A Friend in the Dark - Gregory Ashe Page 0,34
West Side, although, fuck, in this city, who the hell even knew—five blocks before he remembered that he’d left his ruck checked with Greyhound. For thirty seconds he stared at an orange Don’t Walk, considering leaving it until tomorrow. Then he thought of what it would be like. Bad enough to sleep on cheap linens, smelling like cheap detergent, only to wake up and wear the same clothes with his sweat and the day’s dirt on them. Sam had a lot of tricks, by this point in his life, for dealing with how his senses betrayed him, but that combination sounded like too much.
He trekked back to Port Authority Bus Terminal. The grayscale darkness shrank in places, pushed back by marquee bulbs or flashing neon signs, and in other places it pressed down like a layer of smoke. On one corner, two guys were passing a joint, laughing loud enough to chase off a trio of women who looked like they were doing their own self-guided Sex and the City tour. Two blocks later, a white girl with locs was packing up her guitar while she argued with another girl over whose turn it was to pay the electric bill. He passed a diner that looked a lot cleaner—almost impersonally antiseptic—than the BlueMoon. And he saw himself in the glass, a ghost, and had the idea of going back, buzzing up to Rufus’s apartment, having a fuck-all fight, really going at it, even though he wasn’t sure what they’d fight about.
He got his bag. He walked the blocks back to the YMCA that Rufus had mentioned. He got a private room, telling himself he’d be good, but he didn’t pay for the private room with the private bathroom, because, fuck, maybe he was going to change his mind about being good.
In the room, he unpacked: the dopp kit, everything organized; a clean white tee, already inside out; a fresh pair of jeans; socks, already inside out. More: travel pods of All Free and Clear; a nub, in its plastic travel case, of Dr. Bronner’s Pure Castile Soap, Baby Unscented; sensitive-skin lube; a condom; his towel with the loose threads on one seam. He stripped, wrapped the towel around his waist, and headed to the bathroom.
A door stood open; inside, two guys lounged on bunk beds. They had to be young, in their twenties, and they had light brown skin. One had a nice beard. The other had a mole on his jaw. The one with the beard was on the bottom bunk, wearing nothing but red CK briefs. Sam couldn’t tell what the one with the mole was wearing—he was on the top bunk—but the guy didn’t have a shirt, and he leaned over the rail to watch Sam.
Sam paused in the doorway. He looked at one. He looked at the other. He waited until the guys looked at each other, and the one with the mole laughed.
No need to smile or nod or raise an eyebrow; Sam just unwrapped the towel, slung it over his shoulder, and kept going down the hall. The bathroom was empty at this hour. He found the handicap-accessible shower with a no-barrier entry and a curtain instead of a door, turned the water to hot, and stepped under the spray.
Two minutes later, the curtain rattled on its rings, and the guy with the mole stepped inside. Naked. Hard. His eyes roving all over Sam. “Hey. I wanted to tell you something. If I rated you from one to ten, you’d be a nine because I’m the one you’re missing.”
It wasn’t really worth answering. Sam tilted his head, inviting the guy under the spray of water.
“Where you from, big guy?” Mole asked, sliding close.
“No talking,” Sam said.
Mole splayed his hands across Sam’s chest and moved them down to his hips. “Why not? You’ve got a sexy voice.”
Planting a hand in the guy’s chest, Sam gave a shove. Not too hard, but hard enough. “No talking. Or leave.”
Mole gave Sam a pout—was that supposed to be cute? But when it clearly didn’t have the desired reaction, he simply turned and pressed back against Sam.
After that, Sam knew how things were supposed to go. He’d done this a lot. A lot of guys. A lot of places. A lot of quiet that filled up with the slap of flesh and a few strangled groans. When he’d finished, he pushed Mole toward the curtain and turned his face into the spray.
Getting out of the shower, Mole wiped wet