Summer Days - Day 6
Title: Summer Days - Day 6
Rating: NC-17
Genre: AU, H/C
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Warnings: Prostitution, Mentions of: Past drug abuse
Word Count: ~8900
Disclaimer: The events described in this story are purely fictional.
A/N: Part of Summer Days
A/N #2: The San Antonio described in this story is fictional, therefore geographical inaccuracies are kindly to be ignored.
Summary: Jensen plans a nice dinner for Jared. First though, he needs money.
Summer Days
"If you are going through hell, keep going."
~ Winston Churchill
Day 6
Jensen
He steps out of the shower. Avoids the mat on the floor on purpose. The tiles are cold under his bare feet. For a moment he just stands there. Curls his toes. Feels the water pearl down his body. His arms and fingers. Listens to the drip, drip, drip of droplets falling from his fingertips. Liquid diamonds shattering on the tiles. All cleaned up. He swallows hard. The mirror fogs up. Goosebumps rise on his wet skin. Blindly he reaches for a towel. Wraps it round his body. Teeth chattering he waits one more beat. Thoughts wandering into nothingness. Adjusting. A new day. Slowly, he starts drying himself off. Tosses the towel and steps into plaid black boxer briefs. He tugs at the waistband. Tightens the laces until the boxers fit. Then he steps onto the scale. The numbers bounce up and down, up and down, up and… idle in on 136 pounds. 10 pounds in four weeks. And 4 more to gain until he’s in the normal range. Or so the doctor’s chart says. He ain’t sure four pounds are gonna make that big of a difference.
Idly he traces the ridges of his body. He ain’t ugly skinny or anything. At least he doesn’t think so. He’s thin. But he’s got hints of muscles here and there. A bit of a flat six pack. But Jared’s body… Jared’s body’s great. He wouldn’t mind looking more like that.
He flexes his fingers. Glances at the bulging tendons in his arms. His biceps are sore. He has started using Jared’s 20 pound dumbbells. Found them collecting dust in a corner of Jared’s room.
Take it easy, Jared had said the other day. They’re just fine, he had replied. They’re the lightest Jared has, anyway. Still, Jared had then said, take your time. Jensen wonders if he’s got enough time to take his time.
He fills a plastic mug with water. Picks his daily pill box from the mirror cabinet. Jared filled it back up for him. He flicks open the lid that reads ‘morning’. For a second he pauses. He wants that time, wants more time.
Blank faced, he tosses back one pill. A second and a third. His AIDS ‘cocktail’. Then two for his heart. One catches in his throat. He coughs it back up, chugs the whole mug of water and finally it slides down. He drops his head. Takes deep breaths, rubs at his chest. Looks back up and wipes his mouth dry with the back of his hand. Downstairs, in the kitchen, more pills are waiting for him. Supplements - vitamins, calcium, iron, magnesium and what not - brightly colored like Lover’s Speed. Or Smarties.
He brushes the teeth he’s got left. Squeezes some of that sticky crème into his mouth. Then takes his choppers from their box. Washes off the acrid smelling solution and shoves them into his mouth. Eight teeth at the top, ten at the bottom. But then again… he strokes his tongue over his lower incisors. The pair that’s brighter than all the others. Harder, too. A bridge. So, actually 12 new teeth for his lower jaw.
He bares his teeth, grins at his reflection. Snarls, “Why so serious?”
It echoes in the tiled room. He sighs. Drops his head and turns. Puts on a pair of washed out jeans and a black T-shirt. It’s got a man’s head with a Mohawk on it. He slips into his black velvet shirt, but doesn’t button it up. On his way out, he squirts some hair gel into his palm. Strokes his hand through his hair and checks his reflection in the hallway mirror. Done. He wipes the rest of the gel off on his pants.
“Good mornin’, Vietnam,” he calls, as he slides on bare feet into the kitchen. Hits the ‘on’ button for the stereo mid-movement. Soft radio tunes fill the room. Harley and Sadie trail after him. Dance around his feet. He briefly pets their heads. Then steps over to the counter where Jared left a note for him. Where Jared leaves a note for him every day. Today it’s just a smiley face and a brief ‘Call ya’ later.’
He grins to himself. Mumbles, “Ya’ bet,” and brushes his thumb over the note. Reads it again. Then, taking a deep breath he gets himself a bowl from the cupboard above his head. Retrieves the cereals and the container of milk. The cereals he pours out are the last. He sighs. Writes cereals on the grocery list.
As he sits down at the table, Sadie and Harley start nosing at his legs. Chewing he glances down. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Can’t pet ya’. ‘m eating.”
They continue to stare up at him. Sadie’s panting, her tongue lolling out.
“The air is pretty heavy, today, ain’t it?” He tells her in compassion. A speck of milk flies from his mouth. Lands on the floor. Harley licks it up in the split of a sec.
