Shades of Night (Sparrow Falls Book 1)

by Justine Sebastian

  Milner was totally grey, his once round pie face drooping and sagging with lines. Nick still recognized him though because he was so goddamn fat. He had always made Nick think of one of those weeble-wobble dolls, bottom-heavy and unsteady on his stubby legs. He could never look at Mr. Milner without hearing old cartoon music in his head, the kind that signaled the arrival of a fat character (usually a villain) or that would play when things like elephants (though not the pink kind) galumphed onto the scene.

  Milner ponderously trundled along and Nick hummed, “Ba-dum-de-dump-de-dum,” under his breath, drawing the syllables out slowly.

  When he was sixteen, Nick had blown Wade Milner for a passing grade in geometry. He wasn’t bad at math, but he’d missed a lot of school that year because of pneumonia and Milner was the one teacher who wouldn’t send him his work to do while he was recovering. So, Nick had paid for his A in trade. He could still see the orange cheese dust staining Milner’s fat sausage fingers when he’d gripped Nick’s jaw and said, “Let’s see how wide you can open that big mouth of yours, Mr. Lange.”

  Come to find out, Nick hadn’t needed to open his mouth very wide at all; Milner’s cock was the only thin thing about him. It made him think of a fleshy, peach-toned earthworm squirming around in his mouth with the bonus of an unpleasantly sweet-salty treat at the end. Now that he was older, Nick had to wonder how many other students had their faces fucked in the name of a higher GPA.

  As a screwed up kid with no prospects and a pretty face, Nick had been willing to take what he could get where he could get it. With time had come perspective and it left him curious to know if he was the only one who’d slobbered all over Milner’s pencil dick. He figured not; gluttons like Milner didn’t usually stop at one, they didn’t know how. Hell, maybe he’d graduated—Nick grin-winced at the pun—to bending them over and writing their asses progress reports, though he doubted that one.

  When Milner looked his way, Nick raised his hand in a wave. Milner waved back automatically, but stared, expression perplexed. Then recognition dawned and his doughy folds of face fat sagged even more. He waddled away so quickly that Nick could hear him wheezing from where he stood, the sound like a collapsing steam engine. Nick laughed and watched the retreating hump of his back fat until he turned the corner.

  It was not difficult to whore himself, but it was difficult for Nick to figure out how to go about doing it. He hadn’t picked up a trick in a long time. He had been in his early twenties; sleek, fit, pretty to look at with his pale gold hair and summer sky blue eyes. It hadn’t even really felt like work; all he’d had to do was stand around for a little while and eventually someone would want to take him for a ride.

  In his mid-going-on-late thirties, the entire game was different. Nick was still attractive—prison had at least been that kind to him—but he was older, there was no escaping that. Nick was bigger than he had been, too. While he knew for a fact that not everyone wanted to fuck twinks with the bodies of nubile twelve year olds since he’d never been twinkish in the slightest—he was too tall, too broad, lacking in a decided delicateness—people were usually hesitant about approaching a potential piece once they reached Nick’s size out of fear they would be proven wrong.

  To find out that tall, broad-shouldered guy they had their eye on was a hyper-macho homophobe that could easily break their bones and would because how dare they did not inspire confidence in the aspiring john. Nick had hard edges and a strange look in his eyes now, too. He had never noticed it while he was on the inside because everywhere he turned, that same stare gazed back at him from his fellow inmates. Once Nick was outside again he’d noticed most people didn’t have that look in their eyes, the shadows of bars striping their irises.

  The largest hurdle to overcome was the fact he was easy to miss now. He made sure of it. Nick found that he kept to the backs of rooms, sat near doors, didn’t look up or if he did look up, he didn’t look for too long. Everything he did was done in an effort to avoid being noticed, which was the opposite of what he wanted if he was going to make enough money to buy decent clothes for his job interview.

  Standing there by the stone opening of the tunnel, the echo of Stevie Buttons’s strung-up corpse twisting behind him, Nick realized that if he was going to go trawling for strange this day, then he’d probably have to walk right up to it. He’d have to make the offer. He’d have to put it out there. In a sense, for the first time since he started sucking and fucking his way into quick cash, Nick was going to have to work for it.

