Chapter 4
ASH
Sam’s car is probably the least surprising thing about him. I’m not much of a car person, but even so it’s impossible to mistake it for anything but for what it is: a Mustang GT, like new, black paint glittering in the morning sun and glare bouncing off of its spoiler.
“Nice ride,” I say in a sarcastic-jokey kind of way.
Sam misinterprets this completely. “What, not good enough for you?” Still sour after whatever the fuck happened in the lobby I guess, with whoever that was. A girlfriend, an ex-girlfriend, I don’t know. He never told me. I actually don’t know why he’s here at all, actually. Guess I never asked.
“That’s not it,” I say. “At all.”
He throws his bag in the trunk. “No?”
“It’s just, you know. Exactly what I was expecting. Something muscular and douchey as fuck.”
Sam’s laugh is a startled but good sound, echoing across the lot. “This stupid thing was a birthday present. Or, well, more of a bribe, but…”
He slams the the trunk shut, then walks around to the driver’s side. I mirror him, opening my door as he slides behind the wheel. There’s a troll doll hanging from the rear view mirror, its belly gem gone missing. Against my will I smile.
“I’m actually not really into cars,” he confesses to me as he jams the key into the ignition, and the engine comes to life with a throaty snarl. “Much to my dad’s distress.”
Originally I planned on keeping to myself for this trip—as much as I can, anyway, bullet wounds and seizures aside. Try not to show interest in him and potentially invite any more reciprocation. Instead, of course, I hear myself asking, “Why?”
“He owns a dealership in North Miami.”
I watch him, surreptitiously of course, as we pull out of the parking lot and onto the street.
It’s busy, throngs of people on the sidewalks, jaywalking with abandon, but Sam is paying just enough attention to avoid mowing anyone down.
He’s got a remarkable profile, handsome like the rest of him, with a blunt nose and a full set of lips.
His Adam’s apple seems to me, as it bobs in a brief swallow, a work of art.
Right, well, I figured out Sam was a good-looking bastard last night.
It’s not much of a surprise. In the light of day, though, it’s all the more obvious.
It’s like the sun loves him, the way it plays off his brown skin and turns it almost golden.
It’s a shame that his aviators cover up those remarkable sable eyes of his.
I wonder how they look in the bright light.
Get it together. I shake my head a little. “And?” I prompt, when he doesn’t go on.
“Oh, well. He’s hoping I’m gonna join him in the business, take over someday. Change the name to Rivero Ford and Son. But I didn’t—I mean, I don’t want to.” He shrugs those broad shoulders of his. “I just do odd jobs for him right now, like deliveries and admin stuff. I don’t want to sell cars.”
“Oh.” As far as family drama goes, this seems tame. I’m biased, though. “I guess that’s awkward.”
“Yeah. And my sisters have all gone off to do their own thing, too. Olivia’s in Cali working on her MBA, and Camila’s about to have her first baby…” He trails off and then glances sidelong at me. “Hey, look out for somewhere to eat, eh? Like a Waffle House or something? I thought you were hungry.”
My cheeks flush. “I am,” I mutter, plastering my face to the window.
I don’t know what a Waffle House even is.
We find a diner within a few minutes that is just as packed as the hotel lobby was. Unsurprising, I guess, because move-in week in Providence is equally crazy because of Brown, though I never got over to the East Side much. Unless a client summoned me there.
And it’s downright claustrophobic, all these people, the relentless throngs everywhere I turn: on the sidewalk and in every establishment, even catching sight of them behind the windows of buildings that we pass.
It’s amping up my paranoia like crazy and I cannot wait until we quit this place.
I am anxious as hell to hit the road, to keep moving.
We finally get a booth and sit, where Sam learns of my aversion to coffee, too, after the waiter pours him a cup.
“Caffeine’s a seizure trigger,” I explain.
He scrunches his face and buries his nose in his own cup. It’s black as his hair and strong, practically singeing my nostrils. “Seems like there’s nothing you can do. Or have.”
I hold my tongue and don’t bother to tell that the potential consequences aren’t worth it.
Hard to explain to people like him, not even worth the energy.
People who are healthy and take that sort of thing for granted, who have never really suffered very much of anything. They don’t get it and they never will.
He’s busy, anyway. He’s brought a big old road atlas from the car in with him and spread it across half the table, seemingly plotting our journey southwards.
I watch him with some interest, mostly because I’ve never bothered trying to read a map before myself.