Jensen wipes his mouth, grins. “Good boy.” Eats the rest of his cereals. With the remaining milk he washes down his nutrition pills. There’s a painful pang in his gut as he stands up afterwards. His stomach’s been acting up lately. He rubs it for a moment, then, once it’s a bit better, he puts the bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. It’s just his nerves he tells himself.
He fills the dogs’ water bowl. As they gobble down the liquid he lets cold water run into the sink. Slowly rubs his hands under the spurt. After a while he turns it off, again. Dries his hands. It’s time. He can’t put it off any longer. With trembling fingers he opens the drawer at the far right. Takes out his pack of suboxone. Inside the box only one Film is left. His last. Very last. A shiver runs down his spine as he puts it on his tongue. He keeps his head low as it dissolves. His shoulders tense, his arms a straight line, propping him up on the counter. Pushing him away at the same time. His fingers white knuckle the edge. In his head he counts the seconds until his mouth is empty again.
His cell phone rings. He gasps, shocked. Snaps straight upright. He picks up the phone, reads the caller ID.
Answering the call, he lifts the cell to his ear, hands shaking shaking. “I took it,” he bursts out. “I just took my last dose of subox.”
He can hear Jared breathing on the other end of the line.
“What if-” He starts.
“It’ll be okay,” Jared interrupts him. “You’ll be okay, no matter what ‘if’ might happen.”
Jensen’s fingers curl tight around his cell.
On the other end, Jared continues. “I’m proud of you, Jensen,” he says softly.
Jensen’s lips stretch into a trembling smile. “Shut up.” He ain’t done nothing.
***
The printer rumbles, scratches then spits out a sheet. Jensen picks it up. He’s got his cell phone squeezed between his ear and shoulder. Waiting for the call to connect.
With his thumb he brushes down the freshly printed lines. ‘Original Italic Lasagna’ it says in bold letters at the top. A little smaller right below, ‘Recipe for 6 servings’.
“Alright,” he mumbles, smiling to himself. Jared better come home hungry.
A faint click echoes from the phone. Then, “Jensen, ‘s that you?” Gerald’s voice is deep. Jensen thinks he sounds a little like Santa.
“Hey, Gerry. Yeah, it’s me.”
“Hey, good to hear from ya’, son,” Gerry says. Jensen can hear the smile in his voice. His stomach warms at it, and the still subtle but prominent burning ache subsides. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, everythin’ ’s fine. Took my last subox this mornin’.”
“Hell, that’s great news,” Gerry’s voice booms through the speaker. Jensen’s got to lift his phone a good few inches from his ear. But he grins to himself. That’s just Gerry.
“So, drug free now, huh?” Jared’s Dad asks.
“Well, yeah, kinda…” he trails off. Scratches sheepishly at his neck. “I won’t be taking no more shit, anyway.” Not that he ain’t a little proud himself. But it still kinda feels like a dream. And a little scary.
“We gotta celebrate that, son,” Gerry says, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s a big step, ya’ hear?”
“Uhm… ‘s kinda why ‘m calling,” he says.
“It is?”
“Yeah, well… I wanna thank Jared. Ya’ know. For getting me this far. I was thinkin’ I’d surprise him with some nice dinner… Lasagna. The real one, from Italy.”
There’s a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. Then Gerry says, “His favorite.”
“Yes,” he mumbles. Caught out. “It’s not too heavy a meal is it? I mean they said on the news there’d be a storm this evening, so…” He trails off, awkward.
“Sounds very romantic,” Gerry says.
Jensen hesitates. “I… uhm… That’s not…” He sighs. Slumps against the doorframe of the kitchen. The print-out recipe crinkles where his fingers tense up.
“It’s okay,” Gerry says. His voice calmer now. “You guys are big boys, it’s up to you what you do and don’t. Either way, I think lasagna is a great idea.”
His lips twitch into a lopsided smile. He glances down at the recipe. It fills the entire page. He strokes his thumbs over the ingredients. “Will ya’ help me make it?” He asks, quietly. Then, before Gerry can reply, he rushes out, “Jared said he’s gonna be home around six. I’ll buy the pasta and meat and all by myself, I jus’ need one to help me prepare it for the oven. I wanna make sure it’s good.” He pauses, sucks in a deep breath. “Please?”
Gerry sighs. Jensen can hear him rasp a hand over his jaw. “Boy… can’t say ‘no’ to you. Let me check my schedule, alright?”
“Yeah, sure,” he says, perking up. Crosses his fingers. Hears some rustling on the other end of the line. Then a beat of silence. And finally Gerry says, “Okay, looks good. I guess I can make it by four to four thirty. That soon enough?”
Jensen checks his recipe. It says ‘preparation time: 1 hour, oven: 1 hour’.
“Yeah,” he says slowly. Figures it won’t be too bad if it’s still gotta in the oven for a little while after Jared returns. “That’ll do. Thank you, Gerry.”
“You can thank me later, son,” Gerry brushes it off. Then, laughing, he says, “But you better have a cold one waiting for me, ya’ hear?”
Jensen laughs. “Will do, Sir.”
