by Amy J. Heart
When I lean back, my chair creaks. I don’t realize I’ve closed my eyes until I hear a raspy, cultured voice above me.
“You enjoyed that, darling?”
My eyes fly open. It’s the attractive old broad. “Fuck, yeah. Yes, ma’am, I did.” I drag the title out in a sarcastic drawl.
I wonder how much dough she’ll offer me to eat her out for dessert.
“Can I join you?”
Here we go.
“Sure. Why not.”
She sinks into the chair, crossing her well-toned legs gracefully. “My dinner guests and I were watching you.”
The two swish dudes lift their glasses at us.
“No kidding.”
She plays with a sapphire pendant that sparkles between her breasts. It’s probably real. Not sure about her breasts, though. Shit, she’s so noble looking I can’t even think the word tits when I’m sitting this close to her.
“You’re an incredibly beautiful young man.”
“Really? Huh. Thanks, I guess.”
“I imagine you’ve heard that a lot.”
I nod. I sure fucking have.
“Let me buy you a drink. What do you fancy? Top shelf whiskey? Or we could split a bottle of the most expensive champagne L’Arbre has to offer.”
“You could afford that?”
“Yes, of course.”
Shit. “I’ll just have another beer.
“You’re young.”
I nod.
“No more than twenty?”
“Almost nineteen.”
“That young. And what is your name?”
I don’t want to tell her. No, maybe I do. It’ll be fun to watch her expression change and grow scornful.
“Lightning.”
She smiles but doesn’t give me the satisfaction of looking shocked. “You have very, very blue eyes. And so beautifully shaped. Do you wear colored contacts?”
Jesus. I laugh. “No. They’re my real eyes.”
She calls the waitress over. Orders drinks in an arrogant manner.
Licking her glossy lips, she shakes her head at me. “Your beauty is utterly devastating. Your face. The bone structure. Your body. Perfectly packaged raw, male sex appeal. A tattooed avenging angel. You are exactly what I need.”
I’m sure I am. And she’s right about the avenging part.
I lean in and give her a blast of the electric eyes she’s so into. “You know, lady, this is getting boring. I reckon your friends over there must be missing you by now.”
“I see this toughness you exude is no act.” She smiles and reaches into a black and gold purse. It goes nicely with the decor. “But I think your bark is worse than your bite. Otherwise I would not be so drawn to you.” She pushes a card across the table. Who uses business cards these days?
I check out both impressive sides. Ariana Wilde. Really?
“I’m an agent for one of the most prestigious modeling agencies in both Europe and America. I can procure you a tremendous amount of work, Lightning.” She pauses and pats my hand. “And I can make you very rich.”
I kinda choke a little on my beer. That’s not what I was expecting her to say. “Bullshit.”
“I would not lie to you. It is the truth. So, tell me about yourself. What do you currently do, Lightning?”
“Most people call me L.”
“Alright, then—L it is.” Her smile grows. “The clients will love that. It suits you. Wonderfully direct and sexy. So you’re a struggling artist? A musician?”
“Wrong, but sorta close. I live under a bridge and suck dirtbags off so I can buy a burger and fries every few days. And I try not to die of starvation. So, yeah, you were right. I’m a pretty creative guy.”
This time her face does change, her expression turning my blood piping hot.
I fucking hate pity.
“So how much are you thinking of offering me to fuck you? Have you got a car parked nearby? You probably wouldn’t wanna take me back to your home. That’d be dangerous. I should mention that as a bonus I give great head. In fact, I’m famous for it.” I don’t tell her that I have zero experience doing it to a female. “That’s how I got my name… Lightning… because I’m real quick at—”
“Shhh.” She puts a soft hand over mine. “L, please stop. Be quiet and I will make a call to a friend. This man works for my agency as I hope you will soon. Together, he and I will help you.”
I don’t understand what she means. Help me? People don’t do that for nothing.
“My friend can answer all your questions concerning this work I spoke of. Now relax. I promise you will not have to do those horrible things ever again.”
