Page 6 of Wrath

I mutter, "Hey." I hold my hand up in a weird, robotic wave. "I'm Josh. Miller."

"Josh Miller," Carl says, smiling from across the island, where he's scooping cheese dip out of a pewter dish thing. "Josh Miller is a pretty good guy," he tells Ezra. "He'll hook you up. Introduce you to the cool kids. He knows all the girls, too."

Something flickers on the guy’s face. It's there then gone, and then he's nodding, his mouth pressed flat, his mouth looking like I kind of want to bite it.

I blink, nodding lamely.

Now his mouth twists into a smirk, one cheek tuggingupward so he looks amused...or maybe derisive.

"That's good," he says, and his voice is raspy—like he just choked on lake water, smoked a cigarette, and maybe jumped back in again.

Mom says, "I figured if Ezra drove over to look out on the lake, he’d see the lot of you boys under the trestle bridge or at Snake Island, with your boats all tied together like you do, playing that music…”

I nod, barely looking at my mother. "We weren't down there."

There it is—I see his relief. Something his brows do.

"He went swimming by the point. Dove right in. Isn't that right, Ezra?"Carl arches his brows, looking fatherly.

"That's right." Ezra gives my mom a smile that somehow actually looks charming.

"You two boys will have to go together sometime,” Mom says.

Yeah, right. Maybe next time, we’ll both get run over by a train.

I blink, and my mom is looking at me like I should say something. "Yeah,” I manage. “That'd be great."

Mom smiles in a very mom-like way. As if she's proud of all of us, for doing nothing but standing here in the kitchen.

"Josh, Ezra never did go upstairs when he first got here a few hours ago. Did you, Ezra? Got here and then he set right off."

Ezra—that’s the lunatic’s name—shakes his head. How the hell did he roll up at my house, not even bother to see his own bedroom, and end up on the damn train trestle bridge?

"Why don't you show him upstairs?” Mom asks me. “You can show him where you keep the soap and shampoo and all that good stuff. We got two of everything—even though I know you may have brought your own,” she tells him. “Your towels are blue. Joshua's are gray."

Ezra arches a brow, doing something that I guess should be asmile, but it looks...like he thinks my mother's crazy. I feel a flash of sympathy for Mom before he lifts his chin just like the other football players at my school do when I pass one in the hall. And he says, "Joshua."

"I'm sorry—Josh." My mother does her phony telephone laugh, the one that's supposed to make strangers like her.

I give her a flat-lipped, wide-eyedughlook, then lead the way back through the dining room into the family room—maybe a little bourgeois with its white built-in shelving and Carl's giant big screen TV. But maybe Ezra wouldn't think so. I can feel him behind me. I glance over my shoulder, finding him a few paces back. His face is grave—almost angry.

"What?" I say as we move through the foyer, toward the staircase.

"What?" he echoes.

Now there's definitely an edge in his voice.

"What's your deal, man?" I start up the stairs; I feel him like a shadow, and I’m not sure how much I like the vibe I’m getting from the guy.

"I don't have a 'deal,'man." I look back over my shoulder, finding he's got one eyebrow quirked. Fuck, he's gorgeous. I don't know how I got so unlucky, but he looks like a fucking model. Tall and lanky, scowly, broad up top but lean like maybe he's been locked up in a cage and starved for just a couple of weeks. There's muscle under his pale skin, but he makes me feel porky.

"You gonna keep on walking or just eye fuck me?"

I'm so unglued, my eyes cling to his as I struggle to find words. Then I realize what he just said. I can feel my face flame.

"Dude, I'm not eye fucking you."

"God hates fags, eh?"he says.

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