I can’t drive and whenever I’ve hitched rides I simply asked the driver if they were heading my way.
To me it all looks like a hopelessly tangled mess, the colorful arteries of would-be roads extending into virtual infinity.
“Just go south,” I suggest through a mouthful of waffle.
Sam glances up at me with a wry twist of his mouth. “Sure. I’ll just follow all the signs that say south.”
“It does seem like it would be that easy,” I say gravely.
“And wind up somewhere in the back of beyond in Alabama, I’m sure.” He flips between the pages. “I think we’ll make it to Savannah tonight. In Georgia,” he clarifies, answering the unspoken question that must show in my expression. “Man, you really don’t get out much.”
I shrug. It’s true.
“And then Miami tomorrow tonight,” he goes on. “Easy.” He flips the atlas shut. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
I am immediately wary. Averting my gaze, I push the waffle around my plate in an attempt to soak up more syrup. “I guess so.”
“The seizures.” He clears his throat. “Am I supposed to do something about them? Like, if they happen.”
From the corner of my eye I catch the furrowed brow, creased with concern.
Maybe he is wondering how much of an obstacle I’m about to be to his plans.
“No.” I lift my head and tuck my hair behind my ears.
“Not really. You just have to wait them out. But if I fall, try to make sure I don’t hit my head. If you can help it, I mean.”
“Sure.” He squares up a little at that. “No problem.”
“It’s usually all over in a few seconds, honestly.” I offer him a tentative smile before looking down again, tearing off a piece of my waffle. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not a big deal.”
“But you get these seizures a lot?” He’s cautious in his prodding, concealing a nervousness beneath. The idea of these attacks entice him not at all.
Well, with luck, I won’t have one between now and Miami. It’s only today and tomorrow. I’ve gone longer than that between attacks before.
“Sometimes,” I admit, after a moment. “If I’m in a bad way I can get them a couple times a day. Stress and lack of sleep makes it worse.”
“It sounds like a pain in the ass,” Sam offers dubiously.
“I’ve lived with it my whole life. It’s sort of nothing to me. I mean they aren’t a big deal at all. When they happen. As long as I don’t hit my head, I’m usually okay.”
Sam hums and sets down his coffee. One finger swipes at the syrup left over on his otherwise empty plate.
I catch myself staring as his tongue swirls the tip of his finger.
It’s an innocuous gesture but it feels like a show, the whole act prolonged.
Slow motion, almost. I expect it to rewind and then play again.
When he speaks, I start. “What about the other thing?”
I blink stupidly. “What other…” He pantomimes a gun with his hand, poking at his side and fuck, duh. “Oh. Oh, it’s fine. Still.” Still, from when he checked in a whole half-hour ago. I glance at our plates. “So are we done?” I ask, reaching into my backpack for a wad of cash. “Can we set off?”
“Sure. After we fill up the tank.”
I give Sam gas money as promised, and while he’s inside paying I retrieve the road atlas from the glove box. I find Providence after a minute of searching and calculate its rough distance to New Haven: a hundred miles, give or take. Hardly a finger length. I am nowhere near safe.
Is any distance safe?
But do I really believe Mr. Bigshot will come after me?
There is always a chance, but I figured it pretty slim.
He has a lot more to lose than just a few thousand dollars by doing so—and really, it’s chump change to him.
His otherwise pristine reputation—no marks in his ledger, not to mention the wife and kids—is not worth losing over a wayward hustler.
He never mentioned his family to me specifically. I only knew about them because their giant, perfect portrait hung in the bedroom, where it had borne witness to all manner of acts we’d conducted in his marital bed.
It wasn’t pleasant.
But it never is, I guess. Hustling, I mean.
Fucking for money. I know some find some salacious sort of empowerment in it, or maybe even enjoy it at face value, but I don’t.
I did it because it’s all I’m really good for.
And not because I’m too proud to bag groceries or flip burgers or anything, either.
If anything, I’d say I’m devoid of pride or dignity or any of those things. I would’ve sucked a trucker’s cock, if asked, for a ride. I would’ve sucked Sam’s cock if he’d asked, too. I wouldn’t have even hesitated.
The money is good, though. Not great. But good enough.
And I guess if I have to pick between doing a different job for pennies or a few minutes of pretending I enjoy being fucked for cash, I’ll take the latter. Faking it is pretty easy when I bottom, which I get to do most of the time, and they don’t really care if you’re into it or not.