“Don’t forget this.” Jordan wrote down his email and cell number. “I’ll bring an ID next time.” Taking a deep breath, Jordan stuffed the notebook back into Zeb’s pocket, letting his pinky stretch out toward the fly, barely brushing it. Maybe it was only the thought of what was under there, but the impression of heat sizzled right up Jordan’s arm. Without looking at Zeb’s face, Jordan sprinted to where his parents waited impatiently.
Here and now, under the courthouse or police station or wherever this hole was, Silver felt that same warmth—though not the remembered heat. Despite the constant reminder of “No touching,” Zeb had moved his foot until his ankle pressed into Silver’s from behind. The flashback had mellowed him enough to return the pressure, but now he jerked away. The shackles clanked and chimed like an alarm. Since everyone was staring at him already, he did the chain-gang shuffle toward the bars, and a guard met his eyes.
“What?” It was the one who’d called him Blondie.
“Someone is supposed to be bringing me my prescription. How will I know when he gets here?”
Silver didn’t think it was possible for the guy to look more disgusted, but he managed with an exaggerated shake of his head. “Must be true what they say about blonds. No way we’re giving you something someone brings in. Should have told the booking officer.”
“He didn’t ask.” The film in his head replayed the smiling but serious expression of the woman at the clinic. “I have to take it every day at the same time. It’s really important.”
“I’ll put a word in. Get the paperwork started.” The helpless, pathetic tack had been the right one for the guard. He sighed. “What’s it for?”
Silver didn’t have to fake embarrassment. On top of everything else, he was a fucking cliché. He lowered his eyes. “What do you think?”
The guard snorted. “Shoulda figured. Yeah, we get a lot of that. They know how to handle it.”
Silver should have been past the shame brought on by the guard’s sneer. How could something like that have power when Silver had spread his ass for a camera so close it was almost in him? Turned out he had a bottomless pit of shame, especially when he became conscious of Zeb’s watchful attention.
An hour ago he’d been determined to hurl every bit of the last three years at Zeb, make him gag on that first bitter load Silver had swallowed to earn a ride from Morgantown to Shrewsbury, only to get turned away by the man who said he loved him. Wanted to fill Zeb’s gut with the fear of trying to find an unlocked car to sleep in, an abandoned building that hadn’t been taken over by a gang. Then to burn him with the shame of trading his ass or mouth for the hope of someplace safe and warm.
Now he didn’t want Zeb to find out about any of it. Least of all about the last nail in Jordan Samuel Barnett’s coffin. He shuffled back to the bench.
“What was that about?” Zeb murmured.
“I’m hungry. I asked when they were going to feed us.” Other than the lies and omissions to keep his age a secret back then, Silver had never lied to Zeb. Now it came as easily as it did with the rest of the world.
“What did he say?”
“When they get around to it.” Rather than wonder how long it would take before Zeb got curious again and asked questions Silver didn’t know if he had the energy to make up answers to, he said, “So, Haiti, huh?”
“Went with a mission group to rebuild a school. Stayed to teach.”
“What was it like?”
Zeb shrugged and brought an end to the conversation. He could lecture, for sure—Silver knew more than he wanted to about how important math was for the real world—but when it came to personal stuff, Zeb was a much better listener than a talker. Back then it had been awesome.
First it had been the dizzying warmth every time he thought I have a boyfriend. The tingle of secret knowledge: I’m going over to my boyfriend’s tonight. The kissing and touching were awesome, and an orgasm with someone else’s hand on his dick was the most amazing thing ever. Until it was someone’s mouth. But by then it wasn’t only having a boyfriend, even one he couldn’t tell anyone about. It was Zeb.
Zeb listened. He paid attention. And kept track of stuff in his little notebook. Which wasn’t always good, considering how sometimes the truth had to get a bit twisted in order to keep up the I’m nineteen lie. But everything Silver felt, and everything he told Zeb about those feelings—that had been real.
Around two thirty, two more unlucky bastards ended up in the tank. They tried socializing, but when no amount of prodding would get anyone to answer their “What are you in for?” questions, they sat and muttered to each other on the bench opposite.
