by Sansa Rayne
I pat him on the shoulder. “Let me know if you need help.”
“Thanks,” he says, cracking open another can. “Any plans today?”
I shrug, not sure if he knows it’s my birthday, or if he’s just trying to make conversation. “Probably just find my friends and hang,” I lie. “Maybe look for a job.”
“Sounds good.”
“See you later,” I say, walking away. My hand shakes as I glance back at my dad, who’s still staring off into space.
Feeling the crumpled bill in my pocket, I sniff and blink away a few tears. Mom deserves better than me, my brothers and my father. She works day and night to support a bunch of fucking losers; how is it ever going to get any better for her? Maybe if the rest of us could hold down a job for more than a few weeks, but that’s not going to happen. This is her life. It may not be the worst one in the world, but it isn’t good enough. It’s not fair.
Screw it.
I’m not finding my friends; they’d want to hit up the liquor store, find someone to buy us Buds; or, failing that, the corner store to load up on Sour Patch Kids and Slim Jims. They’re not going to help spend my mother’s gift to me.
I’ve got a whole day to enjoy, so I stop at the second-run movie theater, where three dollars gets me into a double feature, and five more gets me all the popcorn, candy and soda I can stomach. Both movies are rated R, but the theater never cards. Laughing with a mouthful of sugar and salt at a buddy cop comedy, I’m one of seven people seeing the Friday matinee. Only one other person’s at the next show, an alien horror splatterfest that could have been made for less than the cost of a used car. Still, it has explosions and tits, so I have no complaints.
The sun is low in the sky when I get out, the first traces of dusk stealing daylight. Thinking about the hotties from the movies, my cock stirs in my baggy blue jeans and I realize what I really want for my birthday, so I walk until I see the multicolored neon of dark bar windows.
I know I’m not legally old enough to drink, but that doesn’t stop my friends or my brothers. Looking around, this is definitely the kind of place that would serve someone underage. Short and squat, the freestanding brown, wooden building looks scorched, as if it caught fire but didn’t burn long enough to ruin the place for good. Signs for dollar beer specials hang from the walls, and cigarette butts litter the entrance, even though there’s an ashtray not far from the door. The name, Tim’s, is written on the slanted roof with black wires.
What are you doing? I ask myself as I get to the entrance. Is this the kind of place you want to spend your birthday? It’s a shithole!
I’m about to turn around when the door to the bar opens. A pair of men exit, laughing to themselves, followed by a girl.
“See you later!” she calls after them in a sweet, high voice.
Petite and thin, with bare midriff exposed by a white crop top, she’s adorably cute. She keeps one hand in the pocket of her dark, splotchy Guess jeans, and uses the other to pull strawberry blonde hair out of a ponytail. I stare for a second, mind short-circuited by the mousy, pretty face filling my sight.
“Hi,” I mumble.
She smirks as I stare, forgetting to mind my behavior.
“Hey,” she says, holding the door. “You coming in?”
“Oh, yeah,” I stammer. I’m almost too nervous to speak, though I shouldn’t be — I’ve talked to and dated girls before. This is far from my first time.
“Come on.” She winks, and waves for me to follow her.
Inside, Tim’s is not as rough as I might have expected, but no one here’s ordering any Chardonnay. Men in work clothes shoot pool, throw darts and fill a cheap jukebox full of quarters, blasting the likes of Bon Jovi, Guns & Roses and Pearl Jam from the speakers. Dani’s not the only woman here, though the rest are much older — none younger than forty. Wearing a t-shirt and ripped jeans, I don’t look out of place, except for being so much younger than everyone else.
The girl leads me to the bar, where we take seats next each other on stools covered in split, red vinyl. The bartender, an older man with a shaggy white beard and mutton chops, grunts when he sees the girl.
“Back already, huh, Dani?”
She rolls her eyes. “You know me. Life of the party.”
He takes one look at me, laughs and sets down a couple cans of PBR. Bothered by his amusement, I slide over a few dollars to pay, avoiding eye contact.
