by Jo Raven
I guess by that time I’ll have bigger worries.
“At least that asshole Gomez lets you crash at his Club sometimes.” Mayleen strokes my now much shorter hair to one side, and I reach up to muss it up again. I’m not a side parting kinda guy. “Good thing with the temps falling so low.” She strokes my hair to the side again. “You promise he isn’t doing anything to hurt you, Jason?”
I was about to shove my fingers through my hair again, and I stop. “Why you say that?”
She shrugs, leans close to my ear. “The concealing cream. It’s for the bruises, right? Has he put any on you? Is all I’m asking.”
I shiver. Raine had asked, too, and damn if the memory doesn’t send a rush of heat between my legs. “Nah, he hasn’t touched me.”
Technically not a lie. He has his men do the beating for him.
“Hm-mm.” She doesn’t challenge me on that, though, even though I can sense her doubts. “Well then, what about the other guy?”
“What other guy?”
She steps away to clean her scissors and I quickly wipe a hand under my nose, not surprised when it comes away streaked with red. I wipe it furtively on my dark pants.
Damn nosebleeds are getting worse.
Her room is tiny, and it only contains her bed, a table and chairs. The building has communal bathrooms—relatively clean ones that I’ve just used to wash two days’ grime off me, but it also has central heating, and it’s pretty safe.
Which is a hell of lot more than I have going for me. I think of my ratty sleeping bag and my meager belongings stuffed behind a dumpster near my usual haunt and hope, like always, that nobody will touch them.
“The guy you like,” she says. “The one you had Josie keep tabs on?”
Dammit, I should have known Josie would talk. “I only did that so I won’t cross paths with him.” I wave a hand, hoping she’ll drop the subject. “He’s bad news.”
“Really. Raine Storm, Ocean Storm’s brother? He’s a hottie. You said that.”
Shit. I must have talked about him during those days when I was still feverish, after I left Ocean’s apartment.
“And an asshole,” I say absently, checking the concealing cream and glitter tubes Mayleen got me. I hope the shade of the concealer blends with my pale skin, otherwise I’ll look like a lab experiment gone wrong, plus it will only work where I’m not inked. Let’s hope the ink will hide the rest. “I’m sure I said that, too.”
“Doesn’t ring any bells.”
“First time we met, he basically said I look like a hooker, and asked if I’m proud of it.”
She laughs. “I hope you said yes.”
“You bet I did.” I grin at her as I get up, a grunt escaping me at the sharp ache in my back and ribs. That motherfucker Simon.
“Jason—”
“I’m all right.” I wave her away, restore my grin and wink at her. “Are we done? Can I go now, or would you like to grill me some more?”
“Just looking out for you, kiddo.”
It’s so funny her saying that. She barely reaches my shoulder. I’ve just… never felt young. Always old. Always responsible for my gang. It’s been that way ever since I can remember, and I dunno who, if anyone, put me in charge, but here I am.
In charge of their safety, and their future. Sometimes I think the weight of the responsibility will fucking crush me, especially these days. These past few months have been brutal. I wish I could take a vacation from my damn life, from being me.
Of course, I’ll probably take a permanent one, soon, when Simon realizes what I’m doing—and why am I still here?
“Gonna have a smoke before I go back to my corner, selling my hot body for pennies to sweaty men,” I mutter, “so if you’ll excuse me…”
“Go,” she says, and presses a small package into my hand before pushing me out the door. “And I’ll look out for your hot asshole crush, too.”
“He’s not my crush!” I yell at the door as it slams shut, her peal of laughter echoing.
Fuck. He’s not.
And he was right, I’m not proud of being a hooker, of my glittering, fitted tank tops and made-up face, of sucking dirty men’s dicks and getting pounded in the ass for a buck.
But damn you, Raine, what fucking choice do I have? Why do you make me feel as if there’s a way out?
I step behind the Golden Dragon, a Chinese restaurant just down the road from where I usually ply my trade. It’s quiet here, and I like it.
The small package Mayleen slipped me turns out to be a tiny bottle of whiskey she must have snatched from a hotel fridge and a burrito sorta thing, stuffed with unidentifiable meat and veggies. Spicy, too. I wolf it down in two bites and send her a mental thanks, even as I save the whiskey for later, when I’ll be freezing my balls off.
She does look out for me. It’s as if she knows I haven’t had anything to eat all day and that the night will get cold.
And then sadness sets in again, and I have my damn smoke, and think.
About Raine.
Can’t help it. The more I fight it, the deeper I sink into the pit, remembering what happened two days ago, wondering if I screwed up. Why I feel that I screwed up something, when there’s nothing there.
Why the hell did I tell Raine those things? About not getting hard, about other johns. About letting him know next time what works for me.
Shit, I’ve gone crazy. That’s the only explanation. I shouldn’t have let him talk me into… whatever that was. That show where I was supposed to jerk off in front of him. I don’t do things face to face. Can’t hide that way.
He was supposed to fuck me, have me bend over, so that I could fake it, and make him happy.
And since when do I care about Raine’s happiness?
