by Rhys Everly
His mamá looked him straight in the eye when she gave her reply. “Maybe if you listened to your papá, Rafael, things would get better for you.”
Rafe wailed when his dad slapped him in the ear so hard all he could hear was a buzz.
“Andreas!” his mamá snapped at her husband.
He exhaled and planted a slap in her cheek, then turned back to Rafe and grabbed him by his shirt, lifting it up and pushing him towards the door.
“Come back here when you’ve become un hombre again. I won’t have your sickness in this house, maricón.” He opened the door and continued forcing him out of the way, down the stairs, his mamá following close behind.
“Tu no eres mi padre, pendejo,” Rafe cursed when they finally reached the main door and the young man was reunited with the winter weather.
“And you are not my son,” he replied.
Rafe’s eyes reddened. He hadn’t meant what he said when he did—he had only been trying to pull some humanity out of him, some of the paternity that he was hiding deep, deep down inside. He didn’t anticipate his father disowning him, but it made sense when it happened. Everything fell into place.
The years of his mother’s abuse. The years of his bullying. The years of constant judgment, criticism, inadequacy. The everlasting feelings of uncertainty. The neverending sense of danger. The unpredictability of the threat. The strikes. The punches. The kicks. The broken walls. The broken furniture. The broken dreams. The loneliness. The depression. The need.
And it all made sense. Now, it did. Andreas Arena Soto was not his padre. He was a stranger. A murderer. A murderer of innocence.
His mother gave him his backpack.
“You promised,” he told her.
She didn’t dare look him in the eyes. She looked away, drawn back inside by Andreas. And that’s how Rafe came into another realization that night.
For all the years of his bullying, she was there but not really there. All the judgment, the criticism, the inadequacy, she reinforced. The everlasting feelings of uncertainty? They were there because of her. The never-ending sense of danger? Was due to her inaction. Andreas Arena Soto wasn’t his father; he was a stranger. But Eva Santos Juarez was also not his mother. She was an accomplice. And that realization hurt more than anything else.
He took a good last look at the blue door and waved goodbye to his old family. Now he was on his own, and despite his hurt, now it didn’t look like such a bad option. He climbed down the steps and walked. He felt so much better now. Thankfully. So he walked.
He walked all night.
Twelve
Pierce
Pierce settled the pint glass on the beer mat and looked at the patron’s icy, blue eyes, and told him, “That’s eight bucks, buddy.”
The guy, a man in his late twenties in a navy blue suit with blonde hair and a million dollar smile, put another note on the pile next to his beer. For all Pierce knew, he was worth a million dollars. That was the kind of clientele this bar attracted. Perhaps not millionaires per se, but people with dough, for sure.
It was a Thursday night. It was quiet, which worried Pierce, as he relied so much on making good tips on his work days, if he was to ever get off the streets. Not that he was unappreciative. He was grateful and thankful to finally have something to hold on to. It’d only been two weeks since he started working in Les Fourches, and he’d already managed to put three hundred dollars to the side, in a small pocket in his suitcase, for his future home. Or room, more likely. There were times that he got carried away and thought he could actually make more than enough to rent an apartment to himself, but whenever he’d look at the prices around town, he’d be stomped back to reality.
He only worked weekends. Fridays and Saturdays and sometimes, like today, Thursdays. He’d done six shifts so far, excluding his training day, and Vance was very pleased with him. He’d helped him set up a bank account so that he could get some of his wages deposited in there, to build his credit and help in his search for a room—which would start, from the looks of it, in a few weeks’ time. He had also worked a shift with him in the past week, which Pierce had worried about at first, but then he realized how much fun working with Vance actually was and enjoyed a great shift with him.
He’d also dragged Pierce along with him one afternoon for shopping. They went to several clothing stores and shopped for clothes for work. Pierce didn’t want to spend any money, especially on such expensive places, but seeing the radiant smile on his boss’s face and the pile of money in his pocket, he succumbed to the temptation and decide to try a few shirts. In the end, Vance paid for half his things anyway, which made Pierce’s heart warm up.