While she taps on her phone, I can’t stop swallowing. There’s a lump about the size of a packet of smokes in my throat that won’t shift no matter what I do.
When she holds the cell up to her ear—it’s gold, of course—a wide smile brightens her face, making her look trustworthy. “Angelo, darling! Yes, of course it’s me. How many other Arianas do you know, sweetie? Oh, three others!” She tinkers out a laugh. “Well, then. It seems I must change my name to a more remarkable one!”
She’s still wearing her kind face. But I’m not stupid. No one’s honest or dependable. No matter how nicely they smile, they all want things from you. Bad things. Wrong things. And then cry and shout and blame you for making them want that stuff in the first place.
“So, darling, how was Tokyo? Mm hmm… that sounds wonderful. I want to hear all about it, but for now I need to speak with you about a favor. His name is Lightning—” She breaks off to laugh again. “Yes, Lightning that’s what I said. I’m hoping he’ll come to work for me, but he has nowhere to stay. Wait until you see him, he’s the most beautiful waif.”
Light glints off her jewelry as she scans me from head to toe.
“Yes, that’s right. He’s my new project. Can you look after Lightning for me until we get him on his feet? The two of you will be great friends. I promise.” She smiles and nods and trills like a fucking parakeet. “Thank you, darling. You truly are an angel. Love you.” She makes kissy noises and ends the call.
She’s beaming at me.
“Who the hell was that?”
“My Angelo. You will love him.”
Probably not in the way she’s imagining.
“No, don’t scowl at me, L.” Her graceful hand shoots out. “Pass me your cell instead.”
I don’t move.
“No phone?” She sighs and tut tuts at me. “I’ll send a wonderful one over to you in the morning. You’re going to need it.”
“Over to where?”
“To Angelo’s, of course, silly.” She pulls out a sparkling pen—probably diamond encrusted—and scrawls on a napkin. “Here. Go to his apartment and stay there. Be warm. Be safe. Have fun. And let me fix your life for you.”
I frown. “So… you don’t want me to fuck you tonight?”
Grinning like a pixie, her gaze sweeps over me. “L, what I want and what I actually do day to day, or night to night in your case, are two very different things. I’m going to help you, not take advantage of you.”
There’s that word again. Help. Yeah, right.
“And make us both lots of money while I do so.”
Bingo. There it is. The truth.
She summons a waitress, demands a triple serving of crème brûlée in one bowl, and tries to extract information from me while I attack the sickly-caramel goodness. In six seconds, I’ve inhaled the lot.
I give her zilch details about my past, sweet fuck all about my current situation, and, still, she pays for my food and gives me a hundred-dollar bill for travel expenses.
As I get to my feet, all eyes in the room shift my way. Fucking busybodies.
“Now, you’ll go straight to Angelo’s apartment, L darling, won’t you?”
I nod. “Sure.”
“Because I wouldn’t want to lose you. Not when I’ve only just found you.”
I laugh as I stuff the money and the nap
kin with the address on it in my pocket. It’s kinda funny to have someone care about what I do—even if they are only pretending.
Thin limbs shoot up, balancing on towering heels, and she steps around the table like a racehorse heading for the feed bin. “This is not a joke, L. It is real. I want you to think of me as your personal fairy godmother come to grant your every wish.”
Okay, sure thing, crazy woman.
One corner of my mouth hikes into a smile.
Her jewel-covered fingers clutch my t-shirt, pulling me closer, and then her arms wrap around my neck. She’s fucking hugging me! Shit. No one’s tried to do this since Mom died.
My hands hang limp, heart dancing against my ribs.
I want to drop to the floor. I want to push her away.
My palm lifts, then falls. Then lifts again until it’s resting against her back. This is insane. I’m touching someone and, as far as I can tell, there’s nothing at stake here. Nothing to sell. No sex-vibe. Nothing. It’s sleaze-free, as if she only wants to comfort me.
Two light kisses tickle my face. Then she strokes my cheek, and says, “Trust me.”
