Thuggiana (The First Quarto Book 5)

  THUGGIANA

  A COLLECTION OF SHORT STORIES FROM THE FIRST QUARTO

  GREGORY ASHE

  H&B

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Thuggiana

  Copyright © 2022 Gregory Ashe

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law. For permission requests and all other inquiries, contact: contact@hodgkinandblount.com

  Published by Hodgkin & Blount

  https://www.hodgkinandblount.com/

  contact@hodgkinandblount.com

  Published 2022

  Printed in the United States of America

  Version 1.03

  Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-63621-043-8

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-63621-042-1

  The Slightest Folly

  This story takes place before They Told Me I Was Everything.

  1

  MARCH 2012

  Auggie made sure always to be in the pool first. Or as close to first as possible. Then he could float there, lazily moving his arms, kicking barely enough to keep his chin above water. Just him, the coolness of the water, the coolness of the air, the smell of chlorine, the scallops of blue light on the walls. The trick, like most of Auggie’s tricks, was timing. Don’t run through the halls. Don’t get to the locker room too early. Whatever you do, don’t look like you’re in a rush to change. Auggie had read somewhere that dogs could smell the equivalent of a teaspoon of salt dissolved in the Pacific Ocean. Other animals could smell fear.

  He was already in the water when Kris Pringleton emerged from the locker room. Kris was laughing, and it must have been pissing Tommy off because Tommy shoved him. Kris stumbled, laughed harder, and caught himself against the tiled wall. When he straightened, his eyes swept the pool, dipping toward Auggie and then moving on. He was tall, pale, skinny. He had a shock of dark brown hair that he never seemed to do anything with. Keeping it short seemed to be all he could manage. His jawline was asymmetrical. The triangle of hair that ran to the elastic band of his swimsuit was thicker than any other boy’s. Once, at a party, Kris had somehow talked Robbie Stillwell, captain of the football team, into shaving his legs. You never knew the crazy shit Kris was going to do. Maybe that was why Auggie couldn’t keep his eyes off him.

  Swim class was an elective, and Mrs. Rodriguez was known as perhaps the easiest teacher in the school, which explained why most of the kids were juniors, like Auggie, or seniors, and a preponderant number were boys. A blow-off course, in comparison, would have been too much work.

  Class started the same way it always did: the boys cannonballing into the pool, half the girls sitting on the edge, their legs in the water, some jumping into the water, some standing as far away from the pool as they could get, some asking Mrs. Rodriguez if they could run errands for her. If there was a curriculum, Auggie didn’t know what it was. He had assumed, before signing up, that he’d be learning various different types of strokes, maybe something about lifesaving. Instead, Mrs. Rodriguez spent most the time sitting on a bench, the clipboard on her knees, flipping through statistics for water polo. If things got really crazy, she’d blow her whistle and call out sprints.

  Today was a normal day. That meant enjoying the water, laughing, giving each other crap. Kayla Thompson started the roughhousing. She swam up behind Zach Penney, put her hands on his shoulders, and dunked him. Zach came up sputtering and roaring, and then he gave chase, doing the worst freestyle Auggie had ever seen as he went after her. When Kayla hid behind Susie Perez, Zach went for her instead, with Susie screaming about her hair the whole time. Well, until she took the plunge. After that, it was a free-for-all. John Hayes got Isaac R., and Brendan Fallwell got Steve Miller. Anthony Banks got Kris, and when Kris came up spewing a fountain of water and then making noises like a dolphin, Brad Holt got Kris a second time. When Kris broke the surface the second time, he doubled down on the dolphin noises.

  It got rougher.

  Kris, as usual, decided to escalate. When Brad wasn’t paying attention, Kris dove down, locked his arms around Brad’s ankles, and dragged him underwater. Brad had to kick his way free. When they came up, Brad was swearing, and his anger couldn’t hide the note of panic in his voice. Kris laughed. He kept shouting out, “That’s enough horseplay, that’s enough horseplay.” He said it hoss, like he was a character off Gunsmoke, even though he’d been raised twenty minutes away and spent his own whole life in Orange County.