This is bad. I have to avoid him, and get on with my plan and my sad life. At least here, on the street, I know what’s what. Who is my friend and who my enemy, who is a customer and who… means more.
Raine doesn’t mean more, that’s for sure.
Finishing my smoke, I throw the butt down and grind it with the heel of my boot, then run a hand through my hair to make sure it’s not sticking out in weird angles, and take my habitual place at the street corner, right outside a shop with a vent letting out warm air, the only thing that keeps me from turning into an icicle on most nights.
Still, the air has a sharp bite, icy teeth closing over my skin. And I take my jacket off anyway. It’s still early, and bait should hang naked on the hook.
The image sends a shudder over me. Or maybe it’s the cold. A cough shakes me, and another, but I manage to get the fit under control. I pop a stick of gum into my mouth and lean back against the wall, on the side that cuts off the wind, and prop a foot against the crumbling plaster.
Better.
Familiar grounds, familiar habits. I let myself sink into the familiarity of it all. I shove my hands into my pockets and look at the cars and people passing by while pretending not to care, though after Simon’s latest shakedown I’m left with a dollar, some small change, and the rest of the whiskey in the mini bottle.
Oh yeah, and let’s not forget the afore-mentioned sleeping bag and duffel behind the dumpster. I chuckle to myself, considering my riches.
Before long, the wind picks up, and the cold slices through me like the kiss of a thousand tiny blades. Another cough rattles my chest. Evening is falling fast, dark shadows crawling over the sidewalk, and despite the warm air coming through the vent, I say screw it and put the jacket back on, even if I leave it open.
Good timing, too, since the guy I see coming down the street toward me ain’t no customer. It’s Jesse Lee.
Or not good timing, after all. If a customer had picked me already, Jesse wouldn’t have found me, and I wouldn’t have to lie to him.
Again, dammit.
I fish out my pack and draw another cigarette out as he approaches, needing something to do with my hands. “Hey, J. What’s up?”
Can’t deny I’m happy to see him, no
matter what. Happy to hear how well he is, how his worries are restricted to finishing a new tattoo design for a client at the shop, or what to get his girl for her birthday.
He’s my fucking ray of sunshine.
“Jason.” He reaches out, grips my shoulder. “Good to see you, man. You keep pulling these disappearing acts on me.”
“Me? Nah.” I chew on the cigarette filter. He grins at me, and I dredge a smile up for him. “What’s new?”
“Nothing. Just checking up on you. You all right?”
Damn, this guy’s cute. Such a good friend. I hate myself for not telling him the truth. “I’m all right. The gang, too.” They will be, once I’ve sent them all away. “Told you, J. No need to worry about me.”
He runs a hand over his closely-cropped hair. “Can’t help it. It’s cold out here. Dangerous.” He works his jaw. “Come stay with us, Jason. We have space.”
I fight to hide a flinch. “Can’t. Told you.”
“Why not? Come on. Then I won’t have to worry.”
But I can’t do this. I’ve worked so hard to keep him safe. He has no idea…
“I promise I’ll be careful,” I assure him, and inch away before he can grab my arm or shoulder once more. “We’ll talk soon, okay?”
Hey, what’s one more lie, right?
The intersection I end up at is dead. What a bust. The cars aren’t even slowing down, let alone stopping. The inactivity makes me itch under my skin for some coke, for that brief flight into bright sunshine it brings.
I rub my arms, shivering. I hate this. I hate that I want the drugs. It’s a struggle not to spend every penny I make on buying them—and I know deep in my gut that soon I won’t be able to resist any longer. That when I start buying that shit, there will be no way back.
Not good. That money is needed elsewhere, to send my people away.
Lost in thought, I don’t notice the car until it stops right in front of me and a guy sticks his head out. “How much?” he calls out.
Shaved head, tattoos on his arms, and I get a shiver of unease.
I glance down the street, but traffic is really non-existent today. Just my luck. “I’m not free,” I say. “Someone’s picking me up in a minute.”
“That so?” He throws the door open and gets out. Fuck, he’s huge, taller and wider than me. “We can be quick.”
Dammit. Belatedly I start to back away, the cold making me sluggish. Too sluggish, too slow, and he catches my wrist and drags me away from the street corner.
Toward the alley.
Ah fuck.
“Cash upfront,” I manage as he shoves me against the graffiti of the wall. Hell, he’s bigger than me, and I might be bruised and cold to the bone, but I’ll fight the bastard over this and make no mistake. “Fifty for a blowjob, hundred for—”
He fishes out his wallet, and I’m so relieved to see him take out a condom along with the bills that my fucking knees go weak.
When he pushes me down, I go willingly. A blowjob then. Fuck, okay. This is what most guys want. Quick, easy, clean. He gives me the condom, and I tear the package open as he undoes his pants. He smells foul, and… and he’s not Raine, dammit, and it shouldn’t fucking matter.
I’ve done this job a thousand times. I know how to make it good, and if it wasn’t for the guy’s painful grip on my hair, which apparently isn’t as short as I’d hoped, I could have lost myself in the motions.
