18. Scott
EIGHTEEN
SCOTT
The train disappears behind us with a rumble as Naz and I climb the stairs back to street level.
I check my phone again when we make our way back to street level, waiting for a message to come through.
I’m not sure what to do other than wait for the next instruction since they changed the game plan last minute.
It feels like we’re going on a wild goose chase, but it’s not like I have a choice but to follow through at this point.
I’m trained to stay calm in every situation, but that doesn’t stop me from looking over my shoulder every other minute, half expecting to recognize someone or see if we’re being followed. So far there’s been nothing, but that doesn’t do much to settle my nerves.
The city greets us all at once as we step out onto the sidewalk.
Horns blare, music plays, people call out and try to draw attention to various events, sales, and rants.
Thousands of conversations blend into a constant hum that bounces off every glass building around us.
As much time as I’ve spent in New York and large cities around the world, I don’t think I’ve ever been quite this aware of how many people can occupy the same block at the same time.
I keep one hand laced with Naz’s as we move with the crowd, my eyes constantly shifting from face to face, tracing over every window, corner, and kiosk on the street.
Every person lingering too long catches my attention.
Every parked vehicle looks suspicious. Every camera or phone is another possibility that someone could be filming us.
Noticing a crowd gathered around a group of street performers, I figure that’s as good a place as any to blend in while waiting for the next instruction. After all, Times Square is one of the few places in the world where two people can disappear simply by standing still.
“What are we doing?” Naz asks quietly beside me.
“Waiting.”
He studies me, but doesn’t push. I continue scanning the crowd, trying not to be too obvious. If someone is watching us, the last thing I want is for them to realize I’ve noticed.
Meanwhile, I pretend to watch the street performers.
Music from half a dozen plastic buckets, battered metal trash cans, and an array of pots and pans lined up in the middle of the sidewalk provide the soundtrack to this chaos.
The performers move with effortless rhythm, doing flips and stunts, spinning drumsticks between their fingers before bringing them crashing down.
The beat is infectious, drawing cheers and applause from the crowd packed shoulder to shoulder around them.
It’s the kind of performance that demands attention whether you want to give it or not.
“Um, excuse me,” a woman says next to me, looking up at me with curious eyes. “Are you… Oh my God, you’re him, aren’t you?”
She nudges the guy next to her. “Chad, look! It’s—”
“Holy shit, he looks like that bodyguard.”
Several people are now turning towards me rather than watching the entertaining show right in front of them. The woman squints, then her eyes shift next to me. To Naz. Her eyes widen comically, and she brings a hand to her mouth.
She gasps. “Oh my God! And they’re together,” she adds, like it’s something to fawn about.
“Ma’am, please. We’re just here to watch the show. Just like everyone else…”
But it’s too late. Phones come out, fingers are pointed, murmurs get louder as the circle starts to form around us instead of the actual performance.
“That’s fucking Naz Lester!”
“No way!”
“Seriously, the Naz Lester?”
“We love you Naz!”
“LIM is my favorite band! You guys rock!”
The music falters for all of half a beat as one of the performers looks over, eyes widening in recognition.
“Yo! Tell me that’s actually Naz!” he calls out to the people between us. A path opens for the performer to get a good enough view.
“Oh shit!”
Naz smiles, the brim of my ball cap still low over his eyes, and lifts his hand in a short, casual acknowledgement.
The performer twirls a pair of drumsticks between his fingers before pointing them at Naz. “You wanna play?”
The crowd erupts.
I expect Naz to wave him off, but then I see the twitch in his fingers, the way he bites his lip like he’s giving it serious consideration.
“Come on, man!”
All the performers are noticing what the excitement is about, shouting and clapping to get the crowd chanting Naz! Naz! Naz!
A drumstick flies through the air straight at Naz, followed by a second. He catches them cleanly. The moment the wood settles into his hands, something in him visibly changes. It’s like he comes alive.
Giving me a one-shouldered shrug, he takes off the hat to thunderous applause, winks at me, then runs into the circle, fingers twirling the drumsticks so fast they’re hard to see.
