A.N.: Well, here you are, the next in what has been dubbed the "Lost Son" saga. This is the sequel to Miasmatic, and it goes without saying—there are mature themes present here. This is a very borderline PG-13. Please don't read this if you can't handle that. Drug use, bad language, rape, man love and other things abound.
I don't own JCA. If I did, the show would be on HBO.
Thanks to all my loyal readers and reviewers. I hope you like this story—and don't worry, there is one more left in which to tie up all loose ends.
See? Promised it would be out sooner than Miasmatic.
Where the Dock Meets the Sea
By Avery
"There's a sob on the sea
And the Old Year is dying.
Borne on night wings to me
There's a sob on the sea,
And for what could not be
The great world-heart is sighing;
There's a sob on the sea
And the Old Year is dying."
-R.A.L (c 1913)
This is the very end of the road. The book of his life is closing, dog-eared pages, rustling. He is dying. He knows he is dying. He can feel himself leaving this world, a kite with its strings severed. His blood has been drained from him, stolen by: little cuts, big bruises, gashes. Stab wounds. It is the most horrific feeling he can imagine, going dry like this. It is made worse by the fact that he is only dry on the very inside, only his innards, only his bones. He now understands what that phrase really means, dry as a bone. That is him. That is him now.
He is lying prone on saltwater soaked, dead fish stinking boards. Rotted by the sea. By the fog, that fog that arrived with the dusk, driven by west winds. Rolling in dark and awful from the pacific, carrying soft noises with it. He listens, listens for sirens maybe. Apologies. But all he hears are the far off calls of the boats and their foghorns singing to each other.
He's so tired of being here. He's so god-awful tired. He wants to just . . . leave. The world is holding onto him, pressing down on his chest, pinning his wrists to the earthly plain like . . . like . . .
He remembers old things, old, hurtful things. Things he'd thought he'd forgotten. He swore, he would've sworn just weeks ago, that the cool waters of the Lethe had washed away every one of those years. He thought he'd been baptized of his times with Adam. He thinks, now, he can't forget him. He can't ever forget him, not really. It's the simple things that kept him there, simple things and small details about his life, little habits. The memories inside him, inside those actions, fed on those crumbs of experience, hiding in the folds of his brain, waiting for a much bigger morsel.
He thinks about the thought that he's thinking about Adam, now. When he's dying.
Why?
Why is he even lying here?
Why is he dying? He can't remember.
He can't remember. But he can remember Adam. He smiles, or wishes himself to do so. He cannot tell if he is actually smiling or not, his lips have no feeling. They are numb.
What is wrong? He knows how he could make those lips warm again. Who he could make warm to make those lips warm.
Fi—No. He doesn't think about Finn that way. He lusts Finn at times. When he turns away, smirking, his lips curl and catch the light just so—but Adam. He remembers Adam. Did he already think that?
He loved him. He really, really fucking loved him.
And here he'd been telling himself he wasn't a fag.
I was fifteen years old, and staring up at the street sign, frustrated as hell but not willing to show it. I couldn't read it. I couldn't read much of anything, really . . . I couldn't read. Period. I'd never learned. I'd been told there was food and a warm place to sleep for free on this side of town, but I couldn't get there, because I couldn't fucking read. Don't think I was about to ask for help. I know how people would react, they'd look at me in the funny way that makes me want to hit them and they'd point to the sign. And I'd be right back where I was, or, worse, they'd see my confusion. I fucking hate that. Once and a while, I'd get one of those sympathetic types. There weren't many here, most everyone was too busy to pay any attention to the skinny, acne ridden brat digging in the trash can. Everyone was too busy figuring out how to stay alive, or how to fuck the cute girl down the street, or how to get to America. That's what I did, when I wasn't busy. My friends and I, we'd sit around talking about America, how people were so rich there and how you could vote for your leaders and say anything you want and not get shot at. In America, everyone has a car. I love cars. That's what I do for a living, I work with cars. Or, well . . . I steal cars.
Some guy rests his hand on my shoulder and I jerk away, snarling so I look tough. On Saturdays, I watch the dogfights in the alleys behind the curio shops, and I try out a few of the looks those dogs have when they're about to go for the kill. The man is tall. He has longer hair, and he's smoking. He's also grinning, a big, shit eating grin, and he has blue eyes. Really, really dark blue. But yeah, they're blue.
"Having trouble?" He asks, smoke whispering from his nostrils, and he has an American accent. My heart skips a beat, but my pride picks it up, helping it through the stumble.
"Fuck off." I say, and try to push my hair out of my eyes. It's gotten really long in the past two years. Not as long as his, but it's past my ears. It itches.
"That's rude; I was only trying to help. What's your name, anyway? How old are you?" He pats me on the shoulder again, and this time my heart really does skip a beat. Oh, man he's one ofthose.
"I said fuck off!" I practically shout, and I start walking away, splashing puddles left by the recent rain. He's watching my back, I know it. I dare to look behind me, real quick, 'like a snake' I tell myself. He's lighting another cigarette, and staring very clearly at me. Still smiling. Faggot.
My throat's all tight, but I focus on the fact that I haven't eaten in a couple days. Fuck the free food, it wasn't worth it. This side of Beijing's shit anyway.
His fingers are twitching, and he only notices right now. His blood is on them, just as it's on everything else around him. He cannot see it, of course, even if his eyes are only half lidded, afterglow eyes. Except afterglow eyes are still bright, the passion just spent retreating there to nurture itself back to full strength, and his eyes are just dull. Through the cracks in the boards, he can see the waves. There's a soft phosphorescence to the water, and he gleefully surmises that radioactive waste has been dumped into the ocean. If he could just reach down, touch the edge of the foam, he would be changed, be made better, healed, made strong. A superhero, or villain, or whatever. But he can't move, he's paralyzed from shock and he probably doesn't have enough life in him to lift himself even if the shock dissipated.
He wishes . . . he wishes someone would come for him. He wishes someone would help him.
Something stings his cheek, and with great effort, he lifts his eyes up, blinking as water splashes into them. It is raining. Shallowly, he realizes this. As the droplets hit his papyrus thin skin, they wash away the blood, and leave beautiful patterns of black-red and cleaned white, trailed with watery mixes of the two. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . . there wasn't any rain in that. Come to think of it, there wasn't much mention of anything but earth and dirt in any of those death-cliché's. Ironic, then, that water was all that surrounded him. All liquid, the sea, the blood, the rain, the tears. Tears? Oh, yes, he's crying. He forgot that. He didn't think he had it in him any more. Yes, now that he thinks about it, the feeling is familiar. He's cried many many times before. He should know what it's like.
I don't realize at first that it's the American guy from a couple days ago. He stares at my hand, and I swallow back embarrassment. Shit. Now he'd know I was desperate for money. He reaches inside his jeans, and pulls out a wallet. Jesus, that's thick. I shouldn't be surprised, but I am. He's rifling through his money, and fuck if I don't salivate at the sight of all that. Two bills appear in my hand, and so do his fingers. And a little slip of paper with something written on it. "My name and address." He says, and I begin to pull away, but he shakes his head. "It's not like that, kid. Swear. Cross my heart." And he just turns away, waving. "Come by at seven."