Silver watched the hands move on the mesh-covered institutional clock. Everything on cop shows had been specific with numbers. Time of death calculated to the instant. When was the Baltimore PD going to join the digital age?
“I’ll keep an eye out if you want to catch some sleep,” Zeb said after the new guys had stopped trying to organize a group share.
“I’m usually up most nights anyway.”
“Oh.” Zeb’s slow nod had Silver pressing his lips together in frustration.
“I work in a restaurant that stays open late.” He was up to thirty legit hours a week. Since he’d started waiting tables at With Relish, he earned enough to pay for the room on Tyson Street.
Zeb was silent.
Silver bit his lips against swearing it wasn’t a lie. “I’m good if you want to rest,” he said instead. He doubted Zeb would be any help if shit got started—not that Silver was a badass fighter. He had stayed alive this long by not being where trouble happened. He just hoped Zeb was snoring whenever these pricks got their shit together enough to bring him his meds. Though he doubted Zeb would sleep through someone yelling Who here’s got HIV?
Zeb didn’t snore, but his eyes closed eventually. At some point during the night, the meth head passed out with his face on the toilet.
By morning no one had shown up with meds, but at 8:17, the guard called them up one at a time for breakfast. There was a tiny bottle of no-name water and a plastic-wrapped sandwich, which was either made with rubbery cheese or rubbery egg.
It was hard since the chains didn’t let his hands get above his temples, but Silver found the best thing to do with breakfast was to stuff it behind his head to cushion it as he leaned against the wall. More comfortable, and he’d still have it in case anyone did show up with meds.
Despite advice from the new inmates, Zeb bit into his.
Nine thirty was when Silver always took his meds. An hour couldn’t make much difference, or even a day, he told himself, but by eleven he was starting to freak out. Another twenty-four hours of this? And then if he couldn’t make bail, if he got convicted, how long? How long would he be waiting for the clock to move? He was pretty sure no amount of trying to squeeze a prison sentence into a montage would keep him from suffering every minute of a year locked up. Any more than it had saved him when they’d shoved him into the Reflection Room back at Camp Path to Screwed Now That Your Parents Know You’re Queer.
Silver was staring so hard at the clock, when the guard banged on the cell door, he jumped. His meds?
“Hey, you. Jesus.” The guard nodded at Zeb.
Six inches between them, but Silver still felt the sudden tension in Zeb. “That’s you, Harris,” the guard added when Zeb didn’t move.
“Where am I going?” Zeb asked.
“Judge is here. You too, Blondie.”
Silver controlled any outward show of relief, but knowing he wasn’t going to get left behind was the first good thing to happen since Zeb charged out of his car last night. Once they were out of the cell, the guards went in and shook the meth head until he staggered out to join them.
Their destination was another cell and more waiting. Being shuffled around like this reminded Silver of a trip to Disney World back when he was fourteen. Just when you thought it was the end of the line, it was another room. Though he didn’t think this was designed
to entertain the people caught in the system.
There was only one small bench in the new cage and no toilet. They’d barely been in there for a minute when a black guy in a uniform so crisp and freshly cleaned Silver could still smell the starch from the ironing said, “Zebadiah Harris?”
Silver fought the absurd desire to grab Zeb’s hand and beg to go with him. Curling sharp nails into his palms, Silver mocked himself. A few hours around Zeb was all it took to forget three and a half years of surviving alone.
Zeb stood, turning to face Silver. “I’ll see—”
“Just go.”
“Can I call someone?”
Silver shook his head. If Eli couldn’t bring his meds, what could anyone do? Alarm snapped Silver’s head up like a yank on a collar.
“Don’t. Don’t call—” He swallowed. “—them.” He was pleading, a weakness that was dangerous here, but he couldn’t change it. He’d rather be in jail than ask his parents for help. Not that they’d bother.
Zeb nodded.
