A Boy Called L: A Taboo Love Story

by Amy J. Heart

  Contents

  Title

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  About A Boy Called L

  About Amy J Heart

  Copyright

  A BOY CALLED L

  A Taboo Love Story

  Amy J Heart

  ONE

  Somewhere in America…

  “OH, FUCK, LIGHTNING, yes.”

  I reach up in the dark, wrap my fingers around his neck, and squeeze. I want to make sure it hurts when he comes. His skinny hips buck erratically, revolting dick battering the muscles of my throat. Fingers bury deep in my hair, pulling and tearing. I crush his windpipe tighter and whack his hands away.

  “Don’t. Touch. Me,” I say, slamming him against the restroom wall. He grunts and then makes gurgling sounds. His cock swells, and I taste the first salty drops of come on my tongue. I shove away from him and spit off to the side while semen jets on the concrete between us.

  Fucking gross.

  Scrubbing my mouth with the back of my hand, I stumble to my feet. The guy’s moans and ragged breathing echoes off the tiles, making me want to punch him. He looks so stupid, suit pants crumpled at his ankles, a hand rubbing his pudgy stomach in the afterglow.

  Afterglow. Now that’s wrong. It should be called afterfilth. Aftermuck. Aftershit. Any of those would fit the situation better.

  The water from the faucet is cold as I rinse my mouth out. Spit. Gulp. Swallow. And repeat.

  The creep speaks. “You certainly live up to your name. No wonder you’re notorious around the scene. That was damn fast. Incredible and—”

  “Shut up. Give me the money.”

  I stand tall, close, look down at him with my arms folded. The stance draws attention to the size of my biceps, my chest muscles. The tatts curling out of the sleeve of my t-shirt. It says don’t fuck with me.

  He doesn’t. He’s a lightweight this one. Small. Scrawny. Ugly. And, going by his cultured voice, rich as fuck. He paws his jacket, withdraws his wallet.

  “Fifty,” I say just in case he’s forgotten.

  Dark eyes roam my body. “Oh, I think you’re worth significantly more than that.” He pulls out two Benjamins, and my heart thuds one hard beat. Fuck. I guess this guy is loaded and stupid.

  He waves the bills between us, then whips them away as I make a grab for them. “Wait on.”

  Here we go. I’m gonna have to smack him. But, nope, his hand delves back into his wallet and he pulls out three more bills.

  “Here’s five hundred because, firstly, I’m feeling extra-generous tonight and that absolutely blew my mind. And, secondly, you’re the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever laid eyes on. I wouldn’t want you to starve out there and disappear forever.”

  I snarl as he puts the money in my palm.

  “You swallow next time and I’ll double that.”

  Really? Fuck. This guy is an idiot.

  Shaking my head, I give him my back and strut to the door.

  “See you soon, Lightning,” he sing-songs like I’m his pizza delivery guy or something.

  Paint flakes off the door frame when I grip it hard, dig my fingernails in deep. “I hope not.” I glance over my shoulder and find him still slumped against the bricks. “You might wanna pull your pants up before you leave. You’ve got nothing to be proud of there.”

  Shoving the money in my pocket, I walk into the crisp night air.

  Hell. Just my luck. It’s fucking raining.

  TWO

  OTHER THAN ME, there’s hardly anyone out hustling in the park. That’s weird for a Friday night.

  The rain falls harder, but I don’t mind. Thanks to the rich idiot who’s probably still in the restroom with his pants around his ankles, I’m smiling as I stride along the path in the dark.

  My work for the night is done.

  And, shit, if I use this money wisely, I might not have to look at another dick for at least a week. Rent is cheap when you sleep under a bridge.

  A shiver runs over my skin. Man. It would be heaven to have a break from this hell. Even a short one.

  Shame, but I don’t think I can do it. I haven’t got the resolve, and I want to blow this money faster than I did that dumb suit-guy. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday and stuffing myself full of fucking hamburger isn’t gonna satisfy. Neither will gnawing on a cheap hot dog or two. No way.

