Lucky

by Garrett Leigh

  It had been a long time since I’d serviced a car, though, and I’d never done a Lexus.

  A friendly mechanic took pity on me and brought me a manual. With the instructions in front of me, and any tool I needed within arm’s reach, I began to fly, and distantly pondered why I bothered to get buzzed on drone when I could be doing this shit.

  When the service was done, I moved onto valeting the interior. Cleaning out an already immaculate car seemed kinda pointless, but I did it anyway, and it wasn’t long before the mindless activity gave my restless thoughts licence to drift.

  And as had become my new normal, they immediately settled on Dom. For a moment, I almost convinced myself I could smell him and his expensive scent. It was so intense I felt sick, but that could’ve been the drone comedown—the teeth-itching hangover I was still waiting to hit me full force. Or maybe it was the upholstery shampoo. Why did they make that shit reek like burning rubber?

  I got the Lexus done with a minute to spare on my extended deadline. The garage owner—Jim, apparently—came over to inspect my work, bushy eyebrows raised, stretching his face into an expression of surprise so transparent I nearly laughed the fuck out loud.

  He walked around the car, peering at my work, and running through the service check sheet, even sniffing the seats to check I’d shampooed them. “This ain’t half bad. These nuts need tightening another couple of notches, but that’s a fault with the car, not you.”

  Damnit. I still felt like kicking myself, especially as I’d sensed sceptical eyes on me as I’d hefted the heavy alloy wheels around. “I can tighten them now?”

  Jim nodded. “Go on then.”

  I tightened the back wheel while Jim disappeared into the depths of the back office and I wondered if that was my cue to get lost. I knew I’d done a fair job considering I’d never touched a Lexus in my life, but was it good enough for a garage like this?

  Who the fuck knew.

  I was folding my branded overalls when Jim came back with an A4 envelope.

  “This is our apprentice pack,” he said. “There’s usually a bunch of interviews and red tape, but I run this place the old-fashioned way. Take this home with you and have a read through the materials. The pay is shit, but I’ll raise it to a living wage if you stick it out a couple of months.”

  “Wow. You serious?”

  “As a bank raid. Question is, are you?”

  “I—”

  Jim silenced me with a wave of his hand. “Don’t answer me now. Take a couple of days, and if you’re up for it, come back on Monday morning and we’ll draw up a proper contract. You got an NI number?”

  It was the one thing I did have. I nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Good lad. Now piss off so I can get this beast back to its owner and go home for my tea.”

  I left him to it and slipped out of the garage. My brain was slowing down as the lingering drone high from the night before wore off, but the rush of scoring work carried me all the way to a bench outside an Ethiopian restaurant before I had to sit down.

  Oil-smeared hands trembling, I pulled out my phone to text Jamila and ask if I could use her address as my own. She was pretty good at intercepting the postman, and her mum didn’t pay much attention to random mail anyway.

  But texting proved beyond me as my comedown kicked in with a vengeance. I dropped my phone into my lap and put my head in my hands, willing away the shuddering depression that was fast leaking into my limbs. In a couple of hours, I’d be curled up in a ball, hopefully in Jamila’s bed, while I styled it out like the muppet I was, but the thought of walking back to Dalston made me want to puke.

  Maybe I would puke. The thought of that made me want to die too, but then I remembered Jim’s garage and the flash of hope kept me upright.

  I sat up and took a heaving gulp of fresh air. Around the bench, the busy Tottenham streets went on without me, faceless people rushing by, getting on with lives that had no place for a quivering queer washed up on a skanky bench. I watched them come and go through scratchy eyes as my muscles began to ache with a combination of an afternoon of hard graft and chemical fatigue, and it took me a while to notice someone had sat down beside me.

  The hand on my arm scared the crap out of me, but the oddly familiar heat of it kept me from jumping out of my skin.

  I turned my head, expecting a tactile weirdo or a not-so-friendly copper wanting to search my pockets or some shit. “What the fuck?”

  Dom stared back at me.

  Seven

  Dom

  Lucky squinted at me, holding his hand up to block the light from a nearby streetlamp, his eyes bloodshot and drooping. “Dom?”