I look at the scrap. The address isn't very far from here. Figures. I pocket the money, that's a shit load of money, and wipe my forehead. It's hot. REALLY hot. I've already got nothing but shorts on, but I still feel like I want to die. I smell, too, I know it. I look like I've been sleeping in dumpsters for the past five weeks. Which I have. But that's not the point.
The address is written on nice paper, and it has his name above it. Liu Adam An. So, he isn't really all American, just partly.
I sigh, and put the card in my pocket. My thumbprint leaves a dirty stain. Maybe I can get a shower. A cold one. Fuckin' heat.
Heat and warmth seem to be, at best, fairytales told to gullible youngsters. He's mostly numb, but if anything can penetrate that, it is the cold. He thinks . . . he thinks he feels snow on his skin. Lamb's ear soft, white flakes, each of them doing a little to cool skin that must be feverish with injury. He relishes in the fantasy of cooling, healing snow. He loves snow. It was the most dangerous time to be homeless in Beijing, when it snowed, but for a few hours, after the fresh fall . . . he wasn't trapped in the filthy yellow-grey streets of the city anymore. He was somewhere else, where the cold didn't bite, it soothed. Where you didn't need cheap alcohol to warm your chest, you could simply wrap your arms around yourself, and you'd been fine. Where cars didn't honk and people didn't snarl at you for simply existing. Everything was insulated and quiet. Even while under Adam's influence, even at the height of his illusion of happiness, of his enslavement, he still managed to escape to the city park, where he'd sit in the snow till he couldn't feel any part of his body, watching the nuthatches playing in thickets that were never mowed.
Adam's place is in the very nicest part of Beijing that's actually within walking distance of downtown. I come here sometimes, though the pickings are slim. The rich people either ignore you, assault you, or have you arrested, so, yeah, it's a pretty masochistic place to be. I've never come here as a guest. I know people are giving me seriously dirty looks. This had better be worth the price on my dignity.
The stairs up to the doors don't have any of the usual litter collected in the creases. There's a doorman at the top of the steps and he's giving me the hairy eye. I'm not gonna give him the satisfaction of telling me to fuck off: I pull out Adam's business card and wave it in his face. His eyes go a little big, and he grins a huge greasy grin, and suddenly I'm not feeling too good about this. His eyes are like, fucking, evaluating me. In a real slimy way. Shit. What am I doing here?
But the guy's waving me in and my feet are moving and OH MY GOD THAT AIR CONDITIONING FEELS SO GOOD. Ahhhhhhhh . . . okay, it wasn't a bad idea. It was a great idea. It was a great, wonderful, brilliant idea. The lobby is decorated with dumb pictures of landscapes and not-so-dumb pictures of naked chicks, which I think constitute fine art. There isn't an apartment number on the card. I guess I'm supposed to wait out here. All right, I'll wait. There's some really plush couches around, and I sit on one of them. I can't keep my hand from running over the cushions, the whole thing is upholstered in velvet.
My mom's best dress was made of velvet.
The doorman waves cheerfully at me, and I clench my fists so I won't flip him off. Trained reaction. I don't like snarky, smarmy bastards. Even the hired help here likes to treat me as some kind of third-class citizen. But I guess its okay- he's out there, in a long overcoat, in the heat. I get to be in here, sitting on a plush couch.
There's a real soft chime from across the lobby, and the mirror-like metal doors to an elevator I didn't notice slide open. Adam steps out, and he waves at me, easy smile in place, and I can fucking feel the grime all over me. He's so clean, and well kept. He looks perfect here. He's walking across the room, and his heels are clicking on the marble floor. My heels didn't click when I came in. They're too worn out.
"Hey." He reaches out for my hand, but I don't take his. I try to make it look like it's because I'm too tough for him. It's really because I feel like I'd contaminate him, or something, He shrugs, still smiling. "You hungry?"
Starving. I'm so hungry, I can feel my stomach walls pressed against each other. "I guess, a little."
He nods, self assure. "You like pizza?"
Not caviar? Amazing. "Yeah, sure."
"Good. We'll have pizza."
He swears to fucking god he can hear the beat of wings. At first, it startles him, and then frightens him, and he spends a few dire minutes with what little breath he has locked up in his throat. The key to unlock it comes when his imagination begins to run away, which isn't too hard. It's not tethered particularly close at this point.
He thinks, first, about angels, but dismisses that quicker than he thought he would. He'd been an atheist for most of his life. The streets were a mean and godless place, except for the crazies who would solemnly tell you, cheap wine firmly in hand, that Jesus spoke to them in dreams. Besides, he can't think of a god cruel enough to put the things in motion that had been done to him. That he had done. God certainly didn't talk to him when he shot someone execution style, kicking their body into the river. Finn believes in that sort of thing, had managed to drag him from atheist into agnostic. No further. He didn't need some beard in the sky to make him feel shitty; he did that himself, everyday.
Self-flagellation, he thinks it's called.
After a while, he realizes the fluttering is nothing but his heart. He is beyond worrying about it's dizzying pace.
Adam makes his offer and I drop my slice of pizza into my lap. He grins at me, and I manage to sputter out. "What? But why?"
He pushes back his hair, eyelids half shut, and explains. "I saw you in the alley off Xisanhuan Beilu, near the zoo. With the boys more than twice your size."
I flush. "They insulted my family." Adam nods sympathetically, but I know, suddenly, that he's aware of the fact that I don't have a family.
"You did a number on them. Where'd you learn to fight like that?"
"Grandfather's dojo."
"Uh-huh. Try again."
I mutter, picking at the pizza's congealing cheese, sucking it out from under my fingernails. "Old gang leader."
"It's not like I mind, you know." Adam says, his eyes level with mine. It's the first time someone has looked me in the eyes, looked me directly and truthfully in the eyes, since my gang members had all been shot down by the cops four years ago. I swallow. I can't think. I'm not used to this sort of honest, straight-forward look. "How old are you?"
I think about lying, telling him I'm older than I really am, but he's still looking me in the eyes. "Sixteen." I answer.
"Old enough to know better, young enough not to care. That's good. Do you accept?"
I shrug. My pulse is pounding. "Sure. I guess." Adam rises, his immaculate blue suit unwrinkled.
"Welcome aboard, Chow. I hope you're a better bodyguard than a liar." He does it again, that easy, blinding white grin. "Grandfather's dojo. Honestly."
His vision clears suddenly. Startlingly, crystalline clear. He looks up, and sees stars, except they're all falling, and stinging his eyes. The sky is falling down, he thinks, blankly. All those times Finn had said "God! You make it sound like the sky is falling!" And look, here, look Finn, it is. I was right.
The stars glimmer, his vision blurs again, and he sinks back inside, lids shutting. Rain twinkles as it falls from the low-lying fog, picking up the muted glow of the lights from the warehouse.
