by Jo Raven
I run my hands through my short hair as Micah walks into the shop, the door closing behind him. I’ve been lie this since three days ago, when I found Jason sitting at that store entrance, when he got under my skin. He did it so easily. A few words, a look, a sneer, driving home one more time how far apart our worlds are, how badly he hates my guts. What an idiot I am to fantasize about him.
As if I didn’t know that.
Focus on other stuff, Raine. Stop obsessing over Jason.
Other stuff. Like how good my life is. Yeah, it’s a damn good life, and if one small complication makes me wanna put my fist through the wall, then I’ve got a problem.
I’ll get through this. This is nothing compared to all that came before, plus now I’m a fucking adult. I can fight, I can solve problems, I can overcome obstacles.
I’m not the helpless kid I used to be, and I don’t need anyone to look out for me, because I’m doing a damn good job of it myself.
Just you watch.
Grabbing some groceries on the way, I make my way home, my parents’ demands bouncing inside my head, setting my teeth on edge.
They want money. That much was clear from the first time they called the shop and got me instead of Ocean. They haven’t set an amount yet, but I’ll bet it’s high. Nothing less would be worth their time—and their return into our lives.
I need to find a way to stop my parents’ demands for good, but how? Bastards though they are, I don’t want to physically hurt them. They’d deserve it, but no.
What the fuck am I gonna do?
Muttering to myself like a crazy person, I put away the groceries and scratch the back of my head as I consider my blind date.
Almost blind. Gary is the guy’s name. I have a vague memory of dirty blond hair and white, straight teeth. Not really my type.
Oh come on, Raine, since when do you have a type?
Since Jason, that same smug little voice replies, and fucking awesome, now I’m arguing with myself. Bring on the straitjacket.
Besides, Jason’s not my type. I like clean-cut, sporty… normal guys. Guys who might be a bit shy, a bit careful. Not careful with me, just… Just not guys like me. No trailer park trash who barely attended school and don’t deserve a chance in life. I want a guy who’s better than me, a guy who’ll show me the way, somehow.
Christ, I dunno what I’m talking about.
I need to find clothes. And do something about my hair. And probably shave, too.
Getting into the mood wouldn’t hurt, either. Like, this could be fun. He could turn out to be a great guy, just the thing, in fact, to take my mind off Jason. He could turn out to be the guy, the one, someone I could be with, share my life with.
I grimace. Really?
I shake my head at that as I scratch at my three days’ worth of beard and grab my electric razor. I buzz down my cheeks, lift my chin to do the trickier parts.
Whatever. I’ll just meet the guy, grab something to eat, have a drink. What would it hurt? He obviously struck me as a nice guy, or I wouldn’t have given him my phone number in the first place. Plus, it will get Seth off my case for not dating.
Yeah, I have one of Collateral’s tattoo artists pushing me to go on a date before I grow too fucking old for sex. That, by the way, is because Seth doesn’t believe in luck anymore, not since his run of bad luck finally ended when he met his girl, and now he keeps pushing me to take my fate into my own hands.
Ass.
I’m chuckling, though, remembering his teasing, and by the time I finish shaving, I’m ready to get this show on the road and be done with it. I shower, then I shove my hand into my closet and pull out a random T-shirt and pants.
Or should I wear a button-down shirt? Where the hell are we going?
I walk buck-naked into the living room to re-check the text message Gary Whatever-his-last-name-is sent, and find out we’re meeting at a fancy tapas place quite a distance from here.
Cursing under my breath, I go back to my closet and grab one of my two button-down shirts. It’s a blue one, and with a pair of black jeans one can’t go wrong, right? Sadly, despite what most people think, the gay gene doesn’t always come with a sense of fashion, so I have some standard colors I buy, and I stick to sensible combos. Blue jeans. Gray and black T-shirts. Blue shirts.
Okay. Black shoes, and I’m set. I run a hand through my hair, realize it’s overdue for a cut, then I think, fuck it, and go out the door before nerves get the better of me.
The place is a bitch to find, and parking is a pain in the nuts. I drive around looking for a spot in Zane’s old pick-up truck that I picked up cheap when he decided to get a minivan for his kids.
He actually bought the minivan, even though he still only has one kid, which is damn funny, but hey, the guy wants many kids and has it all thought out.
Respect.
At last I find a spot, lock up the truck and jog to the restaurant, hating that I’m late. It’s raining again, and it reminds me of Jason huddled at the shop entrance, shivering, then sitting across from me in the coffee shop, dark eyes blazing. Did he make it home all right? Wherever that is.
Then I have to remind myself that it’s none of my goddamn business how Jason got home, if he got home, and whether he caught fucking pneumonia or not.
None at all.
Thankfully my thoughts scatter when I enter the restaurant. I’m stopped by a guy who looks like a butler from an old movie who asks if I have a reservation.
Do I?
“I’m with Gary,” I say and then remember I don’t even know his last name.
Damn.
“He’s with me,” Gary says, appearing behind the guy, scaring us both to death. He gives me an uncertain smile. “Hi, Raine.”