  Tonight, I want something amazing. Mouthwatering and delicious. Like the French stuff Mom used to cook when I was a kid before she went and died on me. Shit, why did my brain have to go there?

  The smells of hot butter and Mom’s floral skin twist my gut into hard knots. I push away images, sounds—every thought of her—just like I always do. Because remembering anything good about my mom leads to bad thoughts. And memories of him.

  The wail of a distant siren saves me from downward spiraling thoughts, dragging me back to the here and now. As shitty as it is. But wait—there’s that money. I pat the pocket of my jeans to make sure the wad of cash hasn’t disintegrated. By some miracle, it’s still there.

  Chunks of wet, gold hair hang in my eyes. My t-shirt is soaked through, and the rain doesn’t look like it’ll let up anytime soon. I still don’t care. It’s beautiful. It smells clean and fresh and normal. And I need some of the last item in my life.

  It’s what my gut burns for tonight—to feel normal.

  Fuck it. I want to feel better than normal. Taste something incredible instead of gross. Obliterate the tang of a stranger’s rank come. Pretend that I’m exactly like everyone else. I want people to look me in the eye without that hint of disgust—like they can’t wait to rush away and cleanse me off their retinas. Totally unsee me as if I was never there in the first place.

  But the reality is that those strangers are right. Being homeless is barely existing.

  But, hey, who gives a fuck? I’ve got five hundred unbelievable bucks getting damp in my jeans right now. I can afford anything I want. Even something special.

  Leaves squish under my boots as I cross a barely lit path, taking a shortcut through grass and trees to exit the park fast and get into the restaurant district.

  It must be around eight-thirty, so it’s busy out. I bump shoulders with Friday night revelers as I stride past Vietnamese cafes, seafood restaurants, strip joints, gin bars, dive bars. Whatever you want to shovel in or guzzle down—you name it—it’s all here for your pleasure. I head east, pushing through crowds, until the clothes get fancier, the noses point higher.

  Peering in restaurant windows, I try not to sneer at the diners who gawk back at me, looking outraged over their wine glasses.

  “Hey, look out!” a gangster-dude says, smacking into me. I stumble sideways because he’s a little bigger than me, and that’s rare. I might be young but I’m tall, and I spend a lot of time hanging off beams and tree branches to keep strong. Living on the streets, it’s best if your appearance says fuck-with-me-idiot-and-you’ll-be-sorry. Mine blares that sentiment loud and clear.

  When I glance up, I spy a gold sign swinging gently from an awning. The way it moves, glinting away in the street lights, is spellbinding.

  L’Arbre. Means The Tree in French.

  Stupid name for a restaurant. Swirling leaves and branches are embossed over the sign. They’ve entangled me, and I can’t look away. I stare for ages as if this is all I need—me and the awesome patterns—nothing else.

  But, I do need something else. I need to see inside this joint.

  Hands stuffed into my pockets, I walk in a daze to the window. The bottom half is covered in gold paint or some weird f
abric that keeps the tables, the layout, and the customers hidden. It’s a French grill restaurant and going by what I can see of the ceiling—again covered in gold—it’s swanky as fuck. Upscale. Out of my league. And I want inside so bad it hurts.

  Mouth twisting, I inspect my duds. The Nirvana t-shirt I stole yesterday is kinda clean. My jeans with the knees ripped out, not so much. I earned every tear in them, too, and not in a cool way. My black boots have gaffer taped soles. Shit. I look exactly like what I am. A hobo.

  My stomach groans loudly. I need to get inside this place and fill my gut up. But I hesitate, reluctant to make an ass out of myself. They’ll probably kick me back into the gutter.

  What will I lose if I try? Only my dignity and that’s long gone. If they call the cops, I can run fast. So fuck it, I’m going in. I tuck my hair behind my ears in a pathetic attempt to increase my respectability and open the door.

  Ah, hell! Why did I do that?

  I’ve stepped into a dream. One of those nightmares where you turn up to school dressed in chaps and a dumb hat, and it turns out wild-frontier day isn’t until next week. Or you’re like… completely naked at a funeral.