  Auggie had gotten dunked twice, and he done three dunks of his own. He figured that was a pretty good ratio. He floated at the edge of the pool, elbows back to catch the cement lip. Jay sat next to him. The dye in her hair must have been fresh because it turned her scalp line purple. She smiled at him, all braces, and said, “I know, it’s not my thing either. Some of those guys are huge.”

  And of course, Jay didn’t know, but that was a challenge.

  One thing that Auggie had learned from watching his brothers fight, from scripting videos with Logan and Devin, but mostly from hanging out with guys his whole life, was that the way to get someone’s attention — the way to command someone’s attention — was to take things to the next level. Not too far, of course. But if you did it right, you won. You won the round of insults, you won the bullshitting, you won the fight, you won the online battle for eyes and attention.

  Kris’s shock of dark hair was wet now, a few short strands plastered to his forehead. He was grinning, the asymmetrical jawline sharper than ever.

  Pushing off from the side of the pool, Auggie gave a few lazy kicks. He swam along the perimeter, keeping his distance until he was behind Kris. A mole broke the smooth pale skin of Kris’s clavicle. Triangle freckles marked one shoulder blade.

  Auggie dove. He grabbed Kris’s swimsuit, pulled, and then put on a burst of speed. He was already ten yards away when he came up, holding Kris’s swim trunks overhead and whooping with victory.

  Laughter. Shouts. Screams. Half the guys turned on someone else, trying to replicate the move. The other half gave nervous backward kicks, glancing around to make sure no one could sneak up on them.

  Kris did none of those things. If being naked bothered him, he gave no sign of it. A huge grin was plastered across his face. He zipped towards Auggie, taking Auggie by surprise. Auggie hadn’t expected Kris to cave. Not even close. But he’d expected some halfhearted protests, maybe some good-natured bitching, and the eventual showdown with Kris swimming alone, naked in the pool, until Auggie had given the swim trunks back.

  Instead, Auggie was awkwardly trying to build up speed, still recovering from his surprise, when Kris slammed into him. Kris was laughing, and then shouting, and then laughing some more, reaching for the swim trunks while Auggie tried to keep them away. Auggie was laughing too. Laughing almost hysterically. And aware, the whole time, of Kris, naked and wet, twined around him. Kris locked his legs around Auggie’s waist. His dick and balls bumped Auggie’s chest. Still laughing, still reaching for the trunks, he dragged Auggie underwater. Kris hair was like seaweed against Auggie’s cheek. Auggie was hard.

  “Okay, okay,” Auggie shouted when he came up for air, flinging the suit away from him. He tried to get free of Kris, but now they really were tangled, and for heart-stopping moments, slick muscle and bare skin seem to pressed against every inch of Auggie.

  Then they separated. Laughing, Kris recovered his trunks and pulled them on. Mrs. Rodriguez was blowing her whistle, and the pandemonium in the pool was resolving into splash wars, complaints about wet hair and ruined makeup, and Zach shouting that Brad was peeing.

  Auggie kept his distance until class was over, although normally he was the first to change. Kris stayed in the water too. Then it was just the two of them, Auggie unwilling to swim for the ladder. In his mind, Kris was going to swim the same trajectory, and they’d end up colliding.

  Kris had a crooked smile, but his eyes were strangely intense. They treaded water, the only sound the soft splashes of their hands, the water sloshing against the tiled edges of the pool.

  “Payback is a bitch,” Kris said. “Watch your ass, Lopez.”

  He slapped water at Auggie, and Auggie laughed, and then things were normal again. They both swam to the edge, pulled themselves up onto the cement slab, and headed for the locker room.

  “Hey, Auggie,” Kris said. “You should come over this weekend. Hang out. My parents are out of town.”

  Kris went into the locker room first, and Auggie studied the triangle of freckles on his pale skin, the chicken-wing shoulder blades, the dark hairs at the small of his back.

  “Yeah,” Auggie said, adjusting himself, trying to think about cars, horsepower, titanium alloy rims. “Cool.”

