He likes this guy. “Some when I was a kid. Not much for nicknames.”
“Not even Mal?”
Malcolm shrugs. “Not really. My sister calls me Monte, but that’s really it.”
“Monte.” He grins, and it’s like a light sparks behind his eyes. “You look like a Monte.”
“Iggy short for something?”
“It is.”
When Iggy doesn’t elaborate, Malcolm struggles for a way to keep this conversation going. He’s intrigued by Iggy in a way he doesn’t understand—a way he’s tried to ignore for a long time. Ever since the first time his adolescent dick got hard over the male surfers inPoint Break, and he didn’t know why.
“So, where are you from?” Malcolm asks.
His jaw tightens. “All over. Right now, I’m living in Chance with my Uncle Howie.”
“Oh, cool.” Was it cool, though? Iggy’s living with his uncle, not his parents, and that can mean a lot of things. Most of them bad. “So, Howard Donohue is your uncle?”
Iggy’s head-tilt drips with “duh.” “Yeah, he is. You live in Chance then?”
“Yeah. My whole life. It’s a nice town. Small but, you know. Nice.”
“Nice. Well, I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“We will?”
“Doing stage crew and all.”
“Oh.” Duh, Malcolm is an idiot. And why is he being such a fool in front of this guy he barely knows? He doesn’t get tongue-tied like this. It’s stupid. “Yeah, we will. See ya, Iggy.”
Iggy winks. “See you, Monte.” Then turns and saunters toward the exit.
Malcolm watches him go, confused by his own flubbing around, and curious to know more about his new (he hopes) friend…
…Malcolm almost didn’trecognizethe tall, stylishly-dressed man who approached him by the bed of his truck. Adult Iggy wore slimming black jeans tucked into gray, mid-calf boots, with a chest-hugging, gray Oxford shirt. His blond hair was a darker honey shade and almost long enough for a ponytail. He pulled a purple rolling suitcase, had a matching bag slung over his shoulder, and he clutched an insulated water bottle in his right hand.
Iggy stopped less than two feet from Malcolm, in the safety of the pedestrian zone, and stared. His eyes were puffy and spider-veined, but they also held a familiar warmth. A kind of laser-focus that had always been all for his Monte, and no one else.
“Hi,” Malcolm said at the same time Iggy said, “Hey.” He wanted to reach out, to pull Iggy into his arms and hug him. Hold his body close, feel those familiar curves and angles, and to feel the thump of Iggy’s heartbeat. To press his nose into Iggy’sneck and know if he smelled the same. Kissed the same. Felt the same?—
Fucking no, stop it.
“It’s good to see you,” Malcolm said. “You look…great.”
Iggy cocked an eyebrow. “You look stressed and exhausted.”
Malcolm laughed. “You’re still as blunt as ever.”
“Subtlety never got me what I wanted. Still doesn’t.” He held his suitcase out to Malcolm. “Is there room amongst your tools? Or should I hold my luggage on my lap?”
“There’s room.”
Malcolm had made a spot in the bed, and he wedged the suitcase and carryon in close to the cab so there was no chance of them flying out on the highway. Iggy climbed into the cab before Malcolm could offer to open the passenger door, so he got in, too. No sense in hogging a loading spot. Iggy looked around, ostensibly for a cup holder for his bottle, and ended up putting it on the floor between his feet.
The truck wasn’t ten yards from the terminal when Iggy said, “Is it all right if we—” at the same time Malcolm said, “I need to stop—um.”
Iggy waved a hand at him. “You speak.”