  “It’s me,” I replied cautiously, resisting the urge to take a furtive glance around. “Are you okay?”

  More staring. Lucky blinked like he couldn’t quite believe I was real, and his shielding hand drifted closer to me, as though he needed to touch me to be sure.

  Lacking what little common sense I’d been born with, I wanted to let him do it—to let his grubby fingers graze my face before I took his hand in mine. But I couldn’t do it. “Lucky? Are you okay?”

  Life finally filtered into his dazed features and he seemed to shake himself slightly. “Shit. Fuck. Yeah, sorry…I was half-asleep.”

  “Out here?” I chanced a pointed glance at the drizzle misting down from the dark sky. “Mate, it’s freezing.”

  “I know.”

  Something was off. I didn’t know much about Lucky except how his dick felt in my mouth, but I knew something was wrong more than I knew the rain dampening my face was wet. Fuck it. I took his hand and hid our entwined fingers under my jacket. “Listen, I was on my way home, but I was thinking of grabbing a drink. Wanna come?”

  “A drink?”

  “Yes.”

  “With you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just you?”

  “Yes. Just me. There’s a pub across the road we could go to.”

  Lucky’s gaze flickered beyond me, and then back to himself, giving his ripped jeans and tatty boots a once over before his gaze settled on me. “What kind of pub? Ain’t some fancy wine bar, is it?”

  “Nah. It’s a proper boozer.”

  Lucky nodded slowly. “Okay.”

  He stood and picked up the bag he’d brought with him to the Shoreditch hotel. The sight of it gifted me a jolt of desire, but as hot as Lucky was in any light, fucking around with him was the last thing on my mind.

  I steered him into the boozer and sat him in a quiet corner while I went to the bar, which was thankfully staffed by the kind of students who were unlikely to recognise me. Despite the gossip-column inches I’d gained today, I wasn’t the kind of player who graced people’s bedroom walls, or popular merchandise, and I was more grateful right now to be a faceless defender than I’d ever been.

  Clutching two bottles of beer and a Pepsi, I returned to Lucky. He had his head on the table, his face drawn and pale.

  I slid him the Pepsi. “Drink that. I can get you some food if you’re hungry?”

  Lucky blanched. “No, thanks. This is good.”

  He sipped the Pepsi while I watched him, taking in his sunken cheeks and tired eyes. I wanted to ask him again what was wrong, but pressing him didn’t feel right.

  I settled for a weird, weighted silence while the sugar in the Pepsi brought a faint flush of colour back into his cheeks, but he didn’t seem to notice, and instead fixated on his own hands, which I belatedly noticed were trembling.

  Even if I’d been out and proud, the friendly Tottenham boozer wasn’t the kind of place where I could take his hands and squeeze them until he felt safe enough to confide in me. I nudged his knee under the table and tried for a smile.

  Lucky just stared.

  “Are you sure you don’t want something to eat?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I’m good.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “I’m tired.”

  “Why? Long day?”

&n
bsp; “Yeah. I scored some work, and I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “What kind of work do you do…um, I mean besides…?”

  For fuck’s sake.

  Lucky narrowed his eyes. “Why should I tell you that when you looked at me like I was some kind of freak when I asked you the same question?”

  The sudden fire in him startled me. “I didn’t look at you like that.”

  “Yes, you did. Then you let me kiss you, before you ghosted off Grindr and never spoke to me again.”

  No one was close enough to hear us, but anxiety clawed at me anyway, and the urge to run was so strong my palms began to sweat. Keep your voice down. But I didn’t say it. Couldn’t, when Lucky was glaring at me with a hurt in his eyes I didn’t understand. “I’m sorry.”

  It was barely a whisper and Lucky’s glower remained. “Don’t be sorry. You don’t owe me nothing; just don’t get up in my face about my life when you don’t give a shit, okay? It ain’t fucking necessary.”

  His words stung, but I understood. We’d hooked up twice—we were hardly BFFs.

  But still. I needed him to be okay.

