Friday morning. Eighteen hours later.
Matt was in New York, NYC, the Big Apple, the city of trash cans and the homeless.
Right in the middle of Mello's orbit once again.
The three days he'd had off already felt like forever ago. He was back to being the Lackey, the Bitch Boy, the IT guy. The morning was cold and rainy, and the drizzle hit his goggles and hair like a wet little slobbery kiss.
Matt stared up at the towering unit of a sleek glass building, the cars around him singing in a symphony of traffic congestion.
Honk. Honk. Hooooooooonk.
This was the hotel. It was awfully central; literally only a street from where the old Twin Towers used to stand, and within a walking distance from the goddamned trade center of the world. Probably one of the worst places that Mello could have picked for lying low, but hey, Matt wasn't his goddamned keeper.
Matt had a job, so he'd do it. That was it. Anything else was none of his business.
Matt had decided that he wasn't going to make the mistake of getting involved anymore.
Matt walked up the shallow steps and pushed through the revolving door with his shoulder, emerging on the other side and almost macking with a business man that had criss-crossed right in front of him. He armed his duffel bags before him like shields and walked briskly like he had a purpose to be there, turning away from the picture-perfect front desk clerks smiling like Stepford wives and turning to the elevators.
They were glittering gold, separated in the floor's sections. FOR FLOOR 40, 41, 42, 43, 44,...
Fuck, this hotel was glitzy.
Matt pushed the rest of the way towards the elevator that had the number "12" in the hallway sign, his boots leaving unsubtle faux-Demonia prints on the clean grey carpet. Every head he passed by was coiffed and every suit he knocked shoulders with was well-fitted, and well, again. Matt stuck out like a sore fucking thumb.
Inside the hallway, Matt pressed the elevator up button. An empty one sitting at the ground floor dinged open just beside him. Matt walked over and got in to close the doors, pressing Floor 12.
The reflective doors closed silently and he jetted upstream in the shaft, watching the digital numbers toll up top. Elevator music. Beneath it was a nice little sign: Elevator under periodic surveillance. Big Brother was watching.
Ding.
The elevator doors swooshed opened again. He got out, turned left, found 1210, and knocked on the door.
A few seconds later, the door swung open to an empty room.
Matt eased himself in, squeezing into the small space of the hallway and finding the only open area at the foot of two twin beds. Jesus, for how expensive the lobby area looked, the rooms were approximately the size of a cardboard box.
Matt dropped his bags onto the bed that looked untouched by the window. He heard the door shut behind him, the lock reengaging, and pulled the curtain to the side to peek out the window.
The Hudson River glittered in the crack between the tall buildings, a little tour boat funnelling along the stream. The terrain directly beneath them was an ugly construction plot, cranes the size of Hot Wheels littered all over the dirt.
Matt turned to see good old Mello, walking out of the entryway with a dark brown scar stretching down the length of his face. It looked like crumpled tissue paper soaked in tea, ridged with pink keloids and puffy at the edges like an inflammation, an eye patch sitting over his left eye.
Jesus Christ, that was ugly. Matt looked away, back at the room, and found the next best thing to say.
"This room is really fucking small," Matt commented.
Mello shrugged, leaning against the wall. "I've seen worse."
Matt raised his eyebrows, snorting humorlessly. "Yeah, sure. At least I got my own bed."
Matt regretted it as soon as it left his mouth. Mello didn't respond, and Matt looked away to unzip his bag.
Bad mistakes, memory loss, yadda yadda.
Stop fucking thinking, Matt.
He pulled out wires and wires of shit that Mello requested he bring, dropping the coils back onto the bedspread like oily vines. He turned the bag over and emptied it out, throwing the skin onto the garishly patterned floor when he was done, and fished out a half-empty cigarette pack from his pocket.
There was an ashtray on the bedside table. He walked over to retrieve it, glancing over to see Mello throwing a handful pills into his mouth with a violent slap of his palm.
Matt looked away quickly, like he'd caught something he shouldn't have seen. Guess Mello had a new habit. Oops.
None of his concern.
Matt paced back to the bed with his ashtray and set it on the edge of the windowsill. He lit up a cig and grabbed the new phone that he'd prepared from in between wires, walking back to give it to Mello. It was this cool red phone he'd got second-hand off of Craigslist, wasn't worth shit, but he'd breathed new life into it, made it a whole new guy.
