Chapter 7 Sam
SAM
The sound of distant sirens pierces the night as we stumble out into the parking lot.
I’m making a beeline towards the motel across the intersection, but with surprising strength, Ash yanks me in a different direction.
One panicked glance at his face tells me, okay, yeah, stupid idea—stupid, if someone sees us we’re just sitting fucking ducks.
So off we go in a different direction, a random one, across the street and into some parkland and then through someone’s backyard.
Sticks and leaves crunch beneath our feet, and we exchange no words, only harsh, heavy panting.
And when Ash stumbles, I catch him with deft ease, pulling him along until he regains his footing again.
The sirens only seem to get louder as if they know which direction we’re going and are following us, have an APB out on us already somehow.
Small town pigs and their prejudices that probably match up roughly with the men who accosted us in the first fucking place, and I know better than to interface with cops like that.
But that’s just in my head. That they’re following us, I mean.
Or this town just isn’t big enough for us to escape the all-encompassing wail, not on foot, even though it feels like we’re flying, everything a blur all around me and both of us gripping each other’s hands like lifelines, Ash’s fingers sweaty and hot in mine.
We at last tumble across a small, empty playground at the end of a gravel road.
It’s full dark by now, the only illumination coming orange and dull from a nearby streetlamp.
I double over, blowing hard, as Ash falls flat out onto the grass.
His chest rises and falls rapidly and I’m worried he’s gonna do that thing again, where he just collapses.
“You okay?” I manage, winded as I am. “Still with me?”
He nods. But his face is taut, stiff, even as hard as he’s panting, and I can tell he’s in pain.
I drop to my knees beside him and even before I ruck his shirt up I know he’s bleeding again, can smell it.
It’s oozing out from beneath the gauze, which is soaked through now, running down his slender flank.
“Dammit.” I cover him up again. “That’s a mess.”
“Later problem.” He closes his eyes. “That was a shit show back there.”
“You’re telling me.”
“You shouldn’t have said anything, Sam.”
“What? And let him just fuck with you instead? How would that have been any better?” I sit back and shake my head. “Piece of shit got what he deserved.”
“But—”
There’s the tell-tale crunch of gravel beneath tires and neither of us need anymore prompting than that.
I grab Ash’s arms and haul him to his feet and we both plunge into a clump of bushes behind the swing set.
He tumbles into my lap, and I clap a hand over his mouth as he claps a hand over mine, our chests heaving against each other’s as an unmarked Crown Vic rolls through.
I try to look over Ash’s shoulder, peering through the leaves.
Two cops emerge, one with a flashlight, and he swings it around sort of aimlessly.
There’s not many places to hide on the playground—there’s a small jungle gym, some swings and a see-saw, and not much else.
Bouncy horses on springs, a sandbox. The bushes are their best bet to look.
They don’t, though. A few lazy sweeps around the playground equipment while standing stock still seems to be enough for them.
“Don’t see nothing,” one of them finally says in a disinterested sort of way, as if they’ve already given up, and they both retreat to the car.
They execute a five million point turn before disappearing back down the gravel drive.
We both sag in relief, the anxious laughter bubbling up as our hands drop. Ash lets out his breath, and his forehead tips against my shoulder. I can feel his heart beating against mine.
“That,” he mumbles into my shirt, “is why you shouldn’t have done anything.”
“Nah,” I say. “No way. Definitely worth it just to see you clock him upside the head. That was dope.”
He lifts his head and looks at me. He hasn’t moved off my legs, but I haven’t really encouraged him.
It’s a hot, moist night, and we’re both sticky and sweaty, breathing fast still.
The way the light from the streetlamp filters through the leaves casts an interesting pattern on his fair face, almost mesmerizing, and his damp hair clings to his cheeks.
Arousal, unmistakable, is beginning to pool low in my stomach like warm honey.
Something I should stop and refute and refuse but it feels kinda futile at this point, my body’s made a decision without me, brain’s lagging to catch up, make sense of it all, that this is happening—is it happening? Am I whatever this is?
He is pretty. And I am attracted to him; that’s true.
When his fingers grasp my chin I think, for a sec, he’s actually about to kiss me.
Lift my face and—what? Do that? Am I…? Could I…
? What happens in fifty miles outside of Fayetteville stays fifty miles outside of Fayetteville?