  The cavernous space drips with gold and, fuck, it’s loud. Classical music plays, but it’s the good type. Full of warmth and life. There are suits everywhere, ladies in slinky dresses, and a sea of shiny up-dos floating above swanlike necks.

  A beautiful blond girl slithers out from behind a metallic desk, velvety, red dress shimmering over her thighs as she glides toward me. She’s smiling, but it looks a little strained.

  “Good evening, sir.” She tips her head regally and glances down at her copper clipboard. Like the sign out the front, it has leaves and branches engraved in the metal. “May I have the name of your booking, please?”

  My heart thuds so loudly I’m amazed she doesn’t start tapping her pen along with the beat. I clear my throat to drown it out. “Ah, I don’t have one.”

  Smiling politely, she scans my body then bounces her gaze around my face. “And the number in your party this evening?”

  “What?”

  “How many people will be joining you?”

  Shit. I should at least talk like my brain works. I can do a lot better. I don’t spend days in libraries reading shit, trying to keep stuff in my head for nothing. I’ve been out of school now thirteen months, and I miss it like hell.

  “Uh, it’s just me.” Man. No great improvement there.

  “A table for one, then, sir. I’ll just confirm we can accommodate you. Please wait there.” She slinks off behind a long bar tucked against the wall and consults with a man. He’s Don Draper smooth with teeth so white you crave sunglasses when he opens his mouth.

  Don ducks his slick head around a metal column and checks me out while flashing those blinding whites. It’s a smile I know well. Translated it means this… you’re doing something to my favorite organ, the one that lives in my pants, and I like it a lot. But not me, I don’t enjoy it one bit. That smile makes me feel bad.

  He gives the girl a nod, and she weaves her way through the surreal setting toward me. Feeling like I’m watching a movie, I hold my breath.

  “We have a lovely table for you tonight, sir. I’m sure you’ll be very pleased with it.”

  I’m pretty fucking sure I will be, too.

  I nod. “Great.”

  “Please follow me.”

  Thank fuck. I’m about to faint from hunger. The food smells are pure torture.

  I squelch my way through the restaurant, hoping my socks dry out soon.

  A long table flows down the center of the room, smaller ones scattered on either side. They’re overflowing with flowers and food and surrounded by chattering rich folk. A massive mural adorns the back wall, kinda biblical but sexy. Gold drips like stalactites from the ceiling. Seems like I’ve time-traveled to an old European palace.

  Sleek heads follow my bedraggled progress. I must look hilarious, dressed for a rock concert while their attire is all Night at the Opera.

  The girl stops at a table for two that has a perfect view of the whole joint. I’m stunned they haven’t shoved me out of sight. The white linen is so neat and clean with way too many utensils laid out in a complicated arrangement. I have no clue what to do with most of them. But, hey, tonight I don’t give a fuck.

  “Will this be satisfactory?” she asks, patting her perfect hair.

  I grin like a kid. I can’t help myself. “Fuck, yeah… ah, I mean absolutely.”

  She giggles. Not something you normally hear from an ice queen. Guess I’m a funny guy.

  “Where’s the bathroom? I came off my bike on the way here,” I lie. “And now I need to, you know, freshen up a little.”

  She gives directions, and I enter the most amazing restroom I’m sure I’ll ever live to see.

  Man, these people love their gold. It’s everywhere. And other than that, it’s all black tiles and mirrors. Too many mirrors. Everywhere I look there’s me reflected back and, right now, I don’t need reminding of what I look like. No thanks.

  The central chandelier is about the size of a baby elephant. It sprays rainbow prisms over the silver and gold wallpaper and my clothes. Cool. It’s an improvement to my shitty appearance, but it makes me dizzy.

  I take a piss and then, ignoring the mirrors, make friends with the soap. I splash water on my skin, comb wet fingers through my hair, and scrub my face. Fluffy hand towels hang from copper rails. As I press a cream-colored one against my cheek, longing seeps into my chest—for what, I’m not sure.

  While I dry off as best as I can, I sniff my armpits and a laugh bursts out. Shit, I smell like fucking soap. I’m mostly clean! And I love it.