Someone is shouting for him. He can't hear it.
I straighten my tie and check to make sure my gun and switchblade are easily reachable. The gun metal is warm against my hip, filled with my body heat, and the knife's bone handle is reassuring. I button my jacket, run a hand through my hair, shorter than it's been in years, and open the sunglasses with an expensive click. They'd been gifts from Adam, along with—well, along with a lot of stuff. First was the penthouse. Then the women. Jesus, did he know some hot women. I've never been a great expert on sex, having slept with nothing but other street people (and I know that's what I am, now, or what I was, till Adam saved me) but these women were easily the best lays in Beijing. Then there were the clothes, the watches, the weapons, the car.
I have the best set up in town, and I know it
Adam steps out behind me and inhales deeply. "Perfect, clean crisp air." He says appreciatively. "Time to ruin it with a good cigarette." He lights up. I smoked for a long time, but quit, because I got caught stealing the things and they threatened to do like the Arabs and cut off my hands. Kinda deterred me from the habit.
The limo pulls up, and I open the door for him, ignoring the chauffeur. I like doing this sort of stuff for Adam. My way of saying thanks, I guess. He gets in without a word, and I peer around the street for any sings of 'suspicious activity'. The only thing moving is the litter.
The inside of the limo smells like his cologne and his fancy cigarettes.
We're going to a meeting with some Colombian coke lords. They have a particularly good harvest this year, and Adam says that if we can get in on it, the profits will be immense- and he and I will get to sample, too, which is cool. Coke isn't my favorite, I like PCP best, but really, who would turn down free blow?
The driver makes a small noise, and it's all the warning we have. I shove Adam down flat, right before bullet holes appear in our windows and the air is full of falling glass. I don't hear any shots. They must be using silencers.
Adam reaches into his coat, pulls out his gun. It gleams in the neon light now streaming though the shattered car. He's winks at me, and says "I guess I should have bought the car armor, huh?"
I'm too busy trying to keep him and me alive to give him a look. The limo is still moving, but it's weaving. The driver is dead, I'm sure of it. We're going to wreck, and soon, and I've got to get us out of here before that. Adam has the same idea, because he peeks out the windows, and recoils too quickly for the gunmen to aim again. "Do we jump?" I ask, and my gun is in my hand, and I don't even know it. Fuck, I'm scared. I'm terrifed. This is the first time I've ever had to do anything as a bodyguard, other than rough some people up. I feel myself shaking, my muscles weak with adrenaline. I've been shot at before, once, when my gang was killed . . . but I wet myself then, to be honest. The only thing that's keeping me from doing it now is Adam's steady and, yes, excited eyes on me.
"Yeah." He says. "We jump."
Okay, so, how? My foot is moving without me controlling it, and the door on my side flies open, and I grab Adam's silk suit, smooth under my hand, and we're out the door. We hit the ground painfully, and my hip goes pop, but I can't feel it. Adam is up beside me, his hand on my collar, already aiming on the other side of the street. "The windows!" He yells. "They're in the windows! Shoot! Motherfucker, SHOOT!
My legs are water, my eyes are filled with water, and my stomach feels like it's going to expel something very watery. But my hand, and my gun, gleaming silver in the sodium lights, is stone. It's moving on automatic pilot, like the gun has some sort of advanced Terminator intelligence, and when my finger pulls the trigger, I have my eyes partially closed. Someone screams.
It's like that's all I needed. Permission to do what I'd been hired to do, authorized by a signature in blood.
I don't think about killing people. I don't think about the families they have at home, the interests we could share, the parents, the disgraces.
They are the enemy, and I eliminate the enemy.
Adam has his hand on my shoulder. I have fog in my head. I don't remember what just happened, I only remember the sound of the gun firing, because my ears are still ringing. I'm standing, I don't know how, because I can't feel my leg from the hip down, and then all of the sudden it's like my leg isn't there at all and I fall over. Adam catches me just enough that, when I do hit the concrete, my head doesn't crack open like a rotten egg.
"Chow, Jesus. Jesus. I think you just single-handedly won the gang war." He cracks up, leaning over me. When I look at his face, open, truly fucking open for the first time ever, I notice that he has a neon halo. "I think." He says finally, going very calm. "You need a promotion." And his teeth flash white.
The meeting goes great. We get so high we can't tell who we are.
I don't think about the people I killed.
He finds it terribly ironic that, out of the three of them, he had been the only one ever to kill—and the first to die. Karma, he supposes. From the very first day, from the first minute he meets them, he knows they are innocent in that way. That he will always be separated from them by that terrible stigma, that he still is. When he looks down at his hand, when they shake it, he sees the gunpowder stains, the blood, like invisible ink. He sees nothing on their hands, except lines and pores and chewed nails. So from then on, he does the killing. Valmont understands. Valmont lets him. Valmont brings him into his office when the others have gone home, hands him a manila envelope containing information, pictures, data, and Valmont tells him to be done by morning. He has killed a lot of people. And no one but he and his masters know.
He has a fleeting notion.
He begins, in a voice that can not be heard, and very possibly no longer exists, stumbling over a tongue thick and swollen and tasteless, to apologize. Not for the murders, because that was something you had to expect, working in a business like theirs. He apologizes for keeping his eyes hidden when he does it. He apologizes for hating himself for it. He apologizes for not giving his hits the respect and dignity of knowing their killer, of looking to his eyes, and knowing his soul.
Every victim should know their killer's soul.
When my door bangs open, I'm taking a bath, and the sound startles me so much that I don't even think of grabbing a towel before I'm out of the water. My gun is hanging up in its holster, hanging off the back of the door, and I spend precious seconds fumbling with the slippery-when-wet leather, cursing silently. Someone is walking around in the front room, making no effort to be quiet. Overconfident, I think, finally freeing the weapon. I feel shaky. I know it is dark in the front room, that I didn't leave the light on, so that explains the curse I heard, and the wooden crash as someone runs into my table. I'm being as silent as possible, remembering the lessons Adam gave me on being stealthy. Step toe first. Control every aspect of your body. Yes, I remember these things, but applying them is proving difficult.
The carpet yields very easily under my wet toes, and some part of my mind thinks what a bitch it's going to be to clean all the water up. The other part of my mind swings my body around, aiming my gun at the figure huddled on the floor, where, apparently, they'd fallen after running into the table. My mouth forms words, force behind them. "Don't fucking move, retard." The figure mumbles, and begins to stumble to its feet. I smell it now, tingling my nose, both mouth-watering and sickening. He reeks of alcohol. He could be sweating it, he stinks so much. "I said don't move!" I say, and though my voice feels like it should crack, it doesn't. It's not my voice. I recognize it, though—it's the voice of the person that kills for me. He's the one pointing the gun and preparing to pull the trigger, and I back off, waiting for the blood.
The light from outside blemishes the figure's face as he rises. It is an unhealthy bronze, and it makes him look much worse than he does- which is not good anyway. "Chow." It mumbles. A wave of vomit- stink reaches me from across the room.