He still didn’t know how he’d gotten so lucky to have found not only a job but one working for a great guy who treated his staff with so much respect. Every single one of his colleagues had nothing bad or mean to say about Vance, unless it was to his face, in which case they went all wild with punchlines.
He had found out that there weren’t as many people working at the bar as he had initially thought. There were three weekday waitresses and a waiter, three extra guys for the busy weekend, two full-time bartenders, and Pierce and Vance. He didn’t include the kitchen because he hardly ever interacted with them. It was nothing personal; they just always seemed to leave straight after their shifts. The majority of the staff was indeed men—and handsome ones at that, it being a primarily gay area, frequented by the likes of homos, queens, fag hags, lesbians, and local businessmen and women.
Pierce had grown a new habit of having a sneaky beer or two after work. He’d only made the mistake of chugging once and then had to deal with the consequences of a hangover the day after. It had reminded him, however, how much he loved being healthy, which didn’t include the consumption of alcohol. Drinking was technically illegal for him anyway, but everyone turned a blind eye, as it happened.
With the ability to finally afford his daily meals, he had returned to a vegan diet, helped by the fact that his workplace, among all the other awesome things it did for him, had some fantastic food. Even being back on his beloved diet for little under a week, he found his energy levels returning to what they were before and his consciousness clearing up, making up for the time he’d spend not being a strict vegetarian. He also wished he could go back to the gym, but that would remain an unfulfilled wish for a lot longer. He did some crunches at work, but other than that he wasn’t really able to do much.
For all the good things in his life, he still didn’t have a warm bed to sleep in every night. He hadn’t told anyone he worked with his status, and he had asked Vance to not say anything either, even though he suggested someone might have a spare bed or couch to help him out. He liked his colleagues, but he didn’t want to wear out his relationship with them before it had even started. So he’d resolved to sleeping in the subway, since the streets were getting too cold for roaming in the middle of the night, let alone sleeping.
“Can I get the lentil quinoa burger with a portion of fries?” the handsome guy asked Pierce, looking up from the menu and setting it down as Pierce put the order through to the kitchen.
“Done. Can I get you anything else?” Pierce asked.
The guy shook his head. Pierce started to move to the other side of the bar, but the guy interrupted.
“Take a break, man. There’s nothing to do,” he told him.
Pierce looked at him and smiled with a chuckle. He still hadn’t grown used to talking to people at the bar, like a good barman was meant for. He decided to give it a shot. He went back to the guy and his fingers grabbed his end of the bar.
“So, you come here often?” he asked, and he gritted his teeth to keep from rolling his eyes, which he didn’t want to do in front of the patron and embarrass himself more.
To his surprise, the guy answered in a genuine and friendly tone. "Quite often."
“Cool,” was all Pierce managed to comment to the guy’s reply. Now what did he say? “You like it here?”
The guy nodded. “It’s got the best food in town. And good eye candy too.” The guy didn’t even blush for saying that. Pierce, on the other hand, did. “I’m just messing with you. I’m Damian.” He stretched his hand out over the bar, and Pierce had no other choice but to shake it. He let the shake linger for a lot longer than usual before he let go.
The food was ready and Pierce checked the lift on the back bar where the man’s food was waiting. He served it to Damian and let him eat in quiet, reaching the other end of the bar as another patron graced him with his presence. He was thankful for that. He didn’t know how to respond to advances. It wasn’t that he didn’t like the guy, but it just felt wrong, being touched by Damian.
“A Jackson Light, please,” said the new customer, a much older guy.
Pierce popped a bottle open for him and took the guy’s money as he noticed a kid walking down the street outside. His hair was shaved short and raven black, and he was short and skinny, with a tank top that fell well over his knees. He froze for a moment. The boy looked so much like Rafe, he felt the need to run outside and catch up with him. But it wasn’t him. A simple turn of the head had proved as much.
