Chapter 2
Chapter Two
PJ
“Give me your fucking wallet.”
I do not have time for this shit. “Man, are you fucking kidding me?”
I’m right outside the East End Mission, a place where they feed you and pray over you before spitting you back out into the street. In the pretty tourist town that is Belle Argo, the east side of town is where the folks with money don’t go.
It’s hotter than the devil’s asshole out here. I’m sweating through my respectable clothes. I’m minding—I’d like it to be known—my own damn business. So, where does this piece of shit get off trying to lift my Midnight Cookies frequent muncher card and my last twenty dollars?
“Come on, man. Hand it over.” The sharp point at my back presses harder. But the voice… There’s a tremor there. A blink-and-you’ll-miss-it hint of nerves.
I’m getting mugged by a fucking newbie.
“You better not cut my clothes,” I grumble. “That shirt is one of my favorites.” It’s not. It’s one of my nicer ones, though, a lucky score from a store’s going-out-of-business sale. In hindsight, wearing it on this side of town was a bad idea.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
Dick.
Funny how people were milling around the Mission until this guy tried to rob me. No doubt this is one of those situations where, if people see something, they pretend they didn’t see it as quickly as possible. Self-preservation, you know?
I get it. I do.
“I can’t give you my wallet. It was a gift.” It wasn’t.
“I don’t give a damn who gave it to you, hand it over.” Another jab into my back.
“Okay. Fine. Fine. Just…don’t hurt me.” I make my voice shake a little. Enough to sound fragile. “I’m going to take the wallet out of my pocket, okay?”
I’m not a guy who looks intimidating. Too lean, skin so pale it’ll catch fire under the Florida sun. My eyes are too blue. My hair is too red. Don’t get me started on the fucking freckles.
You know what you don’t do when you have freckles? Age. Until a late growth spurt at nineteen, I got carded buying cold medicine.
Slowly, I slide my hand into my left pocket. Where I keep my wallet. And my switchblade.
I spin. My knife presses to his throat. His knife? It’s a sharpened stick.
And the guy? If he’s over eighteen, I’ll eat my own dick.
“Man, what the hell are you doing trying to mug somebody in broad daylight?” I ease the knife away. This kid’s not a threat to me.
“Not like anybody cares, man. Not around here.”
He pulls the strings of his hoodie tighter around his face, despite the late-summer heat. It’s ninety-eight degrees out, for fuck’s sake. Like it’s going to give him any actual protection. I could cut right through the fabric.
A lock of dirty blond hair, a pointed nose, and dark, wary eyes stare back at me.
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
I study what I can see of his face. There’s a mustache, but it’s one of those skeevy, thin ones that kids get at first. “Come on, man.”
He sighs. “In seven months.”
Right. “You got parents? Is your home safe?” Kid’s probably not out here trying to rob me for giggles.
“Y-yeah. Needed some groceries, that’s all. Mom’s been sick.”
Has his mom been sick the way mine used to be? Fuck it, it’s none of my fucking business. But I’ve got a soft spot for kids with messed-up moms, so I pull out my wallet.
“Here.” I fork over a twenty, and the damn frequent muncher card. Handing him the slightly wrinkled rectangle with its cheerful lettering honestly gives me heartburn.
“Man, what the hell is this thing?” He’s frowning at the card.
“It’s got enough stamps for a free half dozen cookies. You’ve got to get yourself downtown, but it’s worth the trip. Unless you don’t want them…” I reached out to take it back.
“Fuck you, man. It’s mine now.” The kid jerks his hand away and sticks it behind his back. “I think I’ve heard of that place. They give them to you warm and everything?”
“Warm and gooey.”
“Th-thanks. I appreciate it. Really.” For a second, his face flushes red.
“Good. Then maybe you can help me out with something.” I pull my phone out, which is still displaying the picture I’d been showing around the Mission. “Have you seen this guy?”
The picture is a couple of years old, but it’s the best one I’ve got. In it, my foster brother Evans is leaning against a pool table, with one of those red plastic cups in his hand.
He’s got a broad grin on his face, and his dark hair is tousled the way he always wore it. Dark eyes sparkle with laughter because someone had just told a stupid dick joke. He’s got one arm bent to rub the back of his neck. A nervous thing he did. Does, I mean.
The pose only serves to showcase his well-defined biceps and perpetually sun-kissed skin. He’s the only person I’ve met who can wear a muscle tee without looking like an asshole.
If I’d known what was going to happen, I’d have made sure to take more pictures. Better ones.
These days, I’ve come to expect the looks—the helpless confusion, like the expression on this kid who tried to mug me.
“Don’t know him, sorry,” the kid says. “Who is he?”
“My brother. Went missing about a year ago.”
I’ve come to expect this look. The one that roughly translates to you haven’t given up yet?
Not until I find a body.
“You know, after that long, he’s probably d—”
“Yeah,” I snap. “Let’s say that sick mom of yours all of a sudden disappeared. How long before you’d stop looking?”
“You’re right.” He bobs his head. “Totally. You gotta do everything you can for the ones you love. Also, though, living around here, you learn you can’t save everyone.
” He shakes his head, like he realizes he’s said something I don’t want to hear, and I’m still holding a knife.
