Top Secret
: Chapter 8

LUKE

It’s another brutal week of school assignments and work. Those extra bartending sessions are killing me. But at least my Dance-off plans are shaping up nicely.

Unfortunately, the engine on my bike is making a rattling sound whenever I turn at an intersection. It might just be that the chain needs adjusting, but all my tools are in my mother’s garage.

That’s how I replace myself stopping by there on Sunday, the way Mom asked me to. Besides, free food is free food.

Sitting at our small table beside my brother Joe isn’t easy, though. Did it always feel this crowded in here? And the only one talking is Mom. Joe just shovels in the food and nods whenever he thinks he should.

It’s not a bad strategy, really.

Joe leans back in his chair like a king as my mother scoops another portion of homemade mac and cheese onto his plate. “There’s more deviled eggs,” she clucks, offering him that dish, too.

Swear to God, the whole time Joe was in prison, my mother paced our house, worrying. But she wasn’t asking herself, “Why would my boy turn out to be a criminal?”

Not our mom. She was wondering if he was getting enough to eat.

She doesn’t offer me seconds, and I have too much pride to reach for the dish. So I drain the water in my glass and ask to be excused. “I need to open up the garage and replace a wrench, okay?” I push my chair back.

“Wait!” she says. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you our news.”

I pause, wary. “Okay. What’s up?”

“We’re starting a handyman business!” she announces, clapping her hands. “I’ll do all the bookings. Joe will go out and do the repairs.”

Holy shit. Because everyone wants to give a felon access to their homes?

It takes colossal willpower to avoid speaking my mind. “That’s great, Ma. Could be good for both of you.” And it’s true that Joe can’t easily replace work. If you check that box on an employment application—convicted felon—nobody ever calls you back.

Then again, if he’d thought of that before breaking into homes to steal flat-screen TVs, maybe he wouldn’t be that twenty-six-year-old loser who’s still sponging off Mommy, would he?

I make my move to get up, but Mom puts a hand on my wrist. “Honey, I need a favor. Would you have five hundred dollars you could invest in our business?”

“Invest,” I repeat stupidly. That’s a word you’d use for a nice little mutual fund, maybe. Giving your money to Mom and Joe would be as productive as lighting it on fire.

No, less productive. At least you could roast a marshmallow over the fire.

“Just a loan,” she says. “We have startup costs. We need an extension ladder, and we need to place an ad in the newspaper.”

“Wouldn’t an online ad be cheaper?” I ask before I can stop myself. Business is interesting to me. But I can’t offer to help this sad little venture. I will not be sucked into their issues.

There are so many of those.

“Maybe!” Mom says, gripping my wrist. It’s probably obvious how badly I need to get away.

“I don’t have any extra cash right now,” I say, hopefully ending the conversation. “I’d love to help, but I can’t.”

She blinks at me. And then blinks some more. It’s time for another performance of guilt and tears.

“I owe my fraternity seven hundred bucks on Friday,” I tell her, which is the truth. “And I still need to eat and buy gas for my bike…” I sigh.

“Just this once,” she begs. “Please think about it.”

“Oh, I will.” That comes out sounding darker than I meant it to. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The truth is that if I pick up more extra shifts behind the bar next week, I could loan her the money. But I’ve loaned her money before, and she never pays it back.

Why is that okay? Like, seriously. If she just said it had to be a gift, not a loan, I wouldn’t feel so used when she asks me for money.

I escape to the garage in peace. If I have any luck at all, the rattle my bike is making is just a loose chain. I replace my torque wrench and kneel down on the garage floor for a better look.

Sure enough, the tension is off a little. I can do this.

Or maybe I can’t. You need someone’s weight on the bike to get the tension right. Maybe there’s a workaround? I pull out my phone to Google for a solution. Honestly, balancing some bricks on the bike would be easier than asking a family member.

There’s a new message on Kink, so I open it up, because I have no self control. LobsterShorts and I continued to text each other this week. He’s fun to talk to. Our chats always start off random before inevitably turning to sex.

It’s a pattern, I think. Lobster is attracted to me, and probably men in general. But he feels guilty about it. Every time I get him riled up, he disappears for a day or so. Then he always comes back.

LobsterShorts: Today’s animal behavior tidbit is about kangaroos.

There’s a link, so I click it. The screen loads with a video of a kangaroo, all right. And he’s…

Really?

SinnerThree: Is that kangaroo jacking off?

His response comes so quickly that I know he’s been waiting there for me.

LobsterShorts: Of course he is. Did you really think that humans would be the only ones to discover that you can polish your own pole?

SinnerThree: I guess I’ve seen a dog lick his balls. But I thought you needed opposable thumbs to really get freaky.

LobsterShorts: Dolphins will hump an inanimate object. Or occasionally a diver.

SinnerThree: OMG. Humped by a dolphin? GTFO.

I’m sitting on the garage floor cracking up.

LobsterShorts: Lots of primates masturbate, including the females. Bats even jerk it while hanging upside down. And yes, it gets messy.

I’m dead.

“What’s so funny?”

I look up fast as my brother comes around the corner. “Nothing,” I say, hastily texting back. GTG, asshole brother is in my face. Shoving my phone into my pocket, I stand up.

“Look, about the money,” Joe starts.

“That’s what you want to talk to me about? Quelle surprise.” It makes him nutty whenever I remind him that I’m studying French. Or that I’m good at anything, really.

“Look,” he says, not taking the bait. “I got a better idea.”

I can’t wait to hear this.

“You live in that fraternity house, with all those rich kids? All we need is one computer, Lukey. Just one will be worth more than the five hundred bucks that Ma wants.”

My blood pressure quadruples in the span of two seconds. “That’s the worst idea you’ve ever had. All laptops have that app now—replace my stuff. The cops would pull up outside your door an hour later. Do you really want to go back to jail?”

“You don’t like my idea?” he sneers. “Then give us the money, you little faggot. We both know you can.”

I try to control my anger. Only my brother would use a hateful slur while trying to convince me to give him cash. “I’m thinking, okay? Do me the world’s easiest favor and sit on the bike. I need to adjust the tension.”

He waits a beat, and I think he’s really so stubborn that he won’t do this small thing for me. But then he throws a leg over and puts his weight on the bike.

Grateful, I sink down and quickly apply the torque wrench to the bolts. “Look, it’s really not like I have five hundred extra dollars. I’d have to work some extra hours. And only if I can get the shifts.”

“So how about you do that?” he says. “If you don’t, I’ll tell Ma what it is you really do for most of your cash, and it ain’t tending bar.”

It’s a good thing he can’t see my face, because I do a poor job of concealing my surprise. How the hell does he know about my job at the club?

I take a deep, slow breath and then call his bluff. “I don’t care if you tell Mom. She doesn’t give a fuck, just as long as she can treat me like an ATM.”

But I’m bluffing, too. I care very much who knows about my job. If Joe told my fraternity brothers, that would be dangerous to my future. If they made a prank out of taking my photo or filming my ass on stage, that shit could wind up on the internet. And if it’s attached to my real name…

I can’t let that happen. Next year I’ll be applying for jobs all over the country. And “male stripper” cannot be the first thing that comes up when someone searches my name.

There’s nothing wrong with dancing. Stripping. Whatever. But I can’t afford to be the punch line of a joke.

“Make it six hundred, then,” Joey says as I fiddle with the bike chain. “One of those C-notes you pass to me privately.”

Fuck you! I want to shout. Fuck you, fuck Mom, fuck this entire fucking planet.

But I don’t.

“Okay,” I say instead.

Like I even have a choice.