“Do you draw?”
She shakes her head, her ponytail bouncing. I want to grab it, wrap her silky hair around my hand to hold her still while I fuck her mouth with my tongue.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“I want to draw you.” The words are out of my mouth before my brain connects. “If you’d like.”
“Now?” Her eyes are round, and I want to kick myself. She’s kept her cool so far, but I bet she’s about to run out of here and never come back.
The thought hurts too much. Much more than I ever thought.
“Not now. I have to go. And you don’t have to do this,” I say, feeling like ten kinds of idiot for suggesting it.
“I don’t mind.”
She doesn’t? I’m staring at her open-mouthed, and I don’t know what to say. I can see uncertainty in her eyes, in the quiver of her jaw. She’s fighting something, and I’m not sure what it is, but that feeling that she reminds me of someone is back, stronger than ever.
Speak, J. Say something.
“Awesome, then,” I mumble. “How about tomorrow morning, here?”
She nods quickly, too quickly. Nervously. She glances at my leather bracelet as though she wants to ask something, but she doesn’t.
“Tomorrow,” she says and leaves me alone, hard and aching for her, and confused like never before in my life.
***
A walk into my dark past serves to clear my mind from any doubts about the future. Down the same dirty streets where I slept, passing from the park gate where Zane found me trying to tattoo the demon on my chest after losing Helen to the place where I got my scars.
I stare at the dumpster and the graffiti that are part of my nightmares, not sure what I’m doing, what I expect to find, and how to fix the hole in my chest that opens every time I remember it all.
What I don’t expect is to find Jason, an old buddy from those days. Haven’t seen him in months. In combat boots, tight jeans and a black tank top, his blond hair gelled up in a fauxhawk, he’s leaning on a wall at the corner to the avenue, trying to look cool and nonchalant. Like he has no worries in the world, and just happened to stop by for a second to rest and observe the passersby.
Oldest profession in the world.
He turns when he hears my footsteps crunching on broken glass—so much broken glass, it makes my scars itch—and his eyes go comically wide.
“Pinch me now,” he says and grins rakishly. “Jesse Lee, as I live and breathe. I heard you moved up the social ladder, buddy. What the fuck are you doing back here in the gutter? Came to take photos of your past?”
His words hit too close to home, and I turn my head to hide a wince. Schooling my face into a neutral mask, I bump fists with Jason and shake hands.
“How’s it hanging, man?”
“You know how it is.” He tsks and nods at the busy avenue. “Work, work, work. You should be the one to tell me tales now. You said you were going to work at a tattoo shop in the center of town. How did that work out for you?”
“It’s great,” I say and mean it. So great in fact that I often feel guilty for everyone I used to know, like Jason, who didn’t get that opportunity. “You should come visit me one day.”
“Yeah, of course.” But I know he won’t. He doesn’t feel he can wash the stench of the street off him. It’s like he has a brand on his forehead marking him as homeless and a hooker and is convinced everyone can see it.
I feel that way sometimes, too, although it’s not as bad as it used to be.
“Are you seeing the others? Mayleen, Adam, Josie? They still around?”
“I see them. Where would they go, man? We’re stuck here.”
Except me. Familiar guilt washes through me. I’ve tried giving them my money, but they won’t take it. They’re proud people, and I know how they feel about charity.
“They okay? No trouble?”
“You talking about something specific now, aren’t you, J?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Jason nods. He knows, and normally he’d tell me to chill, and that everything’s calm.
This time, though, he remains silent, and I don’t like it. He glances down the street, then behind him. On edge.
“Come on, Jason, spill.” I want to shake him, rattle any information out of him, so I ball my hands into fists and wait him out.
“There’s this new guy,” he finally says, shuffling his feet, uncomfortable as hell. “Mikey. Sixteen or seventeen. Pretty face, though no comparison to you, J.”
I huff. Jason has hit on me a couple of times. I’m used to men hitting on me, as much as chicks, but I hope Jason has taken the hint. I just don’t swing that way.
In fact, I managed, against all odds, to only service women. Jason helped me with that, and I owe him big time, taking on the guys who’d hit on me and putting out the word about me to lady friends.
“Go on,” I say when it becomes clear he’d rather not. “What happened?”
He lets out a frustrated sigh, checks the street again. “He won’t say, but we found him beaten up pretty badly. Not far from here, in fact.”
A chill runs up my spine despite the warm day. “You think it’s the same guy? Simon?”
Pimp and leader of a MC gang, he arrived to take this city under his “protection.” Simon Gomez.
“Could well be. Kid mumbled something about turf wars and ran. Never heard where he ended up.”
I swallow sourness. “Has Simon ever threatened you?”
Just his name makes me feel sick.
“Kaia keeps tabs on him.” The local pimp. “But she’s getting sicker by the day. If she passes on, I don’t know what will happen.”
“Yeah.” I jam my hands into my pockets. “Me neither.”
“You could press charges, J.”
He’s told me this before. Jason is the one who found me and patched me up. He found a doctor to sew my arm up for free—or if he paid in kind, he never told me.
“I can’t. He’ll find out I ratted him out. Too risky. Besides, it’s been years and it’s not like I had any witnesses.”
“If nobody accuses him, he’ll never fucking stop. You’re safe in your castle in the clouds, J, but what about us?”
Holy shit.
“Take care of yourself,” I tell Jason and turn to go, the jab hurting like a punch to the gut. No idea what I expected to find, why I thought coming here might calm my frazzled nerves. With guilt added to the mix, I’m worse off than before.
My stomach lodged under my ribs like a damn stone, I make my way back to my new life, knowing full well that my old one will haunt me forever.
***
After a night spent tossing and turning, caught in nightmares and twisted in my sheets, I finally catch some shuteye with the sunrise, a pillow jammed over my head to keep out the light. I slip in and out of dreams, or memories, dark places with the stench of piss and vomit, yelling ringing in my ears as I cower, small and powerless, trying to hide.
But the hands always find me and drag me, kicking and screaming, back into the fear and pain.
The knock-knock seems to come out of the blue. It comes again, smashing into my sleep, shattering the dreams.
Thank God.
I open bleary eyes and squint as the door cracks open. A shaggy dark head pops inside.
Alex, I think, my brain hurting as it tries to come awake. My roommate. Important to clarify this, even as my body still shakes with remembered fear.
“What?” I croak, hugging my pillow, wincing at the sunrays spearing through the window and straight through my head.
“Someone here for you. A girl. Says you told her to come this morning.”
A girl? Who…?
Amber.
Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck! Throwing off the sheet, I shoot to my feet and stagger sideways. My head hurts as if I’ve been drinking.
Have I? My memories of last night are somewhat disjointed, but I may have joined Travis and Gage in a few glasses of whiskey after returning home from my second job of the day.
Ow.