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When Jake’s drunk, he does stuff he never would sober. He grabs asses without bothering to check for gender. He falls out of lawn chairs. He slurs his words, his southern diphthongs drawn out in beer-fueled slow motion. As Corey leans back against the frat house wall and watches, Jake vaults onto the hood of his ’84 Camaro like he’s head cheerleader and transforms an ordinary Friday night quad party into a pep rally. If he were anybody else, he'd get booed until he shut up, or decked by somebody's boyfriend, or laughed at, but Jake…man, there's just something about Jake.
Jake bounces on the hood, leaving a dent Corey knows he’ll regret later – he loves that rusty hunk of junk. It’s kind of like Jake: a work in progress, a little rough around the edges, but anyone who takes the time to really look at it can see the clean lines, the classic chassis under the slapdash coat of primer. Jake’s got color high on his cheeks, his jeans slung low on narrow hips, enough heat in his eyes to take the chill off the night when he looks straight at Corey and slants him a smile. After he jumps down, he heads straight for Corey, wrapping his arm around Corey's neck. He pulls Corey around the corner of the Delta Chi house, away from the noise, out of the light.
When Jake's drunk, he gets real affectionate too. He tugs their heads together, close enough that Corey can feel Jake's hair swing against his neck, close enough to smell beer on Jake's breath. Close enough that when Corey turns his head and Jake's right there, eyes bright, mouth open, coming toward him and not stopping, even though it's not really dark enough for this, Corey closes his eyes and tilts his head. Even though Jake might not remember it in the morning. Even though it's Alabama and there are six linebackers shot-gunning PBR thirty yards away.
First, Corey feels slick heat against his mouth, and then a tongue that's got no business being that good. Soft, hot lips curve up in a smile against him. God and Coach and the defensive line wouldn't appreciate what they're doing, but right now, stone cold sober, Corey doesn't give a shit. It's Jake. He smiles back into Jake's mouth, grabs fistfuls of Jake's shirt and holds on tight. Later, he’ll confiscate Jake’s keys, pull them warm from unzipped jeans, and drive him home.
He takes whatever Jake feels like giving; he always has.
© Janey Chapel 2009
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