Mello looked up as he approached, and Matt opened the phone up to flash the screen at him. "Here," Matt said, closing it again with a clap. "Your new phone."
Mello nodded once.
Matt tossed the phone onto the desk, looking around. "Where can I put my stuff?"
"I'll clear the desk for you later," Mello said noncommittally, taking a swig from a plastic water bottle. "I have a few places I need you to go today."
So it began.
"Okay," Matt said. "Where to?"
"Come here."
Matt walked closer to Mello's side as Mello ripped a piece of paper from the memo pad beside his laptop, handing it over. In his cursive scrawl was an address somewhere in Brooklyn, with a name written up top. Xavier.
"I need you to get a new phone for yourself so that we can have contact," Mello said as Matt read his handwriting, frowning. "Only use it to call me. You should be able to get it here, but if you can't, let me know."
Matt quirked a brow. This better not be another 7051 Fifth Avenue incident.
"I can't move at all in New York City," Mello continued vaguely. "So you're my eyes and ears, Matt."
Matt nodded as if he understood what that entailed, pocketing the piece of paper.
"Do you know how to intercept phone calls?" Mello asked.
Matt frowned. He'd never bugged a phone before, and phreaking hadn't been his forte at the House. "No. But I mean, I can learn?"
"Buy whatever equipment you might need," Mello replied breezily, switching windows on his laptop. "I need my calls monitored on all sides. I don't care how you do it."
Matt nodded again, scratching his head. "How long do I have?"
"Two days."
Matt raised his brows, the stress piling back on his shoulders. "... Okay. I'll try, man."
Mello looked up from his screen. "How long will it take for you to get a car?"
"Like, a new car?"
"Yes. Preferably from online."
"Uh…" Matt slumped. "I dunno. Depends on the listings. A week?"
"Make that three days," Mello responded coolly. "I want you to get a car for yourself to move around. You modded your Camaro in LA, right?"
"Yeah."
"Good. Then I want tinted windows, a good engine, and new plates. I want the passenger side and the driver's side at 20%."
Mello slid his hand into the pocket of his leather pants, pulling something out. It was a tight wad of hundred-dollar bills, a thin elastic band holding them together.
Mello handed it over, and Matt frowned as he took it. It was pretty small. Just by eyeballing, Matt could tell that it definitely wasn't enough to make up for his salary.
"What's this?" Matt asked, looking back up.
"The downpayment for everything you're getting today."
Matt squinted. "How much is this?"
"15k."
That wasn't even 5% of his pay.
"You want me to pay for a car with that?" Matt asked incredulously. He could probably get a shitty little Sedan with that much. Or a fucking Tata Nano.
"You can get any car you think you need," Mello responded coolly, crossing his arms. "I'll make up the difference later in addition to your salary."
Matt frowned. Something wasn't right. He'd been working for Mello for over a month now — and he'd gotten the couple thousand for the explosives, but it'd been radio silence from there on out.
"But," he started, whiny. "You still owe me the 70k up front, and the stuff for Mario…" He trailed off.
"We'll negotiate later," Mello said coolly. His eye was harsh and piercing past his little eye-patch. No money talk.
Matt pursed his lips, grabbing his wallet from his back pocket. "'Kay," he mumbled, jamming the bills in. The leather of his wallet bulged uncomfortably. "Later."
"We have a mission on Monday," Mello concluded, jerking his head to the door like he was shooing a pet. "Come back by 9 PM. Go."
In the afternoon on some street in Brooklyn, after doing some shopping, getting new phones and fiddling with the settings, Matt received a text on his new cellphone, its little lights blinking.
im done now where r u?
He peeked out from the awning of the subway exit, shielding his head with his hand as he walked outside to the rain and the neighborhood. His new friend Alex was just around the corner in front of his house, hands full of sweet New York City heroin.
Yes, heroin. The H-word.
Mello may have given him a shitton of work, but Matt wanted his own time off, too. Labor laws.
Okay, yeah, Matt had been very resolute about getting his life back on track when he came to New York. It really was practically a breaking point. But he'd be a fucking idiot to try to do this without a little help from his old buddy.
He didn't want to be caught in the godawful situation he was in after the explosion, this time without CoD to soften the blow. He needed to score so he could feel sane again.
It all made perfect sense, really.
