Traffick (28 page)

Now the crazy billows in his eyes.

As he starts walking toward me, people

scatter in a wide circle.
No goddamn

whore's gonna talk to me like that.

This one will.
The voice I know so

well falls over my shoulder.
It's two

on one, in case your math isn't good.

I don't dare turn away from the guy

to confirm who it is, but I don't have

to. Alex moves up beside me, locks

my arm, elbow to elbow, plants

her feet. The badger stops, assesses.

“You don't want to mess with her. I

hear she keeps a razor blade ‘up

there.' I know she's got Mace

in easy reach. Better back off.”

It's pepper spray, actually, and

it's evil.
She points a small canister

at the man, who flees.
How'd you

know I had this?
she asks, laughing.

“Good guess?” I turn to hug her.

“God, it's so great to see you.”

I want her to melt, but she freezes.

“How'd you know I was here?”

She pulls out of my arms.
Lenny.

I figured you'd return to the scene

of our crime and was on my way

to the club when I noticed trouble.

I smile. “Funny. It's usually you

attracting trouble. You look good.

You okay? I'm sorry about the baby.”

I am. It was her ticket out of the life.

And suddenly I understand that

this mission will fail. “Gram's picking

me up tomorrow. You can still change

your mind and come with us. Please?”

She avoids looking into my eyes.

Ginger, listen. There's nothing for

me in Barstow but painful memories,

and you are among them. We have no

future together, not even as friends.

You deserve love. I can't give it.

Sex work is the best I can do, and

not only am I good at it, I like it,

at least most of the time. Some of us

are meant to live this way. It's the world's

oldest profession for a reason—there's

a demand. Someone has to supply it.

“It's not the best you can do, Alex.

You're brilliant. Please come home

with me. Don't you get it? You gave

me a reason to live. You saved me.”

Maybe. But you can't save everyone,

and that includes me. Come on. People

are staring. Let's find some coffee, then

get you a cab back to House of Hope.

But not every loss is weighted

equally. When it's someone

you respect, you examine

your own achievements, or

lack

of them. What if it was your

time? What would you leave

behind? Conversely, if you

don't really care for the one

who's given an early out,

perspective

argues maybe he deserved

to go. But when it's a person

you care deeply for,

hovering so close to

death

you can hear the flicker

of the harbinger's wings,

knowing he'll leave this earth

weighted with regret and there

is

nothing you can do

to lighten his burden,

it's hard to accept

that all your attempts

at reconciliation are

meaningless.

Sad that Bud never even

gave poor Seth the chance.

In dreams—some violent, some worse,

because in them, I'm sinking into a slime

of sadness—I come up for air midmorning.

A fist is thumping my face, just above

my left eyebrow, and that eye is swollen

most of the way shut, and now the details

spring from the ether. Shit. Pippa. I have

to go see her. And then, I need a big helping

of Micah. Something beautiful to mitigate

my overdose of hideousness last night.

The world teems with hatred and I think

it gestates in fear of what is different.

But if that's true, how do you explain

the human fascination with the freakish—

sideshows and circuses and even porn,

to some extent, capitalize on and monetize

it. Is it only when you stumble across

the unusual, free, and obviously happy

(maybe even happier than you) that it's

threatening? Is the difference chains?

Makes my body feel better, but it

can't do anything for my face,

the left side of which has swollen up

to the approximate size of a grapefruit.

Ugh. Lovely. No way to disguise it,

I go find David, who is poolside on

a lounge chair beside a hard-bodied

young guy, both wearing nothing

but Speedos and a thick sheen of

suntan oil. The implications are crystal

clear, and what can I do? The word

“celebrate” comes to mind. “Morning.”

David lowers his sunglasses.
Holy

shit. What the hell happened to you?

I have a story, mostly true, prepared.

“Last night was movie night at the center.

We were most of the way through

The Birdcage
when we got a call

from one of the kids that two guys

were following her, and she was afraid

they were going to rape her. By the time

I got there, they were mid-assault,

and when I tried to stop them . . .”

It's a good story, and I expect sympathy.

Instead, David attacks.
Are you stupid

or what? Who do you think you are,

the cavalry? Why didn't you just call

911? In fact, why didn't she? Why

would she expect you to rescue her?

You're lucky they didn't kill both of you.

His companion nods agreement,

which is the most he's moved

since I got here. David reaches over,

settles a hand on the guy's chest.

This is Marco, by the way. I'd thought

maybe we could enjoy a game of tag

team. We waited up for you, but when

you didn't come in by midnight, I was

afraid Marco's magic spell might wear

off. And now . . . I'd try ice if I were you.

And though he didn't say forever,

it sure seems that way. I should be

scared, or at least, torn. But I feel

infused with hope, even if I've no clue

where I'll be tomorrow. One thing I do

know is I won't accept playing tag

team anymore, at least not unless I

initiate the game. David, bless him,

has just unshackled me. I watch him,

fingers combing Marco's chest hair.

