by C. S. Poe
Be aware.
He felt a little better after a minute or two.
“I don’t know what to do,” Sam said, and somehow the tank managed to perch on the edge of the mattress like a bird on a birdbath. “Can you tell me what you need?”
“I’m ok,” Rufus insisted, slowly raising his head to look at Sam.
“You need to disappear for a few days. Maybe a week, tops. Do you have somewhere you can go? Somewhere no one will find you?”
“What about you?” Rufus asked.
“What about me?”
“She saw you too.”
Sam just shrugged.
Rufus tugged at his hair with one hand. “So what does that shrug mean? I run away and you go stomping around New York, throwing your dick around?”
“You stay safe,” Sam said. “You did your part, getting us this far.”
Keeping his hand stuck in his hair, Rufus said, “You have no idea the level of depravity you’d be walking into. You don’t know anyone, what some of these people are capable—”
Sam kissed him. Then, pulling back, he screwed up his face almost like he wasn’t sure what he’d done. He must have figured it out pretty fast because he leaned in for another kiss. This one was better, in Rufus’s limited experience: softer, slower, more assured. Not tender. Not even close to tender. More on the demanding end of the spectrum. But, like everything with the tank, it was a confusing mix.
Sam’s hand found Rufus’s waist as he kissed him again, rolling him onto his back, chasing him with kisses. That hand played with the hem of Rufus’s T-shirt, inching it up, the fingers tracing what felt like a sunrise across Rufus’s belly, an arc of heat and light that made Rufus want to squeeze his eyes shut. Sam rucked up the shirt higher, splaying one hand across Rufus’s chest, the calluses sending Rufus’s brain into overdrive, and he remembered reading A Brief Guide to the Ancient World, and the index, pumice, erotic uses of, and then Sam was pulling back.
Rufus was flying. And not the brief suspension before the lurch, the fall, the pop and snap, but like he was a projectile from a slingshot. Falling up into the stars, rocketing through the troposphere, the stratosphere, still going—still flying.
Grinning, Sam drew his touch back to fingertips, tracing something on Rufus’s chest. “Freckles,” he whispered, leaning down for another kiss. His lips touched Rufus’s.
Freckles.
Maddie’s voice cut through the static in Rufus’s brain, echoing that nickname over and over. Then it was like someone had switched the knob on an old television and the black-and-white snow was replaced with images of his surreal day. Eating at BlueMoon with Sam watching him from across the table. Rummaging through Natalie’s bedroom. Tromping through Alphabet City. Sam working that beanie back over Rufus’s hair. Yankee’s gurgling last breaths. Heckler pocketing Jake’s missing phone.
“Stop,” Rufus said, crashing back to earth breathless and panicked. “Hang on.”
Sam stopped, but he had that little furrow again, the one that had made Rufus think about crossword puzzles in bed. The cute one, although Rufus shoved the thought away as soon as it came.
“What?” Sam asked.
“Jake’s dead. And his killer had his own brains blown out. I can’t do this right now.”
Stretching back, Sam worked his shoulders. Rufus was suddenly reminded of how big Sam was, towering over him like that. “Ok,” Sam said slowly. “But it’s just a fuck.”
There it is, Rufus thought. Like every guy before Sam he’d dropped trou for. “Yeah. Just a fuck.” Rufus shimmied out from underneath and got to his feet. That nervous sense of hope that’d been growing like a balloon in his chest popped like a needle had pricked it.
Riffling his hair, Sam stared at him. “What’s going on with you? We’re both feeling shitty. I’m horny. You desperately need to get boned. I don’t get what the big deal is.” Then Sam rolled one huge shoulder. “Besides, you’re so damn cute, the way you get protective and go on and on.”
Rufus had turned to stare at Sam as he spoke, a line working its way between his brows as he frowned. “No, thanks,” he said simply.
“Fine.”
“Good.”
“It’s just sex, Rufus. It’s supposed to be fun. A way to blow off some steam. Feel alive.”
“I know how dopamine works—don’t talk to me like I’m stupid.”
Something had changed in the room.
Sam slid off the bed. “Yeah,” he said. “Sorry.”
