Dirty Nights

by A. M. Hargrove

  Part One

  ONE

  Skylina

  Six Years Ago

  “Skylina, I swear to God I will whip your fucking ass if you don’t do what I say. Now get your skinny ass out there if you know what’s good for you. He’s been waiting and he doesn’t like to be late.”

  “Mom, please.” It’s my last ditch attempt at begging. This isn’t the first time she’s dressed me up like a whore and forced me to meet her pimp.

  Her voice suddenly turns whiny. “Sweetie, you know how much I need my medicine. I get sick if I don’t have it. And this is the only way. Do it for me, baby. You will, won’t you?”

  When I look at her, I know I have no choice. She’s skin and bones, nothing like she was when my dad still lived here. She used to be real pretty then. But now, she takes no pride in herself. None. She rarely bathes unless she gets so hard up that she turns tricks on her own. And now that I’m old enough, she’s all but sold me off to her pimp and bullies me to do her dirty work. She has ulterior motives. I bring in more money than she ever would. Oh, if she’d get cleaned up, she would be okay, I guess. But she won’t do it. So I hook for her and support her drug habit. Me, a sixteen year old. Fun times.

  “Yeah, Mom.”

  Any other mother would die before they’d put their daughter in danger like this. Not my mom. Oh no. She stands there and smiles. Then claps her hands. Like we’re getting ready to go on a picnic or something. Some twisted picnic.

  “I knew you’d see it my way. Always knowing how to help your poor old mom.”

  Turning around I walk out the door. Her pimp, Mikey, stands there waiting.

  “Hurry your ass up, Lena. I don’t have time for your shit!” His fingers tighten around my neck. “Now you better act right tonight or you know what’s coming your way, right?” He presses himself against me and his fetid breath would make me gag, but I don’t because his grip on me is so tight it restricts any motion in my throat.

  “Yeah,” I croak as I squeeze back the tears. What he means is he’ll beat the shiz out of me. He’s done it before and he won’t hesitate to do it again. The last time, the beating was accompanied by a rape. Bile rises up from my gut again, but I force it back into its proper place. What other choice do I have? We get in his car and he drives me to some guy’s place. It’s in a seedy part of town, and I climb three long flights of steps to get to apartment 4D. The guy answers the door and I want to turn and run. But I don’t. Instead, I walk inside, where the room is foggy with smoke. An open bottle of whiskey sits on a round table and he asks, “Want some?”

  “No thanks.”

  The place is a mess, clothes strewn everywhere and dirty dishes all over the place. But that’s not what bothers me the most. It’s what I’m going to have to do next.

  The guy is old, like my mom. Maybe in his forties or something. He’s pudgy with a belly that hangs over his pants.

  “Take off your shirt. I wanna look at your tits.”

  My hands shake as I undo the buttons. One thing I’ve learned is not to look at their faces. But I make the mistake of doing that now and see him lick his lips. Watching his fat slimy tongue slide over his thick ugly lips almost makes me lose my lunch. My face must show this because he laughs.

  “Not into this, are you?”

  “Er, uh, yeah, I am.” I can’t keep the stammer out of my reply.

  “Good.” His beady eyes darken as his hands move to his zipper. “Get over here. You know the drill.”

  My feet don’t want to move, but I somehow move over to him.

  “On your knees little girl.” He puts his hands on my shoulders and shoves me hard to the floor.

  My knees burn from the rough carpet. I reach into his pants for his thingy, and put my mouth on him. His pecker tastes like sour milk and this is when my daydreams begin.

  My mind takes me away from this horrid place, into my fantasy world where I can dance away all the dreadful things I’m going to have to do to him tonight.

  By the time I leave, it feels like my insides have been stripped raw. Mikey is outside waiting and I give him the cash the man handed me. He snatches it out of my hand and counts it. Then he tosses me fifty bucks. That’s all I get. For a night of horror. When I get back home, Mom’s waiting with her hand extended. After I hand over the money I climb in the hot shower and scrub the filth off of me until my skin is chafed. Then I brush my teeth and Listerine my mouth raw. But I never get the taste of those nasty men out. They linger with me for a long, long time.