He hangs up the phone. Spreads out the recipe on the table. Now he’s only got to figure out how to pay for all this. Taking Jared’s money ain’t an option. Not this time.
***
He leaves the gambling hall with empty pockets. So much for that plan. Now he owes Jared five bucks.
He sighs, steps back onto the sidewalk. Glances up and down the streets. The tips of his fingers touch his lips. Old habits die hard, or so they say. He could use a smoke. With his hands shoved down his pockets he heads down the street. It’s only noon, but the sky is already clouding up. A mirror image of the dirty asphalt he’s walking on. He halts as he reaches a crossroads. Slings one arm around the traffic light post and waits. Stares across the street at the red light. He wipes a hand down his face. Rubs at his chin. The stubbles there make his palm prickle. His mouth suddenly feels dry. He clears his throat, switches to Plan B. Which really, if he’s honest should have been Plan A. He wonders if it’s been his Plan A all along. If he just didn’t want to admit it. Doesn’t matter, now, though. The light switches to green, but he ignores it. Heads down a different path. He just hopes Ol’Bob ain’t in San Antonio anymore. He don’t wanna have been takin’ subox for nothing.
***
A freight train rumbles over his head. Involuntarily he hunches his shoulders against the noise. Warm air blows under the bridge. His black shirt flutters around him.
Graffiti is smeared on the wall. Some of it has faded since he walked these streets the last time. But the stench of urine is still there. He steps onto dried out leaves of grass that waver in the sidewalk cracks. He has to walk further than he used to, though. The guys have moved. Lined up under the bridge. He doesn’t recognize a face, but he can still tell who’s fresh meat. It ain’t so bad right now, but they’re the guys pushed to the sides. Out from underneath the bridge, bare any shelter from rain or glaring sun.
Back when, they were all outside, waiting a good stretch of the road in front of the bridge. The bridge was the place for the homeless. The working boys had set up camp in a warehouse. Switching buildings every so often before the police threw them out of a place that wasn’t used anyway.
In retrospect, it’s a little weird that they didn’t mingle with the homeless folks. Team up, so to speak. But separation was what Ol’Bob wanted, and here you better did what Ol’Bob said.
Now it looks like the homeless are gone, anyway. He wonders what happened.
“Shit, is that you?” A quivering voice grabs Jensen’s attention. A figure pushes away from the wall. Says, “Shit, White Boy?”
He blinks. His eyes trail over long legs in baggy jeans. Up to a waistband that hangs far to low, revealing pubic hair and bone. A skinny torso in a tight, too short shirt. Long arms and large hands dangle off of small shoulders. The guy’s neck is just as small and his Adam’s apple looks like it’s gonna pierce the skin any second. His face is long and freckled, his chin has a small cleft. The fire red hair is unkempt and greasy.
“Tillman,” Jensen calls. Grins. “Fuckin’ Bastard.”
“Shit,” Tillman laughs. Pulls him in for a quick embrace.
Jensen joins in with a laugh. Pats his back.
“Shit,” Tillman repeats. “It’s been what, five years?”
He nods, buries his hands back in his pockets. “My memory’s a bit foggy but ‘t sounds abou’ right.”
“Damn fuckin’ shit…” Tillman says, shaking his head. “’s good to see ya’ man. Ya’ look real good.” He knocks him playfully in the shoulder. “Are ya’ still with that guy… Shit, what’s his name?”
“Johnny,” he provides, “and nah, I ditched him.”
“Shit, that’s good, real good,” Tillman says, approvingly. His head bobs up and down in a weird nod. “Fucker just picked you off of this place… Missed ya’ man.”
“Missed ya’ too,” he says. Taps his head with his index finger. “‘s not the best, but ya’ don’t jus forget three years. Meant to get ya’ but it didn’t work out, ya’ know?”
“Yeah, I figured. Shit’s how it is, ain’t it?”
“Guess so.” Jensen squints his eyes against the wind. The dirt prickling at his contact lenses. “So, ya’ been here all the time?”
Tillman laughs and shakes his head. “Shit, no. I wish, but, I dunno… moved a couple times. Even got clean once or twice, but this world out there…” He waves down the street. The direction Jensen came from. “It ain’t for me.”
Jensen glances back down the road. Wonder if that world will ever be for him. Standing here, he’s not so sure.
“And I think better on H. Ya’ know what I mean, right? My art’s always been better when I was on,” Tillman says. Jensen squints back at him.
“Ya’ still painting?”
“Nah. Sculpturing now. I got a new piece. Can’t show it to you, though. ‘s still a work in progress, if ya’ understand.”
“Right,” he drawls. “’course.”
“Shit,” Tillman laughs, lightly shoves him. “Ya’ don’t believe me.”
“No, no, I do,” he retorts, holds up his palms. “I swear, I’m sure ‘s some great shit.”
