Chapter 4: Nobody Touches What's Mine

Brant Lathrop's house on Alder Street smelled of beer, sunscreen and wet rope.

"White shirt," Laurence had said in the car. "Black trousers. You'll carry drinks, and you stay where I can see you."

So Eli carried drinks.

The sailing team had filled every room.

They were loud, the way people are who have never been told no.

He held the tray high and moved through them sideways.

Nobody looked at his face.

Laurence stood by the fireplace with a glass of something amber, talking to nobody.

The whole room kept its distance from him.

Eli could feel his eyes on the back of his neck every time he turned.

"Dog," Brant called from the sofa. "Over here."

Eli stopped.

Rule one.

He turned his head and found Laurence across the room, and Laurence was already watching him.

"Brant," Laurence said, not loudly. "He's busy."

"He's carrying a tray."

"He's carrying mine."

The room laughed, and Brant laughed with it, and waved Eli toward the kitchen with the empty cups.

Eli went, and his hands were wet on the tray.

Eli had not told him who gave the order.

Laurence had simply known.

The kitchen was a long, bright room with a cluttered counter, and for a moment it was empty.

Eli set the tray on the island and breathed.

A hand closed around his upper arm.

"Where are you running to, puppy?"

Brant had followed him in.

He smelled of gin, and his fingers dug in hard, hauling Eli close against his chest.

"Come on. Everyone's asking. How much does it cost to rent you for an hour?"

Eli's body went white and still.

It did not matter that he knew better.

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