“Forget it.” Rufus walked toward the bathroom. “You can stay,” he called over his shoulder. “But no sex.” Then he closed the door, locked it, and sat on the toilet lid.
Heavy steps moved in the other room, and then Sam’s voice filtered through the closed door. “Probably better if I find somewhere else tonight.”
Rufus wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, “There’s a… a YMCA on the West Side. Cheap hostel rooms.”
“Yeah, thanks.” The silence that followed was its own kind of thunder, and then Sam said, “Are you ok? Like, can I get you something? Do something?”
“I’m fine,” Rufus told the door. “But promise you won’t go running off half-cocked tomorrow without at least saying something to me first.”
The doorknob jittered, as though Sam might have tested it—or maybe just bumped it. When Sam spoke, it was that same locked-down voice that gave nothing away. “I think it might be better if we go our own ways. I don’t want to drag you into something. You should lie low for a few days. Take a trip or something. And….” More of that tremendous silence. “Thanks.”
Then the steps moved away, and the apartment’s front door opened and closed, and the old boards in the hallway creaked away from the room.
Rufus stared at his hands until they’d gotten so blurry, he couldn’t see more than something abstract—like the hands Pablo Picasso would paint. And it pissed him off that Sam walking out that door could make Rufus cry like Alice had during her adventures in Wonderland.
CHAPTER TEN
Sam walked west—he figured west was the best way to get to the West Side, although, fuck, in this city, who the hell even knew—five blocks before he remembered that he’d left his ruck checked with Greyhound. For thirty seconds he stared at an orange Don’t Walk, considering leaving it until tomorrow. Then he thought of what it would be like. Bad enough to sleep on cheap linens, smelling like cheap detergent, only to wake up and wear the same clothes with his sweat and the day’s dirt on them. Sam had a lot of tricks, by this point in his life, for dealing with how his senses betrayed him, but that combination sounded like too much.
He trekked back to Port Authority Bus Terminal. The grayscale darkness shrank in places, pushed back by marquee bulbs or flashing neon signs, and in other places it pressed down like a layer of smoke. On one corner, two guys were passing a joint, laughing loud enough to chase off a trio of women who looked like they were doing their own self-guided Sex and the City tour. Two blocks later, a white girl with locs was packing up her guitar while she argued with another girl over whose turn it was to pay the electric bill. He passed a diner that looked a lot cleaner—almost impersonally antiseptic—than the BlueMoon. And he saw himself in the glass, a ghost, and had the idea of going back, buzzing up to Rufus’s apartment, having a fuck-all fight, really going at it, even though he wasn’t sure what they’d fight about.
He got his bag. He walked the blocks back to the YMCA that Rufus had mentioned. He got a private room, telling himself he’d be good, but he didn’t pay for the private room with the private bathroom, because, fuck, maybe he was going to change his mind about being good.
In the room, he unpacked: the dopp kit, everything organized; a clean white tee, already inside out; a fresh pair of jeans; socks, already inside out. More: travel pods of All Free and Clear; a nub, in its plastic travel case, of Dr. Bronner’s Pure Castile Soap, Baby Unscented; sensitive-skin lube; a condom; his towel with the loose threads on one seam. He stripped, wrapped the towel
around his waist, and headed to the bathroom.
A door stood open; inside, two guys lounged on bunk beds. They had to be young, in their twenties, and they had light brown skin. One had a nice beard. The other had a mole on his jaw. The one with the beard was on the bottom bunk, wearing nothing but red CK briefs. Sam couldn’t tell what the one with the mole was wearing—he was on the top bunk—but the guy didn’t have a shirt, and he leaned over the rail to watch Sam.
Sam paused in the doorway. He looked at one. He looked at the other. He waited until the guys looked at each other, and the one with the mole laughed.
No need to smile or nod or raise an eyebrow; Sam just unwrapped the towel, slung it over his shoulder, and kept going down the hall. The bathroom was empty at this hour. He found the handicap-accessible shower with a no-barrier entry and a curtain instead of a door, turned the water to hot, and stepped under the spray.
