Page 17 of The Boyfriend Experience

Law isn’t so bad, I decide. And this is a new light to see him in. Bad-boy teenager. “So what kind of gang were you in?”

“Fight club. MMA style though, not bare knuckles like the movie.”

“Bad boy, huh? I might’ve gotten you all wrong, Law.”

“People usually do.” He sighs.

“You know,” I say, “there’s a Shrike Bikes showroom just down the road over in Five Points. I know a few of the guys over there. The owner has a little bar attached and he has all my beers on his taps. We made a little deal a few years ago. We could go over there and get you a new jacket.”

“So we can match,” he says, winking at me.

“Yeah,” I say. “We could match. How perfect would that be?”

“Is that the kind of boyfriend you’re looking for, Oaklee? Outlaw partners?”

I nod. “It is. That’s the kind I need for this game, anyway.”

So he shrugs. “Whatever you want, then.”

“You could get a t-shirt too.”

He makes a face. “You want me to be a walking billboard for Shrike Bikes?”

I wince. “Yeah, can’t do that.” I take another look at his closet. Desperate to find something suitable. “Do you have any concert shirts?”

There’s a wall of dresser drawers in the small hallway between the two closet rooms. He turns to them, opens a drawer and starts looking.

“How about this?”

It’s an old, old Johnny Cash shirt. Like so old, it’s gray when it so clearly started out black. And there’s little holes in the front near the collar. Like it’s been washed so many times the fabric is falling apart. “Is that a leftover too?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I think I wore this every day for a month once when I was sixteen.” And then he laughs. Like he’s thinking back on those days and finds them better now that they were in the past.

“It’s perfect. Do you have your leftover boots and some ripped jeans?”

“Nah,” he says. “I mean, I got some Chucks I could wear. I never wore boots back then.”

“Ripped jeans? Preferably faded?”

“Nope again. I’m a different guy now, Oaklee. I wear suits.”

“Hmm,” I say, disappointed. “Well, throw on the t-shirt, change the shoes, and we’ll call it good.”

“Where we going?” he asks, tossing the shirt to me—which I catch out of instinct—and then grabs the back of his shirt behind his neck and lifts it over his head.

I wasn’t ready for that. In fact, the entire process—from the moment his fingertips find the shirt and lift up—my eyes track down to his stomach as he reveals it in what feels like slow motion, but clearly isn’t because this is reality and not some movie.

He. Is. Cut.

Cut, bitches.

The lines… oh, the lines of his muscles. They are something to behold. Rolling hills and valleys of taut muscles. And the way they move as he pulls the shirt over his head is… is like a ballet. Something choreographed. Something beautiful.

“Oaklee?”

“Huh?” I say, forcing my eyes to meet his. Finding myself reluctant to do so.

“The shirt?” he says, hand outstretched.