Guess I’ll give it a go. Like I said before, I’ve got nothing to lose.
Whispers swirl as I sway through the tables, heading for the exit. It’s hard not to listen to the shit people splash around.
The popular opinion is that I’m an up-and-coming actor. But some think I front a happening rock band and that Ariana is my manager. Huh. That’s cool. A few people bravely snap pics as I pass. It’s all very hilarious.
If I wasn’t freaking out, I’d be doubled over laughing.
THREE
I STAGGER OUT of the restaurant holding my aching stomach. Overindulging hurts like hell. And it feels fucking amazing.
It’s nearly eleven, and I’m so giddy from the idea that I might actually be warm tonight, might sleep on something soft, that the pavement rolls like an earthquake beneath my boots. Shit, there’s a chance that maybe for the first time in like… months, I’ll be safe.
Months? No, that’s wrong. If I include the period of my fucked-up childhood, it’s more like years since I’ve gone to sleep without fearing for my life. An age since I’ve drifted off in peace.
I should find a cab and head straight over to this Angelo guy’s place, like Ariana suggested. But I can’t. My head is too messed up, spinning with the unbelievable events of the last couple of hours. I need to wander downtown for a while and process the fuck out of it. Because, somehow, within a very short space of time, I went from kneeling in a stinking restroom to lounging back in princely luxury.
Fucking crazy.
It started out exactly the same as every other shitty night I spent cruising for money to stay alive for a few more days.
Head pounding. Tick.
Gut nauseous. Yep.
Sucked a guy off. Check.
Hated myself for doing it. Oh, yeah.
Contemplated walking in front of a speeding car to end the misery. Roger that.
And then…
Dined at a palace. Got ogled by an ice queen, Don Draper, and my fairy godmother all within the same hour.
Wait a second… back the fuck up.
Maybe if I shake my head hard enough, I’ll wake and find that I’m back under the bridge—home sweet fucking home—while old Nelson steals my rotting blanket, the prodding of his bony fingers conjuring dreams of classy broads and walls that drip with gold.
I stop dead in my tracks, and a guy crashes into me. “Move!” he says, circling around.
What is it with these people? “Sorry, man.”
Weaving unsteadily in his classy duds, he looks over his drunk-as-fuck shoulder. Dark eyebrows jump, and he zips around, walking backward to check me out. His eyes sleaze their way down my body. I curl my lip at him and not in a friendly way. On any other night I’d have forced a crooked smile and a head flick. The universal signal for you got the money - I’ve got the time.
The guy takes a step forward and I growl like a freaking werewolf. Giving me the finger, he turns and disappears into the mob of people. There goes an easy fifty bucks.
But, tonight, thanks to Ariana’s fairy godmother wand, I don’t think I need to give any fucks at all.
What I do need—is to see that business card again, make sure I didn’t imagine it.
“Come on. Come on,” I mutter, fumbling in my front pocket. With my luck, it’s probably slipped through a tear in the denim. Wait. I remember shoving it in the back pocket. Yep. I can feel the cardboard. Thick and smooth.
Finally, I reef it out. Thank fuck. It’s as real as the pavement cracks I’ve been tripping over, the letters, glossy raised bumps under my fingernails. I can’t stop rubbing them. They’re gold. What a surprise.
I stare at her name glowing in the light of an amber neon sign.
Ariana Wilde.
Ariana Wilde.
That lady is the most elegant thing I’ve ever seen. So confident. And probably full of shit.
More than anything, I want this woman to be on the level, but given the way my clusterfuck of a life has gone so far, it’s unlikely. But the only way to know for sure is to knock on this dude’s door. And if he turns out to be any sicker than the restroom-guys, I can always pummel the crap out of him.
I drag numb fingers through my hair and frown at the crowds stumbling in and out of cafes and bars. These people have jobs. Friends. Normal lives. And somewhere warm to sleep every single night.
I try not to let jealousy crush me, because it sure as fuck won’t do me any good.