But he doesn’t like me forgetting what I’m doing. He pulls on my hair hard enough to jerk my head, pinpricks of pain dotting my skull, and before I’m done, he shoves me back so hard my head hits the wall.
Ow, fuck. For a second everything goes black, and then he’s on me again.
I hadn’t mistaken his type. He kicks me in the stomach, and my burrito dinner comes right back up. I bend over, retching.
Once I’m done, he hauls me up one-handed and punches me in the face, snapping my head to the side.
Jesus fuck.
Something hot drips down my cheek, and I wipe at it, smearing blood all over my fingers. A cut right below my eye, looks like. Swallowing hard, I clean my hand on the front of my tank top.
“Fucking faggot,” he mutters, which makes me wonder what he considers himself to be, then. “Goddamn fairy.”
And then he rolls the condom off his dick, wraps his hand around his hard-on, jerks it and comes all over me.
Fuck.
“Hey!” I croak as he turns around to go, stuffing his dick back inside his pants. “My money.”
He throws a bunch of five-dollar bills over his shoulder, and I watch them flutter in the wind before I start moving. Goddammit.
Pushing off the wall, not bothering to muffle my groan, I stumble after the bills through the puddles of the alley. Once I have them in my pocket, I use said puddles to clean up as best I can. Vomit. Cum. Filth. I’m shaking with cold and some shock, despite this not being my first bad encounter. Despite the constant violence in my life.
I need… a fucking break. Not sure how much longer I can keep doing this, only that I can’t afford to stop, not yet, not now.
And the night is young. What I just made is nothing to Simon. If I don’t get him more, we’re all in trouble. I stagger back to my street corner, feeling like roadkill, and probably looking the part, too.
Fuck, I hope the police don’t pass by. I don’t think I can run tonight.
I lift a hand to my face and wince. That cut burns, and my jaw feels swollen. The concealing cream won’t last long at this rate. Plus, I’m wet from the puddles of the alley, and the wind won’t let up. My stomach is a twisted knot, and my body aches in new places.
How is this better than being with Raine, no matter how confusing being with him is? At least Raine didn’t hurt me. His apartment is warm and clean, and…
And there’s more, things and questions I don’t wanna acknowledge.
That I’m curious if he can make me come. If he’s a better person than I thought. Nicer. Good enough to match his pretty looks. Kind like his brother.
That I’m longing for something more, something I can’t name.
Or maybe I’m just that tired, that defeated.
It doesn’t matter. When I see Raine’s truck cruising down the street, I don’t turn and go. I wait. And when he rolls down the window, those blue eyes meeting mine, and asks if I wanna go with him, I say yes.
Chapter Thirteen
Raine
I wasn’t planning on picking Jason up on my way home. In fact, I’d told myself several times to not even fucking think about it, not after what happened last time.
Plus, I’m saving my pennies. My two part-time jobs aren’t making me much. Not like I can throw away forty and eighty bucks on sex every time—and for what? I can pick up a guy at a bar like everyone else. Have sex without having to buy the service.
I still roll down the street, just to check Jason is okay. I know that otherwise I won’t get any sleep—because I’m fucked in the head and can’t stop thinking about him, right—and then I see him, standing at his usual corner, looking gorgeous even from a distance, dark hair framing his handsome face, black pants slung low on his hips and a black jacket, the very image of a sexy bad boy.
When I roll closer, he straightens from his slouch against the wall, slow and careful, brows lowering over his eyes. He looks straight at me, and I’m caught, like every time, by the pain lancing through his dark gaze.
There and then gone as he tilts his head to the side and one side of his mouth tips up in a crooked smirk. Fucking hot.
I shouldn’t stop, but I can’t for the life of me remember why I’d decided I shouldn’t. Clearly I stand no chance where this guy is concerned.
Rolling down my window, I lean out to talk to him, but before I open my mouth, a wintry blast of wind stings my face. Christ, I can’t imagine standing out there in that thin jacket. He’ll die of cold.
As if to confirm my words, he turns to the side and coughs, wiping his mouth on his arm, and fuck. I don
’t like it.
Caught between desire and worry, I make a new decision—or maybe not so new: the same one I keep making over and over, every time I see him in real life or in my dreams.
“Climb in,” I say.
He looks at me for a long moment, those expressive eyes shielded, but the arch of a brow speaking volumes.
Then he nods and limps around the truck to do as I asked.
He actually fucking limps, and I thump my fist on the steering wheel just as he opens the passenger door and climbs inside.
What the hell am I gonna do with this guy—and why can’t I just leave him out of my life?
“You like punk rock?”
I blink at the quiet question, then realize what’s playing on the old stereo of the truck. “Yeah. This is DeathMoth. The group. Some friends of mine play in it.”
I glance sideways at him. We’ve stopped at a traffic light, and his face is washed in red. It looks disturbingly like blood, and there’s a dark shadow on his cheek I hadn’t noticed before. A bruise?
Son of a bitch. It is. There’s a dark line right below his eye, too, like a cut. In the narrow confines of the car, he stinks of something sour like trash and vomit, and still underneath it all there’s that cinnamon scent and male musk that I can’t get enough of.
