“You’re all about the questions. But yes, you can come back to be a Hand, but you don’t want to. And you definitely don’t want to start dating one of the Hands off the clock.” Mitchell let out a funny, humorless laugh. A few more boys arrived, Luke saw, and now they milled around the doors of the trailers in twos and threes, drinking, smoking, talking without meeting each other’s eyes. It was strange, Luke thought: the way two dozen guys could feel like a wild party. If this was what a party felt like.

Mitchell stopped near a silver Airstream. The trailer was surrounded by a white picket fence and a bed of fake flowers. White foil packets of lube glinted among their stems like eggshells.

“Listen, man, it’s simple. Don’t think about this stuff. Let what you do at home stay at home. Let what you do here stay here. ’Cause what we’ve got here is just a few guys doing what we feel. It don’t mean we’re about that faggot shit, yeah?”

Over Mitchell’s shoulder, inside the dim silver trailer, Luke saw Garrett Mason throw his head back in a moan. Stevey Turner was braced on a couch.

Luke knew one thing and one thing only: he was definitely, definitely about that faggot shit.

He forced a smile. “Of course, bro.”

“Perfect. Now repeat after me.”

Mitchell fished an amber vial from his sock, shook it briskly, unscrewed the cap and pressed it to his nostril. He took a snort, switched sides. Let out a long quavering breath.

Luke did just as he was told. The liquid inside smelled of paint thinner. By the end of his first drag he felt a tingling in his face. By the end of his second he was flush all over with a warmth anchored somewhere inside his balls. He saw spots. He said, “Oh shit,” and it felt like the most profound thing to ever come out of his mouth.

Luke felt a finger run up his ass. He turned to see the stunning redhead from earlier regarding him. The boy jabbed the finger deeper. Luke winced—even with the poppers it hurt like a bitch—but smiled back and told himself this was exactly what he’d always wanted.

BETHANY

Dear Jesus. Bethany wasn’t sure what exactly she was seeing from the windows of Luke’s truck parked on the dark side of the ring of trailers, but she knew in a heartbeat that more than one boy here would kill her to keep it a secret. She saw Tomas Hernandez step out onto the porch of the tall triple-wide and light a cigarette. His eyes seemed to settle on hers.

Bethany ducked down, her heart thudding.

Steps in the dirt outside. A truck’s door opening, slamming. A laugh.

She pressed her hand to her lips and counted to thirty. Thirty-five.

The laugh faded. Quiet around her.

Deep breath. Deep breath. Bethany reminded herself that she was a very strong person, a very capable person, a very—