Roland West, Outcast by Theresa Linden

Author:Theresa Linden
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Catholic fiction, Catholic young adult fiction, Catholic series, Catholic contemporary, contemporary YA, YA fiction, West Brothers, outcast, same-sex attraction, contemporary issues
Publisher: Silver Fire Publishing
Published: 2018-11-16T16:00:00+00:00

STEPPING IT UP

SATISFIED WITH HIS JOB jacking up the right rear wheel of the Durango, Peter straightened and wiped his hands on his jeans. His gaze snapped to Brice, and something inside his chest did a happy dance. Man, he loved working with her . . . in Woodworking, on his car . . . anything. She shared his interests. She had skills and confidence in executing them. And she didn’t have all the trappings other girls had, all the boring girly things. And there was something else about her, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Whatever. He’d have to come up with more things she could help him with or maybe get her to like his friends and family. This just couldn’t be the last day they did stuff together.

Brice stood with her back to him, looking at home as she rifled through a pile of used sandpaper and miscellaneous tools on the back workbench. A few seconds later, she turned and folded her arms in resignation. “Don’t you have an old pickle jar or something?”

Toby shuffled toward her, his eyes on the wall over the workbench adjacent to the one she leaned against, then he shuffled back the way he came. He’d been leisurely pacing for the past ten minutes. Ever since he’d come out to the garage. Peter had tried like heck to get him to say what he wanted, thinking maybe Mom had sent him with a message. Guess he just wanted to meet Peter’s new friend.

Peter walked to Brice and stopped two feet away. “Pickle jar? What size pickle?”

She threw him a glance and her lip curled up into a saucy smile. “Just your ordinary pickle.”

“Well, there’s your ordinary gherkin in a wee jar like this.” He held his hands up to indicate a small jar. “And there’s your big dill pickle in jars like this.” Stretching the distance between his hands, he indicated a much larger jar.

“Just your ordinary pickle, you dope.” Still with the crooked grin, she smacked the side of his head, mostly just brushing her fingertips through his unruly hair.

He laughed and grabbed her wrist on the downswing, his hand drawn to her like metal to a magnet.

Not having it, she twisted her arm free and punched his shoulder. Her eyes held a playful warning. Maybe a challenge.

On impulse Peter drew back his fist, but he probably shouldn’t play-hit a girl he liked. Not that she was your ordinary girl. She probably wouldn’t care. Anyway . . . Straighten up or you’ll blow it.

He turned to the shelf behind him to find a jar. The shelf held a row of jars, cans, and small boxes holding various hardware and junk. They should have something the right size for the job of bleeding the brakes.

“Here.” He dumped dried palm branches out of a—could’ve been an ordinary pickle jar. He blew in it and palm particles flew up into his face.

“What’d you just pull out of that jar?”

“Huh? Oh, palm branches. You know, from Palm Sunday Mass.

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