rolled out from under the boot. He had a really, really bad feeling about this. But he gathered up his sweaty self and draped the towel over his shoulder.
Lard pushed two cookbooks at him. “If anyone asks, you’re helping me in the kitchen. Follow me.”
“Okay.”
Lard and Bones slowed at the dayroom when they saw Eve sitting on the couch sipping from a two-liter bottle of Crystal Light (5 calories per serving).
Where’d she get that?
Morning light filtered in, turning her wavy hair bronze. Her blouse was unbuttoned enough to show off the frilly lace of her bra. She’d kicked off her shoes, revealing perfect toes with cranberry polish.
Normally Bones didn’t notice feet, but Eve was unbelievably hot for someone his aunt’s age. An experienced older woman , he thought. When he felt himself harden under a thick blend of cotton and polyester he mentally did the times tables backward. Unfortunately it only worked part of the time.
Eve caught him staring. “How’s your second day going?”
“You can call me Boner,” he said like an idiot. “I mean Bones .”
Lard snorted.
Eve smiled knowingly.
Bones tagged along behind Lard through the dayroom and down a corridor to a service elevator, trying to will his erection down.
“Nothing’s going on until lunch,” Lard said when the elevator opened. “So don’t look so guilty.”
Bones shrugged and followed him into the elevator.
6
The doors opened onto what looked like a storage area crammed with paint cans and rolls of carpet. Lard led the way to a fire door. Stenciled letters warned restricted area. no exit: alarm .
Lard bulldozed right through it. They emerged onto a portion of the roof about the size of a basketball court. A chain-link fence protected the perimeter, but the smoggy air smelled like freedom. “Come on.”
They walked around a jumble of junk—antennas, air compressors, satellites—and rounded a corner to a smaller area with raised vegetable beds.
“I’ll never buy food shot up with hormones when I own a restaurant,” Lard said. “Chicken nuggets sound healthy enough, but they have more than three dozen ingredients—not a lot of chicken in a nugget.”
Bones put on his gloves in case he’d have to touch something with calories, like dirt. “Can we talk about something else?”
“That’s the wrong attitude, man. Don’t you want to get over this shit?”
“Not at this particular moment, since it’s almost lunch and my jaw still hurts from breakfast.”
Lard shook his head. “I’m glad I don’t live inside your skin.”
“It’d be a little crowded.” Bones was thinking this buddy thing was overrated. He gripped Celebrity Chefs in one hand, Rachael Ray in the other, and launched into bicep curls.
Lard probed the dirt with his fingers. “Peppers could use a drink,” he said. “Get the watering can. Over there by the faucet.”
Bones filled the two-gallon can and carried it back, pumping it up and down like a dumbbell. Lard squinted under his shag of hair. “One sick fuck.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“Some more than others, and some of us are just regular guys who wanna get laid.” Lard dug at the base of a tomato plant. He unearthed a ziplock sandwich bag, kissed it, dirt and all, and dragged two chairs into the shade. “Have a seat.”
The contents of the bag may have looked like dried oregano, but even a guy who’d led a pathetically sheltered life knew better than that. Lard took out a packet of Zig-Zags and brushed it off. He smoothed out the thin sheet of paper.
Bones watched while Lard pinched and sprinkled the dried stuff with precision. He licked a seam, rolled it easily, and twisted the ends.
“Are you crazy? Smoking that up here?”
Lard struck a match in reply. He lit up, inhaling. The tip glowed red. A seed popped, hitting his T-shirt, burning a tiny hole. So those weren’t dots of Worcestershire sauce on his shirt after all. He held the joint out to Bones.
“That stuff’s bad for