"Adam?" I say, and this is actually me saying it, too. My gun falters, and lowers, touching my lower stomach. My bare lower stomach. SHIT. I must be blushing so hard that you could see it even in the almost-black room. I move towards the door to grab a towel, yelping at the same time. "What are you doing here, sir?" I've called him sir since the beginning, since my first lessons in etiquette. Adam said that a bodyguard should not only be deadly in actions, but in words, as well. I never caught on, really- but sir did stick.
Adam brushes back his hair with wobbly fingers. "Chow." He says again, smiling. "My faithfu' bodyguard." He tilts dangerously, but before he can fall, I catch him, tossing his arm over my shoulder and leading him to the couch. Christ, he's trashed. I'm not sure on what- alcohol, for sure, but I don't know if there's anything else. I worry about overdose, but only for a second. Adam sags heavily into the plush cushions.
"Sir, do you want me to get you some water or an aspirin or something?"
"No." He waves his hand at me. "Siddown."
I reluctantly sit next to him. Maybe I should call a doctor . . . he seems pretty out of it.
"Chow." Adam says yet again. I look at him curiously. He's staring at me, dark blue eyes made orange and black by the streetlights.
"Um, I'm gonna turn the light on." I mumble, but to my shock, he slaps my hand, hard. "Ow!"
"No! Leave it off." He says, voice stern. "I wanna talk to you, and I gotta see you to do that."
I don't mention that turning on the light would help with that. "Okay, then . . ." I replied, hesitant. Adam grins, teeth wet, breath garbage-rotten. The stink reminds me of my old life, and suddenly, I feel very nervous. Adam, I realize, is very close to me, and I don't like it. There's something about him right now that reminds me of a lot of shit I used to see in the streets, and I don't like that either. At all.
"I've taken care of you, 'aven't I, Chow?"
"Ye-es . . ."
Adam sets his chin on my shoulder, still looking into my face. I jump at the feel of his suit on my skin.
Oh, fuck, I'm still only wearing the towel.
"I've done lots for you, right? I bought you nice things. Gave you a job, food, women . . . you 'preciate it all, right?"
"Right." I say. I want to get up. I want to get up right now, and put some clothes on. I don't like this. This doesn't feel right.
"So, if I asked for something back, just, y'know, a tiny token, t'show that you really are grateful . . ."
"You want to borrow money?" I ask, feeling a little better. No idea why he would want to borrow money . . . that wasn't all that threatening, at least. But Adam's face is still close to mine, and he's laughing a little bit.
"Nononono. Mmm . . . "He presses closer, and I pull away.
"Adam, what—"
"Shut up!" He says suddenly, and this time, he slaps me across the face, snapping my head to the side. I can't move, except to bring my hand to the side of my stinging face. Oh, my god. Oh my god. He hit me. He just motherfucking hit me. And now, he's grabbing me by the arm. "You little brat." He hisses. "I give you everything, everything, and you're so fucking ungrateful, it makes me sick!"
He shoves on my arm, and unbalanced, I fall of the couch. I hit the carpet, not heavily, but again, it's a shock. He towers over me, and I realize that he looks just like my father before he starts slapping me with his belt. It's why I ran away. Oh my god, I have to run away. Adam, oh, Jesus, how could you do this? I try to plead, talk sense into him, but all that comes out is a squeak. I try to pull out my other self, the other guy who uses the gun and the knife, but I can't. I can't. I can't hurt Adam.
He's taking off his jacket, breathing heavy.
No.
He's bending over me, and his belt leaves his hand.
No. Don't remember this.
I try to push him off me, but he's stronger than me, always has been. I'm fast, but I'm not a powerhouse. He bites me on my neck, and then suddenly I'm in the air. He's picked me up. I want to flail, but I'm too scared. He's whispering something into my ear, something wildly inappropriate, about how nice I am for doing this and what a good bodyguard I am and how I never let him down and all I can think is oh, Jesus, help me, I can't hurt him, I can't fight him, I have to do this . . .
He will not remember this. He won't. He won't. He can't.
When I wake up, Adam has his leg draped over me, pinning me to the bed. He's asleep, even though there's a hot beam of sun on his face. I push his leg off, slowly, lifting away the sheets, and head towards the bathroom. I get a new towel from the shelf, hang it off the shower door, and turn the water on, making sure that it's nearly scalding. I then take a very long, very thorough shower, concentrating especially on the mess between my legs. I thought for sure there would be blood, but there isn't. Hmm. I shrug to myself, the suds on my back sliding off and, unprotesting, slip into the abyss of the drain, never to be seen again.
I rest my head against the ceramic tiles of the wall, and take several deep, slow breaths.
When I get out, finally, my skin sore and red from the heat of the water, my steps hesitant, Adam is putting on his tie. His suit is wrinkled, but not stippled with flecks of vomit like I thought it would be. He smiles cheerfully. "Hey there."
"Hi." I don't know what else to say.
"Sorry to run, but I have to get home and change. This suit stinks like hell."
"It's okay."
Adam smiles at me truly and honestly, his eyes fixed on my face. "I knew you'd understand. I'd try to stick around longer for breakfast, but nothing you have would fit me." He regards me a moment. "I could call and have a valet bring me some clothes, if you want."
"No," I say. "It's alright. Sying will be wondering where you are, anyway." Sying is Adam's other bodyguard.
I wonder if he has ever woken up like this.
Adam taps his forehead. "Good thinking. Ahhh, I'm always a little fuzzy after a night like that." My throat is dry. Adam rises from the bed, and moves into the living room, where he grabs his jacket from the back of the couch. I stand near the exit, not knowing what to say. I should feel embarrassed; I'm not wearing anything but a towel, yet again. I can't muster the emotion. He pauses as he opens the door, and leans over, kissing me on the lips. I don't do anything. "I had fun last night. "He says coyly. "I'll see you at seven. Till then, Chow."
As soon as he's gone, I walk very slowly into the bathroom again, where I drop the towel, get on my knees, and throw up what little I have in my stomach.
To sleep comfortably, he puts blankets over the windows, and plugs the cracks around the doors with duct tape. It has been a long time since he has had the freedom to do this, of course, or the energy. He likes it dark, when he sleeps. He likes it when he cannot see his hand in front of his face. When there is nothing to look at, so that the darkness itself becomes a display. When closing your eyes is brighter than keeping them open.
He is not quite in that state yet, but he is moving towards it. He is glad. When the darkness is incomplete, that's when shadows appear- and shadows can move, shadows can shape things, shadows can act out your memories.
He believes he feels the darkness touching him, prodding and poking, feeling around his neck.
There are noises, very dim. Voices from under a suffocating pillow. Muffled.
It's late Sunday morning, and I'm waiting for Adam to get home, rubbing my toes in the carpet. I'm very, very bored. There isn't anything on TV- Nothing but soap operas, and I can't fucking stand those. American soap operas are bad, but, Jesus, have you ever tried to watch a Chinese soap opera? It's like gouging out your common sense with a tire iron and calling it brain surgery. I think my thumb is going to fall off, I'm changing channels so much. I wish MTV didn't suck now. I miss watching music videos. What the fuck is with this Real World show?