  It was amazing to realize such a thing, to realize that he was no longer young enough to stand by and wait for the game to come to him. He had grown spoiled in his youth because he’d been lovely to behold, not quite so muscular, not so shady acting or haunted. He didn’t know if it would work out or not, maybe the trucker with the cell phone had been a fluke. Maybe he wasn’t as good looking as he was leading himself to believe.

  Maybe, just maybe, he was making a mistake, one poorly executed come-on away from getting his ass picked up for solicitation or just simply turned down.

  Can’t never could though, that was how the saying went and Nick at last decided that maybe he should at least find out if he still could.

  He pushed away from the tunnel and crossed the street to Glynn’s. He ordered a roast beef on bun (not to be confused with a roast beef po-boy) and paid for it with his last five dollar bill and some change. He was down to twenty-five.

  Nick’s wanderings eventually led him to the most likely place there was—a barroom. He’d gone to the park for a little while and had seen a couple of shifty characters lurking around. He’d almost laughed that such things were still, well, things, but they seemed to be. Restrooms had always seemed sleazy even to him though, so he hadn’t stuck around long. Besides, most of the guys hanging out around parks and other public restrooms weren’t looking to buy or sell, they were looking to get and give it away for free. He’d learned that when he was younger, too, when he’d really been pushing the envelope of being a part-time, casual kind of whore to a full-time, that’s how he earned his rent money whore.

  Bars were always good for a pick-up, good for a little price negotiation and light banter beforehand. It didn’t matter what kind of bar it was; gay or straight because there were cross-streams of traffic to either one regardless. Though a female hooker was obviously far more unlikely to be picked up in a bar that catered only to gay men and vice-versa. That was just logic.

  The Old Bird looked like every cliché of a dive bar there was—squatty building, painted cinder block walls, windows so darkly tinted you couldn’t see in and were pushing it to try and look out. There were neon beer signs in the windows and Melissa sux my kok spray-painted in blaze orange on the wall of the bar facing the gravel parking lot. Beneath it, someone had written SCAYNK in thick, black strokes of magic marker.

  The outside appearance of The Old Bird was deceiving because on the inside it had warm oak paneling and clean tile floors. The pool tables weren’t covered in ripped felt and mysterious stains. It didn’t reek faintly of piss and industrial cleanser. There were bars like that in Sparrow Falls, but not this one; it had lofty ambitions of being more of a classy cocktail lounge than a shit heap bar that played Lynyrd Skynyrd right alongside Kenny Chesney on an old jukebox with shorting out speakers.

  Nick sat down at the bar and ordered a Budweiser; the bartender brought him the beer and he nearly swallowed his tongue when the guy told him the price. Things really had changed, Jesus. Nick shook his head and paid what the man asked, tipped him a dollar then turned to lean against the bar with his beer dangling from two fingers by his side and leaking overpriced condensation through the leg of his jeans.

  The sound system in The Old Bird was better, but the music selection was about the same as it was in shitty bars the nation over. ZZ Top’s “El Diablo” played in the background. It didn’t blare in order to compensate for the crappy speakers; it soared respectfully and smoothly over the low susurration of voices
; the high, clear laugh of a woman, the crack of pool balls. The Old Bird was for rednecks that almost had taste, Nick decided as he scanned the bar for a likely customer.

  He found him on his first sweep of the room, a slightly built man with dark brown hair so shiny it caught the dim light of the bar and almost sparkled. He was wearing a Georgia Tech t-shirt that was too clean for him to be a frat boy. Nick doubted he was a student at all; he looked to be in his early thirties at least. His drink was irradiated Smurf piss blue. He looked like an out of work librarian with a flare for the dramatic. He was fidgety and seemed out of place; not like he didn’t belong in The Old Bird, more like he didn’t belong in Sparrow Falls. He just didn’t seem local.

  When the guy glanced over at him, Nick made himself hold eye contact for a beat too long. Nick smiled his best smile and raised his beer in a little salute. Still maintaining eye contact, Nick drank from his bottle. The man—Nick thought of all of them as John—didn’t look away nor did he seem weirded out when Nick licked foam from his bottom lip. He thought that hurdle was probably cleared then, he hadn’t pegged the guy wrong.

