Page 19 of The Gaybor War

"‘Yard Sale & Splash Bash,’" I read out loud. "Benji-approved bargains and beverages? What beverages?"

He raises his tumbler. "Mystery ones."

"Jesus Christ."

"Language, Carter. The HOA frowns on blasphemy."

"Do they also frown on public intoxication?"

"Only if someone gets arrested."

He flashes a sunny smile, the kind that makes people forget they were supposed to be irritated two seconds ago.

Unfortunately, I’m not people. "Do you ever stop performing?"

He leans back in the chair, eyes closed, letting the sun hit his face. "Do you ever stop pretending you’re not watching?"

I choke on my tongue. "Excuse me?"

Benji tilts his head lazily toward me. "Relax, I meant everyone’s watching. You should too. You might enjoy yourself."

"Unlikely."

He sighs as if I’ve disappointed him on a spiritual level. "You really are no fun."

"And you’re allergic to silence."

"Balance," he says without opening his eyes.

And just when I think I’m free to leave, he adds, "See you at the splash bash, Mr. Boxer-Briefs."

I turn on my heel, muttering, "I’ll be wearing trunks," and he laughs—loud, delighted, and entirely too pleased with himself.

Chapter 7

Yard Sale Day in Morningwood Estates is the social event of the season—if your idea of a social event involves sunburns, petty rivalries, and bidding wars over other people’s broken appliances.

I’ve been up since seven, not because I’m dedicated, but because Shania texted "Rise and Shine, Morningwood!" in the group chat at six-forty-five and then followed it with seventeen sparkle emojis.

Now I’m standing in my driveway, surrounded by what can only be described as the end of civilization in box form. My neighbors’ trash, my potential treasure.

First up is a bin labeled ‘miscellaneous kitchen gadgets.’ Inside is a quesadilla maker, three fondue forks, and something that looks like a medieval torture device but turns out to be a cherry pitter.

"Who eats that many cherries?" I mutter. "Are we running a pie cartel?"

Two driveways down, Malia has a row of essential oil diffusers and yoga mats that have clearly never seen a downward dog.

Across the street from her, Candace is selling baby clothes even though her youngest is seven. "They’re vintage collectibles now," she insists.

And Kiki’s table? Absolute madness. A blender without a lid, an incomplete set of hot curlers, two left shoes, and a sign that says ‘Name Your Price.’ I consider offering twenty bucks for the lot, just to salvage her pride.

I’m about to take another lap down the street when I spot something odd under a pile of old DVDs—a framed portrait of a clown. Not a cute circus clown. Haunted-orphanage clown.

"Oh, absolutely not," I whisper. "This thing’s cursed."

I put it back exactly where I found it. Let some unsuspecting fool take that home and release Pennywise 2.0 into their living room.

"Morning, Benji!" calls Ruth from Woodpecker Lane. She’s wearing a visor big enough to interfere with satellite reception, digging through boxes and piles with undisguised glee. "Are you selling anything fun today?"