Getting Lucky

by Daryl Banner

  Waiting.

  When the water cut off, I hardly noticed. The brief bursts of scary music, screeching violins, and teenagers screaming for their lives blared half-muted from the TV and filled the whole room. I’d become a statue on the bed, unfeeling and almost sleepy. Even with Lucky there, I felt like all I needed to do was put my head against a soft surface and I’d be out.

  Then the bathroom door swung open.

  I looked up.

  My heart stopped. I was not prepared for this. Cloaked in a wisp of steam, Lucky wore nothing but a towel—which, to say the very least, hid nothing at all from my unblinking eyes.

  Nothing at all.

  The towel was wrapped so tightly around his waist, it made a more than generous bulge of his junk.

  Is this repayment or punishment for my kindness, and why can’t I tell the difference?

  Then he turned around to grab something off the counter, and my eyes glued to his ass. Oh, how that low-hanging towel cradled each of his supple, pert, dimpled butt cheeks exquisitely …

  His back muscles were insane. Slender as he was, there was an incredible amount of definition that rippled over his shoulders each time he moved his arms. The smooth crevice that ran down the middle of his back led the eye to two dimples of muscle right above his ass. A tiny peek of gluteal cleavage was visible at the top of the towel, which could have made me choke on air right then.

  Gluteal cleavage.

  Yeah, I’m owning the term.

  He bent his head out of the bathroom and met my gaze. “You got any cotton swabs?” he asked, wiggling a finger near his ear.

  I coughed, shook my head, then nodded. “Y-Yeah. I have some Q-tips in a b-b-baggie.” Stop stuttering. I pushed off the bed and went for my bag, pulling out a big plastic baggie of toiletries I never bothered to set in the bathroom when I first checked in to that room countless hours ago. “Here.” I handed the whole bag to him half-blindly, refusing to stare at his magnificently muscled chest, which was still gleaming from the steam and dusted with a little hair, two pink nipples, and an army of abs racing down his happy trail toward his plentiful bulge where—

  Stop it.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, noticing none of my reaction as he snatched the bag from my hand and slipped right back into the bathroom to finish his post-shower business.

  I planted myself right back on the edge of the bed and stared, blank-eyed, at the TV. It was already showing the credits to the horror movie. I supposed all the stupid teens died in the end. Who knew. I sure as fuck didn’t.

  After hearing a lot of things rattling about in the bathroom, I remembered something and called out, “There’s a few disposable toothbrushes in there, too. If you need one. And toothpaste.”

  “I got my own,” he called back.

  His backpack. There was no telling what he kept in it. I bit my lip and took a breath, willing my body to calm the hell down. I had to remind myself that this wasn’t a date despite how it felt. This wasn’t a one-night stand, either, of which I’d had so few, I could count them on a hand. Half a hand. Okay, one finger.

  He came out of the bathroom.

  And of course he was only wearing the red shorts.

  No, they didn’t hide any more of him than the towel did. On the contrary, I not only got the shape of his junk, but now I was blessed with movement. I would put a hundred bucks down that he wasn’t wearing any underwear.

  And maybe another hundred that he didn’t care.

  Also, I could count every inch.

  Of which there were several.

  “So what’s on?” he mumbled as he climbed onto the bed, then pushed several of the pillows together and leaned back against the headboard. “Is that scary movie over? How’d it end?”

  Was he seriously going to sit up in bed looking like that—his abs half-crunched, his sculpted chest on display—and act like I was supposed to just accept it without gawping at him? He had to know what he was doing. He had to be fucking with my head.

  Or he wasn’t, and I was just making this all about me. Relax.

  I peeled my eyes away from him, determined to act normal. Totally fucking normal. “They died,” I answered.

  “Why are you all the way down there on the edge of the bed?”

  I half-twisted to him. “No reason. I just changed, and—”

  “Sit back here with me.”

  “I was just—”

  “Come on. Watch TV with me.”