“Thanks,” she says, taking a sip. “I’m Danielle, by the way. What’s your name?”
“Justin,” I reply, testing my drink. I’ve swiped a couple of my dad’s beers to try — always cheap shit — so the bitterness and lack of flavor doesn’t make me choke or gag anymore. Still, I feel ridiculously out of place, and it must show.
Danielle laughs. She whispers, “Relax, they know you’re not twenty-one. Don’t worry about it. This place is cool.”
“Yeah, good,” I say.
She nods, aware of my awkwardness. After a minute, she asks, “What brings you out here today? Are you seeing friends or something?”
“Just out, having a good time,” I say, a little too embarrassed to explain that it’s my birthday, but I’m so broke I chose to come here, alone.
“Me too,” she replies, smiling warmly. “From around here?”
“Yup. Never been farther than Hoboken,” I answer, though I don’t know why.
Danielle raises her beer, as if for a toast. “Jersey City.”
I laugh, a little surprised, and touch my glass to hers.
Loosening up a little, I tell her about my crappy family. She’s got a similar story: her father handles baggage at the airport while her step-mother spends the day watching Jerry Springer or Ricki Lake. She finished school last summer — she’s a year older than I am, apparently. Like me, she doesn’t mention college.
“Danielle-” I say after finishing my beer.
“You can call me Dani,” she interrupts.
“Dani. Do you think you’d be a different person if you were born somewhere else, or would you be more or less the same?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “Hey, if we’re going to talk about deep shit, I’m gonna need more to drink.”
“Yeah, okay.” I wave for the bartender to get us another round. After he serves us, I watch Dani until she takes another sip. “I think I’d be different. Do you?”
“That’s a weird question, but no. Justin, your brothers may be assholes, but you’re not,” she says. “You’re a nice guy. And you were all born here, right?”
“Thanks, I guess so,” I mumble, cringing a little at the compliment — getting called a nice guy isn’t a good sign. “What about you? Are you who you want to be?”
She sighs. “I’m still figuring out my life too,” she says at last, her expression deadening. “It’s not what I thought it would be.”
“What’s that mean?” There’s an uncomfortable undercurrent I’m starting to pick up on, especially when she sips her beer.
Staring at her beer can, she shakes her head. “When we were kids, they said we could be anything we wanted, but it was a load of shit.”
“No it wasn’t. You’re smart, and young and pretty. You can be whatever you want, Dani.”
“Don’t you pull that corny shit on me,” she groans, though her lips lift at the corners and her cheeks glow a pale pink. “I see right through it.”
Focusing on those rosy lips, my pulse picks up and my cock hardens. For a second, I’d do anything if she’d make that face again. “Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”
She leans in and kisses me on the cheek. Smelling a distant trace of flowery perfume, I turn into her kiss until our lips touch and I can taste the beer on her tongue.
“You’re sweet,” she says, breaking away with a smile. “Thank you, Justin.”
When we finish our beers, I get us a couple more. Before long, my head’s starting to swim a little: I haven’t eaten much today, and I’m on the skinny side. As the night goes on, we talk a bit more, our
conversation interrupted by the idling of motorcycle engines, which can be heard every time the bar’s front door swings open.
“Hey, want to go to my place?” she asks after our third round. “The bar is kinda skeeving me out, you know?”
“Your place?” I say, blushing.
“Justin, don’t play innocent with me. You said you were looking for a good time.”
“Yeah…” I say, surprised at her directness.
“Then come on! I’ve got condoms and stuff, if you’re worried. Lube, too. And handcuffs, if you’re into that.”
Handcuffs…
My mind flashes an image of Dani cuffed to a bed, arms spread wide, helpless… The thought goes straight to my cock, which stiffens harder than I’ve ever felt it.
“Okay, Dani. Sure.” I hold out my hand for her to take, which she does.
Something in the bar shifts as we get up; the bartender shoots me a wink, then a ripple of laughter spreads through the crowd. I try to ignore it, but as we pass by a pair of bikers, one snorts at us.
