This Is a Dark Ride

by Melissa Harlow

  Right now, even on payday, giving up fifty dollars to pay a prostitute would be out of the question. Rent and food were more important, although Sam had a feeling it might be worth skipping a few meals if it meant he could screw the pretty brunette before the streets used her up. As for Brody, he hardly ever ate anyhow. He was practically wasting away, but he wouldn’t eat a damn thing and when he did, he usually threw it right back up.

  “Maybe some other time,” Sam had told her, knowing that wasn’t the truth.

  “Yeah, sure.” She’d known he was lying too. He could see it in her eyes. Her hand had lingered on his car window just a second longer, and then it was gone. Another vehicle had pulled up behind his, and she’d moved on.

  There had been a moment when she’d glanced back at him over her shoulder. Sam tried to convince himself that what he saw in her eyes then was longing. She’d managed a tired smile, and she waved to him. He’d almost called her back then, but he didn’t even have anything close to fifty; if he was lucky, he had about twelve. It would probably be insulting to offer that. Sam was clueless to proper hooker protocol, but she was a person, not some old cracked plate at a yard sale. Haggling seemed tasteless.

  He had been late for work that night, after he stopped at the little secondhand store down on Fitzpatrick and bought her a coat. It was still in the bag on his backseat. He hadn’t seen her since, which gave him a lot of time to think about it. He’d almost told Brody about it on more than one occasion, but the time never seemed right to talk about it.

  Sam wasn’t sure what he wanted to talk about anyway. His own feelings bewildered him. The girl reminded him of a woman he’d seen with RJ once, and he had to work very hard not to think about that.

  It seemed strange that so many of his thoughts lately were of someone he didn’t even know. A woman. He was gay. Gay men didn’t want women. Maybe he wasn’t gay, maybe he was like Brody, or he could be like Brody.

  At some point he had managed to convince himself that it was just that he wanted to be like Brody…or wanted to be him. That must be what it was. He wanted to be Brody. He couldn’t have Brody’s love, so he wanted to be him instead.

  Since he’d bought that coat, the bag rustled in the backseat as he drove. The sound wasn’t loud, but it was relentless. Every bump on the street made the plastic whisper to him. At night when he opened the door to leave for work, the dome lamp illuminated the white bag, reminding him that she was out there. Out there with no coat. Of course the one he’d bought her at Goodwill was probably the wrong size, completely out of style, or the wrong color, and the more time he had to consider things, he was fairly certain he would never give it to her.

  He’d decided he should just leave it there in the doorway by the liquor store, hoping she would find it, but he still hadn’t done that.

  Sam pulled in behind the ugly brown brick building that he and Brody were currently calling home. It probably wouldn’t be home much longer. They were two weeks late on the rent. Even though this place was a hellhole, he didn’t want to move again. Just the thought was exhausting. Six times in the last year had taken its toll. It’s hard to put down roots when you constantly have to be dug up and start all over.

  He and Brody had a tiny one-bedroom unit all the way on the fifth floor. The walk up those stairs in the mornings was rough. Graveyard shift was killing him, and doing five flights of narrow, steep steps after working eight hours at the warehouse was probably his least favorite part of the day.

  He pushed his key into the lock on the apartment door just as a car alarm began going off outside. The sound stabbed through his aching head and seemed to vibrate through his teeth. He needed sleep. Don’t they fucking hear it? Why can’t somebody turn it off? Why did anyone in this neighborhood need a car alarm? No one even paid attention to them when they went off.

  The apartment was a mess, like always. Sam didn’t bother turning any lights on. He didn’t want to see the dirty dishes, or whatever other shit would be waiting for him when he got up. Something pressed into the arch of his foot beneath his boot: Brody’s keys. Sam picked them up with a heavy sigh and tossed them onto the coffee table.

  He checked in the bedroom. Brody was asleep on his back, lying sideways on the bed, still fully clothed. A twinge of anger went through Sam at the sight of Brody lying there all rumpled and disheveled. What the hell? His shirt and his pants looked like they were wet. It must have been an exceptionally rough night for Brody staying home and doing nothing. Had he been drinking? Shooting up? This was truly ridiculous. Taking care of Brody was as much work as caring for a child.

