Street Love: A contemporary standalone hurt/comfort romance

by Rhys Everly

  “It… It’s not like that,” Rafe tried to find the energy to explain, to say more, but he couldn’t.

  Not that he was given a chance. Pierce pushed himself up and stood tall above the still-floored Rafe.

  “I’m taking these for the fucking ice cream I just bought you. Man, I can’t believe I spent my money to put you in a fucking room,” he huffed and walked away.

  Rafe panted and looked around him trying to regain his strength and take in what had happened. That bruto didn’t even give him a chance to explain. He just left Rafe at the mercy of himself.

  And still, despite what had just happened, Rafe wasn’t upset with Pierce. He was upset with himself.

  Ten

  Pierce

  Pierce pushed the door of Les Fourches open, storing away his frustration with it. He had done his best to get Rafe and his sickening existence out of his mind, but the more he thought about it, the angrier he got.

  He let it all slide away, however, as he was greeted by Vance, who was hosting on the door again. He looked up and down at him, noticing his cleanliness, and it put a smile on his face. Then he took him across the bar and to a door that read ‘Personnel Only’.

  He found himself being led down a long corridor with several doors. A staircase to the left led to the basement, but they used the door on the right. He found himself in a room with an array of lockers, a couple of couches, a coffee table, and hangers on every possible surface.

  There were paper coffee cups and napkins on the table, T-shirts and trousers crumpled on the couches, and a bunch of shoes lying all across the floor. Vance told him he could put away his stuff there until the end of his shift. He also assigned Pierce a locker that had a label stuck on it with the name 'Imogen' on it.

  “That was a hostess who used to work here, but now she’s off traveling the world. I’ll print a label with your name on it later, but even without it, know that it’s your locker and you’re the only one with the combination, so anything you put in there should be more than safe,” Vance explained.

  Pierce nodded and unlocked the door. The contraption was too narrow to fit his suitcase, but it could easily fit a small wardrobe of clothes in it. One problem sorted at least. He didn’t have to carry his clothes with him. He could just leave them in his locker and wash them when they got dirty or smelly.

  Vance let him put away his things, meaning Pierce had to part not only with his new coat but his suitcase too, which he placed behind one of the couches, hiding it from immediate view. He had not let it out of his sight in months, so he was reluctant to do so now, but Vance was waiting at the door to give him a tour of the facilities, and Pierce was forced to let go.

  Vance showed him to the cellar, where all the pump beer was, and to the stock room where all the liquors were stored. He was taken through the kitchen where he was briefly introduced to the chefs at work—their names going in one ear and out the other—and to the patio on the back, decorated by colorful flowers. Finally the tour ended behind the bar where Vance went through the job with Pierce. It was three p.m. so the place was relatively empty before the after-work rush at five, as Vance explained, so that gave them plenty of time to go through the basics.

  “So the register is pretty straight forward. Everything is listed in their section. So you have beer in one button, wine in another, food is separated in appetizers, mains, desserts, and sides, and cocktails have their own separate section,” Vance explained, navigating through the touch screen register.

  Pierce squinted. “I don’t know how to make cocktails,” he said with a low voice that sounded almost like a whisper.

  Vance laughed and turned to meet Pierce’s eyes. “Of course you don’t. But you’ll learn, with time. For now, if any cocktails come through, I’ll make them with you. Which brings me to my next point. This little machine here,” he said tapping a small black printer, “is your best friend from now on. It will print all tickets from the floor. You put each table’s drinks on one tray, if not more, even if there’s just one drink on a tray. Let the waiters deal with them. If you put more than one table’s drinks on the same tray you might confuse them. No, scrap the might. You will confuse them.

  “Moving on, everything behind the bar needs to remain clean at all times. And that’s not just because the health inspector can bust my ass if it’s not, but also because I’m OCD. and I cannot stand sticky surfaces. Capisce?”

  Vance stared at Pierce with an intense face that cracked a smile when Pierce nodded humbly.