  Without another protest, I climbed the rest of the way onto the bed and leaned against the headboard with him. Despite all the available room on this enormous bed, there was barely two feet of space between our bodies. That was a fact I became instantly and blaringly aware of. With just a shift of my eyes, I could see his hands as they rested lazily on his red-shorts-clad lap.

  Those were once my red shorts. They were mine no longer. I couldn’t even picture myself in them anymore, not without also picturing Lucky’s thighs, Lucky’s hips, and Lucky’s huge swinging pendulum of pleasure.

  Those are his shorts now.

  I lifted the remote and started clicking through the channels. “It’s all just infomercials and crap,” I complained.

  “You’re going through the channels so fast. How can you even tell what’s on?”

  “After four, it’s just diet pills, exercise equipment, and stuff in other languages.” I tossed the remote on the bed to my side. “Let’s just see what movie’s on next.”

  “I know about infomercials. Shit, I’m familiar with basic TV scheduling. I just—Here. Give me that thing.” He reached over my lap for the remote.

  His elbow dug into my crotch as he stretched his beautiful, shirtless, lithe body over me.

  I clenched shut my eyes and let out a groan.

  I knew it would be the closest I’d ever get to feeling him touch my actual cock. And the sensation was more like being kneed in the balls in slow motion.

  Except I liked it.

  A lot.

  When he got the remote, he leaned back into his position, and his elbow left my crotch as quickly as it had planted itself there.

  I couldn’t even pay attention at all as he scrolled through the channels acting like he didn’t just bury an appendage in my fast swelling nether regions. I was fighting these weird urges I hadn’t felt since I could properly call someone my boyfriend. Urges like gently putting an arm around him and pulling him against my side. Or reaching for his hand and locking my fingers between his. Or resting my head on his shoulder and snuggling up to his arm.

  Or creeping a hand onto his tight, toned thigh and waking up the beast that slept in those red shorts.

  Or putting my lips against his to finally learn what he tastes like.

  “This looks like a good one,” he decided, landing on some sort of nature channel with a very posh English guy’s voice narrating activities in the wilds of a rainforest. On the screen was a monkey of some kind hanging one-armed from a branch, scoping the trees.

  I slouched a bit against the headboard. I promise it wasn’t an attempt to get closer to him, even if the space between our bodies just decreased by an inch or two. “You like nature?”

  “Yeah.” He said nothing more, watching and listening.

  “Don’t get much of it here in town,” I noted.

  No response. I slouched some more, then swiped the only remaining pillow and hugged it to my chest as we stared at the TV, slowly and patiently being educated about the various species that lived in the upper canopy among the treetops, closest to the sky.

  It wasn’t until the first commercial break that I heard his deep breathing.

  I turned, startled by it at first. His eyes were closed and his head had drooped to the side. His closer hand had opened slightly, half-spilling the remote onto the bed.

  Well, that was quick. He was already out. I couldn’t help but appreciate for a moment how beautiful he looked while he slept.

  Then a different emotion entirely fell over me.

  It was ove
rwhelming.

  Everyone desires you, I realized as I watched him. Those fortunate enough to pass by you on the streets, they don’t see a homeless kid. They see a beauty. And they want that beauty. They want your body. They want your lips. They want your sex. They don’t care about anything else at all. They see an opportunity to make their dreams come to life … at the expense of yours.

  And what was his dream? To find a family again? To find a home that he could trust? Despite trying to get to know him all night long, I realized in the end that I barely knew him at all. I had no grasp on the stuff that counted. Where was he from? What put him in this set of grueling, heartbreaking circumstances?

  And what the fuck was I doing except creeping on him like the thousands of other fools who desired him to no end?

  I didn’t want to be just another. I wanted to be the person who broke the chain of users who swept through his life.

  I had to be that person.

  Even if my cock, my heart, my gut, my brain, my mouth, my nerves, my twitching fingers, my longing eyes, and my empty soul desperately desires something else.

