Back when it was just himself and his mother, moving from town to town, Jack’s sketchbooks took the place of friends he had to leave behind. When they settled here and stayed, sketchbooks became places to dream with friends like Bailey, and in private, places to make sense of life. Later, they became a vocation. Even Nancy, in all her focused planning, had built in accommodations for his artistic pursuits.
He turned on a few lights to replace the waning daylight and shooed the critters towards their tasks. Moving with reluctance, the Chillsprites began to scrape the office supplies into piles. Their potato-heads drooped at having their fun taken away. The Frostlings decided to help by ordering groups of the Chillsprites to different tasks. The little gremlins sent Jack pleading looks, but he folded his arms and glowered. Their droopy little limbs dragged as they knuckled under inevitability, and when they stopped looking at him, Jack sighed.
He padded to the kitchen and got out the milk. One Chillsprite wandered away from a pile of binder clips and Jack gave it a stern look. “When you’re done.” He was in the middle of pulling out more bowls for the crowd when his phone pinged an incoming notification. He set down the milk jug, curiosity and trepidation fighting a battle within him not unlike the one going on around the milk bowls.
He glanced up and found close scrutiny regarding him in the form of over two dozen pairs of inhuman eyes. The floors were clean and his desk looked untouched. The Frostlings stood at attention in neat rows, their little bodies vibrating with the effort to keep still and straight. An effort he hadn’t asked for, but they seemed bound and determined to put forth. “Well.” He cleared his throat of a slight tickle in the back and reached for one of the small bowls.
The Chillsprites didn’t stand at attention, but all squatted on their haunches, like a pack of wild animals nonetheless held transfixed by a human in their territory. A trio of Chillsprites grinned up at him, adoration in their eyes strong enough to make him uncomfortable. “I, uh, hope you all learned a valuable lesson about not trashing my place.” The tickle in his throat came back, only it swelled into a low thrumming that moved down past his Adam’s apple into the base of his windpipe. Were they…purring? He shook his head. “Fine, then. Have at it. There’s your treat. Clean up your messes, okay?”
The Frostlings broke ranks and the Chillsprites tumbled over each other in their rush to the kitchen. He shuddered at the carnage, but the shudder knocked loose an idea.
He beckoned his advisor forward. “So you guys like milk, huh?” She nodded carefully. Jack stroked his chin, feeling the stubble there and suddenly itching for a shower. Maybe I can do this. Everything seemed to center around making deals. This for that, tit for tat. Across the room, he could see the message light on his phone blinking, teasing him like Schroedinger’s Cat. “I wonder if you’d make yourselves disappear for some ice cream.”
~*~
Shane Abernathy enjoyed an occasional brood, and no more so than when he had an audience. But Lin wasn’t answering her phone beyond a short text that said, “Yes, I did. No, I will not give deets. Shopping w/Starla. TTYL.”
Of course he knew what she was talking about. He’d seen the two of them—Lin and Jack, slipping off into the trees last night. It was why he’d sought out the man this morning, and why he was here at Chesterfield’s tonight, seated alone in one of the booths along the upper level that looked out over the dance floor. Alone, except for the line of ass cracks by his head from the younger set, perched on the brass railing of the ramp leading to the dance floor.
“Hey, it’s Snow White’s dishy friend.”
“What?” Shane looked up. One of the ass-cracks had shifted around and looked down on him. Blue hair done up in spikes topped an angular face almost delicate in its features, if not for the piercings that glittered in eyebrows, nose, and a pair of full, pouty lips that would make a silver screen starlet weep. He blinked and remembered a flirtatious give-and-take in the downtown coffee-house. “Oh, hey—Puck, right?” He nodded. “How you doing?”
The lips formed into a moue. “Waiting by the phone for your call, Khakis.”
Shane glanced down at his outfit. The work uniform did sort of stand out at the dance club more known for its bright peacocks on the dance floor than the white-collar crowd, which was why he slouched in a booth instead of at the bar with the intent to catch an eye. He just wanted a drink in a familiar place, even if that place was full of memories he ought to want to forget. “I see that you are.”