  “I promise, I’m not a horrible person. Just—” He took a moment, thinking. Then turned to the barman at the other end. “Hey, Hollister, how would you describe me?”

  Hollister folded a cloth four times and set it down under the bar, turning his head and attention to his boss. “A cranky ol’ faggot,” he said with a big sigh.

  “Hey,” Vance exclaimed. “I’m not fucking old.” He laughed it off, turning back to Pierce. “So yeah, cranky ol’ faggot will do, I guess. The point is I like things a certain way. If you do those things, we’ll get along just fine. If not—”

  “I get the boot,” Pierce interrupted.

  Vance shook his head, laughing. “No, you will be a subject to my verbal abuse, which goes a bit like this,” he said and turned back to Hollister. “Yo’ mother-f-ucker, are you gonna wipe that melted ice, or are we gonna turn this place into a water bar?”

  Hollister stopped his conversation with a patron sitting on the other side and gave Vance the finger. He used the other hand to wipe the area that his boss was talking about, and looking at the patron, replied to Vance. “Yes, I can finally wear my wetsuit then, dick.”

  He resumed conversation with the patron, an older, grayer guy in a suit, who chuckled at Hollister’s comment.

  Pierce laughed. This place was more alien than it had initially looked. He had thought this expensive, uptight restaurant would be inhabited by snobs, yet they’d given Pierce a job, and the staff harassed each other for fun. An alien world, indeed.

  “So, yeah, that’s my kind of harassment,” Vance explained and went through a few more things with him. Finally, they ended up reading the food menu together before the clock struck four p.m.

  “There’s no meat anywhere on this list,” Pierce commented, curious as to why.

  Vance slapped his hand on the bar and put his other on his waist. “Pierce Callahan, I’ve been going through the entire job for an hour now, and I haven’t yet mentioned once that we’re a vegetarian-slash-vegan restaurant? Fuck me, I am getting old.” He rolled his eyes at himself and Pierce laughed.

  “That’s so cool, man. I’m vegan. Or was. Before… You know,” Pierce told him, thinking back to the same noon, and him talking to Rafe about it. Funny thing, coincidences.

  “Awesome. Then you’ll definitely enjoy the food here. Almost everything on the list is available as a vegan option.” Vance raised his chest a bit.

  Pierce shook his head. “I don’t think I can afford these prices”.

  Vance chortled. “Staff eats free, you idiot. Boy, you really are inexperienced,” Vance exclaimed.

  You don’t even know half of it, Pierce thought. “That’s amazing.”

  Eleven

  Rafe

  “God! Get away from me, you sicko,” the driver said, moving his car slowly and stopping at the next rentboy.

  Rafe couldn’t blame him. Ever since yesterday, when he fell on the ground, he had gotten so sick it was killing him. He imagined he caught something off the dirty sidewalk that made him ill, because he was feverish, his back constantly running cold sweat. His face, he’d seen in a rearview mirror of a parked car, was pale, and black circles had formed under his eyes.

  He needed a place to stay. He couldn’t stay out on the streets. He would surely die, and he didn’t know if anyone would care enough to remove his body from wherever it was found. The subway would probably make him worse, infested with more bacteria than a trash can.

  His only option was sleeping with a
guy, but who would pick a sickly boy to sleep with without thinking he was going to pass on whatever he had? He couldn’t spend any more money on a hostel. If he did, the meds he so desperately needed and the lack of which had brought him to his current state would be even further away from his grasp than they were originally. He needed to make money quick. He needed to get better even quicker. A crappy vicious circle.

  That driver had been the fourth person to reject him, and with every no, his knees gave way a bit more to the gravity pulling them down. He decided to reach out to some of the other boys on the street. He walked car by car, supporting himself on their surfaces, and reached the nearest boy. He was not much older than Rafe, but he was wearing a cap, a black chiffon top, and ripped jeans. He was also chewing gum.

  “Excuse me,” Rafe called out to him, and seeing him, the guy stepped backward, putting his arms in between them.