  2

  MARCH 2002

  “Marry Jessica, because I’ve seen that girl in Home Ec., and she knows what she’s doing.” Daniel Theophilus Stratford ashed the Marlboro Red he was holding. “Fuck Stephanie, because she’s about the only one I haven’t fucked already, and I want to complete the scorecard.” Dutiful laughter from Cody and Christian. “Kill Chelsea
, because she’s a heinous bitch.”

  The bell rang for third hour, and Cody made a little jerking motion, as though he might push away from the wall and head inside. When Daniel and Christian didn’t move, though, Cody made a face and slouched back against the wall. Daniel flicked the butt of a cigarette again, not because it needed ashing but because it was something to do. He considered dropping it and crushing it out under his heel, but the problem was that no one would notice. The pad outside the lower gym was covered in trash: cigarette butts, a flyer for the homecoming dance, silver gum wrappers, the plastic remains of a ring pop, a foil condom wrapper on which part of the word Magnum could still be read.

  The spring day was mild, which meant ditching was obligatory. When Daniel’s Bugle Boy jeans started to fall, the air was surprisingly pleasant through his threadbare briefs. He caught a belt loop and tugged the jeans back up. He’d outgrown his belt the year before, and when he’d refused to wear Jacob’s hand-me-downs jeans, his mom had come home with the Bugle Boys. Three sizes too big for him, off the rack at Goodwill. Lesson learned. When he needed new boots, he took Jacob’s old ones.

  Farther down the building, a pair of double doors opened, and kids trotted outside.

  “Looks like gym classes are on the field today,” Christian said.

  “Jocks,” Cody said. “Fuck ’em.”

  Daniel drew hard on the Marlboro Red. It was always a little bit of a gamble because he never knew if Coach D. would come outside with his class. That was part of the fun.

  “Fuck,” Christian said. “Here they come.”

  “Incoming,” Cody said, and he dropped his own cigarette and rubbed it out with the toe of his sneaker.

  Just to make the point, Daniel took an extra-long drag.

  By then, the first kids in the class were drawing even with them. Mostly boys, which was normal for the gym electives, and normal too because Coach D. was famous for giving A’s to any kid who played a sport. The guys passing Daniel now were a perfect example of the breed. A mix of town kids and country, they all looked like the kind of kids Coach D. wanted on his teams: clean-cut, athletic, bright eyed. Little drones who couldn’t wait to grow up and be one more piece of the machine.

  “Posers,” Aaron Kruger said, flipping them off as he passed.

  “Fuck you,” Christian said back.

  “Yeah, fuck you,” Cody said.

  “Jesus,” Daniel said, “just Jesus Christ, Cody.”

  “What?” Cody asked, his tone hurt.

  “Look at the fags,” Nate Weld said, elbowing the kid next to him as they headed for the field.

  “I’d offer to blow you,” Daniel said, “but I don’t have my tweezers to dig out your dick.”

  The boys’ faces darkened, and they hurried on. Rhett was next. He’d cut his hair, the dummy. And his dad had bought him the new Nike shoes he’d been talking about. He kept adjusting his shirt, Tippecanoe Rentals & Camping, as though it didn’t fit right, exposing the little patch of hair high on his chest. He had such goddamn skinny legs. Every time Daniel saw them, he wanted to snort.

  The fags thing had really gotten to Cody; anything in that ballpark got him every time. “Marry Abby Gratz,” he said.

  “She’s our cousin, dumbfuck,” Christian said.

  Flushing, Cody continued in a louder voice, “Fuck Kaitlin Birding.”

  “You wish, you creep,” a girl called out from among the students passing them. A laugh ran up and down the line.

  “Kill Sierra Steinmetz,” Cody finished, although he was wobbling now, and he faltered on the landing.

  Disgusted looks from the boys and girls heading out of the lower gym.

  “Nice group of friends you got there, cowboy,” Rhett said with a grin as he approached.

  “Fuck off,” Daniel said calmly, ashing the cigarette. That was a mistake. He should have drawn hard on it and blown the smoke into Rhett’s face. That would’ve been much, much better. But the moment was past.