  The cheap sheets scratch my skin as I slide into bed. A tear escapes from my eye, though I do my best not to let it. This is the time I dread the most, because I’m alone with my thoughts and reminded of how ferked up my life is. My dad doesn’t want me. My mom is a drug addict. I’m a high school drop out. My dream of becoming a professional dancer is moving further and further out of my reach.

  When I quit school earlier this year, it became apparent that going to any professional school was no longer attainable. Mom made sure of that. Whoring for her nights made keeping up with my school work impossible. And then there were those rumors flying around. I’d hang my head in shame everyday as the girls whispered about me and treated me like I was diseased. But not the boys. Oh no, they flocked to me like ants on honey. They even cornered me in the stairwell several times and if someone hadn’t come by, I’m sure it would have ended up in rape. So I decided it was time to bow out gracefully and withdraw from high school.

  It would be nice if I had someone to talk to about all of this, but that’s never going to happen. Not with my current situation anyway. I burrow down into my hard nest of a bed and do my best to try and sleep. But all I can think of is a set of big beefy paws as they painfully pinch and squeeze me, and the tears finally gush out, while my aching body is wracked with sobs.

  TWO

  Ryder

  Eighteen Months Ago

  Even though my father’s face holds a smile, his eyes tell a different story. Disappointment, regret, and even scorn weigh me down as I look into them. It doesn’t matter that it’s closing night for the six month run of Blast, the Metropolitan Ballet Company’s production that has blown New York City away. It makes no difference that the critics have been raving about me as the Premiere Danseur since opening night. All that matters is that my chosen career isn’t the one he planned since the day I was born … I’m not the leading goal scorer at Madison Square Gardens.

  But my mom … well, she turns on the high voltage and says, “Congratulations, darling! You were astounding!” Then she leans into me and whispers, “You were the best out there, dear.”

  While I’d like to stand here and soak up their praise, my quads, hamstrings and calves scream for my attention. There’s not enough ice in all of Manhattan to calm them down.

  Blast has been running for six months now and my body is bruised, battered and worn from the six-day-a-week punishing performances I’ve been putting in and I am ready for a badly needed break.

  Unfortunately, I can’t help myself and I snap under the heavy ache of my limbs. “Really Mother?”

  Her eyes admonish me. “Of course, Ryder. You know I think you’re the best.”

  Before I can even say anything, my dad pipes in and says, “Son, excellent work. You were great.”

  It’s easy to see by the evasion of his eyes that he’s not sincere. I’m no fool, but too bad. This is my love and I’m going to continue to dance for as long as my body will hold up.

  “Ryder, please,” my mom says. “I couldn’t be more proud of you than I am now.”

  “Thanks, Mom. But I wonder if it’s only because I’m the premiere danseur. Would you have been this proud of me if I had only made it to that guy in the background?”

  “Of course I woul
d have. You’re my son and I love you.”

  After locking eyes with her and staring into them for a few moments, I nod and say, “I love you too, Mom.” Then I turn to my dad and give him a nod and head to my dressing room to change and scrape the tons of goop off my face.

  Tonight the troupe is going to kick it and hard! It has been so long since any of us have been out, none of us can even remember the last club we entered.

  The party is on and it’s as if we’ve taken the stage to the club. The only difference is our style is edgier than the classical one we recently performed. What would anyone expect though? We’re professionals. The club’s crowd is enjoying the spectacle as we do our lifts and spins that aren’t usually found on the average dance floor. Some of the other patrons are even joining in with us and creating a sort of controlled mayhem. For the few of us males that aren’t gay, like myself, the women are all over us. And admittedly, I’m loving the hell out of it.