The guard led Zeb away. Have a nice life. Or not. Silver choked the words back. He was afraid it would come out more pathetic than sarcastic, and he wasn’t going to add to his humiliation. After the clinking of Zeb’s shackles faded under the sounds of the other prisoners shifting around, Silver plastered his most determined go-away glare on his face, pressed his spine more tightly against the wall, and wished he could disappear.
He didn’t know how much time passed before a guard said, “Blondie, your lawyer’s here.”
Lawyer?
Eli had come through big-time.
The room the guard sent Silver to was small, with just enough space for the table divided by a mesh screen. Silver’s eyes widened in surprise as he took in the guy on the other side. The watch on the lawyer’s wrist wasn’t a Rolex, but his loafers were Gucci and his suit was Hugo Boss, and Eli’s sugar daddy setup was looking pretty damned sweet if he could swing someone like this.
“Silver? Is that the name you prefer, Mr. Barnett?” The lawyer pulled out a chair on his side of the table.
“Yeah, I mean yes.” Silver started to slump into his chair, then straightened. This guy could be his ticket out of here.
“You were a little difficult to track down, given the different aliases. I wanted to be sure I had the correct individual.”
“You’re really here for me?” The watch might not be a Rolex, but it was worth five large, easy. The wedding ring was solid, not fancy. Platinum.
“My name is Kevin Millhouse, and I have been hired to represent you, yes.”
“By Eli?”
Millhouse shook his head. “But Mr. Montgomery wanted me to assure you there is no need for you to concern yourself with reimbursement.”
Montgomery. Silver’s hands remembered the smooth feel of a Tiffany blue box. Expensive shoes and expensive jeans. Eyes that seemed to see something they liked when they met Silver’s. A friendly smile. Gavin Montgomery had been a surprise guest at Silver’s fake birthday party. Gavin had come to Silver’s rescue then, too, when Marco’s car wouldn’t start.
Silver nodded, neck tight.
“Now, the prostitution charge has been dismissed, but the assistant district attorney is going forward with the fraud charge. Although Mr. Montgomery has offered to post bail, they could hold you unless you can demonstrate evidence of a permanent address.”
“I have a room on Tyson Street,” Silver said. “It’s paid through next week.”
“Yes, but that is exactly the sort of accommodation the court might find too transient to secure your release. Is there another address? Family? Friends?”
Silver guessed Gavin’s angel of mercy gig didn’t go as far as giving a street kid a place to live, not like Silver could blame the guy after Gavin had gone this far.
“No. No family. My friend Eli. If you ask, he’d say I live with them.” Eli could handle things with Quinn.
“And who is part of ‘them’?” The lawyer took out a notepad.
“Just him and his boyfriend. Quinn is pretty…” Silver tried to think of a way to describe him. He didn’t dislike the guy, exactly. “…tight-assed,” he finished.
The lawyer gave a hint of a smile. “‘Tight-assed’ is precisely what the court is looking for. I’ll see what I can do. Is there another option? Other friends?”
Marco’s older brother was still on parole, and most of the other guys Silver knew well enough to hit up for so much as a cigarette were either hustling or still modeling in the clothing-optional, full-penetration way.
Silver shook his head.
“We’ll work with what we have, then.” Millhouse closed his briefcase and stood up. “They should be ready for you in the courtroom very soon. I’ll see you there.”
SILVER HAD half convinced himself the whole conversation with the lawyer was a product of his imagination, an add-on scene born out of insanity-provoking boredom. The shock of relief at the sight of the expensively dressed man from Silver’s not-a-fantasy waiting for him in the courtroom washed the strength from Silver’s knees. As he shuffled in, his eyes picked up a quick wave and landed on Eli, who flashed what was for him a subtle thumbs-up. Silver took another deep breath. Maybe this was going to be okay.
The breath got caught in his throat when he saw who else was waiting for him, squashed in between Quinn and the asshole cop in the second row. Zeb hadn’t left. And Silver couldn’t decide if that made everything better or worse. They couldn’t mention his HIV status in the courtroom, right? Or say anything about his porn-star past?
Silver tried not to wince when the judge said his name. “Jordan Samuel Barnett.”
