eyeing him, making suggestions with the banana, and Sam nodded. Beard was totally right.
Sam was fucked.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rufus had measured the length of time that’d passed, sitting on the flipped-down toilet lid until his bony ass fell asleep, by the sounds of life that punctuated the silence of the old tenement. 4B across the hall came home, unlocked her door, and slammed it shut hard enough to rattle the thin walls. She was a waitress at some swanky, is-this-food-or-garnish restaurant rated one of New York City’s Top Ten Must-Eats of the Summer. So it was 10:00 p.m.
Pauly Paul, the permanently stoned neighbor who’d moved into Alvin’s apartment—and even after twenty years, Rufus still thought of 4C as Alvin’s—came home by 10:30 p.m., after the music studio he rented space in to play drums with his band closed for the night.
Rufus heard the echo of Mr. Gonzalez directly below him in 3D. Gonzalez had been the landlord his entire life. Since the time the East Village had been like standing on a different planet, when college girls were being dismembered in bathtubs and grandfathers were shot and robbed for ten bucks and a portable radio. Since Rufus’s mother used to pace the studio floor, smoking her slim ’n sassy Misty Lights into the late hours. Since the day Rufus had been brought home from the hospital by a teen mom who had fuck-all concept of how to care for a newborn child. Gonzalez was in his seventies now, and his hearing was starting to go, so that television downstairs was cranked high enough that Rufus could pick up muffled commercials for toothpaste and reruns of Jeopardy! through the floor.
Rufus would often watch the Game Show Network in the evenings with Gonzalez, when he didn’t want to be alone and had nowhere to go, which was always. It was a way to pass the time, and he enjoyed his landlord’s gruff company. Plus, it tended to be a better decision than drinking his toxic gin alone and waking up the next day with a hangover that made him want to fucking die.
Jeopardy! reruns now put the time just after 11:00 p.m.
Rufus unlocked the bathroom and padded out. The studio was empty of course. He’d listened to Sam leave, shut the door behind himself, and Rufus had counted his steps until they faded from earshot between the fourth and third floors.
He listened to the murmur of the television downstairs for another moment, even took a step in the general direction of the door, but—
It’s just a fuck.
That one throwaway statement had made Rufus so goddamn angry. Sam wasn’t wrong, though. Of course it was just a fuck. They hardly knew each other and there was no emotion involved. That was on par with what Rufus’s sex life consisted of—hookups where he could get it, with men he hardly knew. So why had those words cut so deep that the marrow of his bones felt disturbed?
Sam Auden.
Because Rufus had learned his name, perhaps. And because he’d not lied to Sam.
“What’s your last name? Your real one, I mean.”
“O’Callaghan.”
In retrospect, that moment of naked honesty had already fucked Rufus over.
Jake’s death was like a candle had been snuffed out and Rufus was left in the dark. He was blindly stumbling around a city that had no time or place for him, frantic for attention, affection, and for a moment—a single moment—Sam had hit the spark wheel on a lighter and Rufus could see again.
He wanted to be something to someone. Something more than just a fuck. And Sam thought he was cute. Sam had bought him lunch. Sam had trusted Rufus, if only briefly.
The utter desperation Rufus felt, to think anyone—Sam—would give a petty thief like himself even a second glance was so humiliating that he couldn’t bear the thought of sitting with Gonzalez. His landlord would read something in his expression and just confirm what Rufus already knew: he wasn’t worth loving.
And that thought….
“Jesus fucking Christ Almighty.” Rufus grabbed the bottle of gin from atop the fridge and sat down on the bed. He unscrewed the top, let it fall to the floor, and took a swig directly from the bottle.
Audience applause echoed through the floorboards.
Sunlight found its way through the one broken blind and stabbed Rufus directly in the left eye. He winced and grabbed his head as a headache akin to a pickax driving into his brain greeted him good morning. Rufus rolled onto his side and slowly sat up. The empty gin