When Joe came to himself again from dozing, Billy was a softly snoring, wiry mass of muscle and bone half under him.
Joe had a leg thrown over Billy, an arm under him (arm totally asleep now: bitch of pins and needles to come), and his other arm around Billy, threaded under his armpit.
His cheek lay against the nape of Billy’s neck; his lips touched muscle between Billy’s neck and shoulder. He held Billy, held him close to his chest like cards in a high stakes game.
The motel room door was locked and the chain was on.
Slim little fucker, Billy was, nothing like Joe’s own meaty self. Slim and sly and (though no one knew it) sometimes shy. It came off as aloof or arrogant. That played well in interviews.
At least, those were the adjectives rock hacks used about Billy. Only Joe knew it was residual shyness leftover from the usual teen angst and humiliations.
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