Survivor Stories

by J P Barnaby

  There were no customers in the aisles when Anthony shambled between shelves of wine and made his way up to the counter. No one stood there either. He meandered through an eerie kind of quiet, broken only by the oldies station whispering in the background. Finally, he found Kevin in the front of the beer floor, stacking cases onto a dolly.

  “Hey, kid,” he said, piling one last case of Miller Genuine Draft on top of the stack already higher than the dolly handle.

  “Hi. Do you need some help?” Anthony asked, his voice not much louder than the music playing through the speakers overhead. He didn’t want the guy to hate him any more than he already did.

  “Nah, I’m just bored and making up six-packs.”

  “I’m going to get some food. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  Kevin gave him a curt nod, and Anthony took that as an end to the conversation. He’d taken two steps toward the door and just started to wonder which direction he should head when Kevin spoke again.

  “Patrick told me about your situation.”

  He wasn’t sure how to respond to that. Okay? So? And? He settled on his first choice.

  “Okay.”

  A few long, tense minutes passed. Kevin didn’t move from where he stood next to the dolly and Anthony didn’t get closer to the door. The song changed on the overhead system. An ambulance rushed up Woodward Avenue. Still, they said nothing.

  Finally, an older woman came in through the door, and the beeping sound broke through their little awkward fest. She pulled her purse higher on her flowered shoulder and looked between them for a moment.

  “I’m looking for some rum.”

  That seemed to break Kevin out of his silence.

  “Yes, ma’am, how much did you need?”

  “Well, the recipe calls for three-quarters of a cup, but I don’t know if I can get that little.”

  Kevin pulled out his phone and typed something into it.

  “Okay, it looks like that’s just under 200 milliliters, so a half-pint will do it. If it were a cup, you’d need a pint. You don’t really need the good stuff either.” He righted the dolly and sauntered over behind the counter. Rifling through the small bottles on the shelf, Kevin grabbed one and held it out to the woman. She pushed a stray hair back into her coif before taking it.

  Anthony’s stomach snarled like something was trying to escape, and he headed for the door, leaving Kevin to deal with the woman.

  “Hey, there’s a pizza place if you go a block to your left,” Kevin called after him. “It’s cheap and the food is good.”

  “Uhm, thanks. You want anything?”

  “Nah, I brought something, but thanks.”

  Anthony turned left once he went out the door. The quiet street stretched out before him with miles of open sidewalk. He glanced around and saw he was just a short walk from the highway. It seemed like forever since his car limped off I-696 and his life crash-landed right in front of Patrick’s store. It felt like going forward instead of backward as he wandered up Woodward toward the promise of pizza and maybe a new life.

  Trees littered the roadside, casting evening shadows across the sidewalk. It didn’t look much different than the business districts near his house back in DeKalb. As he followed the cracks in the cement, Anthony tried to memorize his surroundings. Twelve hundred dollars would take him forever to save up, maybe even the entire summer. He’d be there for a while. Besides, he couldn’t call for help if he got lost and couldn’t find Mears Liquors again.

  The tiny pizza place sat on the quiet side of a four-way intersection just two blocks from the liquor store. It took almost no time at all for him to pull the door open and stand, wide-eyed, before the huge overhead menu. The unfed beast in his stomach roared at the selection: sandwiches and Stromboli, salads and pizza, every possible combination of foods he loved.

  A meatball sandwich sounded good, so he ordered one with fries, smiling at the teenage girl who tried to flirt as she took his money. He had less than no interest in flirting back, and not just because he wasn’t into girls, but because it was all he could do to hold on to his merry-go-round of a life. It had all happened in a daze, as if nothing had become real yet. He’d wake up tomorrow in his dank little basement room, ready for another party with Chase and fighting with his mother instead of being a homeless, friendless thief trapped by his own misfortune.

  Loneliness settled over Anthony as he took the bag from the cashier and shuffled over to one of the small booths that lined the front window. Even after what had happened, he missed Chase so much it hurt. Chase had been there when Allen deserted him for college. He had no one now. Not even Jay, who’d promised Anthony he’d never hurt him.