Alex was standing in the drizzle with his hands in the pockets of his puffy blue vest, and he rubbed his nose and took a small step back as Matt walked towards him.
"It's fuckin' cold out today," Alex mumbled, rubbing his arms.
"Yeah." Matt glanced at his fists, trying to see what was inside his pockets. "You got it?"
"Yeah, my guy just left."
Alex looked around and pulled his hands out of his vest, producing two wax paper stamp bags. On the bottom of the bag was a stamped logo: SCORPION KING, complete with a crudely rendered skull, like some sort of streetwear logo.
He handed it over and let Matt peek inside. Matt did another cursory scan of his surroundings before lifting the wax paper to say hello to the small white rocks, with bits of it crumbled underneath into powder.
It sent fucking chills down Matt's spine. "Jesus fucking Christ," Matt breathed, feeling tingles in his fingers. It felt like he'd waited his entire life for this moment.
"Yeah," Alex mumbled, pulling back and taking a look into it himself. "I heard LA doesn't have much powder stuff left, right?"
"Nope. Especially not now," Matt said, swallowing and rubbing his palms on his jeans.
Alex laughed, shaking his head as he shoved the bags back into his pockets. "I can't believe LA's all out. It's all over Bluelight. LA people tryin' to cop, goin' to Detroit and New York and shit."
"Yeah," Matt answered faintly. Now that he'd seen it and knew it was right there, every ounce of self-control went out the window. His heart was starting to beat hard. Thu-thump. Thu-thump.
"So now dealers are jacking the prices up." Alex shook his head to himself. "I heard the dope in LA isn't too bad, though. How is it?"
"It's good," Matt answered distractedly. Thu-thump.
Alex kept going. "So why you in New York? You said you had some other stuff to do."
Matt shrugged, fidgeting. "Uh, business trip."
"Oh, with your company?"
"Just my boss," Matt said, wincing and sighing as the rain picked up over them, splashing into puddles gutting the Brooklyn streets.
Alex sensed it, finally. That junkie's intuition. He tilted his head, his black dreads brushing his shoulders, and grinned. "You wanna try it out, don't you, man?"
"Yeah," Matt answered immediately, not even an inkling of shame in his system.
"Goddamn," Alex laughed, clapping Matt over the shoulder. "Alright, let's go up to my room."
Alex's place was a room full of rap posters and a skateboard. It looked like his brother's old room, actually, back in Canada. Fuck if Matt wasn't going to feel a little bit nostalgic about it, either.
"Cool," he commented, stepping forward as Alex closed the door behind him. He pointed at the poster of Neon Genesis Evangelion right above his iron bedpost. "Loved that show as a kid."
"Yeah, it's good, right?" Alex took a hop, a skip and a jump over his floor full of shit and pushed his clothes off of his swivel chair in front of his desk, flopping down with a loud sigh and taking the heroin he had out of his pockets. Matt walked over and took one, scanning around the room for some free space before walking to the foot of his bed to take a seat.
"My guy's been kinda unreliable these days," Alex said as he undid the bag. He smoothed the wax flat on the table, eyeing the powder carefully. "And I heard China White's been all over New York City."
Matt nodded, pushing open his own bag over Alex's navy sheets, staring at the off-white rocks, the consistency of baby powder. The branding was entrepreneurial — made Andre's operation seem like a lemonade stand, his balloons some sort of low-grade spunky tea in a plastic cup.
"I saw lots of memorials on Bluelight these days. Kinda sucks," Alex mumbled. "We're not gonna have fent in this though, King doesn't do that shit," Alex added.
Matt hummed, inspecting the rocks. Vinegary.
When he looked up, Alex had set up his whole rig over his desk like a workbench. "Just his quality's been downhill since LA got hit. I think the guys who get it in LA get it for the rest of the States."
"Yeah," Matt mumbled, waiting for Alex to be done with his shit as patiently as he could. "You have extra needles, right?"
Alex looked back, looking at him like he was crazy, as he pushed his sleeves up and tied his tourniquet over his arm. "'Course man."
Matt shrugged. "Just checking."
Alex looked back and took a small amount of heroin into the water in his cooking spoon, soaking it up with a pinch from a cotton pad, and then lit it with a flame from a lighter he had strewn over the table. He popped open the needle package with his other hand, sliding the needle up and biting the cap, keeping it wedged in his teeth.