Rafe. Pierce still couldn’t shake the guilt for how he’d treated Rafe. He hadn’t even let him explain himself. Not that he needed to explain anything to anyone. Pierce had acted like a dick. Like a judge, jury, and executioner of all things that didn’t agree with his morals or beliefs. He was constantly slapping himself for how out of line he had gone. Even going as far as to take Rafe’s money from his bag and leaving him there, on the ground, helpless.
“Argh!” he growled as he opened the register to get change, and his two bar friends jerked their attention to him. “Sorry, guys. Just—not enough change in the register.” He excused himself and gave the older guy his change.
For the rest of the evening, Pierce’s eye would train outside, looking for the boy he had wronged. But he wasn’t anywhere around. He knew that. He knew Rafe didn’t venture as far down as the Village, although he had no idea why. If there was anywhere for a gay boy like him to be, that was the Village. He might even be able to find a job just like Pierce had.
The clock struck eight, and the bar filled with patrons ready to grab their dinner or evening drink with friends. Another guy was supposed to be working with him tonight but had called in sick, so Pierce was willing to see how he would handle a busy night on his own. What drove him was the amount of tips at the end of the night, which he wouldn’t have to share with anyone else except the kitchen.
So he worked. And the more he worked, the more Rafe went to the back of his mind. Occasionally between orders, he would look at the door, as if he was waiting for Rafe, but they hadn’t arranged to meet. They probably wouldn’t see each other ever again.
At the end of the night, there were only four people in Les Fourches: Pierce, Vance, Katie—a waitress—and Damian, the white collar gay that hadn’t stopped ordering and flirting with Pierce. The guy had probably consumed more than ten glasses of beer in between his snacks and food orders. He was still fine. Pierce had never seen anyone handle his drink so masterfully.
“Hey, Damian, I’m afraid we’ll have to close your tab now,” Pierce told him, distracting him from browsing his smartphone.
He looked up at Pierce and smiled. “Of course. Yes. How much do I owe ya?”
Pierce set down the check, quoting it. “It’s a hundred forty-nine,” he said. He couldn’t understand how people spent so much on drinks when he barely had a dime in his pocket on most days. He couldn’t understand how much they had to make to be able to spend a hundred-fifty bucks every day.
Damian counted the bills next to his beer mat, and although it was the right amount, he sent his hand digging on the inside pocket of his suit and pulled out another thirty dollars, then gave everything to Pierce. Adding this tip to the pile, he had made a little over two hundred dollars in one night.
In the end, on nights like these, he didn’t care how people made money and how they spent it if they were being generous enough to share some of that with him for his service.
He folded it and put it in his front pocket, reminding himself to add it to his savings in his suitcase.
“So, Pierce, what are you doing later?” Damian asked from his position, and Vance and Katie, who were both counting money at the other end, looked up with naughty smiles on their faces.
What was he doing later? He was going back to his hostel and crashing hard on his mattress before tomorrow’s long shift, trying not to think how much he’d wronged Rafe. But he couldn’t say that, could he?
“I don’t know. Not much,” he replied, leaving it ambiguous. He wasn’t stupid. Guys had flirted with him before. He wasn’t as clueless as his colleagues thought he was. He just didn’t feel like doing these things at work.
“Did you wanna watch a movie on Netflix at my place?” Pierce gave the finger to the sniggers that arrived almost on cue from the other side of the bar and smiled at Damian. A night in a proper house with a beautiful man like him didn’t sound so bad. And they all knew what “Netflix at my place” meant, which again didn’t sound as terrible to Pierce as another night in the hostel.
“Sure,” he said, and Damian got up and exited the building, telling him he’d wait outside.
Pierce looked over to his boss. “Can I go now?”
