I looked at him, sitting on my couch in my apartment in the skyscraper. Such a beautiful kid. Jesus. He can sing, he plays guitar okay, but he's got something. Some kind of vulnerability. I don't know. It's why I thought maybe he could make it in this fucked industry when I saw him at the Showcase back in Toronto nearly a year ago.
But he was fucked up, I could see it. We all had our issues, sure. I just hoped his wouldn't derail everything. It could happen. And I knew about the cocaine. I didn't discourage it. It was everywhere. I used to have the spoon on a chain around my neck in the eighties, it was all cool. Snorted so much candy up my nose I could have bought a small country with the money it cost. Rolled up hundred dollar bills, little squares of mirrors, bathroom stalls, disco clubs. If you could handle it more power to you.
But he wasn't snorting it now, or recently. I could tell. He was a little too sedated right now. I stared into his sleepy eyes, stared at those full lips like a goddamn model, his dark curly hair kind of shiny. Slouched down on the couch, his legs stretched out, knees apart. I watched him breathe, slow rise and fall of his chest.
"Craig?" I said, and he looked up at me.
"Hmmm?" he said.
"Want a drink?"
He nodded, turned away, and I stood up and went to the kitchenette that was just beyond the black leather couch, the glass coffee table. Marble counter tops, recessed lighting, ultra modern bullshit. I had every liquor imaginable and I made him a strong drink. For some reason I liked to see him lose control.
"Here," I said, and watched him wrap his hand around the glass, take a sip. I make the goddamn things so fucking smooth it's like drinking kool-aid. I smiled as I watched that drink go down nice and easy, and he was relaxing. I got him another one and he didn't protest.
He was nearly drunk and it was easier to stare at him, he wouldn't be so aware. Hazel greenish eyes, so large, long lashes like a girl. The downward slope of his nose, the wide smile, hollow cheeks. I wondered, touching the necklace around my neck, I wondered if he swung the other way. I knew he had all these girls, silly high school girls like that red-head who couldn't drum worth a damn but maybe, you never knew.
I had been sitting on the other couch, the one at a corner to the one Craig was sitting on but now I sat next to him. He shifted over a little, didn't seem to particularly notice that I'd practically sat right on top of him. I noticed the fading threads of his jeans, the ragged laces on those converse sneakers he always wore. Saw how his eyes were starting to close.
Okay, I wanted him. Man. It was kind of a long shot. Kid was probably straight, more than likely straight as a fucking arrow. Life wasn't so black and white, though. It wasn't all cute little red-head girls. I'd had my share of cute little girls, sure. But sometimes a tall, kind of skinny, kind of sexy boy will grab your attention and not let go.
I could attack him. Looked at him from the corner of my eye. He was struggling to keep his eyes open. Those drinks were strong. I could lead him anywhere. He was drunk, he was pliable. So I stood, helped him up.
"C'mon," I said, and he kind of stumbled after me as I lead/pushed him to the bedroom. What was choice? What did choice matter all the time? Would he choose this if he was sober? I lead him to the bed, watched his feet tangle up and he nearly fell but I caught him, got him to lay down on the bed and I climbed up next to him.
Started kissing him and maybe he was too drunk to know better but he kissed back, at first. Then he pulled away.
"Hey," he said, the word slurred, and he was angry, tried to get up. I pushed him back down.
"Hey, what?" I said softly, and kissed him again, more insistently, not giving him any leeway. I held his wrists above his head and he fought but I was stronger than I looked, and I liked the fight.
"Shhhh," I said, kissing him again.