Tillman points a warning finger at him. “It is. Real great shit, it is.” Letting his fingers sink, he glances around. A car passes behind him. Stops a few yards further down. Some guy in nothing but a pair of tight jeans wordlessly gets into the passenger side.
Tillman sighs. “Regulars, man… What time ‘s it?”
He glances down at his watch. 1:13 a.m. “Lunch break.”
“Not for me, fella,” Tillman says. Scratches at his crotch.
Jensen watches the action. Then clears his throat and looks up. Glances up and down the road. “Ol’Bob still around?”
“Shit, no,” Tillman says. “The old bastard got sacked by the police. This street ‘s free, now.”
Perfect. He grins. No need to ask anyone permission. No shooting up for old time’s sake.
Tillman’s face darkens, though. “Ya’ back here to hustle?”
“Jus’ a one time deal,” he says. “Jus’ need some quick cash.”
“That so?” Tillman reaches out, flicks at his Diesel Tee. Tugs at his velvet shirt. “Ya’ don’t look like ya’ need shit to me.”
“Dude,” Jensen says. “They were gifts, a’right?”
“Sure they were,” Tillman says. “Ya’ got yourself a sugar daddy, huh? What did he do? Cut you off H?”
“No,” he snaps. “I’m off it. I’m clean, okay? I don’t need the money for that.”
“No shit,” Tillman says, eye brows traveling to his hairline. “Mr. Pretty Boy with the fancy clothes is off it. Whatcha need the money for then?”
He hesitates. Takes a step back and shrugs. Averts his face. “A friend.”
Tillman laughs, full out, head thrown back. “So, a pimp then?”
“Shove it, man,” Jensen snaps.
Suddenly Tillman grows serious. Digs his finger hard into Jensen’s chest. “No, you shove it, White Boy or Black Boy or Fuck Toy or whatever the hell they call ya’ now,” he says. Pushes him back hard. “Ya’ wanna get a John? Fuck if I care, but ya’ take ya’ pretty face and move your shitty ass to the other new guys.”
“And fuckin’ take the leftovers?” He snaps.
“What’s the problem?” Tillman says, voice like a razor. “Didn’t ya’ say it’s a one time deal? Can’t be picky, then.”
“Fuck ya’!” He kicks some dust at Tillman. “And ya’ fuckin’ art sucks a big one. Always did!” He flips Tillman the bird. Sprints a few yards when Tillman threatens to run after him. He slows down when it becomes clear Tillman ain’t gonna move far from his spot. Claws at his chest. His lungs and heart scream at him. He has a hard time breathing in this weather. But the hostile eyes of the other guys keep pushing him forward.
By the side of the bridge, he finds an empty spot. He has barely stopped, though, when a boy, about sixteen or seventeen, emerges from the bushes behind it. He’s still zipping up his pants as he shouts, “Move it, old fart!”
Jensen rolls his eyes. But the spot’s not worth fighting over. Not for him. Dully, he walks until the end of the line this time. Johns without regulars will see him here, too, thanks to the bend of the road. Doesn’t matter if he’s standing a couple more yards up or down.
Sucking in a deep breath, he stops. Straightens and glances at a car speeding past him. For a split second he flashes back. Sees his old self in that car. But it’s just a guy with a white T-Shirt.
He shakes his head. Tosses the image. Sighs, and looks down at himself. Too many clothes. Too baggy. He takes off his shirts, until he’s naked from the waist up. Then he puts his black shirt back on. Lets it fall open around his torso. Folds the Diesel T-shirt as good as he can and shoves it into his back pocket. Then inches his jeans down as far as they go without opening it. The belt tightens around the curve off his ass. With this done, he steps to the curbside. Sits down, legs spread wide. He leans backwards, props himself up on his elbows. His shirt smoothly hangs down. Gives view to his chest and abs.
Barely fifteen minutes later, a car stops by him. He grins. Jus’ like old times. It’s a nice car to boot. German brand, BMW, in shiny black. Sports edition, but still with a spacious back. Swiftly he pushes back to his feet. Throws a glance down the road. Tillman is still standing under the bridge. Trying to wave down other business men looking for a quick lunch fuck. Without any apparent luck. He smirks. Then, wiping the dirt off his palms, he walks up to the passenger window. It slides down with a soft hum.
Jensen ducks down, hands on the roof and looks inside. The interior smells like a mixture of new car and old smoke. The man behind the wheel is dressed sharply. The jacket to his suit hangs on a hanger behind the driver’s seat. The man’s shirt is white, pinstriped baby blue and wrinkle free. It’s spotless, dry even around the armpits. The man carries it with ease. He looks to be in his late forties, early fifties. He’s got thinning salt and pepper hair. More salt than pepper though. The bridge of his nose is large and thin. His eyes are colored a faded blue. Low sitting eyebrows give him a stern look. He’s clean shaven, and for all Jensen knows the guy could just as well be on his way to a meeting with some corporate boss. He has slightly turned in the driver’s seat. The beginning of a belly pushes over the waistband of his pants. The engine’s still running. He drums one hand on the steering wheel. The other rests on his thigh. He’s calm. Clearly has done this before.
