Road Trip

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

Day 2, Thursday

It wasn’t just the way the sun glinted off the chrome or the brilliance of the car’s finish, it was the entire aura of the automobile that caught everyone’s eye. It drew people by the dozens, be it at the pier, the beach, or even the Denny’s that Boyd ate breakfast at. The men asked questions they hoped made it sound like they knew what they were talking about, and the women came to flirt as if the car was some kind of bizarre extension of his c**k. Not that Boyd minded. He had nothing against women. His preferences just ran a little stronger in the other direction. There’d been one promising moment during his jaunt through L.A. when Boyd had thought he was being hit on by a well-oiled, nicely muscled, slightly-over-blond-ed local that Boyd had to keep reminding not to lean on the car. Until the sweet thing had told Boyd it would only cost him sixty bucks for a blowjob. That had been the point Boyd had dryly pointed out that it didn’t cost him a dime to jerk off, but that he’d be sure to keep the young man in mind when he did. Boyd had gotten quite a bit of amusement out of the unimpressed look he was offered in return for the statement.

He stayed in Los Angeles longer than he’d intended, not pulling back on to the interstate until the daylight was fading. In hindsight, L.A. had been worth the delay. It was a city he’d remember and one he wanted to come back to. Besides, he could make up the time in Vegas. He had his doubts there would be much he’d want to see there, anyways.

He donned shades against the early evening sun, popped in a track of Del Shannon, turned up the volume, opened both windows wide, and drove the car hard. The engine thrummed and the speakers cooed, both working in time to drown out Boyd’s voice while he tried to hit notes he should not have. Though his original plan had been to reach Vegas by dinner, it didn’t take him long to recognize how wrong he would have been to approach the city during daylight hours. Vegas, he thought, should definitely be viewed for the first time at night. The lights were dazzling, everything moved and shone, and blinked and beckoned. He watched it all with fascination, reminding himself again and again to watch the insanely crowded roadway and be cautious of the car, until he got so frustrated that he went in search of secure parking. He paid an outrageous seventy bucks for a lot outside of the center just to avoid the valets. There was no way, no chance, and no circumstance where anybody, anywhere was driving his baby. Ever.

He didn’t need to convince himself that he wasn’t going to gamble, he already had zero interest in that concept. Life was too much of a gamble itself for Boyd’s liking. What he did want to do was watch other people gamble. He wanted to shake his head while confident fingers laid down what he’d pay for a month’s rent on a single roll of the dice. He wanted to see well-trained hookers parody innocence while draped over the arms of tourists. What he hadn’t been prepared to see however, was the angst.

For every smiling face there were ten more frowning. There were far fewer happy couples than singles, and far more monotonous reach-and-stabs towards buttons and screens than there were hands searching out other hands. The gambling floors milled with people but seemed entirely void of life. It took Boyd all of an hour to decide he’d seen enough. He grabbed a coffee—his plan to drive out of the city for an hour or so, then pull over and sleep in the back seat—and was heading back to the street when he saw the boy.

Boyd could have sworn the kid was going to be turned away when the young man had his I.D. checked at the door. It was the kid’s body language that bespoke of youth: the fists gripped nervously at his sides, the flicking eyes, and the tension in his spine. He was one of those types that even with the disheveled clothing and the blond strings of hair falling out of his ponytail, he still managed to somehow look unbelievably sexy, and if that didn’t scream “too young,” nothing did. The boy wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short either, topping out at around five-eight in Boyd’s estimation, and he was the kind of slim that Boyd’s mother would have called “all points and edges.” Whether that could be associated with the worn state of his clothing or had more to do with needles or illness, Boyd would not make judgment on. Yet the strong posture and seemingly healthy teeth that worked the kid’s lower lip didn’t give Boyd the indication of a tweaker. If Boyd was going to take a guess on it, Boyd would say that it wasn’t addiction fueling the nervousness in the young man’s eyes. Desperation, yes; but not for a fix.

Boyd told himself to walk away. As the young man was handed back his I.D. and walked through the doors, as he slowly relaxed his fists and began the process of smoothing out a crumpled bill, Boyd told himself not to watch. When the kid took a deep breath and walked to the center of the entranceway, to the ‘one-shot at a thousand’ machine, Boyd’s mind flailed at Boyd’s body for leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms over his chest, still watching intently. While the beaten five was fed into the machine and the young man hugged his own body, Boyd waited. It took a full minute for the kid to get up the nerve to punch the button and activate the play. Boyd saw what could only be a prayer get whispered to whichever god the young man felt was listening, and within seconds Boyd saw that prayer get denied.

To measure the kid’s response as disappointment would have been an understatement. Weight appeared to drop on the kid’s shoulders at unmanageable levels. His pretty face went void of every emotion except resignation. It was the kind of look, Boyd thought, that animals got when they knew they were being led into the slaughterhouse.

