[ Eddie, on the other hand, is a queer, not that he's suicidal enough to admit it to anyone but a couple of his closest friends. Certainly not to anyone in this crowd. Small-town queers don't need to admit it. They need to survive, and Eddie's no exception. People in this town already hate him - for his name, for being a burnout, for the way he looks and acts - he doesn't need to give them any more reason. Shit, it's nerve-wracking enough being under Roy Tillman's roof as it is.
He likes girls too, but he's nowhere near as bold about it as somebody like Gator. Gator, who, across the room, has a cheerleader on each thigh, both delighted to be there. Like it's some huge fucking privilege to share his attention. And Eddie guesses that it is, in a way. Star quarterback, near untouchable, tall and broad and handsome and all those other things that make up an all-American wet dream.
When Eddie glances over again, Gator's hand is under one girl's sweater, her thighs spread. The part that surprises him is that Gator isn't looking at her. He's looking right at him. Eddie's gaze flickers away from them, busying himself with his phone, updating his friends: party sucks, obviously. Another few sips of beer, trying to keep his mind and his eyes off of Gator - and not quite succeeding. Shit, if he had one girl in his lap, he'd be far, far too distracted to even think about anyone else, let alone two. Why's he looking at Eddie? What, is he worried he's gonna steal anything that isn't nailed down if he's not watching? Wouldn't be the first time.
But when Eddie looks over - not quite at them, almost past them - Gator's staring at him. It's unmistakable. She's moaning into his mouth, arching into his hand on her chest - and Gator's looking at him instead.
Eddie feels his pale face flush and pushes himself off of the wall, making a beeline for the door. He's already sold most of what he brought - he can just hang around for a while outside, catch any stragglers who might be going out for smoke breaks. Then he'll go home, and he can wonder what the hell Gator's problem is in the peace and quiet of his trailer. For now, he makes his way out to the porch, lighting himself a cigarette and puffing on it to calm himself down. The night air is cool against his burning face, and it's dark enough to hide any evidence of it. ]
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He likes girls too, but he's nowhere near as bold about it as somebody like Gator. Gator, who, across the room, has a cheerleader on each thigh, both delighted to be there. Like it's some huge fucking privilege to share his attention. And Eddie guesses that it is, in a way. Star quarterback, near untouchable, tall and broad and handsome and all those other things that make up an all-American wet dream.
When Eddie glances over again, Gator's hand is under one girl's sweater, her thighs spread. The part that surprises him is that Gator isn't looking at her. He's looking right at him. Eddie's gaze flickers away from them, busying himself with his phone, updating his friends: party sucks, obviously. Another few sips of beer, trying to keep his mind and his eyes off of Gator - and not quite succeeding. Shit, if he had one girl in his lap, he'd be far, far too distracted to even think about anyone else, let alone two. Why's he looking at Eddie? What, is he worried he's gonna steal anything that isn't nailed down if he's not watching? Wouldn't be the first time.
But when Eddie looks over - not quite at them, almost past them - Gator's staring at him. It's unmistakable. She's moaning into his mouth, arching into his hand on her chest - and Gator's looking at him instead.
Eddie feels his pale face flush and pushes himself off of the wall, making a beeline for the door. He's already sold most of what he brought - he can just hang around for a while outside, catch any stragglers who might be going out for smoke breaks. Then he'll go home, and he can wonder what the hell Gator's problem is in the peace and quiet of his trailer. For now, he makes his way out to the porch, lighting himself a cigarette and puffing on it to calm himself down. The night air is cool against his burning face, and it's dark enough to hide any evidence of it. ]
What the hell, man.