  Sam pulled his shirt off. He tossed it on the floor, onto the pile of dirty clothes that was getting bigger every day. He really needed to get some laundry done this weekend. Brody wasn’t going to do it. He kept asking him to, but it never got done. Hell, the way Brody’s hands shook, he probably wouldn’t be able to pour the fucking detergent without spilling it all over anyhow.

  Brody made a little groaning sound in his sleep, and Sam stared down at him. Remembering. The way he’d once been, the Brody in skintight leather pants, up on the stage belting out songs. This wasn’t fair. Yes, people change, everyone changes, but not like this. In a matter of years they shouldn’t become shadows of what they once were.

  And again the question nagged at him. Why? Why had Brody let this happen, and why in the fuck was Sam staying and watching him kill himself?

  He’d deluded himself at first. Convinced himself that if he stayed and he kept on being the man he’d always been, kept being there for Brody, that everything would all work itself out. Well, it hadn’t. If anything, shit was worse now than ever.

  Leave him. Leave all this shit, find a good man. Or maybe even a woman, so he could finally stop worrying about the guys at work or at the gym knowing that he was…that he liked men. But he didn’t like men; he liked Brody. Damn it all to fucking hell, he loved Brody, which completely answered each and every one of the lingering “why” questions that persisted in his tired mind. Loved him.

  Sam sat on the edge of the bed and began unlacing his boots. As he pulled them off, he heard a strange sound, a muffled sob. It hadn’t come from Brody, and it didn’t seem to be coming from outside. He double-checked the fire escape, but Krieger wasn’t there. It hadn’t really sounded like a cat anyway, but what else could it be? Puzzled, he stuck his head out of the bedroom door and looked around the dim main room.

  There was someone lying on the sofa. Goddamn it! He’d told Brody a million fucking times about letting his friends crash here. Sam didn’t own much, and he didn’t want what little he did have stolen by junkies.

  He padded across the floor in his socks, moving toward the couch. A soft tapping at the sink caught his attention. The water was dripping. He went to turn the faucet off, and both of his feet squished on the floor. Sam turned on the little light above the sink and looked down at the puddle and sighed. Brody couldn’t even wipe this up? Reaching for the paper towels, Sam noticed that one of the sinks had been cleaned.

  Jesus! How the hell had Brody made this big of a mess just cleaning out a sink? He hadn’t even washed the damn dishes; why would he bother cleaning one sink?

  Another soft cry came from the lump beneath the sheet. Definitely feminine. Weird. He hadn’t known that Brody had any women friends, not anymore. He’d had quite a few before his lifestyle had ruined his looks, but that was a long time ago. Everyone had wanted Brody, and he’d taken more than a few up on their offers. Men, women, once it hadn’t mattered much, but alcohol and drugs were the only lovers that Brody had these days. He occasionally still pretended to be interested in Sam, but more and more Sam was worried that it was all just an act.

  Cautiously he pulled the sheet down a little, revealing the naked body of a woman. Not just any woman; she was the one from the doorway up by the liquor store. He stared down at her wide-eyed. This couldn’t be. What the hell was she doing here?

  Sam knew damn well Brody didn’t have the money to pay
her to be here. Besides, if Brody did have money, he wouldn’t spend it on sex; hell, he wasn’t even interested in sex anymore. Sam considered this for several moments, that nagging doubt creeping into his mind that just possibly Brody wasn’t interested in him anymore.

  Maybe it was a foolish thing to worry about. The last thing on Brody’s mind was sex. Brody wasn’t the nicest guy in the world, but if he’d slept with her, she wouldn’t be out here lying on the couch now, would she? Sam stared down at the girl again. Maybe she’d had drugs. Maybe she and Brody had gotten high together.

  She lay on her back, and she was all bruised up. They were fresh, bright purple against her fair skin. A ring of black-and-blue skin around her neck like someone had choked her… Fuck, fuck, fuck, what had Brody gone and done? This wasn’t good. He blinked, and the girl suddenly became someone else, the one that she reminded him of, the one that once haunted his nightmares. Sam pulled the sheet back up to her chin, covering her body.