Boyd wasn’t consciously aware he’d pushed off the wall and had started walking towards the kid until he bumped into a group of young women giggling their way through the lobby. The giggles became flirtatious as Boyd apologized and side-stepped, and even though the exchange took place only steps away from the young man, the kid’s expression didn’t change. Nor did the kid turn eyes their way to see what was going on or acknowledge that someone was advancing.

Boyd couldn’t have said why he was bothering. But one of the few things Boyd knew for certain was that if someone was bleeding and you had a bandage, it didn’t hurt to hand it over. Karma was best left satisfied when possible. He realized too late that he hadn’t taken the time to think about what he’d say when he got there, though. So, Boyd just tried the first thing that came to mind. “That looked like it hurt.”

The kid didn’t turn right away. He stared at the symbols in front of him long and hard. He sucked back a sniffle, and then a breath. When he did finally look over, the dark circles under his eyes were even more obvious. So were the bruises along the left side of his neck—four perfect finger marks—that Boyd had not seen previously.

“I’m fine.” The kid smiled without emotion. “Thanks.”

Boyd didn’t mean to speak again. He should have just taken the kid’s brush-off for what it was, nodded, and walked away. In any normal situation, he would have; one shot, one try, then accept defeat gracefully. But Boyd’s reply came without thought. “I doubt that.”

The kid’s smile drooped into a frown and he shrugged. “Yeah, well, whatever. Unless you got a thousand bucks you want to throw away or a jet hidden somewhere, your doubt isn’t going to change a f*****g thing.”

“Nope.” Boyd shook his head. “I definitely don’t have either of those.” He softened his face into a smile that he hoped didn’t look too creepy. “Not that I would’ve minded helping you out if I could have. Sorry about that.”

The kid clucked his tongue and leveled his gaze on Boyd’s. “No, I’m sorry. Because you obviously got the wrong guy, pal. I’m not a w***e. Go try the strip.”

Boyd blinked, stunned at the cold distaste that had fallen over the kid’s face, and chilled the kid’s tone. “I never…Wait, what?” Boyd c****d his head and frowned. “Look, buddy. I’m just trying to be nice. You look like you got a f**k-ton of problems and I thought a smile might help.” He held up his hands and backed up a step. “My mistake.”

The kid shook his head, half-laughed, half-choked and tightened the hold he had on his chest. “Whatever. No worries.”

Boyd didn’t get a chance to say anything further. The kid pushed past him and fled the building.

“Shit.” Boyd sighed, and for the millionth time in his life Boyd cursed the fact that his momma hadn’t raised him to up and walk away when he smelled trouble. Being snubbed while trying to be flirty was one thing to walk away from, but seeing real trouble lurking and not doing anything about it was just all kinds of asking for trouble later on.

Body stepped quickly through the lobby, tracing the kid’s path, hating himself for the fact that he was hoping and praying the kid would have disappeared into the crowd.

He hadn’t. The kid sat at the end of a bench in front of the casino with his knees tucked up, arms around them and his chin propped on top. A warm breeze cast unknown scents into the air and wove through the strings of blond hair that had escaped the kid’s hair tie. Strobes of lights ran up and down his body, rainbows of racing color. Commotion milled around the both of them—people chatted, paper-pushers hollered, cars revved, and music played. Yet still the kid looked up with the sixth sense of a cowering dog as Boyd approached and slid on to the seat beside him.

“You all right?”

The youthful expression was back in the kid’s face as he shook his head, all adolescent anguish and childlike remorse. “I just want to go home.”

The admission was unsettling, heart-breaking, even. It was spoken with the tone of an inmate on death row. He might as well have said he just wanted it to be over.

“I can get you a coffee,” Boyd offered.

The kid gave him a look with far more resignation than anger. “I’m not going to let you f**k me.”

Boyd smiled. “Yeah, I get that. I’m just saying, whatever you’re running from will be a lot easier to avoid back there in that coffee shop than it will out here on the street. At least for a little while.” Boyd ignored the kid’s frown and shook the cup he held in his hand. “Mine’s almost gone and I got some driving to do yet. I won’t mind the company if you won’t.”

The young man looked at him once, then twice, and then shook his head as if arguing with himself. “I guess I could go for a coffee.”

* * * *

There were hardly any other patrons in the little shop at the corner of the entrance to the casino. Most of the gamers seemed to prefer their drinks enhanced with alcohol if the busy servers and the lineups at the carts were any indication. The benches were hard, no doubt to discourage long delays from the tables and the slots, but the coffee was palatable, and the lights were bright. It was the kind of lighting that brought out the things that remained hidden while under the dimmed, yet somehow still brilliant lights of the casino: bruises, exhaustion, the way clothing hung over thin, slumped shoulders.

“Can I get you something to eat?” Boyd asked, his question immediately declined with a shake of head. Boyd didn’t argue, even though his tongue burned with its need to insist. Instead, Boyd tried, “Can I maybe get your name then?”

With a frown the kid reached up, dug his fingers into what must have been a sore shoulder muscle if his grimace was any indication, but he sighed, and answered. “Oliver.”

Boyd grinned, visions of wayward wandering orphans instantly coming to mind. “Is that your real name or your street kid handle?”