Once, that might have turned me on,

made me want to jump in. But now,

it kind of sickens me. “I think icing

my face sounds like a good plan.

And then, if it's okay with you,

I'd like to visit Pippa in the hospital.”

David's free hand waves me away.

Go play Good Samaritan. I've got

other plans.
He leans over to find

his stash, hidden beneath a towel

under his chair. He takes a huge

whiff, offers the small plastic bag

to Marco, ignoring me, which is

totally fine. I'm sick of that shit,

too. Time to make some positive

changes. Resolved, I start toward

the house, then turn back to offer

David two words, well deserved.

“Thank you.” I'm sure he has no

clue why I say them. If he'd bother

to ask, I'd explain: Thank you for

taking me in, for seeing something

in me worthy of rescue. Thank you

for helping me grow closer to being

a man. Thank you for teaching me

that independence is more valuable

than a cocaine-and-caviar lifestyle.

Thank you for allowing me the time

to understand that sex is undervalued

as barter, and that I am worthy of love.

Back inside, I take a few minutes

to absorb the magnificence of the house,

something I've taken for granted

for quite a while, and I know David

must have forgotten what attracted

him to this place originally. Sad, and

what a waste—all these gargantuan

rooms boasting lavish furnishings

and art, yet emptied of the emotions

that make those things truly valuable.

Wonder if all palaces feel this way,

if royals throughout time have always

favored hedonism and narcissism

over love, or if there have, in fact,

been epic romances among the chosen

few. I wander from room to room,

my footsteps the only sounds disturbing

silence so thick it seems to breathe.

Yes, I admire this place. But it embodies

loneliness, and could never truly be home.

Marginally better off than when I

arrived. I stuff an upscale wardrobe

and four pairs of pricey shoes into

my old duffel, along with a nice

electric razor, a decent supply

of expensive toiletries, and the finest

plaque-removing toothbrush money

can buy. My only real valuables—

my phone and laptop—go into

a leather satchel I bought David for

Christmas. Glad this happened now,

before I got the chance to wrap it.

I've got a bank account, and a lot

of cash in my pocket, thanks to last

night's lucrative play. Better make

a deposit, in fact, and I will on the way

to see Pippa. I call for a cab; no more

limos and drivers in my near future.

Then I text Micah to let him know

I'll be stopping by this afternoon.

The thought elicits shivers,

anticipation threading my veins.

We have a chance at a normal

relationship now, but I don't say

so in my message. Don't dare jinx it.

Scares me enough just to think about

it. I consider writing a goodbye note

to David, but ultimately don't. What

if I change my mind? Is it already too

late? Endings are daunting, but every

irrevocable bridge burning initiates

a beginning, and a new direction.

I light the figurative fuse, prepare

to torch this chapter of my life, move

forward, build momentum. As I get

into the cab, carrying all my earthly

possessions in two bags, a strange

word pops into my brain, “strange”

as it applies to me, that is: purify.

That's it. I'll work on purifying Seth.

To make my bank deposit, the cab drops

me off at University Medical Center.

UMC is the go-to hospital in Vegas for

ER patients who look like they might

be uninsured and/or on Medicaid.

At reception, I ask for Pippa Young.

The silver-haired woman studies

her computer.
Pippa? No record

of a Pippa here. Are you sure you have

the right hospital?
She peers at me

over the wire rims of her glasses.

“Maybe it's under Philippa? Or Philip?”

Now she looks annoyed.
You don't know

if it's Philippa or Philip . . . oh. I see.

She tries again.
Oh, yes. Philip. And

what is your name, young man?

She's awfully nosy, isn't she? Still,

I'll be polite. “Seth Parnell.”

Her head bobs up and down.
Very well.

Since Philip named you as his liaison,

you may visit him anytime. If I

might just see some identification?

Apparently, Pippa told them I'm

her partner, something they sanction

as a legitimate spokesperson for

a patient. How progressive! I find

her in a regular room, no ICU, despite

a whole lot of damage, mostly repaired

by some talented emergency room

doctors. If I tried not to look horrified,

I'd fail, so I embrace what I see. “Holy

shit, those fucks did a number on you!”

She wheezes through a rib-shrapnel-

punctured lung.
You don't look so hot,

either, big boy.
Her tiny smile reveals

a missing front tooth.
Except to me.

Thank you. I mean . . . If not for you . . .

Resilience isn't always easy. She reaches

deep inside and finds a little.
I'm afraid

it might be a while before I can dance.

“Yeah, well, about that. I might have

just cut off ties with my choreographer

friend.” I pull a chair over to the side

of the bed, tell her why I've brought

two bags with me. “My mom used to

tell me things happen for a reason.

I'm sorry it had to be something like

this to open my eyes. I'm worth more

than this, Pippa, and so are you, no matter