THE ART OF THE HEART (EXCERPT)

EXCERPT : THE ART OF THE HEART By DAN SKINNER
Zac lived his life in the comic books he collected. His closet shelf was neatly stacked with them. His parents thought the magazines to be a harmless pastime. A hobby. But Zac bought them because of the beautiful men with gorgeous bodies in revealing tights and trunks. They were as close as he could get to what he desired.
He had discovered this desire when he was thirteen. He was riding with his dad into town to buy yeast and flour, baking soda and sugar for his mom to make her homemade bread. There was nothing like bread hot from the oven with fresh sweet butter melting on it. The old ‘59 Ford pickup churned up a trail of beige dust behind it as they bumped their way toward the McHenry farm. The McHenrys had the second largest farm after their own, and grew alfalfa and corn. They also had an apple orchard that they shared with the whole town during apple-picking season. Zac’s mom made apple pies for every farm family. For a couple of months every fall, the house at Cloverfield would smell of apples and cinnamon.
That summer had been scorching during his thirteenth year. But Zac still wore his t-shirts and long jeans. He didn’t like to expose his gangly white limbs to anyone for ridicule. He’d grown accustomed to the heat and sweat.
As they neared the McHenry property, Zac could see their green John Deere tractor parked at the edge of the cornfield. The corn had been harvested and it was now time to mow down the stalks and turn the field. Someone was lying on top of the tractor basking in the white-hot summer blaze. He could just make out the battered cowboy hat covering his face.
The McHenrys had six children. Only two were boys. Rory and Dale were the oldest and youngest respectively. Zac could tell by the long contour of the body stretched across the top of the tractor that it was the elder of the boys. Rory had just turned sixteen, but had been showing the signs of impending manhood two years earlier. He was six feet tall, had muscles where they hadn’t been before, and a smattering V-line of fine blond hair across his chest and stomach. He was shaving. Every two or three days his dark whiskers would outline his square jawline. He lay shirtless on the tractor in a pair of cutoff jeans rolled up to mid-thigh. He was tan and shone like glistening copper in the sun.
As their pickup rattled closer to their farm, he lifted his hat and looked down the road toward them. Even from that distance Zac could count each ridge in the washboard of his abdominal muscles. A long muscled arm poked high in the air and waved the cowboy hat at them. He jumped from the tractor and trotted across the short span of field toward them as they approached. Zac’s dad stopped the truck, and a low, dry cloud of dust swirled its way in through the windows. All hands waved it away as Rory met them at the passenger side and leaned in. His face was walnut brown making his teeth seem an extraordinary shade of white as he smiled at Zac.
“Hey there, Two-Tone! Mr. Weston!” he greeted them.
Zac could smell the heat coming off the older teenager’s skin. He was dotted with perspiration. He tried not to stare, but the irresistible gravity driven by his curiosity made it impossible to fight. He thought Rory was the handsomest boy in all of Sweetwater.

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