  Sam stood motionless for a few seconds, trying to decide what exactly was going on and what he should do. Finally he squatted down by the sofa and looked at her more closely. She shivered beneath the thin sheet. Sam clenched his hand into a fist. Brody was an asshole for not giving her the blanket.

  Fucking Brody, he’d really screwed things up now! If Sam found out he was in any way responsible for the condition this girl was in, he was going to kill Brody! He’d tried really hard to be understanding of Brody’s addiction problems, the mood swings, and outbursts that accompanied them, but if Brody had gotten all fucked-up and hurt this girl, there was no excuse that would be good enough. As much as he loved Brody, this was something unforgivable.

  He moved his face close to hers, listening to her breathing. She smelled clean. Like the green soap in the bathroom. Her hair was damp, and he wondered if she’d washed here. Sam gently pushed a lock of hair out of her face, and her eyes fluttered and opened slowly. She touched his face, sending goose bumps racing up his arms.

  “Brody?” she whispered hoarsely, and then her eyes grew wide. Her hand jerked away, and her gaze locked on to his. Her lips parted, and she let out a tiny gasp.

  “Brody’s sleeping,” Sam said.

  “Will you get him, please?” There was panic in her voice, and she held the sheet against herself like it was a shield.

  “Yeah, sure.” He wasn’t going to know what the hell was going on here until he got Brody up anyway.

  In the bedroom Sam flipped on the switch. The bare lightbulb on the yellowed ceiling came on, illuminating the bedroom. He grabbed Brody’s shoulder and gave him a hard shake. “Wake up!”

  “What?” Brody mumbled.

  “Get up! What the fuck’s going on? What did you fucking do?”

  Brody didn’t move. Sam grabbed both of his shoulders and shook him violently. Brody’s head bobbed up and down limply.

  “Get up! What did you do to that girl?”

  “I gave her some pills.” Brody’s words were slow, and he yawned. He put his hand over his face and covered his eyes. There was dried blood beneath his nails.

  Sam cocked his fist back, ready to smash him right in the side of his fucking head.

  “Brody?” the girl’s voice called out. Sam lowered his fist. Maybe he’d better not go jumping to any conclusions here. If Brody had done all that to her, it didn’t seem likely that she’d be so anxious to see him. He had a feeling he wasn’t seeing the whole picture yet. Still, why did Brody have dried blood on his hands?

  Brody’s eyes fluttered open, dull and unfocused. They were red, and if Sam hadn’t known better, he’d have thought it looked like Brody had been crying.

  “What?” Brody said.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Give me a second, Angel. I’m coming.” He sat up and looked at Sam with a confused expression, his brows knitting. “What are you doing?”

  “I was trying to wake you up. She was asking for you.”

  “I’m up.” He scratched at the stubble on his jaw.

  Brody brushed by him and went into the living room. Sam followed, still trying to figure out what was going on.

  Brody knelt on the floor by the sofa, and Sam watched in surprise as the girl wrapped her arms around Brody’s neck and clung to him tightly.

  “I didn’t know where you were!”

  “Shhh, I’m right here. I was just in the other room sleeping. You feeling any better?”

  “I don’t know.” Her hair brushed over Brody’s skinny arm, and the sheet slid down, revealing a generous amount of her upper body.

  Brody kissed her forehead. “It’s all right, everything’s good. Promise.” He disentangled her arms from him and smoothed the sheet over her. “That’s Sam,” he said without turning around.

  Her cloudy eyes suddenly flashed with recognition as they met his gaze over Brody’s shoulder.

  “You stopped up at the curb a couple of days ago,” she said with an accusatory edge to her voice.

  Brody turned and regarded him with a tired smirk. “Oh, say it ain’t so! Saint Sam was out trolling for whores?”

  It was hard to miss the cringe on the girl’s face at the word whore.

  “I wasn’t trolling for anything. What’s she doing here?”

  “I found her.” Brody picked up a twisted cigarette butt from a pile on top of what appeared to be a wrinkled napkin, and sat down on the edge of the couch next to where she lay. “Beside the building, back by the trash cans.” He shook his head, and anger flickered in his usually hollow and expressionless eyes. “They fucking dumped her there.”

  “Who did?” Sam tried to shake the image from his mind that the term found her conjured up. She wasn’t a fucking cigarette butt or some loose change; how did someone find a person dumped by trash cans?