  I took a deep breath and tried again. “I’m sorry I was a dick to you last time we saw each other. I’m—uh—not good at being nice, especially in situations like that. My ma thinks I’m emotionally stunted.”

  “Does she know you’re gay?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  Lucky raised an eyebrow. “Gotcha. Closeted. Let me guess, wife and kids at home while you score paid hook ups online?”

  Agitation twisted in my gut again, and this time, I couldn’t contain the compulsion to glance around. There was still no one paying us any attention, but I leaned forward anyway, and nudged my cap a notch lower. “You’ve nailed it. I’m a closet fucking fag, okay? But I ain’t got no wife and kids, so don’t paint me with that shit. I’m not out ’cause I can’t be, but that doesn’t make me a scumbag.”

  The irony that I was the kind of scumbag that picked up men on Grindr then dumped them like trash wasn’t lost on me, but the tired anger in Lucky faded a touch as he finished his Pepsi and reached for the beer. “You should’ve told me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because then I’d have known.”

  It was apparently the only answer he was prepared to give, and I’d run out of nerve to continue this conversation. My leg bounced up and down, and I needed to get the fuck out of here before I lost my mind altogether. Only the overwhelming need to make sure Lucky was okay kept me in my seat. “Listen,” I said. “I’m sorry I ditched Grindr, but I can’t have that shit going on all the time. I’ve got no one at home, but my life would fucking implode if I got outed or if someone found out I was using Grindr to pay—”

  “Pay what? Whores?”

  “No…men, though it wouldn’t be much worse if you were a hooker. It’s still not right.”

  Lucky pushed his half-full beer bottle away. “It didn’t feel wrong to me. I chose to be there with you both times, I took your money with no shame. That hasn’t changed.”

  “It’s not about you, mate. You could be anyone and I’d still be a fucking mess.”

  “You’re not a mess, Dom. Look at me.”

  “I am.” I couldn’t look away.

  “Then you should know what a real disaster is.”

  There was no humour in the cynical smile twisting his cracked lips. My heart ached for him, for both of us, and a rush of madness had me reaching across the table for his battered phone. “What’s your passcode?”

  “My name.”

  I spelled out “lucky” on his keypad and typed my number in. Then, before I could change my mind, I thrust the phone back at him. “That’s my number. Don’t save it under my name, okay? But call me anytime you need something. If I don’t answer, I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

  “Why are you giving me your number?”

  I shook my head and stood, turning away from him even as every instinct screamed at me to rip his phone back and erase every digit I’d just punched in. “I have no idea, but don’t make me regret it.”

  Lucky

  I rolled over in the bed, selfishly spreading myself across the space I had no right to claim as my own, but with Jamila and her mum gone for a week, I had their flat to myself.

  Not that I was enjoying it much. Drone comedowns were brutal at the best of times, but slamming that shit made it worse. Like the higher you flew, the harder you fell.

  I opened my eyes and the room span. Shadows danced where there should’ve been light, and my heart pounded a sickening beat. Fuck’s sake. Not again.

  Screwing my eyes shut, I swallowed convulsively, but there was no fighting it. The churning nausea gained momentum, roaring up my throat, and I heaved myself out of bed just in time to upchuck for the millionth time that day.

  When I was done, I cut my losses and stayed on the frigid bathroom floor. My muscles hurt too much to handle another dash down the hallway.

  For a while, I dozed, absorbing the cold from the tiles into my aching bones, and let my imagination take me somewhere else—back to Jamila’s bed, or even the bed I’d oh-so-briefly shared with Dom…the pristine king-size that had been as spotlessly white as his fresh Nikes. I’d wanted to sleep with him—in more ways than one. Bet he’s not a cuddler, though. But even as I thought it, an instinct I couldn’t quite decipher rebuked me, as though my soul knew something about Dom my brain didn’t.

  Or maybe it was the drone playing tricks on me. I’d slammed it to keep me awake when Jamila’s mum had been home for the night and the cold outside was too much to bear with a straight head, but I’d regretted it the moment it had hit my veins. The euphoria from my very first time was a distant memory. These days it just kept me conscious, with paranoia and flashing spots in my vision thrown in for good measure.