  Carlos_Pizza came up in the list of available open Wi-Fi networks when he powered up his laptop. Anthony checked his e-mail first. Nothing from Jay. He didn’t even get a note to ask if he had a place to stay or if he was okay. The sting radiated in his chest with an empty ache he couldn’t quit describe. He had an e-mail from Allen from earlier that day, so he opened it.

  Where the fuck are you? If you don’t want to stay with mom and dad, come down here. You can stay with me. Hell, you can go to school down here if you want. Melanie is fine with you staying with us. Call me and let me know you’re okay.

  So Allen had finally figured out Anthony still existed. He hadn’t heard from his brother in so long, except for the occasional Facebook comment. Anthony couldn’t even remember the last meaningful conversation they’d had. He didn’t reply. It wouldn’t be too long before they noticed the missing money, and Allen wouldn’t be so accommodating with a place to stay then. They’d label Anthony a thief, and no one wanted one of those staying in their house.

  He didn’t log into his Facebook page because his posts usually had a label of where he was, so obviously Facebook would know. Instead, he just went to his profile as a visitor. There were no new posts on his profile. No one even noticed he was gone. He switched over to Chase’s profile and found a wall full of real-time pictures from the graduation ceremony that started about an hour before. No one mentioned the fact they were missing one of the graduates. There were smiles all around, and none bigger than Chase’s.

  Tears burned in the back of Anthony’s throat as he slammed the laptop closed.

  The door tone sounded when he went back into the liquor store. Kevin sat behind the counter, mechanically putting together six-packs of beer from the cases. He ripped another six-pack holder from the roll and popped in the first can.

  “The old lady was a lush. Recipe my ass. She traded in the half-pint for a fifth after you left. Unless she’s got a bake sale going on for all of Detroit, she’s gonna be juiced up by the time Wheel of Fortune comes on.”

  Anthony snorted and headed for the stairs.

  A SOUND ripped him from the first solid sleep he’d had in days, and Anthony bolted upright on the mattress, his gaze flying around to the dark corners of an unfamiliar room. He heard it again, a muffled thump. It took almost a minute before he figured out where he was. His basement home remained far away. Instead, he now stayed in the apartment above the store. The sounds below him in the dead of night could only mean someone had broken in. With no cell phone and no phone in the apartment, he couldn’t even call for help.

  What if they find the staircase leading to the apartment?

  He’d locked the door. He would be safe. But he couldn’t just let someone ransack the store, not after everything Patrick had done for him.

  He slid back into his jeans and tennis shoes and crept to the door. No other sound made its way from the first floor. Maybe they’d gone. He should definitely go down now and call Patrick from the office phone. Patrick had written his number on top of the employee phone list Anthony had seen in the office on his tour.

  The door creaked open with only a wisp of sound, thank God. Anthony crept down the stairs, his shoes making no noise, and he let out a breath on each piece of wood. If anyone remained, Anthony didn’t want to give him or her any warning he approache
d. Only one stair creaked as he put weight on it. Anthony didn’t so much as breathe as he moved to the next step. His hand trembled on the railing.

  Anthony knew exactly the kind of damage human beings could inflict on one another, and he didn’t want to end up like Aaron.

  The door at the bottom of the staircase swung open with as little noise as the one at the top. He snuck toward the opening of the pint room and wondered if the intruders could hear his heart pounding as loudly as he could. Movement reflected in the glass bottles just outside the mouth of the back room, and Anthony froze. Low, harsh panting followed, and he took a step forward and then another. It sounded as if someone were hurt. He wished it had occurred to him to find some kind of weapon before he came down. Instead, he pulled a fifth of Stoli from one of the open cases at his feet and peeked around the corner of the cooler.

  He damned near dropped the bottle.