“First catch of the day, eh, Dani?”
She presses on my back to urge us forward, but I stop, my heart pounding.
“What the fuck did you say?” The man has a hundred pounds on me, and a sleeve of faded tattoos that could’ve been inked in jail, but I’ve had a couple pints of liquid courage. More importantly, he reminds me of my brothers.
It’s probably for the best the biker laughs, not looking for a fight. “Easy, Casanova. Just thought maybe you didn’t know.”
“Know what?”
Danielle tugs at my wrist. “Come on, Justin. This guy’s an asshole.”
“Know what?” I say again, this time turning to her.
Now the biker’s friend — skinnier than me, bearded and graying — leans in, staring at her chest. “Make sure you get a good rate. Fifty ought to get you whatever you want.”
The big biker shoots me a very serious fucking look: Don’t do it, kid.
I don’t listen. My uppercut finds the underside of his friend’s chin. The thin man flies back, landing on the bar, knocking over a pair of glasses.
“Goddamnit,” says the big biker. He grabs me by the shoulder and pulls his other arm back, winding up for a knockout punch, but he’s too big, too slow. I duck easily, slipping his grasp.
My brothers are assholes, but I owe them for one thing: I grew up needing to know how to fight.
A pair of quick jabs to the face stun the biker; my arm slung around his throat puts him to sleep. I crouch down, letting him gently slump to the floor; when I look up, his friend has recovered enough to grab a beer bottle and smash it.
“Justin, run!” Danielle shouts.
I’m still not listening. Eighteen years of rage are pouring out. I grab the leg of the big biker’s vacated stool and swing it like a bat, nailing the skinny guy on the side of the head. This time he doesn’t get up.
I turn to Danielle to make sure she’s okay, but she’s running.
“Wait!”
I follow her out the door, eluding the few men who try to get in my way. “Where are you going?” I shout after her.
She freezes and turns back to me. The horror has drained from her face, replaced by an ugliness I don’t understand. Furiously marching back to me, her expression makes me retreat a step.
“They’re not going to let me back in there now,” she growls, her face so twisted she looks nothing like the sweet girl I met a couple hours ago. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”
“Why wouldn’t they let you in?” I still don’t get it. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She folds her arms in front of her chest and shakes her head. “What are you, twelve? They’re not going to let me work.”
Work?
“Are you a bartender or something?”
She grunts a laugh, disbelieving.
“I’m such an idiot,” she says. “I thought you wanted the girlfriend experience. That’s why I went along with it this whole time.”
Beneath me, the ground feels like quicksand. Something’s pressing on my chest; I can barely breathe. “Girlfriend experience? What’s that?”
She shakes her head, reaching into her purse for a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. “Fucking Christ. I was pretending, you idiot. Like we were on a date. Don’t you know anything?”
I get it now, but believing it is another matter. Was anything she said before true? Or was it all just a story she thought I needed to hear? “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “You should’ve told me… I think… I’d understand.”
“Yeah, bullshit,” she says, after a long drag of her smoke.
Footsteps crunch on the gravel behind me. “Hey, Romeo.”
I nearly bolt when I see the man heading toward us: hard-packed muscle bulges through his tank top, with arms thicker than my thighs. His ears stick out wide of his bald head, and even though he’s wearing a blank expression, it feels predatory, raising the hairs on the back of my neck.
“Stop, kid, I just want to talk,” he adds, holding his hands back. “Dani, go inside. Offer those bikers a handjob each, on me. Tell them Romeo is sorry, he didn’t know.”
“Okay,” she replies, staring at her feet as she marches past me.
“That was a nice fight,” he says after the bar door closes behind her. “Messy, but nice. What’s your name, kid?”
Kid, he keeps saying, though I doubt he’s even thirty. “Justin,” I say, brushing my nose and shivering from the cold.
“Okay, Justin. I’ve paid for the glasses and that stool. It’s not a big deal. Shit like that happens all the time.”