Matt averted his eyes right as Alex primed a spot to shoot. He didn't know why, but watching another man shoot up felt intimate. He'd only just met the dude — he didn't need to see it. Let him have his moment and whatnot.
He heard Alex sigh softly, and then the sound of tossing the needle back onto the desk. Matt peeked up with one eye through his bangs, his brain slowing down at the sounds alone.
"How was that?" Matt asked, meekly.
Alex rubbed his arm, blinking slowly, his light eyes looking even brighter with his pupils shrinking to pins. "Not too bad," he said, clearing his throat. "Your turn."
Angels sung. It was his time.
Matt's heart was thuthuthuthuthumping so loud he was sure Alex could hear it. He crinkled his bag and got up, walking over as Alex all but melted off of the chair and rolled onto the carpet underneath empty beer cans and piles of his clothes.
God, Matt wanted to be where he was.
Matt sat down and unwrapped the bag like a greedy kid on Christmas eve, pinching just a bit of the powder into Alex's dirty spoon. His heart was going at a million bpm as he grabbed a new syringe from Alex's box, ripping the wrapping with his teeth and spitting it out onto the table with building ferocity vibrating in his veins.
He copied Alex and bit the needle cap off, taking it into his mouth like a cigarette and turned away just slightly, rotating the swivel chair towards the window. Didn't want to do it in front of watchful eyes, after all. He'd only ever used with one other person all his life, and she was his girlfriend.
Well, here he went. Matt took a deep breath, registered, and pushed down.
The heroin surged through his veins with a vengeance, so sweet and so intense that it soaked his nerves with honey and vanilla icing. The warmth kept expanding, kept growing, kept going, so much and so good that Matt didn't know what to do but clench his toes and close his eyes.
This. This was it.
He missed this so fucking much.
Matt disappeared into the swirling colors of heaven and bliss, pushed to and fro by the heroin's riptide. His head was rolling half-off Alex's swivel chair when he came to, staring up at Alex's high ceilings.
Matt exhaled, tonguing the roof of his mouth. Dry as fuck.
He'd lived nineteen years of his life just for this moment, he was sure of it.
"Shit," Matt whispered. He looked over at Alex, who was lying on the ground still, floating on his lazy river ride. "This is fucking perfect."
"Really, man?" Alex drawled, putting his hands behind his head, looking less gone. "When was the last time you used?"
Matt sighed, breathing deeply. God, he felt good. Like nothing could ever hurt him again. His body fit again, warm and cozy and safe; his skin felt like it wrapped around his bones perfectly, no excess, no tears, no rips, nothing impossible.
"Almost three weeks ago," Matt answered after a long pause, rubbing his eyes. "My boss forced me off."
"Your boss?" Alex laughed, his hand on his belly rumbling along with it. "The one you're on a business trip with?"
Matt nodded slowly.
"That's rough, man. At least you didn't get fired."
"Well…"
"Ever thought about quitting?"
Matt sighed, leaning over lazily to wrap the heroin stamp bag back up, slipping it into his vest pocket again for further safekeeping. "Good question," he mumbled, settling back. The chair creaked under his weight.
"What do you do?"
Matt rolled his head back, staring at the warm lights on the ceiling and the fan that kept on spinning like a Beyblade. He felt himself fading again before he asked, "Huh? What?"
"What do you do?"
"My job?"
"Yeah."
"IT. You?"
"College. I don't go though."
"Sounds nice," Matt mumbled, closing his eyes, the darkness behind his eyelids enveloping him like rain to sea. Nice and warm.
Alex hummed, sounding farther and farther away. He said something, but Matt couldn't hear anymore.
He was dancing, floating, singing, falling, flying, suddenly, beeping.
Matt blinked back awake. He was in a bedroom. Tall ceilings. No wounds. Organs intact.
Where the fuck?
A voice. "Oh, tonight? Yeah, man…"
God, it was bright. Matt pulled his head back up, his neck cramping and his bones heavy, and squinted at the blob in front of him. What the fuck was that — wearing a black t-shirt and…
"… Yeah, cool, yeah. How much? Oh, yeah. Yeah, that sounds dope. No, I don't think so…"
It was Alex. He was sitting on his bed, on the phone, looking much more awake than Matt felt.
Oh yeah. Matt had just relapsed.