“Uh, I gotta go, but you know, thanks. Sorry I couldn’t help. ”
He turns to leave, but I stop him with a shout.
“You forgot your knife, man.” I point to the ground.
He gives me the finger and hurries off, disappearing around the corner behind the Mission—little shit.
My phone pings in my hand.
Landlord: Rent’s due a week from Monday, dick bag. Not taking it late any more. Make sure it’s in my male slot by Tuesday morning or you’re ass is getting evicted.
Fuck’s sake. Autocorrect is doing this guy no favors.
PJ: I don’t want to put anything in your male slot
Landlord: You know what the fuck I mean, don’t fuck with me on this or I’ll fuck you
PJ: All I’m getting from that is you want to fuck me
Asshole can’t wait a day on the rent, but he’s got time to send me a GIF with someone rolling out a middle finger.
Fuck. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve been tempted to cut this piece of shit’s throat in his sleep. But if I did, I’d be out a place to live.
Now that nobody’s around, I fire a quick text to my pimp: You got anything for me? Rent’s due soon, and some teenager with a stick-knife took my cookies and my last twenty
There’s some cash in my checking account, but not enough to cover the high cost of living in Belle Argo, Florida.
Brennan: Didn’t anyone tell you not to go around handing out cash when you don’t have any?
Is it just me, or are there assholes everywhere today?
PJ: Guess Momma was too busy getting high and passed around by her dealer to teach me that lesson
Learned lots of other important stuff, though. Fucking the landlord doesn’t guarantee free rent forever, nobody questions the cause of death of a dealer who uses his own product, and the most dangerous phrase in the English language is “just one more.”
You know, the basics.
Brennan: One of your regulars requested you for some boating thing on Sunday—a yacht party.
PJ: I’ll take it. What else?
Brennan: I’m sure I’ve mentioned before that there’s less demand for companionship setups than the other stuff, straight boy.
The other stuff is fucking. Most other escorts I know have done it, despite how they identify. Some guy Evans knew made bank doing that kind of porn where a desperately hard-up straight guy was cajoled on camera into getting fucked by a monster cock to make rent. Art imitates life, and all.
The thought of getting fucked by a monster cock makes my asshole clench so hard it might not open again. I figure you’ve got to be into it at least a little to make the big bucks.
Besides, I know how some other escorts have been treated by customers. No chance could I tolerate that shit, and explaining away dead bodies is a pain in the ass.
I only got into escorting after Evans disappeared, when I found Brennan’s contact info among Evans’s stuff. Dinner dates and go-go dancing at parties seemed an easy enough way to pay bills until I found Evans.
Except, a year later, I’m no closer to finding him. The cost of hiring investigators (who turned up jack shit) has burned through my resources. Not to mention paying double the rent, because I refuse to sublease Evans’s room. I’m keeping it there for when he comes home.
Brennan: I have a request for Friday night: a dinner date and possible extracurriculars. Sounds like the guy doesn’t get out much, so might require a soft touch.
Nobody in the history of ever has accused me of being a soft touch. But here we are. And if Brennan starts thinking I’m too good for jobs, I’m not sure where I’ll be.
PJ: Possible extracurriculars?
Brennan: Dude didn’t seem sure if dessert would be on the menu, but I was going to give it to one of the other guys in case. The job is yours if you think you can handle it.
Can I? I’ve watched some man-on-man porn. Gritting my teeth and bearing it while some big dude fucks me looks like a painful day at the office. And most clients want a bottom.
Pass, I type out as I hoof it toward downtown. My hand hovers over the Send button before I sigh and stick the phone back in my pocket.
As much as it pisses me off, I need a minute to think about whether I can afford to say no. The yacht party might not cover the whole month’s rent. Even if it does, I’m low on seeds and insects for Jolene.
It isn’t until I make it to the swankier part of town, with its brick streets and stylish low-slung buildings, that I stop to think harder about my reply.
I park myself against a brick wall outside of a coffee shop called Buzz Buzz Buzz and pull out my phone again.
There’s an older lady with a Chihuahua at a nearby table.
The little dog will probably let me know if danger approaches.
My brain coughs up the contents of my kitchen, which at the moment is some instant noodles and half a carton of OJ—plus one overripe banana.
I have a legitimate job working as a custodian at Belle Argo University. It provides me with free tuition and suits me fine because people tend to stay out of my business. The pay is shit, though, and a look at my calendar tells me my next check won’t arrive until after the rent’s due.
Fuck.
Eviction is a risk I won’t take. When Evans comes back, his place needs to be there. His room. His stuff. His best friend, or whatever’s left of me.
Fuck.
Fire and fury erupts out of me, and I slam my fist into the brick wall hard enough to make my knuckles bleed.
The Chihuahua growls, and I look over to find both the dog and his human staring right at me. The lady looks at me like I might be losing it—to be fair, she’s right. The dog looks like he wants to fuck me up.
Wonderful. I’m probably about thirty seconds from her loudly complaining to management about my violent behavior.
My fingers hover over my phone. I erase the original reply to Brennan and retype it half a dozen times before finally saying, I’ll take the date for Friday.
The second I hit Send? I slam my fist into the wall again.