  Nick pushed away from the bar and walked toward the man’s table, a small smile still curling up the edges of his mouth. Once, when they were teenagers and higher than kites, Nancy had laughingly told Nick that if cats could smile, they would smile like him. There had been a boy there with them, a boy they were both half in love with named Hylas Dunwalton, who had laughed and agreed. It had made Nick’s heart do somersaults in his chest at the sound of his laughter, at Hylas sing-songing, Here, kitty, kitty.

  “Hi,” Nick said. “Mind if I sit?”

  “Oh, no, not at all,” the man said. He had a southern accent, but it was faint, the drawl smoothed out and toned down with culture or good breeding.

  “I’m Nick,” Nick said as he held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you…?”

  “Wesley,” the man said. “Wes.”

  Nick smiled again and tried to think of what to say next.

  “Something tells me you’re not from around here,” Nick said.

  “You’re right about that,” Wes said. He had very clear brown eyes, almost gold they were so light. “I’m from Atlanta.”

  “And what brings you to Sparrow Falls?” Nick leaned forward, elbows resting on the table. He kept the little cat grin on his face as he watched Wes through the fringe of his long, pale eyelashes.

  “It’s silly,” Wes said. He looked down into his glass full of Smurf urine then sipped it. “Really silly.” His laugh was nervous and he kept darting glances at Nick; trying to figure him out.

  “No, come on, it can’t be that silly,” Nick said.

  “Yes, it can be,” Wes said. He sighed and sipped his drink again.

  “Spit it out,” Nick said. He raised his eyebrows, broadened his smile and leaned closer. “I promise, I’ll never tell.”

  Wes laughed more nervous laughter and played with his swizzle stick. “I heard the story about Stevie Buttons… and well, other stories, too. You know this place is like a hub for weird goings on.”

  “I do know that,” Nick said. “I grew up here.”

  “How great,” Wes said. He really seemed to feel that way. “Is it true there’s a serial killer here, too?”

  “Ah… Well.” Nick thought about how to answer that. “No one’s talking, but between you and me, Wesley, there is a serial killer in this town. He’s been here for a long time.”

  For years, bodies had been turning up, naked and impeccably clean. All of the victims had died of exsanguination. Everyone in town knew about it, but no one had ever officially said it or called in the big guns of the FBI, probably because they were being territorial and stupid about it. Nick sometimes thought though that the powers that be believed that if they ignored the problem then it would go away on its own. That and Sparrow Falls kept its secrets well; half the job of the Sparrow Falls Police and Sheriff’s Departments seemed to be concerned with damage control and keeping the mainstream media from catching wind of what went on there. If they ever did the place would be overrun with camera crews a few times a year, which was just bad publicity and disruptive to everyone’s way of life.

  “Wow,” Wes said.

  Nick’s next smile was real and so was his laugh. Wes was from Atlanta, a place that wasn’t exactly lacking in a murder rate or ghost stories galore. Though he also figured he understood where Wes was coming from a little bit—he had the money and the curiosity, so why not travel a bit to further indulge his hobby. Personally, Nick wasn’t sure if he had ever had a hobby other than whoring himself out and that wasn’t much of a hobby. It was more of a trade, really, though far less respectable than being a carpenter or even a sanitation worker.

  Wes finished his drink and stood up, looked at Nick and said, “Can I get you another?”

  “Sure,” Nick said. Taking free drinks was the equivalent of getting a tip.

  Five Atomic Smurf Pisses later and Wes confided to Nick that he was also there for the Christmas Carnival, particularly the tree competition. He said he’d timed his trip to coincide with it, said he loved Christmas, sure, but his real delight was in twinkle lights. Nick couldn’t even roll his eyes at the latter part of the statement; he was a sucker for twinkle lights, too. So was Nancy. They’d spent some of Nick’s earnings on lights to string up in their bedrooms once Nick had come to live with her family. They used to say that the lights kept the party going all year long.