One hand with black-painted nails waved a smartphone in his face. “See? Waiting.” Aquamarine eyes peered out from heavily-ringed eyelids. The slight man leaning over his booth pursed glitter-blue lips. He dropped the phone on the table.
Shane set his rocks glass on the scarred table and pulled out his phone. Seconds later, Puck’s phone vibrated and Shane tossed him a smirk. “Had you on speed-dial already, love.”
“Haha, so you did.” Puck thumbed the phone silent. “You waiting for someone to come rescue you?”
Shane snorted. No, he did that already. So why am I angry about seeing him again? “Not tonight.” He frowned and set the rocks glass on the scarred table. “I’m just here to—”
“Drink and be depressed all by your sad-sack self. I can see.” Puck—like that would really be his name—swung down from the railing where he’d been perched and slid into the circular booth next to Shane. “It depresses me. Brings down the mood of the whole bar.”
In spite of himself, Shane snorted. “Yeah. I see ‘em all just sobbing into their mai-tais because of me.” Purple and blue lights twisted over the dance floor, illuminating couples of mixed gender-pairings, and a stunning queen dominating one section all by herself. The Mardi-Gras themed club sported a raucous cacophony of just the type of anonymity he once believed could mask pain along with identity. If the place hadn’t changed much, then it was likely that the back room activities hadn’t, either. A little ecstasy, a little oblivion—he reached into his pocket and found the keychain he’d gotten from his NA sponsor.
The engraved silver disc mimicked the ones the alcoholics carried with them and served as reminders of sobriety. While his problem wasn’t with alcohol, the disc did remind him of the terrible place he’d been in, and how his friends had journeyed down into that hell to pull him back out of it. Seeing Jack again brought that all back, and while he’d come to terms with his behavior and feelings in relation to recovery from addiction while he was healing, he’d never really addressed what happened afterwards.
“On the contrary.” Puck’s knee pressed against his, sending a not entirely unwelcome frisson of awareness through him. “I heard your cry for help a mile away.” He leaned forward. “Now why don’t you tell old Puck why you’re such a sad-sack, hmm? And later on we’ll see about making your sac not so sad.”
In spite of himself, Shane laughed. “That was really bad.”
Puck chucked him under the chin. “Bad enough to work. Now what’s your fuckin’ problem, huh? Did you and Snow White have a fight this morning?”
Shane’s brow furrowed. “Snow—Oh, you mean Jack?”
Puck’s eyebrows rose. “So that’s his name. You two have a spat?” His mouth quirked up, flashing teeth.
Shane snorted. “That’d be easier. He’s banging my best friend.”
“Indeedy?”
“Yeah. And she’s had a crush on him for years. I worry.”
Puck flicked the back of his hand. “About him, or her? I take it he’s a bad sort?”
Shane drew back. “Of course not! He’s one of my best friends.” He pulled out the keychain and fiddled with the disk. “I owe him my life.”
Puck slouched in the booth. “Do you, now?” He tilted his head to one side. “Sounds to me like that debt’s cutting into your bank. You into him for cash? Favors? Or—” Puck leaned forward, a smirk flitting across his features, “—secrets?”
“Dude, it’s not like that.” Shane’s mouth twisted. “Anyway, what do you care? Hell, why do I care? It’
s not like they’re not both grown adults.”
“So she’s the Jezebel? Or are we jealous that we have to share cuddle-time with our hag.” Puck’s smirk softened the slur, but the predatory glint to his eyes had Shane conflicted over whether Puck was just being bitchy on principle, or mocking him, specifically. It wasn’t as if he knew the rules anymore. Or if there even were rules.
The twist turned to a scowl. “Listen, punk. That’s my friends you’re talking about.”
Puck tapped the back of his hand again, this time with a fingernail that left a mark. “You worry they’ll crash and burn and you’ll have to pick between Mummy and Daddy?” The smirk softened, his eyes became more direct, even with the ridiculous make-up and contact lenses.
Shane sighed. “Maybe. I don’t know. More like—well, Jack’s one of my best friends, but you couldn’t tell for looking. This morning was the first time we’ve really seen each other in three years. It’s like he ditched us all until he needed us again, and now Lin’s ready to just pick up where we left off.” He scowled into his drink. “They all are. Suddenly it’s, ‘oh, Jack’s back’ and everyone forgets he ditched us for years.”