The rain continues to piss down, wind tearing through my cotton t-shirt. Shivering, I realize I need to steal a coat pretty soon, because the weather’s already turning brutal. Better do it tomorrow.
But maybe I won’t need to if Angelo and his spare bed end up being real and Ariana can magic me up some paid work for…
For getting my photo taken?
Yeah, right.
With my luck, I’ll be the star of a snuff film and get my limbs hacked off in some dingy basement. I can just hear this Angelo dude when he’s done with me…
Here, L. Here are your thousands of dollars for your super hard work. Um… hello, Lightning? You awake? Oh, you’re dead? Shit. Sorry about that. Since you’ll have no use for this money now, I guess we’ll just reinvest it in our next exciting film.
Ah, well, I suppose that’d be one way to end the misery that is my dismal life. But there are probably less painful ways.
Shoving the card deep in my pocket, I study the street, musing on what I should do next. Back to the bridge to attempt some shut eye? Or off to the potential serial killer’s pad? Great freaken choice!
I decide to head for the seedy part of town—where I belong—so I can remind myself of the garbage I might actually leave behind if I have the balls to take a gamble on Ariana and her promises.
Who the hell am I kidding? I want that warm place to sleep tonight more than I want to score. I’ll be rolling the dice for sure.
Drugs. Now that’s a fucked-up scene. I try not to buy too often, the streets are hard enough without an addiction to feed, but getting high blurs the edges nicely, makes everything butter soft for a few hours. And shuts off the nightmare voice inside my head.
It’s a filthy way to live—like an animal really—but I’m as human as those rich fuckers back there in the ritzy district. I deserve a chance at a better life.
After ten minutes of walking in a stupor, I’m back among the grunge, the strip clubs, and hookers.
Standing on Jackson with my hair dripping water down my back, I stare at the drug dealers and shitty burger joints. The sight of Joe Junior’s in particular churns my gut. After the last meal I ate there, I puked for two days straight. That was a fun time to be homeless.
The rain-drenched street is like a movie set—a glistening, weird sci-fi porno film or something. To kill time I check the people out, casting them roles in the movie I’m making in my head.
The old guy
huddling in the hardware store doorway, trench coat ragged, is a mad scientist on the run from a genetics lab. A yard away from him stands a girl in a black dress. She’s the love interest or…
What. The. Fuck.
I do a double, triple fucking take back to her.
“My. God.”
Huh? Did I just say that out loud?
I’ve never before even thought the words my god. Growing up under the same roof as a real-life demon, there’s never been any point in appealing to a higher power. Or enthusing like a sixteen-year-old to one. Any second now I might start bouncing on my toes and squealing like a cheerleader.
Worse. What the fuck is my body doing? I feel hot, itchy. Turned on.
Who the hell is this girl? And why does my dick care?
Okay, idiot. Chill out.
I need to use my head—the one between my shoulders would probably work best—and stop freaking out. Calm down and look at her again. She’s just a girl.
So I gulp back some air and then look.
Everything around her warps, sliding into slow motion, like that Munch painting—The Scream—I saw in an art book at the library a while ago. Colors stretch and go fuzzy. Street noises disappear. This must be a dream, most likely a nightmare, but it’s too early to tell yet.
So this girl, she’s kinda small. The black dress she’s wearing is skin tight, short, and not nearly warm enough. I can tell because she’s rubbing her arms trying to warm up. Long hair—possibly brown—hangs over her tits. And far out… the rack on her is just… spectacular. Big. Too big for her tiny waist, but the incredible curve of her hips balances them out, turning her into an hourglass. A wet dream. A goddess.
My chest aches like I’ve been shot straight through the ribcage with a metal rod or something. Despite eating enough crème brûlée to fill a beer keg half an hour ago, my gut feels hollow.
Two words ram my brain over and over, stunning me stupid.
I. Want.
I. Want.
That’s all I can think, like I’m a kid gawking in a shop window at a whiz bang toy, knowing there’s no way I’ll get it for fucking Christmas.
But why this dumb longing? This powerful need.
To be close.