  “Fuck,” a quiet voice moaned. Anthony stared openmouthed at the couple doing just that across a stack of beer cases. He nearly stormed from his hiding place and demanded to know what right they thought they had to fuck in Patrick’s store—but then he recognized the closely cropped hair of the man buried inside the woman holding on to the cases.

  “Harder, Patrick,” she moaned. Patrick leaned down, and she turned her upper body just enough to catch his mouth in an animalistic kiss. The woman’s long, brown hair curtained her face as she held on to the case to keep Patrick from pushing her to the ground with his enthusiastic thrusts.

  “Feel good, babe?” Patrick asked, his words a little slurred, and he took a tighter hold on her pale ass.

  “God, yeah. You should pull out and jizz all over the cases. Sell them to unsuspecting drunks with your spooge on the label.”

  Patrick laughed, an insubstantial, breathy sound before he pushed the woman down over the cases and started to move again. Anthony’s feet couldn’t quite move, and even though he’d never been into chicks, his cock pushed insistently against the fly of his jeans. The way they kissed as they fucked, the way Patrick buried his face in the woman’s hair, it opened something in Anthony’s soul, a longing he wasn’t sure had ever existed before.

  Sure, he wanted to fuck like that. What guy didn’t? But the connection they seemed to share—the need and want and affection—those things made Anthony feel incredibly alone as he watched.

  As if he’d heard Anthony’s thoughts, Patrick reached up and entwined his fingers with the woman’s where they gripped the top case. The contrast between Patrick’s strong, masculine fingers and the woman’s soft, delicate ones stuck with Anthony as the couple raced toward their inevitable conclusions. He’d wanted that with Chase, so fucking badly. He didn’t need cuddly mani-pedi time or anything. Just some measure of affection.

  Anthony didn’t stick around for the drunken, sticky aftermath. He couldn’t. First, he didn’t want to see their post-sex kissing and touching, but more pressing was the ache in his dick. He turned, careful not to let his shoes make any noise on the dingy floor, and crept back up the stairs to his inflatable bed.

  The predawn air chilled Anthony when he kicked off his shoes and dropped his jeans around the erection tenting them. He crawled between the two sleeping bags he’d spread over the mattress and tried to ignore the throbbing between his legs. Pressing the heel of his hand against the base just made it worse.

  The image of a nameless, faceless guy bending him over that case shot a thrill through Anthony, and he couldn’t stop himself from jerking the briefs off his cock and down the tops of his thighs. He hadn’t so much as thought about sex since the humiliating incident on his knees at the party. For now, he pushed that to the back of his mind and focused on the idea of that boy touching him. He didn’t want it to be Chase or Jay or anyone else who would make him feel unwanted. Right then, he wanted to be wanted.

  He snaked a hand down his torso and wrapped trembling fingers around his dick. Tense and hot and hard, he ached with the need to jack off. He imagined himself bent over that same stack, gripping the sides for dear life as someone slammed into him from behind. His muscles flexed and his eyes closed as he pulled Anthony back onto his dick.

  Anthony could almost feel the stretch he’d never experienced.

  When he’d jacked off before, he’d always imagined himself fucking another guy, but the wild need in that woman’s voice made Anthony wonder what it would be like to be fucked. He hesitated before sliding two fingers into his mouth, from his left hand so the right could keep stroking. Sweat beaded his forehead, and Anthony tried not to think about anything other than the feeling of his hands on his body. And then, as he slid those two spit-slick fingers into his ass, the feeling of them in his body.

  He moaned into the darkness, his body arching, spreading his legs wider. The stretch scared him, as though maybe he was doing something wrong. Then, the pop of penetration opened his body, and he groaned. It felt better than he’d thought it would. He pulled a knee toward his chest to get better access to his ass, and the sensitive underside of his balls rubbed against the skin on top of his hand. God, that just made it better.