Puck pursed his lips into a blue-glittered pout. “He sounds like a real prince among men. If I tell you I know what you mean, would you believe me?”
Shane lifted his eyebrows. “That depends.”
“Let me tell you a story. Not about me, see, because I’m just a simple Puck, who likes to dance and make coffee, and kiss cute boys.” Puck tapped his tongue against his teeth, flashing the stud in Shane’s direction. “But there’s this guy that my…family knows. He’s supposed to be doing a pretty important job, but all his people seem to be covering for him. See, we know he’s not pulling his weight, but we don’t know why, and we don’t get why his people would put up with shit like that.”
Shane shrugged. “What kind of job does he do? I know a lot of bosses that don’t do shit, and to be honest, it’s kind of better that way. Keeps them from screwing things up too badly.”
“Boss. Yeah, I guess you could call him that. He’s like a boss.” Puck leaned forward. “Now, his not doing his job, see, it forces us to have to do ours harder. Makes us have to do things we don’t really want to do, things that aren’t in our nature.” His teeth showed again. Shane followed his tongue stud as it tapped over his teeth. “But at the same time, our fall-down guy’s failure to stand up has made us stronger. Now, when he comes around to needing to do his job again, well, let’s just say it’ll be us who gets to tell him what to do.” Puck leaned back. “Boss or not, he’ll have to come around again. But this time, we’ll be calling the shots.”
“Yeah? Good for you.” Shane finished the drink. “But this is my friend I’m talking about. Like I said, I sort of owe him my life.”
Puck regarded him from out of the tops of his ringed eyes. “Yeah? That doesn’t mean you owe him your loyalty.”
Shane’s features clouded. Could be what Puck said was true. Maybe Jack should stay a part of his past. He’d been pretty clear in his absence. Maybe it was Shane not getting the message.
Puck slapped his hand down on the table, then turned it palm up towards Shane. “Enough of this bullshit. Come on, sad-sack.” He held it out, covered in jelly bracelets, bits of lace, and what looked like a ruffled cuff possibly cut off an old lady blouse—and then dragged through a wet painting at a psychedelic artist’s collective. “Dance your cares away.”
Shane sighed, but the young man’s irrepressible aura refused to leave him unmoved. “Just a dance.” He took the offered hand.
“Oh, that’s always how it starts.” Puck grinned, startlingly white teeth flashing in the strobe lights. “I have you now.” With a cheeky pinch to his ass, Puck flung him bodily into the crowd and dove after him.
~*~
The lights, the bodies, Puck’s hips grinding against his, blurred out the passage of time, stuffing it into the background white noise underneath a driving beat of movement and sweat. Dizzy heat soaked his skin underneath the oxford shirt, gradually heated his face and his brain until the press of bodies became a warm cocoon of haze, pushing out everything but the right here and now.
Puck’s aquamarine eyes—ridiculous contact lens color—danced with promise Shane was more than happy to follow as he backed them out of the crowd and towards the narrow hallway in the back. Some part of him protested—he put one hand in his pocket and found the smooth disk of the NA keychain. There was a number in his phone, too, just in case. But Puck took him past the men’s room, past the supply closet and the owner’s office-slash-dealer’s room, and to the fire door at the end of the hall.
What started out as quivering relief in Shane’s stomach turned to quivering heat as the younger man pushed him up against the cinder block wall and mashed his lips into Shane’s.
Forever later, he came up for air. “I swore I wouldn’t do this again. Ever.” Shane whispered desperately around the piercing in Puck’s tongue as they devoured each other in the alley. The hulking shadow of a Dumpster blocked the view of the main street and somebody’s truck blocked vehicle access to the parking lot
“Do what?” Puck murmured, tonguing his ear. “Give in to passion? Get off? Hook up with someone who wants you just as much as you want him?”
“No. Fuck in an alley. I like my creature comforts. Like avoiding the smell of garbage.” Shane let Puck occupy himself by nibbling on his neck—he was too busy trying to get up under the torn t-shirts, the eight hundred studded belts, and the—”What is this? Mesh? 1980 wants its fashion back.” —to the bare skin underneath.