Whoops.
He spun around to look at the window as Alex kept talking. It was dark outside already. Matt lifted his ass, slipping out his phone to flash the subscreen. 5:29.
A whole hour had passed.
Matt exhaled, rubbing his forehead. All the excitement and the contentment had faded with the sleep, leaving only a rumbling undercurrent of guilt behind. He flipped open his cell phone, looking at the Missed Calls (2). Both from Mello.
Good thing he was still high, because seeing that would make him feel like complete and utter shit otherwise. Matt shrugged to himself, flipping his phone shut with a soft sigh.
"Hey," Alex said, grinning, hanging up on his call. "That knocked you out, huh?"
Matt looked up and nodded, smiling sheepishly. "Yeah. Sorry, man, didn't even know I was nodding that hard."
Alex shrugged. "Happens. You about to leave?"
Matt sighed again. "Maybe. I guess. I dunno." He shrugged, rubbing his eyes under his goggles. "I should."
"Hey, you okay, man?"
Matt nodded, groaning as he sat himself up, cracking his back. "Yeah, yeah. I'm okay. Just sore," he responded, diffusing the topic. "You got somewhere to be later?"
"My cousin invited me out to a party at a club a few blocks down tonight," Alex said, "There are some guys there who deal. They got a new shipment of heroin last night."
Matt raised his eyebrows. "What, you on a mailing list or something?"
Alex laughed. "Nah, my cousin works as a bouncer. He knows they deal for dirt cheap."
Matt's mood skyrocketed as he heard that, his ears piqued like a happy dog. "How cheap?"
"Like, fifteen a bag?"
A bag went for close to 60 back in Arizona, 40 with Andre back when he had more shit. No more time for guilt. This was the best thing he'd ever fucking heard. "For real?"
"Yeah, for real." Alex glanced at his wall clock, slipping his phone back in his pocket. "If you want, we can head over there. You can get some off them and just bounce."
Well, Matt had already relapsed. Might as well make the most of it.
"Yeah, fuck it," he said, nodding. "Let's do it."
They walked over in the drizzle, and Matt was on high alert still because of the amount of shit he had on him in his vest. If a K9 decided to walk by him, he was fucking toast.
And pulling out his pistol in front of a cop just sounded like a recipe for disaster.
That was what he was thinking, anyway, when they walked through throngs of people going to nightclubs or stumbling around already drunk. There were fairy lights strung on the trees, girls with tight skirts stumbling past him with loud giggles, guys with eyeliner and far too much hairspray.
It was early in the night still, but apparently, the party had already started, different clubs blasting different songs so loud that it filled up the whole street.
The guilt was short lived, replaced by a much more familiar feeling: the Desire to Score. Matt hated clubs, hated crowds and hated parties, but a little discomfort was the trade-off he would have to make to get premium grade, New York Cut medium raw dope.
Still, the louder the music got, the more Matt's self-resolve crumbled.
Alex stopped at the one that Matt wanted to go to the absolute least. The line of skinny guys in front of a matte black structure went down for miles on the sidewalk, the doorway blocked by a huge black guy that looked like he could take on all of them at once. Heavy electronic music was leaking from the tagged doors of the joint, so loud that Matt already felt like he was standing beside the speaker.
This one was the loudest of the whole fucking neighborhood. Matt stepped back to peer at the sign. In a script font, lit up by bright blue neon behind the text: Escape.
"This it?" Matt asked, pointing.
Alex nodded.
Just as he was about to ask something else, his train of thought was interrupted by a chorus of yells. Matt turned his head to look, watching a drag queen saunter down the sidewalk, waving his hand at the line of skinny boys with a wide, open grin. They were screaming things at each other, and Matt couldn't tell if they were angry or happy.
"This…" Matt blanched. "What kind of a club is this?"
Alex gave him a look.
Matt got paler. "Dude, what?" And then, almost panicked, "Are you fucking with me?"
"Shh. Follow me," Alex nodded, heading straight for the bouncer.
"Dude, wait—"
"Don't worry," Alex said, shooting him a stern look that felt disturbingly familiar. "Just shush and follow my lead."
And follow his lead he did. The bouncer grinned big and wide as Alex went up the steps, clasping his hand in a bro-shake-shoulder-clap. They whispered into each other's ears for a bit, and then Alex jerked his head back at Matt, whispering some more.