The moment he jumps next to one of the guys beating on a huge metal drum, it’s like each hit of the sticks in his hand sheds a pound of weight from his shoulders.
He falls into rhythm as though he’d been rehearsing with them all day.
He jumps from makeshift instrument to makeshift instrument, the excitement of the crowd reaching a fever pitch when the performers roll out what looks like a standard drum kit, except it’s made of pots and pans, trash can lids, and a huge barrel with canvas stretched tight over the opening.
They present it to Naz like he’s royalty, and a huge grin lights up his face.
The moment his ass touches the overturned bucket, he goes to town, his hands and arms fast at work in what might be one of the more impressive drum solos of his career.
He flows from his wild solo moment into something more like what the performers were playing before, all of them getting in on the rhythm.
It’s messy the way all live music is. Nobody’s trying to be perfect.
They’re just listening to one another, trading the beat back and forth until it becomes bigger than any one person.
The crowd loves it. The performers are loving it.
Naz loves it.
I wonder if he knows how hard he’s smiling. Or has it simply been too long since he’s had this much fun doing what he loves the most. His last few performances were overshadowed by protestors and violence, riot police, and bullshit charges.
For these precious few moments, he isn’t carrying the weight of all that pressure, his grandparent’s health, the investigation, or even me.
He’s just playing.
Watching him like this makes it painfully easy to remember why I fell in love with him. Not because he’s famous. Not even because he’s talented, but because when Naz Lester allows himself to be exactly who he is, the whole world brightens.
My phone vibrates, reality crashing back all at once.
I pull it from my pocket and check the message. It’s my next instruction, and hopefully another step closer to being done with this whole thing.
Catching Naz’s eye, I lift my phone. He nods, understanding immediately.
Seamlessly, he transitions from playing with both hands to one, spinning a drumstick through his fingers with his free hand.
Then, with one last hit, he tosses them both up in the air.
The performers on either side of him catch the sticks like it was planned, and Naz stands to take a bow.
He mouths thank you to the performers who are still playing, bows again to the audience, gives a little wave, then turns on his heel to run the other way.
I make my way around the outside of the crowd. “Duty calls,” I say. “Thanks for a good time. We have to be going now!”
Shockingly, only a handful of people follow, holding their phones up to catch our retreat, but they don’t follow for long.
I catch up with Naz, grasping the back of his arm and steering him to a quiet, shadowy corner. Naz is breathing hard, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one is on our tail, absolutely beaming.
“That was fun,” he says breathlessly.
“You’re incredible.”
I can’t help myself. I press him against the wall for a brief but deep, dirty kiss.
“Alright, alright, get off me,” I say, pushing myself off him. “We’ve got serious shit to attend to first.”
Naz laughs for perhaps the first time today, then follows me back into the river of people to once again lose ourselves in the crowd.
By the time we reach our final location, I’m wet, tired, and irritated because I know now that this whole thing has been nothing more than an elaborate excuse to waste my time.
Instead of a ten-minute drive, we have endured a grand adventure across the city, zig-zagging all over the streets of Manhattan, taking multiple redundant subway rides, and getting caught in another downpour between the last two stops.
All to end up at the exact address I was sent to when this all began.
Was this all to fuck with me? Or did they do this on purpose to throw me off my game and make sure I wasn’t being followed?
Naz has trudged along this entire time, never once complaining. If anything, after the street performance, he’s been a lot lighter. Meanwhile, I’ve felt heavier every step of the way, wondering what will happen at the end of this journey.
We’re about to find out.
Rain beats steadily against the umbrella we bought at a bodega as I look up at the address on the storefront of a souvenir shop and the self-service luggage locker facility next to it.
Tourists weave in and out of the automatic doors, chattering excitedly in various languages, complaining about the rain, pulling crying children behind them.
They come and go like this is a normal day.
Like there isn’t the possibility of something dangerous lurking around every corner.
I glance at Naz, then at a small alcove near the window at the front of the building. Leading him over, I press the handle of the umbrella into his hand and push him into the corner a bit more, where he won’t be as conspicuous.
“I need you to stay right here.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were going to be the dog.”
“I’m serious.”
Naz sighs. “I know.”
“I mean it, don’t move.”