They went through who everyone was. The judge and the assistant district attorney both looked annoyed and strict, like stressed-out teachers at state-exam time. Silver’s lawyer was still smooth and relaxed, so he hoped that meant they were already ahead. He wished he had on something besides his club clothes. His Fresh Cream tank probably wasn’t scoring any points.
After the judge said her bit about possession of a fraudulent document and Silver had said not guilty, the other lawyer shot him the kind of disgusted look he would have expected if he’d been in English class dressed like this and said, “We request no bail, Your Honor. Forged government identification and no legal residence.”
The judge asked, “Is there any evidence of Mr. Barnett obtaining property or goods through this fraudulent identification?”
“Not at present, Your Honor.” The accusing lawyer acted like it killed him to admit that.
“Your Honor, to address that concern, Mr. Barnett has found a stable residence with close friends and is able to post a bond for his release.”
“Is there any proof of this stable residence with friends? Or am I to take Mr. Barnett’s word for it?”
Mr. Millhouse turned around. “Mr. Maloney?” Quinn stood up.
Mr. Millhouse faced the judge. “Mr. Maloney is a former officer in the US Navy and a public school teacher in Baltimore County. He is also a homeowner in Mount Washington.”
The judge nodded. “Mr. Maloney, can you confirm that Mr. Barnett is staying with you?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“In what capacity?”
“As a friend.”
The judge scrutinized their row. “Bail is set at fifteen thousand. Cash or bond.”
Trying not to look like the idea of that much money had made his knees wobble again, Silver glanced toward Mr. Millhouse, but the lawyer’s reassuring smile said they had gotten what they wanted.
ALTHOUGH SILVER was perfectly fine slipping right on out of the courthouse and possibly the state of Maryland, it would be interesting to see if anyone would be waiting for him. He was pretty sure now that he’d made Gavin cough out fifteen large, he and his cop boyfriend would be ready to wash their hands of him. Maybe he’d be able to mail the money back someday. It was chump change to a guy as rich as Montgomery, and Silver figured by leaving, he’d save the guy money in the end. A lawyer like Millhou
se would cost more than fifteen thousand to keep working on Silver’s case. He’d stick around until no one was paying much attention and then maybe try the West Coast. Do movies again until he could get a decent job. Right now all he wanted was a shower. The one at Tyson Street might be crap, but it was wet and usually lukewarm.
Zeb was the first person Silver saw when he came into the lobby. Though Eli was right up in Silver’s face as soon as he cleared the hall, his gaze locked with those warm, gold-brown-green eyes. All Zeb did was nod with an almost smile and then the bastard was gone. Was there some point Silver was supposed to get? Was Zeb too good to stick around now, like he hadn’t just been in jail with Silver all night?
“Here.” Eli shoved a plastic baggie with pills in it at him. “There’s a fountain right down there. Or do you need a soda? Do they bother your stomach? I heard they can bother your stomach.”
“Christ, Eli, keep it down.” Silver glanced around. “Trying not to tell the whole damned world about it, thanks.” He snatched the bag and slammed into the men’s room. Eli followed; of course he did.
Plucking a pill out of the bag, Silver swallowed it dry. It got stuck, so he gulped some from the faucet. And then he got a look at Eli’s guilty face in the mirror.
“What? Jesus fucking Christ, I told you not to say anything to anyone about it.” Silver spun away and pressed his back into a wall, wishing he could hide in a stall and not have to deal with all this shit.
“The cops wouldn’t let me bring you the pills, and you said you might be there until Monday and that you had to have them every day, and I couldn’t get in to see you, so I started to freak out—”
“Who. Knows?” Silver ground the words out past the puke rising in his throat. He needed to figure out the extent of the damage and then get the hell out of here.
“I wouldn’t have told anyone if I didn’t need to. But I didn’t know what to do, so I told Quinn, and he said he’d ask Jamie what we should do because Jamie’s a cop—” Eli barely paused for breath. “—and then, well, Gavin—we needed someone who could actually do something, get someone out of bed on a Sunday. It was the only thing I could do to make sure you were being taken care of.”
Bad Influence Page 3