Matt shrunk at the foot of the steps, feeling weird.
The bouncer looked back at Matt, studying him up-and-down before stepping back and gesturing for him to come over. Alex slipped in the heavy black door, giving him a firm nod before he disappeared.
"ID," the bouncer said gruffly, when Matt got close enough.
Matt rustled his wallet for it, deciding on the twenty-two year old Harry Sachz from Louisiana. The bouncer flashed a light over it, gave him a knowing smirk, and then handed it back anyway, jerking his head towards the door. "Only 'cuz you with Alex. Have a good night, man."
Matt went in, VIP-style, and tried to ignore the long line of guys who cursed him out for it. He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to look like he blended in in an "I'm-experimenting" kind of way, and found Alex by the bar at the end of the long dark glittery hallway.
Jesus Christ, it was loud.
There was a neon pink dance floor in the main hall, filled to the brim with the smoky smell of tobacco, dry ice, and sweaty bodies. Dangling from the ceiling was a large, shining silver disco ball, throwing sparkles everywhere on the second floor, where boys hung over the ledge and got to know one another.
Actually, loud couldn't cut it. The club was blaring, blasting, bumping, booming; so fucking nuts that he knew he'd lose his hearing by the time he was done. On top of that, there was nowhere to fucking move in the main hall, and Matt had to hold on tight to his bundle of happiness in his pocket before someone else got to it.
He slithered over to Alex at the bar, talking to the bartender, friends already. The other stools were all taken, as were the spaces in between them, but Matt sidled over and peeked over Alex's shoulder.
The bartender glanced back at him coolly as he turned around to get a beer from the mini fridge. He placed the bottle on the bar and flashed Alex a quick smile before moving onto another customer, pocketing the crinkled tip.
Alex turned around, grabbing the beer bottle and scuttling over to Matt's side. "You doin' okay?"
"Yeah."
Alex didn't really care either way. "Come with me," he yelled, swinging his beer bottle along as he detached himself from Matt's side and slithered away. He zig-zagged through the crowd of dancing men and disappeared, leaving Matt to force his way through the sweaty sea.
Bobbing along between heads, Matt managed to find Alex again, his dreadlocks moving left and right in the cloud of smoke and fog. He was headed for the back of the club near the DJ's soundset, where the crowd seemed to tighten, and then Matt spotted it as someone walked up.
A staircase.
After almost kissing someone's sweaty shoulder, Matt zipped up his vest, gripped his stamp bag in his vest harder and geared up to charge. As he tried to push back, someone put a warm hand on Matt's waist, as if trying to stop him for something.
Matt jerked, looking around. A tall bearded guy was looking at him from between two heads, some expression in his eyes.
Nope.
Matt turned away, ducking along the crowd for Alex. He managed to catch up somehow, and grabbed onto his damp shirt sleeve when he caught up to him.
"Dude," he shout-hissed, as if he'd just emerged out of the trenches. "Why the fuck did you bring me to a gay bar of all places?"
Alex frowned at him. "You got something against gay people?" he yelled.
"No," he shout-mumbled into Alex's ear. "But I woulda appreciated a heads up."
"Who cares!"
The song ended, bleeding into the next technofunky garbage, and the lights changed from pink to dark blue, the spotlights swivelling around the dancefloor. The DJ danced behind the set just a few feet from them, jumping and throwing his hands up in the air. The crowd packed in closer together as the song picked up, and now, Matt could hardly breathe, let alone move.
Alex was gone. He'd slipped away effortlessly while Matt was wedged between a short Asian guy and a tall blonde dude.
Fuck it. He pushed.
The crowd ejected him like a catapult, and Matt found himself on the other side of the black-and-white checkered tile road, thanking god that he could breathe again. Throngs of people were still moving back and forth between the staircase and the back walls, but compared to the dancefloor, it was practically Antarctica.
Alex was climbing the staircase. Matt followed behind, rounding up the narrow steps and trying not to step on the spilled drinks and sticky metal.
The music let up a bit when they reached the second floor, even though the level was still packed like sardines. A group of dressed up boys chattered and rounded the steps down with their cocktails raised, nearly bumping Matt off the railing. One of them had bob-length blonde hair and darkly made eyes.
Huh. Speaking of which. Matt grabbed his phone out of his pocket as he let them pass and glanced at the time. 6:55. He was okay for another while.
