Mrs. Duchesne clutched her pocketbook to her bosom as if by preventing it from coming into contact with us, she could avoid all trace of the gay.
Quinn looked exasperated, but he let the subject drop. “The SUV is this way.”
***
They curled their lips—Jesus, was everybody doing that this year?—at the sight of the Durango and sat in the backseat in stony silence.
Just to piss them off a little more, I found a Rap station and turned up the sound.
Quinn turned his laugh into a cough.
***
It was an uncomfortable ride, but we were lucky not to hit traffic, so we didn’t have to suffer their company for long.
“This seems like a decent neighborhood,” Spike’s old man said grudgingly.
“Ramon Navarro used to call this home.” Quinn steered the SUV into the driveway.
“Really?” Spike’s parents