He does have dirty blond hair, and the beginnings of a goatee. When he smiles, his teeth are very white and straight, which reminds me that one of Jason’s front teeth is a bit chipped—and fucking stop it, Raine.
I follow Gary to a corner table, feeling weird because his face is as unfamiliar to me as the faces of the waiters and every other person in the restaurant.
The tables are covered in white cloth, and when we sit down, there’s a red rose in the vase between us, and a lit candle.
Uh. It’s so… romantic. And I’m sitting with this stranger who’s smiling hopefully at me—or maybe nervously? hard to tell—looking at a menu with names of dishes I can’t recognize. I honestly can’t remember the last time I was so out of my fucking element.
I lick my lips and find them dry.
Calm the fuck down, I tell myself. You’re here to have a good time, not have a fucking panic attack. It’s just dinner.
Okay.
Good.
Damn right.
I mean, if you’d told me three years ago I’d be sitting with another man in a restaurant with a rose between us checking the menu and thinking of dating, I’d laugh until I puked.
Those weren’t the best days of my life—when I realized wanting other men instead of girls wasn’t gonna go away, despite what my aunt kept yelling at me and despite all the praying she made me do at night. When I realized that wanting other men isn’t acceptable, despite what you hear sometimes. That it’s despicable. And unnatural. And the devil’s work.
Sinner… a familiar voice chants in the back of my head, and I shiver.
She was wrong. So wrong.
I thought I’d never forgive Ocean for sending me to live with her for all those godawful years, but he had no idea. Still doesn’t know everything that went down while I lived with our aunt in a small town near Columbus in Indiana. And it wasn’t his fault.
Or mine. I’m not a sinner, I remind myself, I’m just—
“Too quiet,” Gary says, putting down his menu and giving me a perfect smile. His eyes are pale, maybe gray, and did I mention he’s growing a goatee?
He is. I’m not a huge fan of goatees, but whatever.
“I’m trying to decide between stigghiola and…” I check the menu for an
other crazy-sounding dish. “Rosticciana. My favorites.”
His brows go up. “You seriously like stigghiola?” He totally misses my sarcasm. “I thought nobody did but me.”
I swallow back a bark of crazy laughter. “Why?”
“Well, it is lamb gut wrapped around a skewer and roasted.” He looks at me expectantly.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m taking that.”
Can’t be worse than what I’ve eaten as a child at the trailer park when our parents forgot to feed us for days on end and Ocean would hunt down anything edible for us. We’d steal dog and cat food from bowls set on porches, eat from the trash, and beg for leftovers.
This is a fancy-ass restaurant. I bet whatever they serve won’t taste bad.
But maybe I should pick something else. Just because I had to eat trash as a kid doesn’t mean I can’t eat what a normal person would. “Know what? I changed my mind. I’ll take a carbonara.”
Can’t go wrong with pasta, right? And I don’t like him thinking we have this love of stigghiola in common.
His face scrunches up. “Yeah?”
Yeah.
A few moments pass. Gary flashes me a faint, uncertain smile, probably regretting the moment he asked me out. “Wine?”
“Hell, yeah.” Because once you put your foot in your mouth, booze of any form helps to swallow.
The waiter comes, we order, and then we stare at each other.
Well, I stare at him, wondering where my social skills have gone. “So, Gary… How old are you?”
“Thirty-one. You?”
“Twenty-one. And uh… What do you do for a living?”
“I work in a law firm as a legal secretary. You?”
“I man the front desk at Collateral Damage. The tattoo shop.”
Well, look at that. He’s just the guy I have been waiting for. Older than me. With an education and a good job. Polite. Polished. I take in his crisp white shirt, the jacket carefully thrown over the back of his chair, his artfully tousled hair, his perfectly clean, buffed nails.
Wait, did he get a manicure? Do guys do that?
“So… you’re a bad boy, huh?” he asks, a glint in his eyes, and it takes me an ass-long moment to make sense of his words.
Am I? “Nah. Just your average receptionist.”
I reach up to rub the back of my neck and stop myself. Why am I so uncomfortable? I wish the wine was here already.
As if hearing my thoughts, a waiter materializes by my side and pours me a drop of red wine. When I lift a brow at the pitiful quantity, Gary clears his throat and flashes the waiter an embarrassed smile.
“Try the wine and tell him if it’s okay,” he hisses at me between his teeth.
All right. Sure. What the fuck.
Throttling the urge to hiss back at Gary, I swallow the drop, lift my glass, and drawl, “S’fine. Passes the poison test.”
“Raine!” Gary hisses again, lifting a hand in front of his face as if trying to hide.
What’s with the hissing anyway? What is he, a snake? Is he laughing, or is he really embarrassed?
Why do I feel like I should go stand in the corner until the end of the class?
The moment the waiter steps away, I swallow half my wine in one gulp, unable to help a grimace. I’m more of a Jack and beer sort of guy.
Now why did I think this fucking “dating” thing would be a good idea? I don’t date. Screwing around with a guy or two isn’t the same thing.
