Cruising on Cary Street

Cruising on Cary Street By J.M. Snyder Monday, quarter after midnight, downtown Richmond. Neon lights glisten like wet paint off the cars parked along the cobbled streets of Shockhoe Slip. As off-duty police officer Willis Moore eases his 350Z Coupe down the narrow street, those same lights slide over his polished red hood and tinted windows like ephemeral flames, dancing over the car and disappearing behind him into the night. His side windows are down, his bass is pumping, and dark sunglasses hide his eyes. Here, he is anonymous, just another soul among those huddled in doorways or perched in the glow of streetlamps. The heavy hip-hop beat blaring from his speakers turns a few heads, but most aren’t interested in his passing. They have their own lives to worry about and can spare no time for his. Will appreciates that mentality. Lately, he hasn’t had much interest in his own life, either. It’s been a hellacious day for him. The first time back to work after a forced, month-long leave, and when five o’clock finally rolled around, Will was ready to call it quits. He didn’t know what to expect, but wasn’t ready for the fake smiles, the inane small talk, the whispered conversations that stopped when he came into a room. Men he worked with for years now went out of their way to avoid him. When he tried to dive into a new case, he was told to take it easy, give himself time to get back into the swing of things. Hell, he gave enough time already. He wants, needs, to move on. Ahead, a stop light flickers from amber to red. Will toys with the idea of not stopping—who’d notice? Who’d care? But the upstanding citizen in him hits the brakes at the last second, throwing him forward in his seat. Instinct causes his hand to stray to the volume knob on the radio; at the last minute, he catches himself before he can turn it down. Despite the nagging headache behind his eyes, he cranks the knob the other way. The car shudders beneath the increased beat. Will glances out the driver’s side window. Two women stand on the curb, mini-skirts hiked up to reveal tanned thighs, halter tops straining over ample breasts. One Asian, one Hispanic, neither Will’s flavor of choice. They giggle and wave, but he turns back to the street and guns his engine, waiting for the light to change. Sorry, girls. From the corner of his eye, he sees movement out the passenger side window. He glances that way, sees a cluster of young men leaning against the side of an old movie theater, and takes his foot off the gas as he does a double take. Now that’s more like what he has in mind. There are five of them in all, the youngest probably not yet eighteen. They wear tight shorts and torn T-shirts that expose smooth, flat abdomens. Dyed hair spikes above dark eyeliner-rimmed, haunted eyes. Crotches bulge obscenely. Black leather ties form makeshift bracelets along pale arms. One kid wears a battered army jacket; another dribbles a scuffed basketball. Two have already paired off, rubbing against each other and snickering between stolen kisses as they move away from the others. But the one Will notices, the one he lowers his shades to get a better look at, stands by himself at the front of the group. He has translucent skin that seems to glow in the lamplight, as if he hasn’t seen the sun in years. His black hair shines almost blue in the night, the short bangs framing his face and ears in a pixie cut. He wears a silver mesh tank top cropped above his navel and a pair of black biker shorts pulled down low over bony hips. Will finds his gaze drawn to the flat planes of that bare stomach, the thin muscles taut and lean, the skin luminous against the shadows. A car horn blares behind him—the light changed. Will hits the gas and shoots through the intersection, mind lingering on the scantily clad hustler and his friends. At the next block, without making a conscious decision about it, Will turns and circles back for a second look. Damn. You shouldn’t, he tells himself, but his body doesn’t listen. His blood rises at the sight of exposed white flesh, and when he closes his eyes, he can well imagine his own dark fingers splayed over that pale midriff like the shadows themselves. You didn’t even see his face, a voice inside him mutters. Will doesn’t care. He’s been driving for hours, ever since he left the precinct, and for what? For this. Some part of him needs this, he knows. Why else would he be in the Slip, cruising the street? Music blaring, sunglasses on, an erection throbbing at his crotch? He needs release. That damn voice in his mind won’t let up. This is Tea all over again. Will turns the radio up in an attempt to drown it out, but it doesn’t work. You find another street rat like that, pick him up, take him home, clean him up, and what happens next? Where’s Tea now? Dead. Will grips the steering wheel tight and leans forward as he takes the next turn. He isn’t thinking about Teabag anymore—that part of his life was over, done with, case closed. It’s been a month already. Tonight is an escape, a way to move out of the past, a way to move on. And Will suspects a good, solid f**k is all he need to do just that. Back