Page 1 of Punching the V-Card
THURSDAY
Chapter One
Devon Waters’ palmswere sweaty as he steered his car into his parents’ mountain driveway. His beloved blue 2015 Ford Taurus, paid for with his own hard-earned tips from waiting tables at O’Charley’s, had performed well on the wet, stormy drive home from college. Even so, his stomach had been in knots the entire way, and not because of the weather.
He hadn’t been this nervous since he’d come out to his folks at the end of his freshman year of college. That’d gone well, so there was every reason to hope this weekend would go well, too, right? And given that he was pretty well-practiced at all the activities he’d be pursuing over the next four days of his fall break, he didn’t know what he was so anxious about.
As he pulled into his dad’s usual spot in the two-car garage, since his folks were both out of town on work-related trips, his stomach flipped again. The presence of a yellow 1986 Camaro parked in their mother’s car’s usual place reminded him of exactly why he was so anxious. His younger sister Hopeandher best friend, the singular, scrumptious (Devon’s mother’s description), and virginal Carl Pink had beaten him home.
Carl wasn’t an unfamiliar presence at the house. Carl had been Hope’s best friend all through high school, but it wasn’t as if Devonreallyknew him. Ignoring his sister and her friends was basically in his job description as an older brother.
Devondidknow peaches-and-cream Carl was called Pinky amongst his friends, both because of his last nameandhis delicate appearance. Not that Carl had a ton of friends, because despite being freakishly good-looking with swooping blond hair and such pale, frosty-blue eyes, Carl had one giant strike against him—he was also entirely out and proud. In Appalachian high schools like the one they’d all attended, being an out queer kid didn’t bode well for popularity.
As far as Devon had heard, Carl’s friends consisted of Hope and the four members of Carl’s band, which was called, ridiculously, Pinky and The One Eyes. The euphemism was clear and, in Devon’s opinion, immature. Though he’d heard (once again from Hope, and she was clearly biased) they were fantastic.Andalso breaking up.
Because said preternaturally beautiful Carl Pink was leaving town and his bandmates behind after Christmas. For good.
Hope said Carl was heading across the country to Los Angeles to try to break into the music business on his own. Devon might have thought it was a bad idea, and he might even have worried for the kid out of sheer human decency, but there was no need. Carl was an only child, his folks were both rich and permissive, and, according to Hope, one thousand percent accepting of Carl’s homosexuality and even more supportive of Carl’s career aspirations. So, Devon suspected the fine-boned, pretty boy wouldn’t be roughing it all that much out there in the land of honey and gold.
But the movewasthe reason Carl’s Camaro was parked in Devon’s parents’ garage. And it was also the reason Devon’s heart was thumping like crazy and his blood now rushed in his ears like a freight train.
It was stupid to be this frazzled, because he was supposed to be the jaded, experienced, unflappable older guy this weekend, wasn’t he? That was his mission and the whole reason he was here. Yet his hands were shaking as he put the car in park and turned the ignition off. He’d always found Carl so beautiful that the idea of touching him was thrilling, but the circumstances around said potential touches were utterly nerve-wracking.
Devon sat in his car a minute longer, listening to the rain on the garage roof and trying to figure out just how this was going to go. But he didn’t get anywhere with his thoughts before the door into the house was thrown open and Hope came bursting through to the garage, smiling and flushed, her brown eyes sparkling.
“Devon, you dumbass, get inside! I have to leave soon and I want to get you guys settled.”
Settled.What did that even mean, given what was happening?
Devon waved at her and then reached into the back seat to get his duffle. He’d brought everything with him that he’d need, just like Hope had instructed, but he ran through a checklist in his head again, just to be sure. It wasn’t a very long list, after all. Just three items. They weren’t going to be doing anything complicated. And not that he’d had much to do with the planning of this weekend either. That had been all Hope and Carl. He’d mainly just been saddled with consenting.
Which he was beginning to doubt the sanity of.
It wasn’t like he was hard up. He had options.
“Devon! Seriously! Hurry!”
Devon thought whoever it was who’d claimed oldest children were natural leaders and youngest children natural followers was cracked. How else to explain him and Hope? She was the little boss and he’d always ended up following her orders—even when it went against his better judgment.
One of his earliest memories of big-brotherdom came from when they were three and six. Hope had ordered him to climb the shelves in the pantry to get the hidden cookies, promising to share them with him if he did. But instead of splitting cookies with Hope, when the board of the shelf broke he’d split his head. He still had a scar from that, and it should have served as a warning to never let Hope talk him into anything rash.
But it didn’t work out that way, since only thirty-eight annoying texts and four infuriating Skype calls had managed to convince Devon to cave and agree to this stupid plan.
As Devon climbed out of the car, his knees felt like jelly and his pulse beat wildly. Hope rushed over to take hold of his arm, dragging him toward the doorway leading into the kitchen. “He’s already nervous. Don’t make him think you’re reluctant or something. God, how insulting would that be?”
Carl Pink nervous? It seemed so unlikely given his past experience with Carl’s cocky, self-assured smugness that he didn’t even need Hope to propel him forward into the kitchen. He wanted to see Carl in this unusual state for himself.
The kitchen was the same as ever—clean, midsized, and dominated by the big wooden table to the right of the kitchen counters. The rain hit the window beside the table, and his mother’s beloved incandescent bulbs glowed in the hanging lamps over the main bar-height counter. Everything was normal, except his parents weren’t here to greet him, despite the homey scent of pot roast permeating the air. Plus, there was a spread of cookies, veggies, nuts, and fruit sitting on the counter, most of it artfully plated and covered with plastic wrap.
And then there was Carl. Sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen counter, he held an acoustic guitar. Devon swallowed hard, eyes catching on the blond hair shimmering over his forearms and wrists as he picked out notes. Devon had always had a thing for details like that on a guy. It made them human, real, and touchable. He’d never thought of Carl as entirely real before, what with his surreal beauty and cold manner.
“Hey,” Devon greeted him, hoping to sound casual, but his throat felt tight.
Carl nodded, not even glancing at him. Barefoot in blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt showing off the pale, smooth column of his neck and the soft-looking skin of his arms, he noodled on, keeping his gaze focused out of the kitchen window. He seemed more interested in the rain and the gray landscape than in the guy enlisted to do him thisfavor, or whatever this was to him.
Carl’s expression was distant and, if Devon was going to put a name to it, smug. He didn’t appear nervous at all, in Devon’s opinion, which threw into doubt all of Hope’s assertions and the reliability of her communications in this entire mess.
Because unlike Devon, Carl was acting like this was the sort of thing he did so often he was bored out of his mind even considering the prospect of doing it again. Never mind that Devon had been told that wasn’t the case. That was the whole purpose behind his even being here.