Is he even gay? I think my lips even part, maybe, in the anticipation of this, my hands coming up to rest on either thigh, slide up to his hips—
And then he turns my head to the side. Examining the damage. “Sucker nailed you good, though,” he remarks.
Sike!
I take my hands right the fuck off of him. I plant them back on the dirt. “How bad is it?” My voice even cracks. Holy shit, I hate myself. I think about how good it would be if I could teleport into the ocean.
“This spot by your eye is gonna bruise, I think.” The pad of his thumb brushes my swollen lower lip. “Didn’t lose any teeth, did you?”
I only realize now how much my face does hurt, actually. I must look like total shit. “No.”
“That’s good. Be a shame if you messed up your nice smile.” Ash stops touching me but I’m still stuck on the compliment. He thinks my smile is nice? Or maybe he’s just saying that? “Maybe there’s an ice machine back at the motel?” he goes on. “For the swelling.”
“As if. The place is a whopping point-five stars.” I jerk my head. “Um, we should get out of the bushes. They’re probably loaded with ticks.”
That’s enough to send him scrambling off me, and we both emerge from the brush, much more scraped up than we entered.
I fumble for my pack of Camels while Ash goes to sit on one of the swings.
The rusty chains creak and rattle as he does and I start, dropping the cigarettes on the ground. I’m a disaster right now.
“Think we should head back?” I ask. My voice sounds weird, still.
Ash tilts his head. Listening for more sirens, maybe. “Give it a few.”
“Think they’re gonna ask that kid at the motel about us? I mean, we are out-of-towners.”
“I don’t know.” He sounds sort of worried. “So are lots of people at the motel. Right?”
But none that look quite like us, I’m thinking.
I don’t say that, though. I jam a cigarette in my mouth and the lighter finally catches after a few tries; it’s low on fluid, I think.
I take a long drag and turn, looking around.
I don’t know where we are, exactly, but we didn’t run that far and tracing our steps back to the intersection can’t be that difficult, even in the dark.
It probably is the only stoplight in town.
“Sam—” Ash gets my attention again and I cut my gaze towards him. His fingers are wrapped around the chains. “I’m sorry about—what happened back there. What those assholes said to you.”
“Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything.”
“Yeah, but…”
“Is this a collective white guilt thing?” I walk over and lean against the swing set’s rusty metal frame. “It’s fine, Ash. It’s not the first time some dude’s said some stupid shit to me. Quit saying sorry.”
“I dunno. Sor—” He rubs his face. “Fuck. I mean—”
“You’ve had a day, eh?” I hesitate, then say, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry they picked on you, too. Like, just because a guy has long hair it makes him gay? It’s so dumb.”
Ash makes a sort of strangled sound. Before I can ask what’s wrong, he says, “Can I have a cigarette?”
With much more grace this time, I extract the pack and hand him one.
The lighter is a different story, though.
Neither of us can get it to work. I knew I should’ve picked up a new one at the last gas station, but it feels weird spending Ash’s money, even if he offered, even if it’s part of the deal.
“Wait,” I tell him. “Hold still.”
Obediently he sits, face turned up expectantly as I lean down to light the end of his cigarette with mine.
It catches him off-guard and he jerks his head, so I have to grab his jaw to hold him in place.
The small sound he makes in the back of his throat reignites that syrupy desire of mine all over again.
This shouldn’t feel so intimate but it does, good as a kiss but over way too quick, with no real excuse to linger, either. To keep touching him.
No, I let him go as soon as his smoke’s lit. He’s inhaled too sharply, I guess, sputtering and coughing and ruining the whole moment, really. “Don’t die,” I say, bemused.
He wheezes. “You surprised me.”
“How else was I gonna light it? The lighter’s dead.” And as a testament to this I chuck it off somewhere into the darkness. I don’t even hear it land. “Get a new one tomorrow.”
Ash rests his forehead against the swing’s chain, cigarette between his fingers.
They aren’t delicate, necessarily. Smaller than mine, but they look kinda rough, like they’ve seen and known no small amount of work.
Little faint scars here and there, across the knuckles and fine tendons along the back of his hands.
They remind me, a little, of those scars I saw on his arms. They aren’t identical. I don’t even think they’re from the same source. They just put me in mind of them, is all.
“Sam…you know that movie that came out earlier this year? The Birdcage?”