Cool skin met his fingertips. Flat male planes and jutting hips that belied either a freakishly high metabolism, or maybe malnourishment. Shane remembered when his own hips had that lean and hungry feel. And then Jack dragged you home and duct-taped you to his couch until you got clean, and Bailey dragged you to work from ten to seven and let you code video games until you wanted to puke from the joy of it. And Starla fed you muffins, and Lin ogled men with you until you felt halfway to normal again.
He wondered if Puck needed someone to do that for him.
“Where do you live?” Puck murmured the question into Shane’s neck.
“In Belle Vista. Sort of. Too far away.” Shane recognized his own dodge.
“Not from Northmont.” Puck moved south, loosening the buttons on Shane’s shirt. “You didn’t promise yourself anything about not slumming it for a night, did you, Straightlace?” Puck flicked his nipple with one hand while the other one grabbed the swelling front of his dockers and squeezed.
“Northmont’s a lot better than a Dumpster.” Shane dug in his pocket for his car keys and found them gone. “Hey—”
Puck dangled the keys in front of his nose. “Don’t be a sulk, they were digging into my hip. If I’m going to have something hard pressed against me, I don’t want it to be keys.”
Shane reached for the keys. “We can’t get to Northmont on foot from here. Unless you’re jacking my car—”
“Hmm.” Puck leaned in close. “I’d rather jack you, Straightlace.”
“Good.” Shane made a feeble reach for the keys again. “Now that we’ve established our goals are in line…”
“Leave the car. I can get us there faster.” Puck’s teeth flashed. The diamond stud in his eyebrow winked in the streetlight’s glow. The car keys sounded like jangling bells.
Shane blinked rapidly. A long tunnel closed in around him. “Hey. What’d you do—” Oh God, please no. I’m clean, I’m clean. Please don’t tell me he roofied—
Puck leaned in close. “Shh. It’s only dizzy if you fight it. Trust me. I’ll keep hold of you, Straightlace.”
Act III: Fine Lines
Jack Winters woke up naked and screaming.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” He wrapped the bedsheet around his hips and staggered out of the sleeping area, trailing sheet along as he went. The insistent pounding on his door—that lock on the elevator needs to get fixed—st
arted a drumbeat inside his head to match the thudding on the outside. If that’s 6B again, wanting the key for the roof, I’m punching him. The guy knew he wasn’t supposed to lock the roof access door, but did it anyway if he had a woman up there and then when he forgot to undo the lock—
He squinted, still not registering that the light coming in from the windows was the washed-out gray of day instead of the orange-sodium of night. How long was I out? Did I miss Saturday night altogether? He remembered asking the Frostling if they liked ice cream. Remembered a laser-focus that came near a compulsion that sent him to the 24-hour convenience store for two quarts of Butter Pecan. The knocking increased, setting off the beat in his head. “Jeez! I said I’m coming already! This better be good!”
The pounding ceased amid muffled shuffling from the other side of the door. Finally, a throat cleared. “Booty call!”
He remembered her text. He agonized over texting her—too lame, too chicken, too-freaking-long of a text—Who gives someone five choices? And which one did he hope she’d choose? What reply did he expect? Certainly not the one she’d sent back. Where he’d racked up an entire screen filled with middle-aged angst, her reply had been simple, elegant, and right to the point.
Five is RIGHT OUT.
The feminine voice brought him up short, just as he opened the latch. He made a last-ditch effort to close the door, too late, because Lin was already shoving it open. “Watch yourself, Winters.”
Jack jumped back. The bedsheet tangled around his ankles, dropping down to near-dangerous territory. “What the hell?” Lin stood in his doorway, wearing a look that dared him to ask another stupid question. She still had the blue streaks in her hair, only this time, she’d done it all in a wild riot of ringlets that framed her face and covered part of the faux fur collar of a short, electric-blue jacket that topped off a slinky top that hugged her waist and hips the way his fingers suddenly itched to.
WinterJacked: Book One: Rude Awakening Page 14