SIX

Ok, so "morning" was an operative word. It was 1:30PM.

"Fuck," I hissed, peeling my body from the sweat-coated surface of the sofa. The air conditioner was just kicking in, and the heat let me know that the rain had moved on and summer was getting an early start. Stormy was asleep on the ground, his wild black hair even wilder than the night before. I shook his shoulder.

"Where did Ross go?"

He examined me with bored brown eyes. "I dunno."

"I'm screwed."

Stormy checked his wristwatch. "It's before 5:00PM. You can find him at one of two places."

"Get up and get your pants on, creep." He was wearing a pair of black boxer shorts. "Show me where to find him."

"Fine, fine," he grumbled, wriggling into his skinny jeans and a pair of shoes.

Still in the wrinkled, sweaty clothes of the night before, I got into my car with Stormy. Ross's off-and-on boyfriend, Clarence, lived on the other side of town. Stormy's car was gone from the parking lot. We found it parked outside of Clarence's house.

"Stay here," Stormy insisted. "If he sees you here, he'll want to show off."

"What? What do you mean?" I didn't get an answer. Stormy went inside the small, shabby house while I drummed my fingers against the steering wheel.

Several minutes passed, and I became too impatient to wait in the car. The door to Clarence's house was slightly open, so I let myself in. I heard arguing, and among the voices I distinctly recognized Ross's. He was yelling.

"Fuck you," Ross spat with enough malice to make a chill go up my spine. I entered the living room - which was littered with garbage and dirty clothes - to find a little get together.

Ross was standing beside a sofa from the 70's, Stormy's hand on his shoulder. Some shirtless dude - Clarence, I presume - was on the sofa, a blanket wrapped around his waist. He was chiseled, with muscles rippling all over his body, and a military-style haircut. At first I didn't understand why Ross was so pissed, shouting obscenities at the blank-faced guy on the couch. But then a girl stumbled into my line of vision. She was wearing a lacy bra, hopping around, trying to shimmy into a pair of skanky shorts. I accidentally caught glimpse of her pubic hair and shuddered. You should never see someone's genitals before you know their name.

"You've always been a fucking liar. I don't know why I ever trusted you." I actually saw the spittle flying from Ross's mouth. The guy on the sofa scowled.

"Yeah, well you've never been anything more than a hole to stuff, so I don't know why you trusted me either."

"Hey, shut the fuck up," Stormy put in, suddenly needing to be the one who was restrained. Clarence laughed, still lying down.

"Get out of my house. Take your stupid fucking fish with you." He kicked a fish bowl from the end table. It spilled the rocks, water, and fish onto the hardwood floor. Stormy gasped, scooped up the little goldfish, and ran to the kitchen.

Ross headed for the door, and as he passed me, I saw a tear in each eye. Just two, and after wiping them away, he was stone-faced again. "Let's go," he muttered to me, grabbing the collar of my shirt and pulling me outside.

Stormy staggered out a few moments later, cursing under his breath and clutching a cup of water with the goldfish in it.

"I've got work in half an hour," Stormy announced, looking guilty. "Will you be OK on your own?"

Ross sighed. "I'm fine. I've got Zeke."

Suddenly on the spot, my eyes went wide. He had me, did he? How could I be expected to console Ross, who I didn't know, over a situation I wasn't part of? Ross tossed Stormy his car keys, took the goldfish, and got in my car. I didn't have time to play counselor. I had massive amounts of research to do. The drive home was silent and awkward.

When we arrived at the apartment, Ross sulked to his room. It surprised me. Right on cue, my social awkwardness made me freeze at the door, unsure of how to respond. He indicated to Stormy that he had someone to be with him, to fend off the loneliness, I guess. The slam of his bedroom door communicated the desire for distance. Drawing in a sharp breath, I decided to talk to him. What was the harm, right?

He was lying on his unmade bed. He'd shed his skinny jeans, replacing them with baggy sweatpants. He was wearing a white tank top too, and the array of bracelets were gone. He was bare. In a weird way, it seemed intimate. I wanted to turn and run.

"Do you want me to leave?" I asked, taking the upfront approach.

He looked at me for a moment, his face like a stone monument's - just as cold, just as unmoving.

"Not particularly."

The next step was a doozy. Where would I sit? What would I say? Was it OK to ask questions? Would I pretend that the little fucker didn't try to ruin my life?

Ross must've noticed my hesitance, because he made my decision easy by patting the bed in front of him. I sat while he remained horizontal. His knees gently brushed against my back. I angled my body so that he was in my line of vision, and I waited.

After several silent seconds, Ross started talking.

"Every time I was with Clarence, he led me to believe that he was in love with me." He sighed. "But no matter who I fucked, he didn't care. Now I know why."

I almost pointed out the idiocy in the statement - he was allowed to cheat, so he should've known the other guy was cheating too? It didn't add up.

"Ross… are you a sex addict?"

It sounded harsh. With my next breath, I planned to recant, but his laugh stopped me. "No, Zeke, I think I'm addicted to the friendship, not the sex. But in my experience, all friendships ultimately end because of sex."

This surprised me. "You've never had a friend who you didn't sleep with?"

"I have," he admitted with a sigh, "but they were chicks. I prefer dicks, as you can tell." He rolled his eyes. "Even Stormy and I fucked in his back seat one drunken night, but he stuck around through the weirdness until we were friends again."

My heart went out to the kid. He displayed all of the symptoms of someone with serious identity issues. As uncomfortable as it made me, I decided to try and help.

"I will be your friend."

Immediately, his eyes narrowed on me. "Don't be an asshole, Zeke. I'm really struggling here, if you can't tell."

"No, I mean it. I might be boring…"

"You're not boring."

"… but I think we could be friends."

"What makes you think we won't end up fucking, hm?" His eyes challenged me.

"I wouldn't do that to you. Not knowing what I know now."

"Wanna bet?"

The conversation had taken on a creepily intense atmosphere. Ross extended his hand. "I bet 500 bucks that you can't do both: be my friend and keep your dick in your pants, out of me."

God, he was such an asshole. "I'm not that fucking shallow, Ross. Not everyone wants to use you up."

"Is it a deal?"

I thought about it for a second. My competitive side was really eager to shake on it, and I couldn't see how it could go wrong.

"Well... being your friend includes keeping you safe… it's a deal. You're gonna lose."

He shrugged, rolled onto his back, and smirked. I wasn't aware that a plot was cooking in his moronic little head.