  Ever so gently, I crawled off the bed, taking the one pillow with me. Climbing into my cushy chair by the big floor-to-ceiling window, I pulled the ottoman close, hugged tight my cottony companion, then closed my eyes to the sound of monkeys howling and a soft English voice murmuring, “With such predators abound, Atilda and her infants would not be sleeping easy tonight.”

  You can say that again.

  Chapter 6

  LUCKY

  My name was Lucas, but everyone called me Lucky.

  Even if I was the unluckiest motherfucker I knew.

  I jerked awake at the sound of a whiny screech. Blinking my eyes, a pair of dolphins came to focus on the TV. They were being trained by two women in neck-to-ankle skintight blue suits.

  I glanced over at the window, noting the deep golden sunlight coming through. That glowing egg yolk poured over James like a blanket, who lay motionless as a big baby in that chair. A crushed-up pillow that had all the life squeezed out of it was on the floor next to the ottoman, which was slightly pushed away by his feet in his sleep, if I had to guess. He was sprawled out like he had been fighting an army of demons in his sleep.

  Maybe he had. We all had our demons. What are his?

  I still didn’t know what to make of James. He was handsome, but not conventionally. He had the kind of body that proved all his spare time wasn’t spent eating potato chips and Ho Hos in front of a TV. He was smart, too, but not in the way that intimidated or belittled me. He was also very observant; I could see it in his eyes when we played in the arcade for hours or when he listened to me as we talked over dinner and ice cream.

  There was something about James that felt like … home. It was something that could convince me I knew him for years already.

  Maybe that was what scared me.

  I wiped a bit of drool from my mouth, grimaced, then slowly edged myself off the bed, pulling my hoodie with me that I’d taken off the night before. I tiptoed to the bathroom, slipped on the shirt he lent me (it fit a bit tightly at the shoulders), and traded his red shorts for my jeans. It felt like a commando sort of day. I stuffed my hoodie into my backpack followed by the shorts, which I had figured he’d meant for me to keep.

  Then I stood at that fucking hotel room door with my slightly-heavier backpack over my shoulder for five long minutes. For five long, hard minutes, I stared at James sleeping in that big dumb chair, the man who fed me and gave me a room for the night and actually, in the end, didn’t expect anything in return.

  For some reason, I couldn’t make my stubborn feet move.

  Why the hell was I feeling so guilty? Sure, he was a nice guy. But like any other nice, well-meaning person, it was only a matter of time before he got bored, or had to return to his pressing, real life obligations, or maybe revealed that he was actually married with two sweet kids he was neglecting for the sake of having an escapist weekend away with yours truly.

  The only person I was kidding was myself.

  This wouldn’t work. This had an expiration date the moment I chose to follow him into that Italian restaurant.

  “Thanks for the date,” I whispered, then rolled my eyes at my own dramatic sentimentality. Before another five long minutes dared to roll by, I quietly pulled open the door and let myself out.

  It shut so quietly, it was like I was never there.

  When I passed by the front desk, the cute young woman working there gave me a microscopic smile before turning away to answer the phone. I used that moment to swipe a handful of mints out of the dish that rested on the counter, then popped one in my mouth as I made my way to the street.

  The mints were free. I knew that. I just couldn’t stand another moment of someone looking at me with that pinch of pity in their fat, doleful eyes.

  I hated pity.

  I hated it because my survival depended on others having it.

  Which makes me hate it more.

  The air on the street was thick and carried the salty scent of the beach blowing in, as it wasn’t too far of a walk from the hotels to the water. I strolled down the road to the end of the block, looked both ways before crossing, then headed away from the casinos. I didn’t check the time on my way out of the hotel, but I knew what ten in the morning looked like. I was so good at telling time just from the angle of shadows and height of the sun, I could even pinpoint half hours with surprising accuracy.

  I occupied an empty bench at the park six blocks away from the casinos and watched the sky. Just down the curb from me was an old man named Old Man who never bothered me unless I had my cup set out too close to his. He sat on that curb with a sign that read: “BROKE DEAF WAR VET. GOD BLESS.” I knew the deafness was a lie, and so could likely believe he never fought in any war and was a veteran in nothing except perhaps guzzling wine and beer.

