“On my way. Give me ten minutes.”

“I knew you loved me.”

“Shut up.”

Asher hung up, and I blew out a breath. This was happening. I was less than an hour away from asking my brother to get all gay and kinky with me for money. This was a new low. What if he punched me? I frowned. It was a good possibility. And Asher was strong. He’d played football all through high school. He pumped weights at the gym three days a week. He was all buff with muscles and strongness, and I was all weak with nonmuscles and … weakness.

“Fuck. He’s gonna punch me, and it’s gonna hurt.”

Asher pulled to the curb a short time later, music pulsing through the closed windows of the Jag. It was our favorite band. Smashing Pumpkins. We used to listen to them cranked to full volume on our drive to school every day when I lived at home. The windows would vibrate like they were doing now, and you could feel the beat resonating in your teeth.

It was awesome.

It trickled an old feeling of warmth and happiness through my veins. I missed that.

I tugged the door open, a wave of music slamming into me, and got in, tossing my backpack in the back seat while singing at the top of my lungs to the chorus of “1979” as it blasted through the speakers. It was beautiful.

Asher laughed and joined in as I slammed the door, both of us mimicking Billy Corgan as best we could like the wannabe rock stars we’d been since we were eleven. Our voices cracked as we tried to match the ear-splitting volume surrounding us.

We sucked. Neither of us could hold a tune to save our lives, but we didn’t care. As kids, we’d played Rock Band together like we were destined for the big stage someday. Asher on guitar and me on vocals, then we’d switch off. Good times.

When the song ended, Asher reached over and turned it down to a nondeafening level before ruffling my hair as he turned onto the road toward home. “Fuck, I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too. So, have you convinced Dad my gayness was an illusion yet?”

“Nope, sorry. I doubt I will. He has that image of you bursting from the closet burned into his retinas. He cries in his sleep now. I hear him. Atticus, Atticus, noooo! Say it ain’t so. Not my son. Not my sweet boy. He’s gaaaayy. Whhhyyy, God, whhhhyyyy?”

I snorted. “Whatever. He does not.”

Asher grinned so wide his dimples popped. It was one thing I didn’t have. He got the straight gene and the knee-weakening dimples all the girls loved—not that I wanted girls swooning at my feet. The point was, I’d never stood a chance.