“Don’t get lippy, boy,” his father warned, never taking his beady eyes off my legs. “This isn’t a whorehouse.” “It’s not?” Joey drawled, tone dripping with cynicism as he handed me a plate of food and a fork. Reaching around me, he grabbed a couple of cans of Coke from the fridge and slid one into each pocket of his sweats. “Well, shit, you could’ve fooled me, considering it produces just as many unwanted pregnancies.”