  “God bless,” he moaned as a woman passed by and tossed a pinch of quarters into his cup.

  I knew this park was safe during the day. At night, I really had to watch my back, since a certain band of territorial assholes liked to claim the park and all its benches. I was chased off once by two knife-wielding motherfuckers and learned my lesson. Not that I couldn’t have easily taken them on; if they didn’t have the knives, I would have broken both their jaws with a single swing.

  Clink, clink, clink.

  “God bless,” moaned Old Man.

  I always found it funny, how after just one year living on the streets, I knew the lay of the land more intimately than I ever bothered to know my own neighborhood back in Northpoint. I could tell you every safe spot in this town and every dangerous one. I could tell you where to wait for free food, where to go to get out of the rain in a pinch, and which restaurants will give you shit just for standing outside their doors. I’m looking at you, Alberto’s, you bunch of jackholes.

  I supposed a daily tug-of-war between life and death really motivated a person to keep their eyes open.

  Especially when everyone else on the street wanted what you had. Even if it was just change tucked away in your shoe. Or a lost pair of stained, threadbare gloves you found on someone’s stoop. Or a rain-safe sleeping spot you discovered behind a dilapidated gazebo where all the cats went to take a shit.

  What can I say? One cat’s kitty litter is another man’s five-star hotel.

  Even a reeking dumpster full of yesterday’s discarded Mama Moon’s ciabatta bread was gold to a homeless kid just trying to get by another day.

  I would know. Mama Moon had been very kind to me, and she didn’t even know I existed.

  That was, if she even existed. For all I knew, the sweet-faced Mama was just another product of a bunch of old rich men in an office building cooking up money schemes and ad campaigns.

  Clink. “God bless,” croaked Old Man.

  Money was what made the world of humans move. Not love. Not innovation. Not even jelly-filled donuts. It was the manmade trap of currency to compensate work to
compensate currency to compensate more work that kept all our eyes open, at least until the last shot of unpaid-intern-fetched espresso wore off.

  Not that I knew much about that kind of life. That was more my father’s cloying cup of chai tea. Well, before he turned into a dickless dick, married the step-cunt, and threw me out. But that’s another story entirely—a story I was happy to not relive in my memories over and over.

  You can say I never had a positive relationship with money.

  Or fathers.

  Or chai tea.

  I bet my new friend James knew about the evils of money all too well, shoveling it around for a living as he did. I bet he was dreaming about it now, still sleeping in that hotel room up on the seventh floor of Hearts Tower.

  Fuck. I shouldn’t have left him.

  “God bless.”

  I let out a sigh and pushed off the bench, tired of hearing Old Man’s blessings. I clutched my backpack and trudged down the street, thinking about James. His comfortable-as-fuck red shorts, which I could wear as underwear when the nights got longer and colder, were shoved in my backpack. The material of my shirt—the one he gave me with the big pair of dice on the front—was soft and tight, pulling on my shoulders and feeling a bit like a hug.

  He was going to feel really shitty when he woke up.

  What a fantastic way to repay him for his kindness.

  Before I knew it, I was standing on the pier overlooking the water in all its vague brown murkiness. I was considering where I might hole up for the rest of the day. The casinos were out of the question—at least until late Sunday when I was certain James would be safely returned to his “too large” house and comfy seat at the bank. I could have risked a day at the mall, but seeing as it was a Saturday, the prepubescent thugs and ten-year-old gangster wannabes would be swarming it—and small and hilarious as they may seem from a distance, you don’t laugh when you’re cornered by eight of them armed with their older siblings’ brass knuckles behind the escalator to JC Penney.

  Provided it didn’t get too cold and rainy, I could climb into one of the free cabanas on the beach. Don’t get the wrong idea; those rundown cabanas were the kind that you walked past with a shudder. But to a guy in my situation, they were a place to rest, they gave me partial cover from the sun, wind, and rain, and they were off the ground. Plus, listening to the waves all day was far preferable to car horns and rumbly engines.