The second floor was set up like a lounge, tables littered with empty drinks and half-bitten slices of limes, but Alex was at the far back, where there was one booth raised up above everything else, tucked inside a small enclosure that gave them their own spotlight.
A group of boys sat there, facing everybody in the club like a throne. They looked like everybody else — young, slim, dressed up — but they definitely didn't look like they were out of a night out.
They weren't smiling or talking to one another. They were watching the dancefloor like the judges of an execution panel, staring down at the other clientele like they all owed them money. Matt wondered if they all dealt, or if it was some sort of team formation; a specialized drug per person.
Alex waved him over and gestured exaggeratedly, his beer splashing everywhere as he leaned in closer towards one guy in particular. He had bleached blonde hair and a lip piercing, his blue eyeshadow glittering underneath the spotlight set above him, matching the rose-patterned wallpaper behind him almost too well.
"This is my friend," Alex yelled as Matt walked over to join them. He waved with what he hoped looked like a smile, and then wiped his sweaty palms on his vest.
The guy's eyes drifted over towards Matt disinterestedly, rolling his lollipop around in his mouth, and then looked back at Alex.
"He's here to buy," Alex shouted, nudging him with his elbow.
Matt chimed, "Yeah, hi."
The guy took the lollipop out of his mouth, pointing the glistening ball at Matt. "How much?" he asked, not even bothering to raise his voice.
Matt leaned in, pressing his elbows over the sticky table. "Just a bag."
The guy's eyes flickered as he watched him, sizing him up and down, and then nodded once, jerking his head at the other boys at the table. They all shifted, giving him a way out, and he squeezed out of the booth, hopping down from the small platform.
His entire wardrobe glittered as he moved through the blue disco lights, skinny and tall. He didn't bother to wait for Matt before he disappeared through a black hallway scrawled with graffiti.
Matt glanced back helplessly, and Alex nodded at him and flashed him a thumbs up, like he was sending him off to war. Matt swallowed, nodded to himself and followed along, pushing through to the hallway. A faint red glowed at the end of it with the words EMERGENCY EXIT.
There were other people lining up against the walls. Belatedly, Matt realized that this was the line for the bathroom. The bleach blond ignored everybody around him, pushing the unlabelled door and walking in without saying anything. Everybody just let him do it.
The bathroom was small and cramped, with toilet paper littered everywhere on the tiled ground, the smell of piss so strong that people must have been pissing on the ceiling for years. Someone was definitely hooking up with someone else in one of the stalls, and the sounds of a mouth sucking were louder than the muted techno music outside.
Matt was about to head back out when the dealer strode straight up to the handicapped stall, ignoring the handwritten OUT OF ORDER sign plastered crudely on the door, and squeezed in. He gave Matt a look and then closed the door.
Goddamn, so this was really gonna happen.
Matt pulled his zipper up further, ignoring the blowjob happening two feet away from him, and took broad sticky steps across the checkered floor. He folded himself into the handicapped stall, closing it, and looked up at the bleach blonde with the toilet drab in the middle between the two of them.
They were chest-to-chest. The kid's blue eyeshadow glittered as he blinked, staring at Matt almost sleepily, his lollipop still wedged in his cheek.
Now that it was slightly brighter, Matt could see the tiny pupils swimming in his eyes. He was high as a fucking rocketship. "Hi," he said. "I'm Jamiroquai."
Matt frowned at the name, drawing an invisible pimphat in the air. "Like… futures, made of, virtual in-sa-ni-ty?"
The song kept playing in Matt's head even after Jamiroquai nodded sagely, as if his name was of great meaning to him. "Yes."
"Cool," Matt replied. "I'm Matt."
"Hi Matt. Is this your first time?"
Jamiroquai's words were slurred, almost like he could barely pronounce them. Barred out of his mind, no doubt.
Matt nodded. "First time."
Jamiroquai smiled finally at that, his expression softening enough that he looked nice for once, looking down at his blazer to produce a small stamp bag from his inner pocket. It had a fake GUCCI logo, pinched between two painted nails.
"It's 15," he said.
Matt was already prepared for that, but he still had to stop his eyes from bulging at that price, looking down to busy himself with retrieving his wallet from his back pocket. He opened his wallet, fingering out fives, the sucking and groaning growing louder behind him.