  “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Rhett said, his grin getting bigger.

  “Didn’t seem to bother your mom,” Daniel said. “Cream pie, yummy.”

  Rhett rolled his eyes. “You got any more of those cigarettes? I can still smell the shit on your boots. You’ve been spending too much time with your cow, cowboy.”

  Daniel open his mouth, but before he could say anything, Cody shifted his weight and shouted, “Fag.”

  “For fuck’s sake,” Daniel muttered.

  Red blotched Rhett’s face, and he jogged ahead. Daniel watched him go. Those skinny legs. But God damn, that ass. Like somebody had blown it up with a bike pump. He waited to see if Rhett would look back, but, of course, he didn’t.

  “Will you pull it together?” Christian said, elbowing Cody hard. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  “I hate that fucking kid.” Cody shifted his weight again. “He’s such a fag.”

  “Jesus,” Christian said, “give it up already. One person says fag, and you act like somebody set you on fire. Keep it up, and I’m going to start thinking you are a fag.”

  And, of course, that set Cody off all over again.

  Daniel pulled hard on the cigarette. His teeth crimped the filter as he stared down at the field. Rhett’s shoulders. The tight vee of his waist, almost small enough for Daniel to put his hands around it. And that ass, God damn.

  “That’s detention, Stratford.” Coach D. passed him without even glancing over.

  “Put it on my tab,” Daniel said through a wreath of smoke.

  3

  MARCH 2012

  The first beer tasted even worse than it smelled. The second beer was . . . bad. With Kris chanting, the sound echoing through the empty house, Auggie chugged the third one. Kris whooped and pumped an arm as Auggie drank, but his eyes never pulled away. His grin accentuated the sharp asymmetry of his jawline.

  “Oh shit,” Auggie said, smashing the can underfoot the way he’d seen Fer do sometimes. He let his head hang over the back of the chair, the world upside down, everything tasting like hops.

  “Don’t tell me you’re done,” Kris said. “Come on, my dad goes through this stuff so fast he’ll never know. This is our chance.”

  Auggie brought his head up. Kris’s cheeks were flushed. He was wearing a tank top that exposed most of his chest and shoulders. Fer would have called his shorts panties—they were barely long enough to cover his junk. Auggie was pretty sure he wasn’t wearing underwear.

  “I’m already up by one.”

  Laughing, Kris rolled a bare shoulder. “I’m pacing myself. Are you still hungry?”

  Auggie groaned and shook his head.

  They packed up what was left of the pizza, and then Kris jogged down the hall, carrying the box out to the trash. When he came back, he was covered in goosebumps, and his nipples tented the thin cotton tank.

  “It’s freezing out there.” He chafed his arms. “Come on, let’s watch something.”

  The first three beers of Auggie’s life were doing something to him. He couldn’t have put his finger on what, exactly. He felt looser. And, if he were being honest, a little bit sick. But he also felt a strange tension in his gut, something the beer hadn’t touched, and everything drew tight again when Kris leaned against the wall, hipshot, a dickprint visible at the front of his shorts. Kris turned and headed toward his bedroom, and Auggie opened the fridge, got two more beers, and followed.

  Kris was already in bed, a huge comforter pulled up to his neck, and for a long moment, Auggie was sure he was naked under the acres and acres of white polyester.

  “Nice,” Kris said, eyeing the beers in Auggie’s hands. “I’m seriously freezing. Grab my laptop and get over here.”

  The cans were cold in Auggie’s hands. The polyester rustled when Kris shifted around.

  “You don’t want to watch TV?”

  “No, dummy, come on. Why are you being so weird?”

  Auggie put the beers on one of the nightstands. He retrieved Kris’s laptop and crawled onto the bed.

  “Get under the covers,” Kris said.

  “I’m not cold.”

  “Just for a picture.”

  “What?”

  “We’ll post a picture of us under the comforter together. Girls eat that shit up. We’re going to be fucking adorable.” When Auggie still didn’t move, Kris yanked on the bedding, rocking Auggie back and forth. “Come on!”