Vance chuckled but struggled to contain himself, so what came out of his mouth was a fine marriage between cackle and shriek. “Yes. Go. Watch ‘Netflix’ with your ‘friend.’ Keep it family friendly.” Pierce shot a menacing glance at him. “The movie, I mean. Don’t go for anything too saucy,” he finished with a far more composed voice, which broke into loud laughter in the end.
Pierce shrugged him off and went to the staff room, put his money in the suitcase, and carried it outside to meet Damian.
They took a cab to Brooklyn, and as they crossed the Williamsburg Bridge, Pierce left his stress and worries in Manhattan. He’d never ventured off the island since he’d gotten to the City, and he wasn’t familiar with the transportation system. But he brushed everything off. If it came to it, he’d take another cab. He’d find a solution. At the moment, he needed Damian’s company, and he would take all he could from it.
Damian, as it turned out, lived in an apartment complex not more than ten floors in height. He lived on the ninth, in a studio apartment, unlike his image. His clothes screamed “I’ve got money and I ain’t afraid to use it,” but his house screamed—no, more like whispered, “Welcome to my humble abode.” It was a simple place with pastel yellow walls, a couple of sofas, a small TV, books, magazines, and everything in between thrown everywhere and a kitchen that seemed eager to be more uptight but whose anime inhabitants begged to differ. There was everything from Pokémon mugs to Attack on Titan cutting boards and Minecraft fridge magnets. Damian was a super geek, and he hid it very well.
Damian rushed to tidy the living room up while Pierce took a tour of the house and used the bathroom. When he returned to the main room, Damian was sitting down on the sofa in his pajamas, holding a remote, and the TV was tuned to Netflix.
“I thought you were kidding about watching Netflix,” Pierce grinned.
Damian laughed. “Well, the night is still young, and I need to catch up on Once Upon A Time,” he responded and put his show on as Pierce took a seat next to him. “You can take your shoes off if you want. Feel at home.”
Pierce did take his shoes off, and thank the divinities that he had bought new socks and actually worn them to work, or Damian would have been introduced to skanky, rugged Mr. and Mrs. Sock and their holes.
For the next forty minutes, Damian’s only words were a commentary accompaniment with the new episode, a show Pierce had never watched. He did try to share Damian’s excitement, but half the time he didn’t know what was happening and the other half what the characters were talking about. So he kept quiet and waited for the episode to finish.
Damian poured them some wine. He didn
’t know how that man could still drink after so many beers and how he could still be awake. Pierce’s own eyes were feeling heavier by the minute. But that was when things got interesting, and all his senses—and some parts—fully awoke.
Damian had put a slow song on and took a seat next to Pierce, grabbing his cock fervently, surprising Pierce. Next, he dug his face into his and kissed him with passion, his tongue fighting with Pierce’s. Pierce let Damian use him as he pleased, stretching his hands to his side and relaxing his body in its position. But Damian seemed eager to drink all of Pierce out before doing anything else.
And just when Pierce got comfortable in Damian’s arms and all trouble seemed as many miles away as it actually was when he closed his eyes, Rafe’s affectionate smile attacked him, standing still in front of him, laughing, or simply staring. Judging, maybe?
Pierce flicked his eyes wide open and looked at Damian’s rich eyelids, envisioning something completely different in the darkness. Pierce focused his gaze on him.
Damian started on the neck and pulled Pierce’s shirt off before he moved to his nipples. Pierce followed his every step, bringing his attention to the handsome man adoring his body. But the closer Damian got to Pierce’s crotch, the more his face was replaced with Rafe’s dark features, his full lips kissing his abs, his eyes looking back at Pierce, ensuring he was doing everything right.
Damian/Rafe unzipped Pierce’s jeans, and Pierce felt the pang of guilt down on his chest. He pushed Damian up and told him he couldn’t. The man didn’t look offended, only curious.
“I… I just don’t want my first time to be like this,” he said to him. He got up, zipped his pants, and started looking for his jacket when Damian reached for his hand.
“You’re a virgin?” he asked him. His expression was apologetic, not angry.
Pierce nodded.