“Hey,” the man says. His voice is smooth. Almost slick. A salesman or something like that. It’s good. Means the guy knows his way around doing business. ‘cause that’s what this is. Business and nothing else. “Haven’t seen you around before,” the salesman says.
“Yeah…” Jensen drawls. “Been outta town for a while.”
“That so?” The salesman says. “What brings you back?”
He shrugs. Then gives a smirk. “The men.”
“Good answer,” the man laughs. He reaches out. A shiver runs down Jensen’s spine, but he forces his body calm. Breathes through it as the man touches one of his nipples. “You’re just my type…” he drawls, voice low. Slowly, he retreats his hand. “How old are you?”
“25,” Jensen lies.
“Perfect,” the Salesman says. “If you’re good, I’m inclined to make you my regular go-to-boy. I pay good money.”
Jensen clicks his tongue, averts his face. “Sorry, jus’ here for the day. But I’ll offer you a special deal.”
The Salesman’s eyes widen. “Really, now?” He drawls. “Well, lucky me, then. What’s your offer?”
He inclines his head. “Depends. Whatcha’ want?”
“All the way.”
Jensen nods. “100 bucks.” A beat, then. “With condom.”
“100,” the man repeats. “Without condom. I’ll only give you 50 with condom.”
“80 with condom.”
The Salesman shakes his head. “50 with condom. I don’t bargain. Take it or leave it. I don’t have all day.”
Jensen bites his lip. Glances back down the road. He’s running out of time and this guy at least looks decent. Next guy might be dirty and ugly and only want a blow job. In a place like this, that’d only earn him 25 tops. He sighs. Nods and slaps the roof of the car. “Alright, 50 bucks, with condom. Money upfront.”
“That’s my boy,” the Salesman laughs. Unlocks the passenger door. Jensen has barely enough time to slide in and close it, before the Salesman hits the gas. He leans back in the seat. Feeling a bit queasy.
“Here,” the Salesman says. Tosses his wallet onto Jensen’s lap. It’s made of smooth leather. “Take your money.”
Jensen opens it. Finds six fifty dollar bills. He must have stared at it for too long, because the Salesman shoots him a look. Keeps both hands on the wheel though. “Don’t think about it, or I will frisk you.”
Jensen huffs a laugh. Picks one fifty dollar bill from the wallet then closes it again. “Aren’t you gonna do that anyway?”
The Salesman shoots him a smirk. “You know,” he says. “I think I’ll call you Alec. Like my son. He’s a smartass, too.”
***
They don’t drive far. There’s an empty field just outside the warehouse area. It’s surrounded by a five feet high, run down board fence. Jensen remembers the place. The working boys call it ‘The Lot’. As far as he knows it’s the only truly public place around here. At least there’re no signs proclaiming ‘Private Property’ or ‘No Trespassing’. Which makes it kind of perfect, especially for the Johns that have limited time at hands. Like his salesman.
There’re two more cars on the Lot. One’s already rockin’. The Salesman parks his car a good distance away from them. Cuts of the engine. Blows out a breath, then gives a curt nod over his shoulder. “Get in the back, Alec.”
Jensen does his best not to roll his eyes and pushes open the door. As he gets off the seat the Salesman smacks his ass. Then tugs at his Diesel shirt that’s still hanging from the back of his jeans.
“Hey,” Jensen calls. The Salesman ignores him, unfolds the shirt.
“New collection…” he says. “Pretty expensive, too. Limited edition, I believe.” The Salesman looks up. “Did you steel it?”
“No,” Jensen snaps. “It was a gift. Give it back.” He makes a grab for it. But the Salesman pulls it back. Out of reach. “Relax,” he says, voice so calm and collected it drags out like goo. An image flashes in Jensen’s mind. Cum leaking from some asshole. He doesn’t know who either belongs to. Doesn’t remember if he’s seen it live or on tape. Probably both. He grits his teeth against the image. Blends it out. Instead focuses back on the John. “I said give it back.”
“And I said relax,” the Salesman says. Tenderly folds the shirt and puts it on the passenger seat. When Jensen reaches for it, he grabs his wrist. His hold is fierce. Painful. “Leave it,” the Salesman says emphatically. “You won’t need it anyway. Now, get your ass in the back and take off the rest of your clothes.” He throws Jensen’s hand back.
Jensen rubs his aching wrist. “A’right, a’right,” he mumbles. Takes off his black velvet shirt and gently lays it over his Diesel shirt. He got Jared’s white velvet shirt dirty. He ain’t gonna soil the black one, too. Across from him, The Salesman moves the hanger with his jacket, too. Hangs it into the relative safety in the front of car. Undresses from the waist up.