  All in all though, Nick was not a fan of the Christmas Carnival or the tree competition. Some of the trees were indeed pretty to look at, except for the entries in the children’s category. Some of those made Charlie Brown look like a downright brilliant tree decorator. After a while they had all started to look the same to Nick though; some pretty, some god-awful, all trees with ornaments and lights and bows. He did possess a particular hatred, however, for trees covered in nothing but white lights and red bows. Much like the New Orleans Saints and Mardi Gras themed trees, there was usually at least one of the white lights-red bows trees as well; the height of understated elegance.

  He thought he might go this year anyway, maybe he’d ask Nancy to ride with him. They could sneak booze in via Big Gulp cups and get tipsy while they wandered around in the festive atmosphere. He thought maybe he’d bump into Hylas Dunwalton and catch up on old times. Hylas was one guy Nick would have happily fucked for free and he’d come close to it once. Then poor, sweet, gorgeous narcoleptic Hylas had nodded off with his hand down Nick’s pants. It had been a real mood killer, to say the least.

  “So, Nick,” Wes asked after two more Smurf Pisses (the actual name for the drink was Blue Hawaii). “Why did you decide to sit down and talk to me?”

  He was smiling because Nick had just filled him in on the back story and as much hearsay as he could remember, on Stevie Buttons. He’d been a pretty boy, blond with a delicate heart-shaped face and the I.Q. of a used condom. Stevie was an annoying idiot who was prone to histrionic screaming fits wherever and whenever the mood happened to strike him. Borderline Personality Disorder, Nancy had decided once she’d gotten a few psychology classes under her belt.

  “You looked like you could use the company,” Nick said. He was only four beers in, but his tolerance wasn’t anywhere close to what it had once been and even though he was of small stature, Wes could still stab Nick to death if he was too drunk to see that shit coming. It was one of the major rules of working the skin trade: don’t get more fucked up than the john. Ever. Even if the john wasn’t even officially a john yet.

  “Am I really that obvious?” Wes asked. He sat back with a huff of laughter.

  “Maybe a little obvious, yeah,” Nick said. “Maybe you looked just a little bit lonely, too.”

  “It’s not easy being out here like this on my own,” Wes confirmed. “I mean, it’s not that long of a drive—two days, max—from Atlanta to here, but it felt like it took forever. I’m used to… not keeping my own company so much.”

  “Good th
ing you met me then,” Nick said. He was edging into really dicey territory; the part that would make or break what he was trying to accomplish. It was the major part of all the things he’d never had to do before.

  “Do you want to get out of here for a little while?” Wes asked. His eyes gleamed hopefully, hotly. He was cute, Nick thought, much better looking than most of his johns had ever been. Cute guys didn’t usually have to go out and buy it; those who did buy it were in it for the nasty thrill or maybe because they wanted sex with absolutely no strings attached, sex that was so anonymous that even one night stands didn’t compare.

  “Maybe,” Nick said. He let out a slow, controlled breath. “I’ve got an hour if you’ve got seventy-five dollars.”

  Wes blinked stupidly at him. Blinked and blinked and blinked. Nick knew he had just blown it, easy as that. All that work and he was going to have nothing to show for it. He’d have to start over again from scratch in a new bar with a new guy that was no more of a guarantee than Wes, but would probably be ten times more unattractive.

  “You’re kidding,” Wes said. His voice was flat with shock.

  “No,” Nick said. He started to get up from the table. “I get it—you’re not into it and that’s all right. Just don’t—”

  “Do you charge extra for kinks?” Wes’s voice was soft, almost lost in the thrumming bass line of “Sad but True”.

  Nick plopped back down in his chair in surprise. He recovered quickly enough and said, “It starts at twenty-five and goes up the kinkier the kink is.”

  Wes licked his lips and placed his hands on the table. They were shaking. This was his first time; Nick was willing to bet what cash he had left on that much. Nick had opened the door and shown Wes an opportunity, a chance for him to try out something he was maybe afraid to present to more serious bed partners. Taking Nick up on the offer was a snap decision on Wes’s part—and that was okay with Nick. As long as he got paid and Wes didn’t want to piss on him or something, they would be cool.