“Thanks.” I exhale a breath I didn’t mean to hold. “I thought she… I thought-”
He chuckles, rolling his eyes. “She looks so innocent, right?”
I nod. “Yeah.” Is that not how I looked to her? Did she think I was looking for a prostitute tonight? Is that how I come off? Or was she just desperate?
“I’ll pay for the damages,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “But I don’t have enough. I can get the rest soon.”
He grins. “That’s fine, if you want. Or, you could work it off. I could use an assistant.”
I feel a burning in the corners of my eyes and let out a frustrated bark. It figures. I actually get offered a job, but look at who it’s for. My brothers would probably love it, but how could I tell my Mom?
“Work for you? That’s a kind offer, but I’m not looking to become a… a pimp,” I say, trying to reign myself in.
The man shakes his head. “I don’t need help selling ass, kid. I want another fighter to handle delinquents and watch out for the girls.”
Seriously? This guy’s got plenty of muscle. “You don’t look like you need help with that either.”
He laughs, flexing his thick, developed arms. “Yeah, I can fight, but when the shit really goes down, you want to have a partner. The way you defended Dani was very impressive. Think you could still do that, knowing she’s a whore?”
Could I? I do need a job. I’d be protecting women from assholes… Is that really so bad?
“I can give it a try,” I say.
He smiles, holding out his hand for a shake. “You’re gonna be great. You’ll train at my gym, get fucking ripped — soon chicks like Dani will be all over you. Come on, I’ll introduce you to the girls. You said you’re Justin, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, returning his tight grip.
“Cool. I’m Chase.”
I stay at Dark Asylum after Sibel leaves, finishing my flight and having another few pints. My phone buzzes almost non-stop.
By now, my delay has already provided Chase the bad news. I hold out hope that he interprets my radio silence as the best case scenario, that I’m still sitting with her, hashing out the details of an upcoming production.
Or is that worse, because then the disappointment will be even harder to take? Fuck, I don’t know. To this day, I’ve never bought a lottery ticket that wasn’t a scratch-off. I hate not knowing.
Every time I hail a cab in Manhattan, I wonder if this time it will be Jake behind the wheel. Mom says he’s got his license back, and as far as I know, he’s staying out of trouble. This time, though, the driver’s name is Venkat, and he says nothing.
Chase sits on the stoop of my building smoking a cigarette as I pay for the taxi. Seeing it’s me, he gets up. “How’d it go?”
“No deal.”
He takes a long, deep drag, then grinds the cigarette into the cement. “Why the fuck not?”
Dizzy from all the beer, I motion for us to head inside, where I can lie down on the cream leather couch in our den. Chase gets me a glass of tap water as I untie my shoes, and after drinking half of it down, I tell him what happened.
“Fucking unbelievable,” he seethes. “What the hell is the matter with her?”
“She says she’s not a porn star.”
Sneering, Chase takes out his phone and loads up a picture of Sibel writhing in her pile of money, mouth open wide in untold bliss. “She wants to tell me this isn’t porn? Give me a fucking break.”
I don’t know what to say to that; I’m not going to convince him that there’s a difference between her work and ours.
“She’s probably just holding out for more money,” Chase muses.
“I don’t think so.”
Chase plays the video, and Sibel screams from his phone. “How much did you offer her?”
I nearly laugh. “We didn’t talk money, Chase! It would have been an insult. She had no intention of working with us. The whole reason she showed up was to explicitly tell me that.”
Chase shuts off his phone in disgust.
“Look, why do you care anyway? Is there something special about Sibel?”
“No,” he snaps, immediately. “She’s just hot.”
“Bullshit,” I say.
“She’s like a high class escort,” he continues, pacing back and forth. “After a lifetime of street walkers.”
I sigh, wishing he’d just come clean, instead of making me force it out of him. “You want her… for real. She’s bringing out the old you.”
Chase takes my glass back to the kitchen and comes back with two beers.