Adam is at church. He doesn't go too often- he says why bother, he's going to hell anyway- and I hate church, so I don't feel annoyed at him being late. He promised today he'd talk to me about security at the Prefect's fundraising dinner. He's been putting it off forever. I know he doesn't wanna go, but, dammit, if we can make a connection there, any connection, profits would skyrocket. I mean, we're already rich, but nothing wrong with a little more cash, huh?
Alright, I'm way too bored. This sucks.
One rolled up dollar bill and three white lines later, my nose itches and I feel a familiar numb tingling beginning in my cheeks, like I just shot myself with low grade Novocain. Fuck, that feels good. A paycheck well spent. Time would pass easier, now.
Adam promised me a whole new supply tonight anyway . . . if I just sucked off that Korean business man with the greasy grey hair. I wrinkle my nose at the thought, not feeling the action. It wasn't like I hadn't done it before, just, man, I hated the taste of those guys. Sweaty and linty at first, salty, overripe meat when they were done. And I always had to swallow. Oh, well . . . one white substance in return for another, I guess. It was would be worth it tonight, when Adam would throw his party, and then the two of us would leave, head into his back room and fuck each other's brains out, listening to the heavy music and moaning and laughing and other party noises right outside the door.
It'd been two years since the night we'd had sex. It took me a while to get used to it, but after six months or so, I realized that I was totally overacting. I'd been such a pussy, getting all freaked out at him for doing that the first night. I mean, hell, he was drunk, and the first time was supposed to hurt, you know? And of course I'd resisted, I didn't understand what he was doing. God, I was so stupid. It was nothing- just sex. And It wasn't like me and Adam were gay, either- we were just really good friends who had sex.
Okay, yeah, I was a little freaked out when he brought home the first guy. But, you know, the first guy brought drugs, and Adam was watching, so, you know, what the hell. And before he left, He'd handed Adam a crisp new hundred, and slipped me some PCP and a twenty, so, fuck, not like it was bad money. Plus, he said I was a great lay. The other guys after that paid better, too . . . even if some of them stank a little, and made me do some really . . . kinda 'off' things. Weren't the gentlest of people, either. If I got high first, it was all okay, and didn't hurt that bad.
Goddammit, I give up. There's just nothing on.
The door slams open, and three guys I might have seen before at some point, because they look sort familiar, barge in. The one in the lead is short, with red streaks in his hair. He looks like an attractive rat. The other two are big—one tall, one wide. I just about jump out of my skin, but I calm down as Adam comes in behind them. He looks flushed, like he looks after he's just closed a particular juicy deal. "Take a seat, gentlemen." He says, waving at the couch I'm sitting on.
They do. The big guys on either side of me, the small one sitting in Adam's favorite chair. He melts into the cushions, filled with the same self-confident air that Adam possesses. I wave tentatively. "Uh . . . hey."
The guy grins at me, showing too much teeth. "Hey."
From the kitchen comes the sound of clinking ice cubes in glasses, clinking bottles on glasses, and a warm slosh. Adam's mixing drinks, obviously. "As you can see." He calls out, "The goods are of excellent quality, just like I promised."
"You never do let us down, Adam." The guy sinks farther into the chair. Goods, huh? I guess Adam arranged a new deal while at church . . . the irony of which is not lost on me. But what 'goods' was he talking about? And I'm getting a little annoyed, too, because, shit Adam, I don't even have my gun here. The least he could do is call me before he brings strangers over. These guys are really big—I don't know if I can take them bare-handed if something goes wrong.
Adam comes into the room, carrying four drinks- one for each guest and one for himself. I frown at him, but I guess it's for the best. I'm already completely coked up. "So, what do you think, Xian?" He asks, brushing his heavy hair out of his eyes. "Do we have deal?"
Xian's eyes flash, and I suddenly feel one of the guys grab my hair and yank way, way too hard. "OUCH!" I yelp, involuntarily.
"I think he's pretty cute," says the tall one on my left.
"Yeah." The one to my right grins. "And he squeaks."
Oh. Oh, I get it now.
Fuck, Adam, three guys?
"Yeah." Xian says, swirling his glass. "He's pretty cute. How much?"
"Depends." Adam smiles, and his eyes flash: the excited business man. "What do you want to do with him? For how long?"
Xian takes a drink, his eyes hard on me, sliding down to my neck, back up to my face. My head is still tilted back, my hair still in Mr. Gorilla's paw. I notice that Xian is wearing contacts that give his eyes a reddish hue. "What are my restrictions?"
Adam doesn't even pause. "None. Well . . . no snuff, I suppose." He laughs at his little joke, and leans against the back of the chair. Xian twists his head up, eyes half lidded. "Anything?" He purrs in a syrupy voice.
"Anything."
Xian touches Adam's leg. Adam looks amused, his full mouth tweaked at the corners. "Bloodplay?"
"What the fuck?" I can't help it. Bloodplay? What the shit is bloodplay? I don't know, and I really, really do not want to find out. "Hey—"
"Shut up, Chow." Adam's words are icy, but he's still smiling at Xian. "No permanent marks in easily visible places. If you want to scar him, it can't be too unattractive. No jagged marks or random slashes." He waves his hands, searching for the right phrase. "Be . . . artistic."
I struggle against the guy holding me, trying to wrench myself free, ignoring the stinging in my scalp. The wide one, he pushes me back against the couch, almost sweetly, and I can't fight against his sewer-pipe size arms. "Adam!" I squeal.
"Sounds fair." Xian says. "You want in on it?"
"Adam!!" I shriek again. "Don't let them do this!"
"Don't mind if I do." Adam says, eyes finally settling, and lingering on me. Xian claps his hands like an excited child, and reaches into his pocket. He removes a switchblade that looks sort of like the one I own.
"Adam!" I beg, tears welling in my eyes. Goddammit, why the fuck did I have to get so high? I can't think, I can't think to fight back. He stares at me, impassive.
"Quiet, Chow." He says, sipping his drink. Xian shakes his head.
"No, no." He says, and he smiles, mouth crooked, lips wet. "Let him beg. I love it when they beg."
And Adam beams generously, his eyes never leaving mine.
He has hated the number twenty two now for close to ten years. When he sees it, on a sign, in graffiti, anywhere, he averts his eyes. When he counts, he must skip that number, going from twenty one to twenty three. When he finds it on a lottery ticket, he tears the ticket up. He avoids phrases like 'catch 22'. He did not celebrate his twenty-second birthday.
He also hates knives.
Big knives are okay, big knives don't faze him.
Switch knives terrify him. They trigger nightmares, for days.
Pen knives send him into convulsions.