Jensen gets into the back seat a moment before te Salesman. He kicks off his pants. They fall into the foot well. The Salesman just unbuckles his belt and opens his fly. He leans over him, blocks out the sun. Jensen flinches, involuntarily. But the Salesman just reaches past him. Into the pocket attached to the back of the passenger seat. When he leans back he’s got a condom in hand. Jensen releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The Salesman kneels down between his thighs. Props himself up on Jensen’s hips. “Rub me till it’s fully erect. Then turn onto your belly.”
He reaches out. Does his thing. The Salesman gasps. “Fuck, you’re good at that.” The head of his dick splits the fly of his pants. Jensen retreats his hand. Flips onto his belly. He’s forced to pull his legs underneath him in the limited space of the backseat. The Salesman keeps a hand between his shoulder blades. It forces Jensen to only lift his hips in the air. Jensen’s hands smash up against the door. So does his head.
“Roomy car,” he mumbles, sarcastically.
The Salesman pants heavily above him. His hands have wandered down to Jensen’s behind. Squeezing both globes he says, “I like it tight.”
Jensen huffs a humorless chuckle. Under his breath he mumbles, “’course ya’ do.” He hears the liner of the condom being torn open. Steals himself. Forces the tension away from his ass, curls his hands into fists instead. Not a moment too soon. His buttocks being spread apart is the only warning he gets before the Salesman shoves his cock in to the hilt.
Air escapes Jensen’s shocked lungs. His eyes squeeze shut. But all he sees is a dark, tiny, dirty room. A hundred greasy, greedy hands whose owner’s he can’t remember. Even more cocks, their gooey, angry red heads probing and prodding at him.
Confused he forces his eyes open again. Focuses on the passenger side safety belt. It dangles in and out of his vision as he’s rocked back and forth by the Salesman’s thrust.
“Hey,” the guy pants. Smacks his ass. “Don’t space out. Do something for your money.”
“Not for meager 50 bucks,” he laughs through gritted teeth. If the fucker had any idea what price he went for only a couple months ago. This is vanilla stuff, but still…
A sudden punch hits him hard in the kidneys. He groans in pain. “The fuck?!”
“I said work with me,” the Salesman snarls. Hits him again.
“Alright, alright, cool it,” he grits. His back still throbs painfully as he shifts for better leverage. Gets in on the action. Rockin’ on the guy’s cock, there’s a moment he longs for a jolt. Not the kind of the past couple years, not the one that just makes the pain fade away. But the one that makes you feel good. Real good.
The Salesman’s next thrust is hard. Harder than the others. It catches Jensen off guard, shoves his head hard against the door. His arms give out and he face plants onto the leather seats.
The Salesman’s so far gone, he doesn’t even notice. Just pants, “So good, Alec, so fucking good. Alec, Alec… Alec…”
All smashed up, Jensen’s eyes fall on a sleeve of his black velvet shirt. Jared’s bright, smiling face pops up in his mind. Morphs from the carefree teen that taught him how to swim, into the handsome young man who gave him a new life.
His heart clenches in his chest. Suddenly, all he wants is to push the Salesman off his back. But he can’t. It’s too late. It wouldn’t change anything. So he averts his eyes. Squeezes them shut tight. Buries his face in his arms. The Salesman’s movements turn into short, rapid thrusts. His panting into a wheezing whimper. The kind of sound Jensen knows from countless guys. He doesn’t have to see it to know the Salesman’s eyes have rolled into his head. Only a moment later, the Salesman tenses, spasms and collapses across his back. At least this has been a quick job, Jensen thinks. Finds himself sandwiched between the Salesman and the leather seats. He can’t move. The Salesman’s soft belly squishes up against the small of his back. The guy’s arms bracket his sides and his harsh breath echoes in Jensen’s ear. The Salesman’s still inside him. His after spasms tear at Jensen’s ass. Jensen remains motionless. Force his mind blank until the Salesman calms down. Finally, after an eternity, the Salesman seems to get a grip on himself again. He starts to shift. Lift up slightly. He trails one hand over Jensen’s side and shoulder. Gentle, almost caressing. At the back of his armpit the Salesman’s fingers stop, though. “What’s this?” He asks.
“Huh?” Jensen tries to take a look, cranes his neck as far as he can, but it’s useless. He can’t see. Blowing out a weary breath, he drops his head back on the seat. Shrugs. “I dunno.”
The guy pokes at the spot. Then sighs. “Some bug bite or something.”
“Yeah, whatever…” He tilts his hips. “Do ya’ mind?” He asks. Then adds, “Sir?”
The Salesman laughs. Places a peck between his shoulder blades then pushes himself up. First his sweaty body lifts and finally the Salesman pulls his cock out.
Jensen turns and sits up. His entire body aches. His arms are sore. He can’t suppress a groan when he contorts in the small space to step into his jeans.
An arm suddenly slings around him. The Salesman tugs him against his side. Starts playing with his nipples. “You okay?” He asks.
“Yeah. Peachy.” He pulls his pants up. Buckles up. Then sighing, he brushes a hand through his hair. “Ya’ got a smoke for me?”