  “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “They robbed me, that’s all. They wanted my money.”

  “I brought her up here to clean her up and to let her get warm.” His expression turned challenging, but behind that challenge there was a pleading look in his eyes that Sam was not accustomed to. “She’s hurt. You don’t have a problem with her staying here for a while, do you, Sam?”

  Sam shook his head, knowing he’d have to be an ass to say she couldn’t stay. “No…no, but why didn’t you call an ambulance?”

  “I don’t imagine her health insurance plan covers this. She probably should have called the cops. Those guys—”

  “Don’t! Don’t do this, please, Brody? I don’t want you talking about it. In fact I wish both of you would stop talking about me like I’m not even here. I told you, Brody, they just robbed me—that’s all! I don’t want to talk about it anymore, please?”

  Brody immediately fell silent. He shot the girl an apologetic look. “If she wants to talk about it with you sometime, that’s up to her.”

  Sam didn’t bother asking. It was definitely something she wasn’t eager to discuss at the moment.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her.

  “Angel.”

  A whore named Angel, wasn’t that just perfect? “Angel?”

  She shrugged and then managed a weak smile. “My mother was hopeful once, I guess.”

  Sam laughed in spite of everything. She had a pretty smile. It didn’t do much to light her sad face, but he had to admit it was dazzling.

  “You hungry?” Brody asked her.

  Sam’s jaw dropped. Brody never seemed to think about food or the needs of other people. Hearing both in the same sentence was astonishing.

  She shook her head. “I’m tired. Weird tired. I think it’s from those pills you gave me.”

  “Did they help the pain at all?”

  She nodded.

  Damn, Brody must have been extremely concerned about her if he was willing to part with pain pills.

  He made a great show of smoothing down the sheet over her again. “Go back to sleep, Angel.”

  She grabbed Brody’s arm, holding on to it the way Sam wanted to.

  “Can I sleep
with you, Brody?” she asked hoarsely.

  Un-fucking-believable. His junkie, alcoholic, fuckup boyfriend had one of the most beautiful women Sam had ever laid eyes on practically begging to sleep with him.

  Brody looked uncomfortable, and he glanced over at Sam. “Um, no. I don’t…I don’t think so. I can’t ask Sam to sleep on the sofa. He worked all night.”

  Oh, that was real nice—blame it on him! Angel looked back and forth between them blankly and then shook her head.

  “You two…you share a room?”

  “More than just a room… At least we used to.” Sam heard the bitterness in his own voice, but there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  Sam soothed his irritation by thinking of the discussion Brody was going to have to have with her about his problems getting it up. As far as Sam knew, Brody hadn’t been able to get hard for months, but instead of calming Sam down, the thought of that made him even angrier. What if he was the problem? What if it wasn’t the fucking drugs and booze; what if Brody would rather have a woman?

  “He’s available now, if you want him,” Sam heard himself snap.

  The “poor me” look on Brody’s face didn’t do anything to soften Sam. Brody wasn’t the “poor me” type, or at least he shouldn’t be. That look spurred Sam on, and his words and his tone were harsher.

  “Maybe you can cook him something and then sit there and feed him. Yeah, and if you like to clean up puke or you want to hold his clammy fucking hand when he’s got the shakes, then he’s the man for you.”

  Brody’s mouth gaped, and Angel’s eyes were wide.

  Good. Fuck them. Fuck this. He was tired, tired from work, tired of his life. He was especially tired of playing nursemaid to a man whom he’d once worshipped. Now she was here too. This was too much. Sam had thought he wanted her. He knew he loved Brody, but now here she was, holding on to Brody. His Brody. He could see exactly where this was heading, and neither she nor Brody had any fucking interest in him.

  Angel gathered the sheet and sat up. Her face flashed with a grimace at the movement. She was hurting. Sam immediately regretted acting like a jerk around her. Look at her. She was all beat to hell. Some asshole had put his hands on her and hurt her. Now here he was hurting her too. Being a dick. What was his problem? This was the woman he’d been dreaming about—and she was here! He should be happy. Well, maybe he would be happy if she was here because of him. But she wasn’t. She was here for Brody.