  After that, I stare at my reflection like an imbecile. I’m shocked. I don’t recognize myself. The guy gazing back at me looks crazy, desperate, and as mean as all the other assholes I meet living rough out there.

  Stares from diners burn holes through me as I trek back to the table. Fuck these people snickering and whispering to each other. I don’t care what they think.

  Cutlery clatters as I take a seat and grin at the girl who hands me a fancy, fabric-covered menu with one hand and hides that thawing-ice-queen giggle with the other. Probably laughing at my wet hair.

  Biting my lip, I check out what’s on offer. It’s all in French. And, of course, I can understand it. Not everything mind, but quite a lot. It makes my chest hot. I want my mom.

  What? That’s fucking ridiculous. Am I eleven or something? I push back memories. Sounds. Soft touches. Quiet words. French nursery rhymes. Shit. What am I doing in this place? It’s bad for my health.

  “Shall I suggest something, sir?”

  “What? No, thanks. I can read it,” I say, frowning.

  Of all the posh places in the area, trust me to pick a French one. “I’ll have the Côte de Bœuf Grillée,” I say in a perfect Toulouse accent. Thanks Mom. Fuck, but it hurts to hear that sound come out of my mouth. I slap the menu on the table so I can’t see the words anymore.

  The girl, whose name tag says Sandrine, has a proper smile for me now. Like she’s decided that if I can speak French, I must be some kinda bad-boy billionaire. A potential date. She wouldn’t be looking at me like that if she knew what I’d been doing on my knees an hour ago.

  “And uh… could I have a beer please? You choose one for me.”

  She bats her eyelashes. “What attracts you in a beer?” The way she’s licking her red lips makes me think that she’s not talking about beverages.

  “Something fresh. Clean tasting.”

  “Coming right up,” she purrs, and swings her svelte hips away. She’s pretty sexy. If I was normal. If I wasn’t fucked up, I’d definitely want to tap that.

  There’s nothing to do while I wait other than listen to my stomach moan. I don’t even have a cell I can pull out and pretend to scroll through texts as though I have a life. Like I’ve got family or friends. Or anyone who gives a shit.

  So I kick back and
discreetly sniff the insanely great food smells, eavesdropping on snippets of conversation. Then my beer arrives. Don Draper serves me this time. Bubbly amber liquid gets poured into a glass, and the guy flirts his ass off with me while looking over his shoulder every few seconds at the girl behind the bar.

  They’ve got some kind of game going on that involves me. Maybe to see who can discover the most about the weird street urchin who’s made it through the palace gates. Or maybe they’d like me to fuck them in turn against some dumpsters out in the back lane. But whatever it is they’re hoping for, I ain’t biting. I’m polite, but I want this guy to go away so I can enjoy my normal—no my special—time in peace. Even if it is only for an hour.

  The beer gives me something to do with my hands. It’s icy and goes straight to my head courtesy of my empty stomach. The buzz makes me careless, and as I check out an elegant old broad’s meal, I accidentally lock eyes with her.

  The plate sizes look decent. Thank fuck. I’d probably cry if they were bird-sized.

  This woman is interesting. Middle-aged, very classy, and I guess the best word to describe her face is handsome. She raises a regal eyebrow and one side of her scarlet lips at me. I give her a nod, ignoring the silver foxes in sharp suits at her side.

  Better not look her way again. Don’t wanna give her any ideas.

  Shit, I can feel her staring as I drink my beer, play with my knife, then a dessert spoon. I won’t look. I won’t look.

  Finally, my meal arrives. Ribs. I nearly black out from the impact of the juicy, fatty smell. The hot, spicy sizzle. Before the ice queen has even left the table, I’m hunkered over my plate, attacking the meat like an animal. I am an animal, and I don’t give a shit if I look uncivilized.

  All my senses narrow to the meat in front of me, focus, and I just feel and breathe the meal down in greedy mouthfuls. Christ, it’s unreal.

  In under five minutes, I’ve used a whole basketful of bread and soaked up every orgasmic drop on the white plate. I’m exhausted. This must be what good sex feels like for normal people. Transporting. Base, savage, and the best thing ever.