The Salesman nods. Pats his chest a couple times. Then pulls out from behind him, motions at the front seat. Wordlessly, they both get dressed. Then Jensen steps around the hood, to the driver’s side. The Salesman has already lit himself a smoke. Holds the pack out for him. Jensen picks one. His fingers shake as he sticks the smoke between his lips. He leans forward and the Salesman lights it for him.
“Thanks,” he mumbles. Takes a deep drag. Nods his goodbye and turns to leave. But then something that’s nagging at his mind makes him pause. It’s weird, he never cared for it before. But it won’t stop nagging at him, now. He turns back around.
“Hey,” he calls. “Got a question.”
The man’s already back in the car. Hand on the door about ready to shut it. His brows furrow. “Yeah?”
“Your son… Alec… did ya’ ever…” he shrugs. Takes another drag of the smoke. “You know?”
The Salesman watches him silently. His eyes darken. “No,” he says eventually, voice hard. “I would never.”
Jensen nods, slowly, mulls it over in his head. He looks into the distance. Squints his eyes against he sun. “’s why you come out here to fuck guys’ who ain’t anyone’s sons, huh?” Suddenly, he thinks of Gerry. But Gerry doesn’t count, no matter how much he wishes for it. Or does it? His gut churns. This used to be easier.
The Salesman has gone rigid in his seat. “Who the hell do you think-”
Jensen waves it off. “I ain’ judging,” he says. Takes one last, deep drag from his smoke. Then flicks off his half smoked cigarette. He’s gotta watch his health, after all. “Besides,” he says. Catches the Salesman’s eyes. “I’ve seen worse.” He pauses. “Done worse.”
There’s a beat during which the Salesman just stares back at him. Then he says, “I didn’t ask for this.”
Jensen shoots him a sad smile. Shrugs and says, “Me neither.” The Salesman drops his eyes, works his jaw, lost in his thoughts. Jensen leaves him like that. Heads down the dusty road. After a moment, the Salesman drives past him. Doesn’t slow down. They’ve got no business with each other anymore. The fifty dollar bill sits heavy in Jensen’s pocket.
It’s all been familiar, routine. He doesn’t get why the shivers won’t stop.
***
Jensen stands under the spray of the shower. Bend forward, one hand pressed against his aching gut. “Fuckin’ nerves,” he grits. It burns. His stomach rumbles with hunger. He forgot lunch, just walked the dogs and went shopping right after he returned from the Lot. The grocery bags still sit on the kitchen counter. Still packed. He had to get a shower. His skin’s been itching.
Gerry’s supposed to show up any minute, now. For some reason he can’t bring himself to hurry up, though. He turns his face upward. Closes his eyes and lets the spray drum on his face. His ass burns, too. Thanks to that damn John. And there’s a fresh bruise on his lower back, where the Salesman hit him.
“Fuckin’ asshat,” he grits, smacks his fist against the wall.
His stomach gives another rumble. Clenches up. He groans, thumbs his head against the tiles. “God, I could really use a hit…” he groans under his breath.
A cluttering noise startles him. He straightens up, listens. Then, a female voice, “Jensen?”
He shuts of the shower.
Louder now, “Jensen, it’s Sharon!”
He blinks water droplets from his eyes. Wipes a hand over his face. Sharon? Jared’s mom… What’s she want here?
Sharon
“Jensen?” She calls. Pockets her spare key. The sound of gushing water stops. Harley and Sadie trot up to her. She briefly pets them on the head then sends them to their beds.
“Jensen,” she calls again, “it’s Sharon!” Wary she climbs the stairs. There’s still no response. At the top she pauses. Contemplates turning around, claiming she didn’t encounter Jensen. It’s been three weeks, but Jared’s pleading eyes are still etched into her mind. Before they had left Megan’s place, Jared had pulled her aside. His hands a tight grip around hers. Desperate. Try, Jared has asked. Give him a chance. Jensen is a good guy, her son had promised her.
And he’s not wrong. She knows that. Jensen had been nice and polite. Relatively mannered, considering.
But that’s not the issue. She’s a mom. And an Ex-Junkie with AIDS and approximately half a year to live isn’t what any mother would want for her kid. She does appreciate her son’s altruism in helping other people, but she’s convinced there should be a limit to it. After all, they have institutions for people like Jensen. With personnel better suited, equipped and educated to support them. It may sound harsh, but she finds it difficult to understand how Jared can care for, even - god forbid - love a man like Jensen.
Then, half an hour ago, her husband had called. Told her about the promise he’d made to Jensen this morning. Asked her to go in his stead because an important appointment that he couldn’t postpone came up at the last minute. Said it might help her connect with Jensen.
Now she’s here. Doubts it’ll do anything for her view on that man, but she promised. She closes her eyes, blows out a breath. Straightens her clothes to re-establish her composure. When she turns, there’s Jensen. Steam wafts from the open bathroom door. He stands in the hallway. Dripping wet in all his naked glory. It’s a rather pathetic sight. He’s thin as a rail, his skin pale and scarred. Goose bumps rise the hairs on his arms. He rubs them. Blinks against the water dropping from his eyelashes. “Where’s Gerry?” He asks, quietly.