  Selene, the prima donna, glares at me as I dance with another woman. She and I have been sleeping together ever since Blast opened. We’re not committed but we’re sort of an item, I suppose. Her jealous side peeks out tonight, but I choose to ignore it. I’m all about having a good time, and I don’t want to deal with her neediness right now.

  Alcohol flows and I know that come tomorrow, I’m going to have one helluva a hangover. But right now, I don’t give a fuck because I am letting it hang loose and loving every minute of it.

  “Selene,” I call out. She’s standing close to me, but she ignores me. “Selene, let’s dance.” Again, no response. To hell with her. Her constant desire to be the center of attention annoys me. I’m positive my night of hot sweaty sex just went down the drain, but I’m high on alcohol and adrenaline, so I don’t give a fuck. Grabbing another shot of tequila, I down it and head back out to the dance floor. The night speeds on and soon it’s last call.

  “We’re out of here,” a part of the group calls out. We all fist bump and I watch as they pile into a cab. Selene and a couple other girls follow suit. She doesn’t say a word as she leaves. Heading to the bar, I settle my tab and I’m out the door too.

  Since I live in Soho, where the club is, I only have a few blocks to walk home. It’s late September, and still fairly warm out so I figure the walk will do me some good.

  The streets have emptied out and my ears still ring a bit from the loud music that played in the club. As I’m walking, I think about how pissed Selene looked … like she wanted to twist my balls off. So much for my easy piece of ass. Looks like it’s gonna be a hand job for me tonight. I pull out my phone thinking I’ll leave her a message before I realize she’ll probably pick up and have a few choice words for me. Since I’m not in the mood for that, I pocket the phone and dig in my pocket for my keys.

  I have a decent buzz going so I never hear my assailants approach until it’s too late. They slam me from behind and knock me to the ground. My usually quick reflexes are dulled from all the alcohol I’ve consumed so I’m slow to push myself up. By the time I make it to my hands and knees, they come at me from both sides and pummel me in the ribs, kicking with their feet. Pain explodes in my torso, with each crushing blow, taking my breath away along with the ability to inhale. I’m incapable of rolling over or moving my arms to block their kicks. The option of defending myself has been stripped. I’m incapacitated from what my brain is telling me are broken ribs. But they don’t stop there. It happens so hard and fast I can’t roll over or even kick to fight back. Fireworks of agony ignite throughout my body. I vaguely see something glint and it registers that one of them has a knife. My mind is so pain-addled by now, I don’t feel it when they stab me. But the final blow, the swinging of the baseball bat against my leg is unmistakable. If I live through this attack, I know I’ll never forget that sound … the cracking and splintering of the bones in my leg.

  The steady beeping of machines is a constant background noise. It goes on and on and on until I want to yell. But I can’t because for some odd reason it’s impossible to speak. I’m caught in a strange dream. Or maybe it’s a nightmare. Like the kind where you’re being chased and you try to run but the harder you try, the slower you go. I want to speak but the harder I try, the more difficult it becomes. Sleep is intermittent. It’s a succession of dozing on and off. But what is brutally unceasing is the pain that pounds my body everywhere. Occasionally it’s dulled somewhat, but it’s always there. My enemy. And I’m trapped in a vortex of it. It takes me down into its furthest depths and then spins me around so fast I want to beg for it to stop, but I can’t. My lungs won’t allow it. This must be hell because I can’t figure out where else I would be that could be so cruel.

  “Ryder. Ryder, can you hear me?”

  I have an argument with my eyelids because they insist on staying closed, but someone is trying to converse with me and it’s important for me to look at whoever it is. Finally, I persuade them to open and there is a middle-aged woman standing over me.

  “Ryder, my name is Helen and I’ll be taking care of you today.”

  There seems to be a film over my eyes because her face is blurry. When I move my hands to rub them, I find that I can’t. The harder I try, the more agitated I become.

  “Stay calm, Ryder. Your arms are strapped to the bed. We had to do that because you kept trying to pull the breathing tube out.”

  Breathing tube? Why the hell would I have a breathing tube?