Two minutes later, the curtain rattled on its rings, and the guy with the mole stepped inside. Naked. Hard. His eyes roving all over Sam. “Hey. I wanted to tell you something. If I rated you from one to ten, you’d be a nine because I’m the one you’re missing.”
It wasn’t really worth answering. Sam tilted his head, inviting the guy under the spray of water.
“Where you from, big guy?” Mole asked, sliding close.
“No talking,” Sam said.
Mole splayed his hands across Sam’s chest and moved them down to his hips. “Why not? You’ve got a sexy voice.”
Planting a hand in the guy’s chest, Sam gave a shove. Not too hard, but hard enough. “No talking. Or leave.”
Mole gave Sam a pout—was that supposed to be cute? But when it clearly didn’t have the desired reaction, he simply turned and pressed back against Sam.
After that, Sam knew how things were supposed to go. He’d done this a lot. A lot of guys. A lot of places. A lot of quiet that filled up with the slap of flesh and a few strangled groans. When he’d finished, he pushed Mole toward the curtain and turned his face into the spray.
Getting out of the shower, Mole wiped wet hair away from his face and tried one more, if not the worst, pick-up line Sam had ever heard. “So, I lost my phone number. Can I have yours?”
Sam kept his face in the spray, holding his breath, hot water needling him, until he heard the curtain rings jingle again and he knew he was alone.
After the shower, back in his room, he lay on top of the sheets. The air was too warm even with the AC chugging; he was sweating. He closed his eyes. He tried to run through the train timetables that he’d passed twenty minutes on the bus memorizing, but he kept mixing up the 6 and the 6 Express, and it made him so mad, he had to count down from a thousand by primes. Then he tried constellations: Orion, the Big Dipper, Cassiopeia, Taurus, Gemini. But Gemini got him riled up all over again—Christ, are there two of you?—and Sam started thinking about the maze of freckles he had glimpsed under that System of a Down shirt, the intense effort it had taken not to get lost in them, finding new patterns, constellations that he could kiss across the delicate sculpture of Rufus’s chest.
Sam was panting—huge, angry breaths—as he tried to shove the thoughts away. Rufus pushing on his shoulder. Rufus saying stop. Rufus saying, No, thanks. Rufus’s voice from behind the locked bathroom door. The hurt in it, audible no matter how Rufus tried to conceal it.
The knock at the door startled Sam up off the mattress. For a dizzy moment, he thought it was Rufus, that somehow Rufus had come here, found him, wanted to—apologize? Fuck? And then his head cleared and he knew how stupid that was. When he cracked the door, he saw the other guy, the one with the beard and red briefs. He still had the beard, but he’d lost his underwear somewhere along the way.
The fuck was quick and brutal. Sam grabbed the back of Beard’s neck, wanting to grab Rufus like that, wanting to plow into Rufus until the little shit—what? Begged? Christ, why was it so hard to know what he wanted when it came to the redhead?
When he came, he saw red: wispy, mussed red, like it had been under a beanie all day.
He kicked Beard out and slept the rest of the night without dreams.
In the morning, he woke to July sunlight and the hum of traffic. He showered again—needed more soap—and pulled on the tee and jeans and socks, laced up his boots, and repacked his ruck. Sam had a plan, and it didn’t involve getting dragged down to a subway by a redheaded prick who didn’t know when a good thing was happening to him. Sam still had all of Jake’s e-mails, still had the lead he’d started with: a sex worker in the Ramble, someone named Juliana, someone who had tipped Jake off about whatever this big case was. So the next step was to find Juliana, gain her trust, and find out what she had told Jake.
In a small store downstairs, Sam ignored the morning waves from Beard and Mole, who stood in line holding granola and yogurt and bananas. They didn’t seem upset; if anything, they seemed to find the whole thing hilarious, elbowing each other and laughing and talking to each other in what sounded like Urdu. Beard was doing a lot of explaining with the banana he held in one hand, and Sam figured everybody else in the store had gotten a pretty good accounting of last night’s activities, Urdu or no Urdu. He grabbed a bottle of two-percent milk, found a protein bar, and stood in line. He tried to plan out the day while a banana did stand-in duty for him.