  “Hey, dude, don’t come any closer. I don’t want whatever it is you’ve got,” he screeched, his face a disgusted mask of porcelain. The guy was wearing foundation.

  Rafe nodded. “Okay, sorry. Just wanted to ask you if you know any hospitals that help homeless people,” he said, his voice wavering to obscurity at points.

  “Nah, I’m not homeless. I wouldn’t know,” he replied, chewing his gum with much more confidence now that he didn’t feel threatened by Rafe.

  Rafe walked away, back onto the main street, trying to desperately come up with a solution to his problem. He sat down on a step of a landing and looked around, forcing his brain to work to his advantage and not against him. He’d been around, talked to people about shelters and all that crap. Why couldn’t he remember any of it?

  The only place that was coming to his mind was the bed he had left behind in Queens. The sweet comfort of his bedroom, surrounded by all his things. And the warmth of his mamá’s hands rubbing the Vaporub on his chest and making her caldo de pollo, both to get him better in no time. And it always worked. Because the amount of love she’d put into it would be enough to replace all the drugs in the world. But that haven was no longer accessible. Not to him. Even though the room stayed vacant and his mom’s heart full of affection for her only child.

  He opened his eyes only to be hit by blurs. The sky was darker and the streets less busy. He’d passed out, not sure for how long, but he was certain he had. He felt disoriented. For a second, he’d even forgotten where he was.

  Harlem. A little over a half hour from his house in Queens, if he took a cab. He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to face his papá or the consequences his mamá would suffer for wanting to take him in, but he also needed her. He needed her desperately. He didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to break his mother’s heart by leaving her alone in this world.

  The need to see his mother, to survive, to get better, won over stubbornness and fear. He hailed a cab and gave the driver his destination before passing out on the backseat again.

  A blinding light woke him and an angry voice penetrated his ears. “Hey, wake up. We’re here.”

  Rafe rubbed his eyes and inspected his surroundings. Only two doors down was the blue door with number forty-six. The door to his house. Only two doors down was the sanctity of motherhood and the safety of his bedroom.

  He looked at the driver, who was checking him out with an aggressive frown. He certainly thought Rafe was a druggie that had overdosed. He was sure of it. He tried to compose himself as much as his illness and the ache in his bones allowed him and went through the notes in his backpack. Hopefully, he’d make the money back in no time. As soon as his mamá’s chicken soup and love healed him.

  He threw the bills at the driver and exited the vehicle.

  He stumbled to the door of his house and buzzed the communicator that read ‘Arena-Santos’. He waited, leaning his whole body on the wooden frame of the door and dumbing down all his other senses to focus on his hearing. He was trying to predict the chances they would answer, the chances they were both at work, or the chances that both were inside, and how they would react to being visited by their sick son.

  “Hello?” came a cracked voice from the communicator, and he recognized his mamá, his protectress, and it gave him chills. It was like he had called her on the phone like he did every day of the week, only this time she was finally going to get a reply.

  And Rafe was prepared to give it, but he paused. He chickened out. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. His temples pulsed, reminding him he didn’t have much choice in the matter. If he wanted to live, he had to talk.

  “Mamá,” he croaked, “it’s me.”

  She didn’t reply. There was click and then the communicator’s white noise deafened his ear, until the front door opened and his mamá, in a dressing gown with a mix of panic and fear in her face, appeared. She moaned when she took him in her arms and put his head on her chest.

  “Que pasó, Rafael? What’s wrong?” she asked him with her distinct, flavored accent.

  Rafe struggled to make his words audible when he said: “I’m sick, mamá. I’m—” he coughed and continued, “help me. Please.”

  “Dios mio, mi chulo, come inside,” she wailed and helped him up a flight of stairs to the second floor.

  She pushed number four open, and Rafe was attacked by a multitude of emotions and memories residing in his humble house.

  She immediately put him on the couch and rushed in the kitchen, where Rafe could hear cupboards banging open and shut already. His mother was at work. A healer prepared to save a life. A bruja concocting potions to cure her precious son. Rafe couldn’t stand the warmth that encompassed him. It made him feel as much alive as at peace, and his eyes felt heavy until it was a struggle to even try to keep them open.