Relax, I tell myself for the tenth time in this past hour. Give it a try. Give it a chance. Give Gary a chance. Weren’t you thinking two minutes ago that he’s exactly what you’d been hoping for?
I eye him over the rim of my glass, annoyed that his face still doesn’t ring a bell. He’s handsome. I guess. In a clean-cut, clean-dressed, all-American man sort of way. Like, I dunno… Zac Efron.
Only not really.
Plus his cologne is making me wanna sneeze. And when I look at his mouth, I only feel like asking him if he wore braces as a kid and if he thinks that goatee really is such a good idea.
It’s fashionable, probably. I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t tell you what passes for trendy if it bit me in the fucking ass and called me daddy.
Am I attracted to this guy?
Is it a bad sign that I have to ask myself the question?
And then he leans forward, eyes half-closed, and whispers, “I like bad boys. And I like it hard and rough, if you get my drift.”
Oh boy. Awkward. Because I can’t for one second imagine myself bending him over, or doing anything rough with him, except maybe shoving him back into his seat and walking out of here.
Don’t, Raine.
Give it a fucking chance.
I vow to take my time and get to know Gary before I pass judgment or let my insecurities doom this dinner, when I happen to glance out of the window, and a familiar face outside catches my attention.
Well, I’ll be damned. Jason, again? Seriously, what are the fucking odds?
Shaking my head, I take another gulp from my wine.
And that’s when I see the other guy, and I’m out of my seat and out the door before you can say stigghiola.
However you pronounce that.
Chapter Six
Jason
Hustling in his part of town is unusual for me. Safer, though. There are few other hookers, few drug addicts and weirdos wandering about at night, swept away and under the rug by the powers that be to keep the well-to-do people unaware and happy.
But it’s also a hazard, being here. Why? See previous point. Rich kids don’t like filth shoved into their faces while they’re having fun, and that filth is me.
So turning tricks here is a risk, and I’m waiting for the boot in my ass as I lean back against the wall, glancing at the men passing by, acting laid back and cool. Uninterested.
Not cold and famished and desperate.
At least the rain has let up, and I’m mostly dry. Covered building entrances are a hooker’s best friends. I’m standing next to the entrance of a fancy restaurant, and some warm air escapes through the door, keeping me from getting frostbite.
I’ve taken off my thin jacket—borrowed from my buddy Adam who chose to work our usual haunts tonight—and slung it over my shoulder, showing off my short, skin-tight black top that’s riding up my chest.
Showing flesh. Plying my trade.
Check it out, gentlemen. Fresh meat. Come get a piece of this tight ass.
I shift from foot to foot, relieving a cramp, and lean against the brick wall, smirking at a middle-aged guy who’s passing by and staring his eyes out. He stumbles and almost crashes into a woman with a stroller.
I’d laugh, but despite my plastered-on smirk, I’m not amused. I’m damn exhausted. I’d have stepped up to him, made him an offer, but I’m sluggish and slow, and he’s already walking away.
Damn. Maybe he was just shocked at seeing one of my kind here, anyway.
I readjust my jacket over my shoulder, then lower it. Christ, I ache all over. I’ve been working non-stop to make enough for Simon’s cut and for my gang’s expenses, but it ain’t enough.
Lately, it never is.
And this damn spot I chose ain’t no good. Rich guys are probably scared shitless to look for a male hooker in this part of town, where their peers can see them. No wonder I normally stick to the poorer side of the city, where they all wash out looking for their kinks.
The side under Simon’s fucking control, and I wanted to keep away today. Lick my wounds. Avoid him at all costs, because I don’t have any more fucking money, or energy, to give him, even if the siren song of drugs calls me, that brief time of bliss.
Movement from my left catches my attention, and I turn to find another guy watching me from the shadows of the building across the street. I freeze as recognition sets in.
Oh fuck. Fucking shit. One of Simon’s goons. Did he follow me? Did he happen to see me?
Just my goddamn luck. My blood running cold, I jerk away from th
e wall and start walking down the street as fast as I can.
My ribs hurt when I breathe, and there’s a line of fire down my back. Damn Simon did a real number on me last night when he found out I didn’t have all the money he asked for. Though I doubt it would’ve made any difference, either way. He gets off on my pain.
Not that he’s the only one. Men generally do.
The pain doesn’t let me move as fast as I’d like to, and the night blurs in my eyes as I stumble between buildings and into an alley. Hiding is my best bet. Saved my life countless times. Sprinting, too, but with that option out of the question…
Pounding footsteps follow me, and panic grips my chest, squeezing my lungs. Dammit, if it’s not the cops chasing me away from all the places I shouldn’t be—which is just about everywhere—it’s one of Simon’s thugs.
My shoes slap through puddles and over wet concrete, and the end of the alley is in sight, when a heavy hand slams into me and sends me crashing down. My head hits the ground, and a moment later I’m lifted with a bruising hold on my arm.
“You piece of shit,” the man snarls, spitting in my face, shaking me. “This where you ran to, huh? Where’s the money?”