The only people I have had physical contact with over the past six months are Xian, who's hair seems to change every time I see him; Ping, who, when bored, bench presses me for fun; Zeze, who is so tall, his head brushes my ceiling; and Adam, who doesn't touch me with soft fingers anymore. The only things he ever touches me with are his eyes.
I have been sold to them twenty two times so far.
I am no longer his bodyguard. I am also no longer allowed to leave the apartment. They want me on call, 24-7. I don't eat much anymore. They give me drugs, but never before sex, only afterwards. That way, I can't try to dull the pain of their assault. And only when they are present. I think they're afraid I'm going to try to overdose.
They're probably right.
When they are finished, they'll move into the living room, put on jazz records, and begin to talk about Adam's business; his successes, his recent failures. Xian runs drugs, mainly. He has helped Adam, in recent months, procure enough new stock to flood Beijing's streets. Adam is becoming the premiere dealer of the city. It's a dangerous position, but he revels in it. He's known for his punctuality, the quality of his drugs, and his reasonable prices. He has the Prefect in his breast pocket, the police captain in his pants pocket, and several celebrities hidden in his socks. In exchange for everything that Xian has given him, he gives Xian me, and a chance to ride his coattails into money and infamy.
Now that he rules the drug worlds, or nearly so, Adam has set his sights on other things. He has moved into black market weapons, and has begun, mainly for his own benefit, to deal in black market art.
Tonight, that is the focus of his conversation with Xian. Ping and Zeze already left.
I'm lying on the sheets of the bed, a damp rag pressed to the still bleeding mark Xian carved into my leg. He likes to keep score. They the only marks that he leaves permanently—the rest are only expert cuts, not deep enough to scar, just deep enough to bleed. The room is dark, the sheets are satin, dark maroon satin, and reflect the stunning cityscape glowing outside the windowpanes. There is snow on the stone sill outside. Small flakes are falling, taking the edge off the image.
The warm gin and tonic music of Louis Armstrong, Ada Brown, and some smooth new artists are backdrop for Adam's conversation. Xian has very pleasant voice. It plays well off Adam's deep purr.
My nose is bleeding a little, my throat raw. I didn't want to do the drugs tonight, but I know by know I'm addicted. It's another way they can control me.
"You're so pretty." Adam had said to me, as he handed me the mirror and the straw, lines like the snow outside. He brushed back my matted hair when he said it. I can still feel that brief touch, its echo still on my forehead.
There is a silhouette in the doorway. I didn't even notice the talking had stopped.
"Chow?" Adam's voice is playful. "How do you feel?"
"Good." I rasp.
"Good." He replies. "You're going to come with me tonight."
It takes me a moment to get this. I stare at him. I can feel the blankness in my eyes. "What?"
"I need a bodyguard tonight. Sying and the others are unavailable. Would you be interested?"
What can I say? No? "Yes."
Adam smiles. I can only see this because his teeth, pearly as always, glint in the snow-light. "Good boy."
Something has its hook in him. There is something . . . happening. He does not want to focus on it. It is hard and real, and it is dry- a feeling he does not know.
This thing is netting him. It is keeping him . . . here? Close?
Alive . . .
Alive?
Adam draws us forward, his entourage. I am alive again. Fed by the evening, and by fresh air, and by the weapons under my jacket.
I am not cold and small under impersonal sheets. I am warm and heady with power. God, it feels good. I remember this.
The swagger, the tight lipped glares. The sunglasses at night. Lights, camera, action . . . I am motherfucking power out here. Watch us, the six of us, Adam, me, four underlings, cut through the crowd like a sharp knife, like a bullet through skin, watch us head for the glass doors of the club and under the blue and red and green and pink lights, watch the velvet rope move for us. See how the crowd pulls in? I do. I do because I have to. Because I am Adam's bodyguard. I keep him safe. Don't you even think of fucking with us, my black suit says.
His jet hair perfect and glossy, a cigarette dangling between his lips, Adam leads, we follow. The club deafens us- the band on the stage is dressed in plastic and their hair is painted yellow and they are playing instruments with beads dangling from every available surface. The crowd on the floor is moving as one, pulsing, waving, arms, and legs. Mouths, skin, hips and eyes.
There are more people in this world than just Adam and Xian, Ping and Zeze. There is a world to speak of. They don't know me. I don't know them. They don't know me, they don't know what my blood looks like or how I sound when they part my legs. And the won't know.
Our table is in the back, and it has more life around it than I have seen in so long. Women, their breasts inflated, rub against guys of all ages and nations. It's a goddamn diversity commercial, except with martinis and coke involved. In seated at the center of the table, head leaned back, the barest hint of blonde hair peeking up from where it bobs in his lap, there is one man in particular. He has the look of someone who is . . . well, drunk, high, and getting a blowjob, but also of someone who is waiting. He has a single gold earring, tan skin, and white hair.
Adam sits down, I do not. I stand. The guy grabs the chick by the hair and pulls her off; she pouts, and then moves one down the line.
"Hello Adam." The man shouts. He has a British accent, well-educated. He is not an American. I am surprised.
"Mr. Valmont." Adam's smile is fleshy. "Good to see you."
"Excellent to see you, as well!" His eyes are bloodshot. I watch the crowd, uninterested in the following conversation—and hungry for the life I see here. I want, more than anything, to flip Adam off and go dance.
Fuck . . . I miss dancing. I love to dance. Loved, I guess.
They're talking about art, and trade prices, and crime world gossip. I keep a steely face, and I'm happy to see people shy away from me, not wanting to go near the bad ass.
Or, at least, I should be, but instead, I want them close. Talking to me.
Adam and Mr. Valmont discuss boring shit for so long, I think my eardrums are going to burst from the music, and I can feel my heart beating in time with it. Thud thud. .Thud thud thud thu-thud. I guess that can't really happen, but it does feel sorta like it. The bass speakers are making the floor vibrate; I can feel it through the soles of my shoes.
Earlier, one girl came up to me and, as a joke or a dare I think, asked me to dance. I didn't even answer her.
Adam just said my name. What . . . what did he say? The white haired British guy . . . Valmont . . . he's looking at me now. I easily recognize that look, and can't help myself. I shudder.
I lead him out to the parking lot, hailing a cab back to his hotel room. He's laughing and stumbling and saying stupid fucking things to me like "Do you speak-a Eeeeennglish?" He is so trashed that it gives me hope. Maybe he won't be able to get it up. Maybe he'll pass out. Shit, that would be great.
As we get in the cab, he starts loudly talking about blowjobs. The cabby gives me a bizarre glance, and I wave an extra wad of bills at him. He pulls away from the curb, and the drunkard slides into me. "Bloody hell!" He says happily. "We're moving fast now, eh?"
"Yessir." I mumble. He laughs.
Well, at the very least, he doesn't seem like the violent type.
There are hands on him. They are spidery, pressure in some places, skittering in others, creepy crawly on his skin.
Adam!
No!
Don't touch me! He thinks.
Did his ears just hear that, or his head? Both?