on Cary Street again, Will slows as he approaches the hustlers’ block. This time he pulls over a bit, out of the flow of traffic, so he won’t be rushed. The guys come into view and Will slows the car. A few of them elbow each other, nodding his way. Then the guy in the silver mesh turns and watches him come to a complete stop. Will sits back in the driver’s seat to wait. It doesn’t take long. Within a few minutes, the guy breaks away from his friends and drifts to the passenger side of Will’s car. As he approaches, Will turns the radio down to a mere whisper. Leaning onto the open window, the guy flashes Will an easy grin. “Hey, dude,” he drawls. His voice has a raw quality to it, as if he spent the previous evening screaming himself hoarse at a concert. “See something you like?” This close, Will notices the guy’s younger than he originally thought. Closer to Tea’s age, maybe, barely a man… An image of Teabag flashes in his mind, superimposing itself over the hustler’s features. Freckles dot clear skin, the black hair turns a deep shade of russet, those green eyes deepen to a warm brown. The wide grin is replaced with a crooked one, thrown off by an eyetooth once broken in a club fight. Will hears Teabag’s smoked-out voice when the hustler speaks. “I know you want me, Detective. And s**t, I want you. So what’s it to anyone else if we get our groove on, you know?” With a shake of his head, Will chases away that memory. Teabag disappears, leaving only the guy before him. Perhaps this isn’t such a good idea after all. Putting the car into gear, Will starts, “Sorry, kid. You’re not even legal—” “I’m twenty-three,” the hustler answers. “Don’t go. I like black guys and you’re kind of cute. It’s been a slow night.” Will glances at the other hustlers, but they’re calling out across the street to the girls on the opposite corner and aren’t about to encroach on their friend’s trick. The guy leans on Will’s car. “I saw you looking.” When Will doesn’t answer, the hustler straightens up and steps back, giving him a good eyeful. Large hands smooth down the mesh top over his belly, then dip into the waistband of his biker shorts to cup the c**k hidden in his pants. As Will watches, a flick of those wrists has the shorts down and his d**k out, both hands kneading his balls as the blind eye of his cockhead rises in Will’s direction. A shuffled step brings him to the side of the car, and that long, thin d**k dangles through the open window invitingly. Will clenches the steering wheel to keep from reaching out. He watches strong hands stroke the length, teasing it erect. The guy moans as he fondles himself, hips humping against the side of the car as if he’s f*****g the vehicle itself. The way those fingers dance along the hardening shaft make Will’s balls draw up with desire, and his own c**k aches to be touched like that. It’s been way too long. With a glance around to assure himself no one’s watching, Will hits the release for the automatic lock. “Get in the car.” Instantly, the shorts come up again and the c**k disappears. The door opens and the hustler falls into the passenger seat, a knowing grin in place. He looks much too young for Will’s taste, and twenty-three is a good ten years his junior, but in the dark, age doesn’t matter. If the guy has a tight hole and knows how to f**k, that’s all Will wants. Releasing the clutch, Will pulls away from the curb and hits the button to raise the windows. Tinted glass rises around them, blocking out the street life. “You got a name?” Will asks as he pushes the car through the gears, heading for a high speed. “And buckle up.” “Yes, officer.” Will glances at the guy sharply. Did he know? Nothing in the guy’s face gives it away, so Will writes it off as an innocent comment, a joke. As the hustler cinches the seat belt into place, he asks, “You have a name you want me to use? Or just my own?” Teabag, that voice in Will’s head whispers, but he shakes it away. No. Tea is gone. Now that the car has hit a decent speed, Will cranks the radio back up again and shouts to be heard over the music. “Your own.” “Corey. I hate to bring this up, but do you want to hear my price list? Or do you have something specific in mind?” Will hates this part. For a moment he considers pulling over, dumping the guy out on his ass on the street, let him hike it back to his friends and b***h about the trick who dicked him over. But until Corey spoke to him, Will didn’t realize how alone he feels. How much he wants this guy’s touch, how much he needs it. Even if it costs him. Without taking his eyes off the road, he hopes he sounds nonchalant when he asks, “You do bottom, right?” A warm hand covers his on the gear shaft. Strong fingers fold into his palm, then guide his hand into Corey’s lap. Will brushes over soft skin like velvet beneath his touch—the shorts are down again, tucked beneath Corey’s balls. On their own, Will’s fingers encircle that long shaft, a rod of iron in his palm, silk-sheathed, smooth and hard. His thumb traces the ridge of the flared tip, and beside him, Corey gasps. “Oh, yeah.” With one hand on the wheel, the other in Corey’s lap, Will begins to look for a place to park.