, was crooning about needing to be loved when Anthony spotted his best friend waiting outside the journalism classroom. He popped his earbuds out, letting them hang loose so he could still hear a distant tinny version of the song, which was better than stopping in the middle of it.

“How’s it going?” Omar asked while bumping elbows with him.

“How much longer until the weekend?” Anthony replied. “This has been the longest week of my life.”