  The sounds coming from his throat swelled into quiet cries as he rode his fingers and concentrated his other hand on the head of his cock in short, spastic strokes. It wouldn’t take long, not while he imagined a guy’s low grunts or the way he would beg to be fucked harder. Anthony’s head fell back against the pillow as another scissoring flash of discomfort made his dick pulse. He jerked his hips up, fucking his hand. So close, he was so close. His cock throbbed as he tightened his grip and forced his fingers deeper.

  Do you like that? The quiet idea of a stranger’s voice in the back of his mind made his balls tighten, and he closed his eyes tight against the white-hot flash that began his orgasm. All of the pent-up anxiety, all of the confusion and pain, rushed out of him in a blinding splatter of come across his stomach. His silent, openmouthed cry lasted until he trembled with the power of his release. Then, slowly, he let his fingers slide from his body and brought a come-slicked hand up to cover his eyes with his forearm.

  Anthony forced harsh breaths out and took deeper ones in, trying to calm himself. Jesus, he couldn’t believe he’d just jacked off because he’d seen his boss fucking his girlfriend on the sales floor. That was about ten different kinds of wrong. His ass still tingled from the rough, blunt thrust of his fingers, and his cock sang with release.

  Anthony delayed crawling off the inflatable mattress to clean up. He lay there as long as he could, sticky and exhausted, while he tried to figure out how he could face Patrick the next day.

  Six

  PATRICK RAN through the drive-thru and got a couple of artery-clogging muffins, some hash browns, some coffee for him, and a Coke for Anthony. Patrick was surprised he hadn’t even considered not picking up food for the boy. He didn’t need another weight hanging around his neck—the store and his brother were more than enough. Hell, even Danielle had started becoming irritatingly clingy, just what he didn’t need.

  A knot formed between his shoulder blades, tensing up his spine as he left the drive-thru and aimed the RAV4 back toward the store. The same routine, over and over: the store, his brother, a bit of sex, and then his life started all over again. It would continue that way until something gave.

  He’d been at it for two years. Something had to give.

  Relief flooded Patrick when he tried the front doors only to find them locked. At least he’d been sober enough to do that last night after he’d finished screwing Danielle’s brains out in the middle of the sales floor. He’d met Danielle over at One-Eyed Betty’s about a year before. It started out as nothing, a couple of single people looking for a fuck, but then the sex became regular and they fell into a routine—which is exactly what you want from sex, right, a routine?

  He balanced the drink carrier on his leg and pulled his keys from his left hand, which held their breakfast. After a little finesse, a little juggling, and a bit of Coke wetting the thigh of his jeans, Patrick got thr
ough the door and set the food on the counter. He shooed away the dirty-looking man trying to come in behind him for a morning buzz. Christ, he didn’t know what was worse—the fear he’d walk into a gun one night, or watching people destroy themselves on the shit he sold.

  Only the hum of the coolers greeted Patrick as he glanced around the store. For a heart-stopping moment, he wondered if Anthony had fled. Then he remembered he’d unlocked the doors when he came in. The kid had no way of relocking them if he left. It seemed ominous he hadn’t come downstairs yet, though. Even a teenager couldn’t sleep like the dead on an inflatable mattress, in a strange room, with so many questions hanging over his head.

  Patrick grabbed the grease-stained bag, balanced it on top of the drinks, and headed for the pint room with the staircase that led to the apartment. The place had never had any kind of tenant, though Bren often talked about moving up there Before. That Before had a big ol’ capital B on it—before a junkie with a gun fucked up their lives. Before his brother was unable to leave the house. Before Patrick became the rock everyone in his life needed for stability.

  Before.

  At the top of the stairs, he paused. It seemed stupid to knock on his own door, but he couldn’t force himself to walk in. Patrick wanted Anthony to feel safe. More than anything, he wanted the kid to feel as though he had options and space. Bren hadn’t felt like that since the shooting, and it fucked him up. So he tapped on the door. It took almost a full minute, but eventually, the door opened, and sadness sucker-punched Patrick right in the gut. Anthony’s eyes were red and swollen, his face pale, and his shoulders hunched, as if the weight of the world rested there.