  Fuck my life.

  I must’ve passed out on the bathroom floor, because it was getting dark when I opened my eyes again, and colder than ever. Shivering, I sat up and rubbed my arms, trying to force some heat back into my circulation. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since…fuck. I didn’t even know.

  In Jamila’s kitchen, I helped myself to a bowl of Crunchy Nut, thankful her mum kept the cupboards stocked with long-life milk. I made tea too—proper tea, rose coloured, and loaded with sugar—and then I retreated to Jamila’s bed to read through the envelope Jim had given me. Somehow, it had survived the chaos of an epic comedown unscathed.

  Squinting, I read through the contract and handbook, but beyond the weekly wage figures and the actual work and training expected of me, I didn’t take it in—I didn’t care about health and safety, or codes of conduct, I just wanted to work.

  I dropped the paperwork on the bed and closed my eyes. The room had stopped spinning, but I still felt like I could puke again if I moved around too much. So I stayed where I was, meditating like a junkie hippie, and prayed I’d be on point by the time Monday morning rolled around.

  It was Sunday evening by the time I allowed thoughts of Dom back in. All weekend, I’d fought the obsession, and the scraping sensation in my brain had proved an effective distraction, but the fog was clearing now, leaving Dom’s blazing eyes in its wake—his heated stare as he’d punched his number into my phone. His gentle hands as he’d wrapped his fingers around mine under his coat.

  I made myself presentable for the following morning, washed my clothes, and tucked my hair into a tight knot. Then I curled up on the couch with more cereal and my phone. Grindr was dead to me if Dom wasn’t on it, but his username gave me something to save his digits under.

  Then I stared at my message screen for an hour, tapping and erasing messages like some kind of maniac. ’Cause, fuck. What the hell was I supposed to say? Thanks for buying me a drink when all I wanted was to suck your dick one last time, but I was too fucked up to say so?

  Right. I still knew jack about Dom, but unless he majored in chemsex behind closed doors, I was willing to bet he didn�
��t dig getting high. And the chemsex theory was flawed too. I’d spent enough time with him to guess that losing control when he was naked enough to be vulnerable wasn’t his bag. He wasn’t like me.

  He was vulnerable, though. I’d seen it in him, and it hurt my savage little heart. I’d never hidden who I was, and it had cost me relationships with people who were supposed to love me whatever, but I couldn’t imagine living my life as someone else. What did that do to a man?

  I wasn’t going to find out if I didn’t contact Dom, but none of my messages felt right, and as night closed in on me, I let my mind wander too far as I considered why. I huddled up on the couch and pictured us together—in Simone’s flat, the hotel room, and then in the dodgy Tottenham boozer, when I’d slumped on the table like a hobo and shown him a glimpse of who I really was.

  But what had he shown me? All I knew about him was what made him come, and that he was so fucking not out that the thought of someone overhearing our conversation had terrified him.

  I didn’t want him to be frightened, not for me. If I knew anything, it was that I wasn’t worth the damn trouble.

  Eight

  Lucky

  I held out until the third day of my apprenticeship at the posh garage. By then, Jamila and her mum had reclaimed their flat and I was hiding out in a public library, killing time before I tried to find somewhere safe to bed down for the night.

  Lucky: hey

  Perignon55: who dis?

  Lucky: who do u think

  Perignon55: don’t play with me

  Lucky: k.

  Perignon55: Lucky?

  Lucky: yeah

  Perignon55: u ok?

  Lucky: yeah

  Perignon55: good

  Perignon55: what u doing?

  Lucky: not much. u?

  Perignon55: finishing work then gym

  Lucky: i’ve never been in a gym

  Perignon55: u ain’t missing much

  Lucky: i’m missing u getting sweaty

  Dom didn’t reply for a while, and I fidgeted in my seat while I pretended to read a crime novel. I’d gone round in circles wrestling over whether to contact him, but ultimately, the fire in my gut for him had won out. Did he feel the same? Or had he given me his number to check I wasn’t dead?