Getting Home

Part 13

The backyard was mostly dirt, surrounded by a chest-high chain link fence. The snow was just beginning to fall under the dark and gray, gloomy sky. I tightened my sweater around me, the air chilly.

Even though my clothes were still wet with alleyway muck.

"Ava, come on, it's cold out here," Jorge said.

"No, dammit," I said. "I'm going to prove I'm not crazy."

Rusting in the corner of the backyard was a so-faded-it-might-have-been-red 1958 Plymouth Fury—a fact I only knew because me and Jorge played in it a lot when we were kids. I still have a scar on the side of my finger from a rusty, super-sharp, torn-out door lock.

Thank god for always having had all of my shots.

The dog trotted along behind us as we made our way to the car and as I kept trying to convince Jorge.

"I don't know how else to say this," I said, "But look... Henry is like, super-strong. I literally just saw him do some really crazy stuff."

He might have even killed someone.

"Okay... and...?" Jorge said.

"Watch. I bet he can pick up the Fury." I gestured to Henry, then the car. "Go ahead."

He gave me a confused look.

He could pick it up, right? At least one end of it—I watched him swing a huge metal dumpster around like a twirler, for God's sake. If he can't pick up a car, he could at least bend a bumper or something, right? For SURE.

Easy as pie.

I went to the rear of the car, between the two giant rusted shark-fins that protruded from the sides. I crouched down, pantomiming putting my hands under and pulling up.

"Lift, Henry," I said. "Lift."

Jorge said, "Ava, chica, I know you love the dumb ones, but... this one might be a little too pretty, even for you."

Henry smiled at me.

I almost fell backwards—I loved how one corner of his mouth would slowly go up at first, in a smirk, before his lips would break open in a huge, beautiful smile, that made his eyes squinch in a super half-sleepy, full-seductive sexy-ass way.

Okay, anyways.

Henry came over and squatted down, putting his hands under the bumper—memory or not, he had perfect lifting form...

And just a perfect form—full-stop.

I stepped back next to Jorge to admire the view from the rear. Boy definitely worked out, no denying it—it was round, full, and perfectly shaped. I couldn't believe how it was making me think... things I've never thought before.

Like, I wanted to grab it... and squeeze it... and bite—

"Mi gusta," Jorge breathed.

Henry said, "Ava?"

"Yes, go ahead," I said, sucking the drool back into my mouth.

If the view from behind was good before, holy smokes... all of his muscles tensed, and that perfectly shaped, shelf-like rear-end popped in all its glory—I mean it was so curvy and chiseled and carved through his pants that they almost split.

Nothing happened.

"Henry?" I said.

He tried again, his body tensing.