Mr. Valmont is so utterly out of his mind on various substances that I have to carry him upstairs draped over my back. "Hey-a now! You're stronger than you look." He says cheerfully, and I grunt in reply. The space between my legs, where Xian played earlier, stings and burns and feels a little wet. I think I've pulled the scab open. Shit.
He's singing something, and, oh god is it awful. "Uh, sir . . . you might want to quiet it down a little . . . you might wake up the other people stayin' here."
"Ah-hah!" He says in a childish whisper. "Right you are, my good man. On the down low, eh?"
"Yeah, that's right." Christ, where is his room?
When I finally get the fucking key to work, he stumbles inside, and immediately heads for the bar. I stretch, wincing as pain twinges in my spine- and in my fresh markings.
His hotel room is really nice. It's actually two rooms, very spacious. There's a hot tub. I hope he doesn't want to take a dip in there first—it would be seriously bad if he got a glimpse of what was between my legs. Er . . . what was not supposed to between my legs, anyway. Speaking of which—"Bathroom?"
He waves into the bedroom. The bathroom, like all hotels, is very cramped. I gingerly take off my pants and boxers, and curse. The cut isn't bleeding all that much, but it's been smeared all over my inner thigh. I try to clean it up best I can, consider getting a band aid, but, no, it's already closed up again mostly. And it's not like a band aid could hide all the other scars. Neat little lines of them, all in a row.
I wash my hands, and when I come back out into the bedroom, I almost swallow my tongue. Mr. Valmont is stretched out in the most corny cheap-porno pose ever, naked on the bed, with two glasses on a silver tray. "Champagne?" He purrs.
"Sure." I manage to croak out, after making sure I wouldn't burst into laughter. Okay, this certifies it. He's not a dangerous psychopath—he's just a loony.
So I let him seduce me, undressing me all the way to my boxers, where I stop him, and get down to business. His moans are classic, so overblown and drunken that I also almost choke on . . . something other than my tongue this time. He is pretty hot, I'll admit. Very well muscled, very tan all over- and I mean all over. He's also pretty nice, and gentle, and doesn't shove my head down or anything, just keeps his hands knotted up in my hair. I try adding a little champagne in my mouth, and he seems to like that a lot. He stops me, wiggling away, after about a minute of that. "I want to fuck you," He pants. "Please let me fuck you."
I force a smile. "Sounds hot. Just lemme get the lights . . ."
As I slide off the bed, I feel a hand on my ankle. Crap. "Awww . . . let's leave the lights on, what do you say?" He coos. "I wanna see you when I shag your tight little—"
"Professional procedure." I stammer. "I'll be just a sec—"
He tackles me, not harsh, but drunk playfully, like a very large puppy. "Lights on!"
"Mr. Valmont, Sir . . .!" I struggle against his tight grip and sloppy kisses. He's very strong. "I have to turn them off!" But he's not listening. He wrestles me down and begins to take off my underwear. "Wait--!!"
Too late.
"Hey . . ." He mutters, brow suddenly creasing. He drops the boxers, and they slide off the bed, out of my reach. "You're bleeding."
I squeeze my legs together. Fuck fuck fuckkity motherfuck fuck shit whore. The cut must have come open again while playing. "It's nothing."
"Nonsense. "He slurs the word out. "That looks bad. Let me see, I know some first aid. What happened?"
"It's nothing!" I bark, feeling an embarrassed flush rise to my cheeks. Shit, he's a nice guy, he doesn't deserve to see this.
He looks so goddamned concerned, it just makes the embarrassment worse. "Let me see!" he says, and pulls my legs apart painlessly but exceptionally quickly. So quickly, in fact, that I'm too shocked to react for a moment. I think 'Holy shit! Where'd he learn to move like that?' And then I register the horror on his face, and all I think is 'I've done it now . . .'
"Oh my god." He says weakly. "What are those?"
I know I can make up some lie about being a freaky Goth who cuts themselves, or a masochist, or something, but the scars, the location of them . . . I have a feeling Mr. Valmont his smarter that he looks tonight. He'll know I didn't cause these. And, yeah, I can say that I had a friend do them, but when I open my mouth to say these things, his eyes meet mine. And . . . I can't . . . oh, god, I can't . . .
"What are those?" He says again, quietly, and I realize that all traces of inebriation are gone from his voice. My, my face is twisting up, fuck, I can't control it, I could still salvage this, this is such bad business, fuck, what am I doing?!
I bury my face in the sheets. "Nothing. They're nothing. Just . . . just let me . . ." I close my legs, yanking them out of his hands, and curl up in a little ball like a child.
What the fuck is the matter with me? It's like all this stuff is involuntary. I'm up in my head, screaming at myself to uncurl and act like a man, for fuck's sake, and Jesus, stop crying! But my body won't listen. It's very frustrating.
"Chow?" Mr. Valmont asks, hesitantly, and touches my shoulder. My body flinches. I, in my head, roll my eyes.
This separation is very weird.
"Chow?" He asks again. "Who did that to you?"
"None of your business." I say, finally wrestling my tongue away from my haywire emotions.
He says nothing for a little while, and I'm glad. Gives me time to get back in control. When I do, and finally sit up, wiping my face, he's mostly dressed. I stare at him in surprise. His face is grim, and sober. A little scary, actually, sharply cut. His eyes are terrifyingly blue, and electric with something I can't identify.
"Sorry." I say, looking at the floor. "That was really fucking retarded of me."
"No." Mr. Valmont says. "Don't be embarrassed. I want you to take me back to the club. I'm going to tell your boss off for not taking care of his employees."
"What?!" I jerk my head up fast enough to risk whiplash. Obviously, he was still high beyond belief.
"Take me back!" he snaps, and I quail under his voice. It's ungodly authoritarian, more so than anyone I've ever met in my life.
"Uh . . . yessir." I mumble, slightly in wonder of this guy.
He doesn't stumble when he walks, this time. He strides, maybe slightly weavey, but I don't feel the need to watch his every step in case he might fall over. It's very late, I realize, once I step outside. There isn't a taxi in sight. "Um." I say, my eyes apologetic under my sunglasses. "We're gonna have to call a ride, I think."
He squints. "How far is it from here?"
"The club? Uh . . . about ten blocks or so." He thinks for a sec, and then nods.
"We'll walk."
"Sir?"
He grins. "It will help me sober up a little more before I have my little conversation."
I open my mouth to say something, then shut it. I shrug, and we start walking.
After a while, I begin to feel very uncomfortable about this whole thing. Well, more uncomfortable. What the fuck was he going to say to Adam? What if Adam orders me to attack him? Beat the shit out of him for back talk? Kill him? I dunno . . . I don't think I could do that. I actually really kinda like this Valmont guy. He's pretty cool, amazingly. I don't want to have to whack him. Or, what happens if Adam—I cower a little, even now—blames me?
More playtime with the boys, a voice in my head whispers to me.
"Hey . . ." I say hesitantly. "Um . . . don't blame Adam for . . . this. He didn't do it."
"I know." Mr. Valmont says evenly, breath steaming in the air. "He should still take better care of his employees."
