Osh pressed his forehead against the wall, his chest heaving, his muscles weak, while I stood in a convent, in a house of God, with the most impure thoughts I’d had in a while. Boy-on-boy action. “I need a shower,” I said, suddenly warm. Osh glanced over his shoulder at me. “You know what goes well with shish-kebabed Duff?” “I don’t want to know,” I said as I started for the door.