  Cayenne and cumin mixed with the smell of cooked chicken invaded his nostrils, waking him from his deep slumber. When he opened his eyes, his throat felt coarse and his brain fuzzy. He felt as if he’d been sleeping by a fireplace for hours, but there was no heat anywhere close to him, and the hours turned out to be minutes. His mother sat beside his legs, holding a red bowl. Steam wafted from it, making the room look wavy with heat.

  “Mamacita.” He pronounced it with difficulty, a scratch in his throat preventing a clearer diction.

  She shushed him, massaging his feet with the gentle fingers of one hand. “Here, drink this, baby.” She passed him the red bowl, and he sat up on the couch, sipping the hot soup.

  He felt its therapeutic properties going to work at once. His fever didn’t bother him as much after a gulp, and his throat cleared after a few more. He could feel the color returning to his face as the fever backtracked, giving him some rest, finally.

  “Just like I remember it, mamacita,” he commented with a satisfactory smile on his face.

  “What’s going on, Rafael? Why are you so sick?” she asked him, her voice wavering, off-key.

  “I think I caught something yesterday when I fell on the street. And since I’m not on my meds, it is much worse than for a normal, healthy person,” he told her, stressing everything that wasn’t right with him. She looked away to the floor.

  When he realized she wasn’t going to give him anything, he asked. “Where is papá?”

  “Work. He’s doing night shifts this week,” she replied.

  Rafe murmured to himself. “So we got another five to six hours to stay.”

  His mother snapped her eyes back to her son, looking annoyed. “You will stay for as long as you want. I’m not going to let him kick his sick son out on the streets,” she said.

  Rafe smiled broadly. His gaze, however, was not set on his mamá anymore but the blanket she had covered him with. He was going to make it after all. He was a lucky—and poor, surely—bastard. While he was in a daze between sleep and consciousness, she put a thermometer in his mouth, and he held it there with his teeth. Then seconds later, she was rubbing Vaporub on his chest. Just before he passed out, he saw his mother take the thermometer and check it with a satisfied smile on her face.

&n
bsp; Yep, he was going to be just fine.

  He awoke to the abrupt, heaving voice of his padre shouting in his ear, and before he could react in any sort of way, his forearm was crushed by his father’s arm as he pulled him from under the blanket and forced him on his feet, bringing a definite end to his rest.

  In an instant, his vision was blasted with the clear image of his dad. Past memories washed his brain anew. His salt-and-pepper facial hair as aggressive as the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. His mustache a heavy coat on his top lip. And of course, nothing beat the memory of his papá’s assaulting voice that echoed through walls, stone or paper-thin.

  “But Andreas, he’s sick,” his mamá begged, pulling at his sleeve.

  He jerked his head towards her and his eyes did the talking before any of the words. “Cállate, Eva. I will not have un anómalo in my house, infesting it with his disease. Especially one who is unappreciative of all I’ve offered him, changing his crapped-up pants, paying to put a roof over his head and some clothes on his back and bread on the table, and who’s wasted all my money on being un artista. Un homosexual. Una basura. Let him get what’s coming to him,” he said, spitting out the words as he uttered them.

  “Basura, papá? Basura? So all this time you’ve been paying for my crap, have I meant nothing to you? Am I just trash now? Is your dying son una basura?”

  His father didn’t reply. Instead, he hurled forward, raising his arm above him and bringing it down with force on the side of Rafe’s head. Rafe’s knees wavered, but he stood his ground as the person who was supposed to protect him no matter what assaulted him with words as much as actions. Rafe’s eyes instinctively turned to his mom. She was standing still, a few feet behind his dad, looking passively at the scene, hand covering her mouth as if she couldn’t take in the view.

  “You—you said you wouldn’t let him do this to me again. Not this time,” Rafe stuttered, the force of his father’s strikes making his voice falter, and his hands attempting to create a shield between them.