"I mean . . ." I stammer. "He doesn't really even . . ." I have to lie. "I don't really think he really knows, you know?" I try to wiggle my brows meaningfully. He doesn't pay attention.
"Well." He rubs his hands together, trying to keep them warm. "He should."
We walk on in silence, except for the snow crunching under our feet.
Seven blocks down, he stops me. I'm lost in thought, and run into his outstretched hand. "Wait . . ." He says, tensing.
I see the three guys before he does. They're big, nothing but street punks, but dangerous street punks—kinda like I used to be, I guess. Two have guns, one has a knife.
"Hey there." They say. "Feeling in the yuletide spirit? Cause we're looking for someone who's feeling a little generous."
"Christmas was a month and a half ago, you dolts." Mr. Valmont responds in perfect Mandarin. Fuck. I reach for my gun.
It's not there.
Oh, shit, its back at the hotel . . . and so is my knife.
"Get your fucking hands up!" One of them shouts at me, and then all hell breaks loose. Mr. Valmont grabs his wrist and in one fluid motion, snaps it. I don't even think, I just dive in right after him, knocking one guy flat with a sweep kick, bring my heel up again and back down into his face, feeling teeth wrap around my sole, while I grab his knife and swing it up, up, until it slides between the ribs of the second guy, lifting him off the ground with the force I put behind the stab. It just misses his heart, nicking it—he'll be dead very quickly. The knife is in him up to the cheap hilt.
The other guy starts to get up, and I swing his friends arm around, twisting his wrist so that he fires two shots into his friend's forehead. It's over before it's begun.
Mr. Valmont, I realize, is watching me, grinning. The thug at his feet has his neck turned at a weird angle. I'm panting, and realize it because my breath is nearly blinding me, it's so white and foggy. "I'm impressed, Chow." He says, actually looking like he really is. "You're . . . multitalented, that's for sure."
I don't say anything, just begin to drag the thugs off into an alley, and covering up the bloodstains with snow. Valmont watches me, and then starts helping.
When we're done, he turns to me. "I was just thinking." He says casually. "You really are a brilliant fighter."
"Thank you." I rub my hands. I smell blood in the air.
"Chow . . . I like you. You're fairly smart. You're fast. You can fight. But you aren't afraid to be human, either." He flicks me a quick glance, and that's all. "How would you like to come to America?" I can't say anything, my throat has closed up. I just stare at him. He smiles. "Like the idea?"
"Yes." I whisper. "But . . . but Adam . . ."
"I'll talk to him." Mr. Valmont begins to walk away, back to the club. "You can come to America, and you can work for me—but only if you want." He looks over his shoulder sharply. "Only if you want."
"I . . ." I can't move. He moves ahead of me, into the dark. "I . . ."
He almost disappears from view, between the streetlights. "Thank you."
He can't hear me.
He let him go, it was true. He remembers the shock of it, the casual words which spilled out his mouth like soiled gemstones, rough, uncut, inherently flawed. You've been sold. You're going to America. Goodbye. And then, grin wicked, scythe sharp, scythe shaped: I'll miss you.
And Adam gave him a goodbye kiss, slow, deep, kind, and Adam pushed him back unto those sheets, and he nearly cried. This was good. Why was he leaving? This was the good thing.
It was love. It took tonight, and the rain, and the sea, and the tears; the blood, and the fog, and the cold; the memories and the dreams; his own death . . . it took all these things to finally realize that.
And when he pushed him down, onto the bed, hand delicate at the very small of his back, lips soft, not greedy, it was good.
That's what he'd wanted, from Finn. Finn hadn't been nearly as good, but when he was kissed, it was with that same care. I don't want to hurt you. I want to make it better. And he'd followed the pattern that Adam had set, all those years ago, when he'd taken his shirt off, breathless, the cold winter room chased off by his tongue, invited in by the wet trails left behind. It was good. Adam's hair was soft, and curtained over their faces, drawing them both in to touch, nose to nose, lashes to lashes, mouth to mouth.
Oh, god, he'd loved him.
He'd loved him.
He still loves him. He doesn't want to know that. He doesn't, because that means he valued that time, feathery and gentle, more than he valued all the horribly fucking things Adam had done to him. All of the old scars he'd left on him, both visible and not. It meant he valued Adam's breath on his collarbone, in the crook of his neck, more than the fact that later that night, he'd come back to the apartment again, drunk, and woke him up by . . . by . . .
He loves him.
He has to admit this. These events.
He loves Adam. But Adam does not love him.
That night, Adam came back, raped him, and carved his name into his leg, and laughed as he screamed. And then he had left, black hair shining with excited and intoxicated sweat, left his victim to crawl to the bathroom and pray he didn't bleed to death, because the cuts were so deep and to cry and cry and cry for reasons he didn't understand then.
He does now.
He loves Adam.
Adam does not love him.
I'm dreaming. I know this. I've heard about people having those nightmares where you wake up from a nightmare, and think you've actually woken up, but really you're still dreaming. If that makes any sense at all.
It's not really I dream, I guess. It's a memory that's too recent.
Adam leans over me, drunk, like on that first night, our first night. He licks my cheek. His spit is sticky.
His knife works away at my skin. He's laughing. I'm crying.
The dream loops, over and over.
I wake up as the plane lands. It's been a sixteen hour flight. I've slept the whole time. Valmont will be waiting for me, at the airport. He says he has set me up with an apartment, and a couple contacts for jobs and the like. He's also brought in a doctor, paid off so he won't talk, to help me stay clean. That was my idea. Coke, all drugs, would just remind me too much of Beijing. It goes without saying that it would remind me too much of Adam.
I'm free.
I'm free.
I'm free.
So . . .
So why don't I feel like it?
He is sorry. He is so fucking sorry, for everything he's done. He admits it finally. He admits it on every fucking level of himself, because those levels are rapidly crumbling into one.
He is sorry.
He . . . I . . .
I am sorry.
I'm sorry, everyone I've killed. I didn't know you. I pretended I did, and that you knew me, because it quieted my conscious, if only a little.
I'm sorry, Chan . . . yes, I'm sorry, for fucking with your life so much.
I'm sorry, everyone I've let down . . . all the Enforcers before me. All the people under me.
I'm sorry, Valmont, for trusting and depending on you completely. No one deserves that.
I'm sorry, Ratso, for not being a good friend. For lying to you . . . for generally being an asshole.
I'm sorry, Finn. I'm sorry for using you as a substitution for what I wanted, for Adam. I'm sorry for fighting with you. I'm sorry for kissing you. For expecting too much from you. For demanding something of you that you can't give. For replaying that kiss over and over in my head, and wanting it more and more every time, because that kiss, it wasn't real. And I've been such a dick these past few weeks because I wanted so badly for it to be real. You're my friend, a real friend, and I'm sorry for not understanding what that means.
I'm sorry, Adam.
I can't love you anymore.
And then . . . there is no more noise. No sensation. No thought.
And he dies.
fin