The problem was getting Juliana’s trust. Somehow, Sam needed to convince her to talk to him. A big guy like Sam, showing up unannounced, trying to get Juliana alone? Maybe, if he offered to pay. But then, when he wanted answers, what was she going to do? Freak out? Run? Would she believe him? Sam had no idea. He had relatively little experience with sex workers, aside from occasionally dragging an enlisted guy out of a crib or a flophouse. What he needed was someone who knew the city, who knew Jake, who knew how to talk to someone like Juliana and win her over.
What he needed was Rufus.
Sam groaned as he stepped up to pay for his food. He glanced over. Beard was eyeing him, making suggestions with the banana, and Sam nodded. Beard was totally right.
Sam was fucked.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rufus had measured the length of time that’d passed, sitting on the flipped-down toilet lid until his bony ass fell asleep, by the sounds of life that punctuated the silence of the old tenement. 4B across the hall came home, unlocked her door, and slammed it shut hard enough to rattle the thin walls. She was a waitress at some swanky, is-this-food-or-garnish restaurant rated one of New York City’s Top Ten Must-Eats of the Summer. So it was 10:00 p.m.
Pauly Paul, the permanently stoned neighbor who’d moved into Alvin’s apartment—and even after twenty years, Rufus still thought of 4C as Alvin’s—came home by 10:30 p.m., after the music studio he rented space in to play drums with his band closed for the night.
Rufus heard the echo of Mr. Gonzalez directly below him in 3D. Gonzalez had been the landlord his entire life. Since the time the East Village had been like standing on a different planet, when college girls were being dismembered in bathtubs and grandfathers were shot and robbed for ten bucks and a portable radio. Since Rufus’s mother used to pace the studio floor, smoking her slim ’n sassy Misty Lights into the late hours. Since the day Rufus had been brought home from the hospital by a teen mom who had fuck-all concept of how to care for a newborn child. Gonzalez was in his seventies now, and his hearing was starting to go, so that television downstairs was cranked high enough that Rufus could pick up muffled commercials for toothpaste and reruns of Jeopardy! through the floor.
Rufus would often watch the Game Show Network in the evenings with Gonzalez, when he didn’t want to be alone and had nowhere to go, which was always. It was a way to pass the time, and he enjoyed his landlord’s gruff company. Plus, it tended to be a better decision than drinking his toxic gin alone and waking up the next day with a hangover that made him want to fucking die.
Jeopardy! reruns now put the time just after 11:00 p.m.
Rufus unlocked the bathroom and padded out. The studio wa
s empty of course. He’d listened to Sam leave, shut the door behind himself, and Rufus had counted his steps until they faded from earshot between the fourth and third floors.
He listened to the murmur of the television downstairs for another moment, even took a step in the general direction of the door, but—
It’s just a fuck.
That one throwaway statement had made Rufus so goddamn angry. Sam wasn’t wrong, though. Of course it was just a fuck. They hardly knew each other and there was no emotion involved. That was on par with what Rufus’s sex life consisted of—hookups where he could get it, with men he hardly knew. So why had those words cut so deep that the marrow of his bones felt disturbed?
Sam Auden.
Because Rufus had learned his name, perhaps. And because he’d not lied to Sam.
“What’s your last name? Your real one, I mean.”
“O’Callaghan.”
In retrospect, that moment of naked honesty had already fucked Rufus over.
Jake’s death was like a candle had been snuffed out and Rufus was left in the dark. He was blindly stumbling around a city that had no time or place for him, frantic for attention, affection, and for a moment—a single moment—Sam had hit the spark wheel on a lighter and Rufus could see again.
He wanted to be something to someone. Something more than just a fuck. And Sam thought he was cute. Sam had bought him lunch. Sam had trusted Rufus, if only briefly.
The utter desperation Rufus felt, to think anyone—Sam—would give a petty thief like himself even a second glance was so humiliating that he couldn’t bear the thought of sitting with Gonzalez. His landlord would read something in his expression and just confirm what Rufus already knew: he wasn’t worth loving.
And that thought….
“Jesus fucking Christ Almighty.” Rufus grabbed the bottle of gin from atop the fridge and sat down on the bed. He unscrewed the top, let it fall to the floor, and took a swig directly from the bottle.