  “You must be confused. I’ll explain everything to you. You’ve been in an induced coma for over a week now. You had an … incident. You were injured and you’re in the hospital. We just reduced your medicine so you’re slowly coming out of sedation.”

  What the hell is she talking about?

  “Don’t try to talk, honey. Your throat will be very sore for a few days from the tube. It’s best to go with it. We have you on pain medicine and the most important thing for you to do now is rest.”

  Why would I need more rest if I’ve been in a coma for over a week?

  She places her hand on my forehead but I want to brush it away. I don’t like strangers touching me like this.

  “You’re safe here, Ryder. Everything will be fine.”

  Shifting my eyes so I can check out the room, I’m shocked to see all the machines surrounding me. Then I hear that damn beeping that’s been annoying the hell out of me.

  “Try to stay calm, Ryder. These are only monitors. No one is going to hurt you. You’re safe here.”

  Why does she keep saying that? I swallow and my throat is on fire. Oh how I’d kill for some water.

  “Water?” I croak.

  “I’m sorry, honey. Nothing to eat or drink yet. But you’re getting adequate hydration through your IV.”

  Can she squirt that damn thing in my mouth and unglue my tongue because it’s stuck somewhere inside? It’s impossible to win that fight with my eyelids so I doze off.

  Would someone please turn off the fucking alarm clock? Who set the damn thing anyway? I know it wasn’t me. Wait, where am I?

  When I raise my head, I see all those monitors again, but I’m alone. My head’s a bit clearer so I try to take it all in. There is so much shit in here, I can’t make heads or tails out of it. One’s for my heart rate and blood pressure. But there are other things too that I’m unfamiliar with. A large unit sits next to my bed with hoses coming out of it. And I see these clear tubes hanging off the bed with pink fluid in them. Nasty shit. Oh hell, there’s a tube coming out of my fucking nose too! What. The. Fuck. I’ve got wires and tubes everywhere! Panic floods me. The beeping on that machine escalates and a nurse runs in the room.

  “What’s happening to me?” I ask. “Why am I here?”

  My mom runs in next, takes one look at me and breaks down in tears.

  “Mom, tell me what’s going on!” No one will say anything.

  The nurse finally cracks the silence. “Ryder, you were mugged and beaten. Badly. You almost died. You’ve been in the hospital here for almost two weeks. You�
��ve had several surgeries, but you’re going to be fine. Do you hear me? You’re going to survive all of this. You’re in the ICU right now. But as soon as we can, we’ll move you to a private room.”

  “Mugged?”

  “Yes. Your attackers stabbed you and brutally beat you. Luckily, someone saw you and called 911.”

  My mom finally quits crying and says, “It happened on closing night.”

  Again, I try to rub my face, but my wrists are strapped. The nurse sees this, she loosens the Velcro and frees my hands. When I move my arms, my torso feels like fire is shooting through it.

  “It’s your ribs. Your rib cage was a mess. Your lungs collapsed. That’s why you have those chest tubes in you,” the nurse explains.

  “Oh,” I say as I rub my face.

  “That’s not all.”

  It’s not so much as the words, but they way they’re said that makes me wary. My head swings to my mom, and her face is stricken with such sadness and pain, I know that whatever they’re about to tell me will ruin me.

  “Do I have a spinal cord injury?” I know I can move my arms so maybe it’s from the waist down.

  My mom shakes her head and says, “No, Ryder, you don’t.”

  “Oh, thank God. I thought you were going to tell me I couldn’t walk or dance again.”

  My mom’s face pales. “Ryder, you won’t dance again.”

  “What? Why?”

  Mom glances to the nurse and the nurse says, “Ryder, the men who attacked you crushed your right leg. Your knee and femur were so pulverized that the doctors are hoping you’ll be able to walk unassisted again.”

  Your knee and femur were pulverized … your knee and femur were pulverized … your knee and femur were pulverized…

  Hoping you’ll walk again … hoping you’ll walk again … hoping you’ll walk again …