He handed them over. Jamiroquai slid them out of Matt's hands, the large silver rings on all of his fingers cold to touch.
Three bills for a little stamp bag.
Matt smiled, tucking it into his pocket and ducking his head. "Thanks, man."
His smile stalled. Jamiroquai was still looking at him, his tongue pushing the lollipop back and forth in his mouth, his fingers hooked over the toilet paper holder below a hole in the stall wall.
Fuck, was that what Matt thought it was? Was Jamiroquai sending a message? Did he need something else as payment — was that why it was so cheap?
Jamiroquai quirked a brow, taking his lollipop out of his mouth and crossing his arms. His expression fell back to its bitchy state as he jerked his head back at the door coolly. "Go get your friend."
Oh. Right. Matt nodded to himself, mouthed a thanks and ran out of the bathroom before he could hear anybody's climax.
The rain had stopped outside, but it was still real fucking cold. Matt was leaning over the railing of the fire escape, smoking a cigarette, making sure both of his bags were still safely in his pockets. It was almost time for him to start heading back if he still wanted to be in Mello's good graces — at least for the first day in New York, he decided — but he wanted just a few more minutes to himself.
He exhaled, the wind blowing through his hair as he stared down at the garbage dump in the alleyway below. Two people were talking, their heads pressed close to each other, barely illuminated by the streetlight on the sidewalk a ways away from them. Rats ran around in circles, jumping from dumpster to dumpster and scuttling off into the darkness.
Smelled like shit, even on the second floor.
The door opened behind him, Eurotrance beats leaking in from behind, making the steel grate underneath his boots shake. Matt looked back, seeing Alex slip through the emergency exit door with a pack of cigarettes and a lighter clasped in his hand.
"You got your shit from Jamiroquai?" Matt asked.
"Yeah," Alex replied, tapping a stick out of the box and slipping it between his lips. "He's great, love the kid."
Matt chuckled, turning back to stare at the garbage dump. The people looked like they were dancing, swaying to an invisible beat. "He's barred the fuck out, dude."
The sound of a lighter clicked from behind him. Thumping over the steel grate followed as Alex heaved himself down on the steps. "What do you mean?"
"All that slurring," Matt said, shaking his head. "I could barely understand him."
"Yeah, 'cuz he's hearing impaired."
Matt laughed.
"No, I'm serious."
"What? He's a deaf dealer at a gay nightclub?"
Fuck, actually, that made a lot of sense. No wonder the music was so goddamn loud.
Alex looked at him funny, his eyebrows raised. "What, you got a problem with deaf people, too?"
"No, Jesus," Matt said, sighing. Tough crowd. "Just seems like he's got a lot on his plate already."
"Yeah, well, he seems fine with it."
Matt shrugged. In the alleyway, the drunk conversation between the two lovebirds was starting to get loud. In the distance, police sirens punctured the air, and Matt pulled his vest tighter around his body as the wind blew through his hair again.
New York was seriously cold.
"There used to be another dude here who dealt opiates, actually," Alex suddenly said, breaking the silence. Matt looked over, pulling his sleeves over his hands as he sucked his cigarette to the filter. "He was hearing, had lots of different pills. I used to get oxy from him back then. But, y'know, he got capped. Huge turnover rate."
Matt hummed, finishing his cigarette and lifting up his boot to put out the butt on his sole before he tossed it over the ledge. "You been using a long time?"
"Yeah, around three years. Jamiroquai's the only guy I've seen for longer than a year."
Matt frowned, pursing his lips. The people in the alleyway were starting to throw punches, yelling at one another.
"Damn, what's going on over there?" Alex asked, twisting around to look over.
"Some drunks fighting." Matt looked away, mumbling. "I'm kinda nervous to take a subway with this much dope on me, honestly."
Alex grinned. "It's worth it. Just don't jaywalk and you'll be fine."
Matt snorted, shaking his head. "How worth it is that?"
Alex looked back, flicking his own cigarette butt between the bars of the stairs and pulling himself up by the handrail. "Seriously, the best shit I've ever had."
Matt gave him a look as he walked back, holding open the door as the music pulsed through the staircase and the people downstairs screamed. "Really?"
"Yeah, really," Alex responded, his bright white teeth glinting in the night. "It's so good that if Jesus was deaf and gay, I'd fucking believe it."