Something fragile shatters in Sharon’s mind. A memory wells up. Jared at 13, growing an inch a minute. Scarily thin, no matter how much he ate. All gangly arms and legs. Awkward and the joke at school. The other kids had a game: Trip the leggy ‘lecki. She can’t remember how many times she had to patch up Jared’s scraped knees and hands that year. Whenever Jared came home with new injuries, he would call for her. Would call ‘Mom?’ in the same, quiet, vulnerable voice Jensen just asked for Gerry.
For a beat she can’t do anything but stare at him. Then she clears her throat. Regains her self-control and pushes the memory aside. Says, “He had an unexpected meeting come up at work. He said you wanted to do something for Jared?”
Jensen nods, wipes a hand awkwardly over his wet face. “Lasagna,” he mumbles.
She nods. “I will help you.”
“You will?” He asks, surprised.
Again, she nods. Pushes down the embarrassment at his surprised. “As soon as you’ve dried yourself off and put on some clothes.” She points at her watch. “We’re a bit on a time table.”
For a beat nothing happens. Jensen stand rooted to the spot. She swallows hard, but remains firm. Then finally, his posture relaxes. He gives a faint nod, and a sheepish smile. When he turns and vanishes in the bathroom, he looks no older than 12. She turns, heads for the kitchen, but the image stays with her
Jensen
The meat boils on the stove. He stares into the pot. Takes a cooking spoon to it. A speck of hot grease sprays upwards. Hits him on the arm. He hisses, takes a step back.
“Careful,” Sharon says. “Don’t stir the meat too hard.”
He nods, works his jaw. Instructions are all she’s saying to him. He blows out a breath, leans against the counter. At least she’s here, though.
He watches as Sharon throws the vegetables into the pot. Stirs the whole mass with calm determination. He averts his eyes, glances at the floor. “Hey, Sharon?”
“Uh-huh,” she mumbles, distractedly.
“Thank you,” he says, softly. “For helping me out.”
There’s a beat of silence. The sizzling of the cooking meat the only sound. Then Sharon clears her throat. Jensen looks back up, but her face is turned away from him, when she says, “I’m doing this for Jared.”
He smiles, softly. “Guess we’ve got something in common, then.”
At that, Sharon glances up at him, her face widens. “Jensen, I…”
He waves her off. “I know you don’t like me. And that’s okay. I’m used to that.”
But to his surprise, Sharon shakes her head. She takes a step back from the stove. Brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sure you’re a nice enough man, but…” She trails off. Her shoulders slump and her eyes turn pleading, desperate. “I’m just worried for my son.”
It hits him hard. His throat clogs up. “I’m not going to hurt him,” he croaks.
Her fingers curl around the counter. “Maybe not voluntarily, but…”
“No buts,” he protests, emphatically. “No. I got this, we got this.”
“Do you?” She asks, her voice harsh. A knife through his chest. “How can you be sure that you really are in control?” His mind snaps back to earlier. To the salesman hitting him hard. Him hitting the John even harder by asking about his son. He remembers how he longed for a jolt just being out there. Remembers how that faded once he was back home. How the urge returned, when the pain did.
He gnaws at his lower lip. “I guess I can’t.” There’s no such thing as absolute control. There’s always, always the possibility of an unexpected scenario. “But,” he says, “Jared knows what he’s gotten into. Jared knows me.”
Sharon’s hand curls into a fist on the counter. A wet sheen glimmers in her eyes. “How can he?” She asks. “Tell me, Jensen. Tell me how can he know who you really are?”
He stares at her. Opens and closes his mouth. But no words come out. There’s no way to explain it. No way he can tell her, make her… Make her see… Jensen swallows hard. “Let me show you something.”
Sharon
She dabs at her eyes with a paper tissue. Wipes the counter down with a wet cloth. Checks on the boiling bologna sauce then sets the oven timer to 45 minutes.
Jensen returns to the kitchen. In his hand he holds something small. An SD-card. Wordlessly he motions towards the living room. Then leaves again.
Frowning, she follows him. Confused, but curious. When she reaches the living room, Jensen is just turning on the TV. He shoots her a brief glance. Faces back at the TV, navigates some Menu that has popped up on the screen. “Jared doesn’t know that I know he still has it,” he says. “He kept it for the police or some investigation or something. I dunno if there ever came something off it… Not sure I want it to…”
Jensen sighs, then shrugs and turns towards her. His eyes have taken on a weary look. “I haven’t watched it… Stuff is still vivid enough up here…” He taps at his head. “But…” He trails off. His gaze drops, his fingers play with the remote.
“Jensen,” she says, slowly. “What is on that card?” She asks it, though she’s got an idea. But that can’t be true. Did Jared download pornography? Pornography of the guy he’s been longing to safe for years?
Jensen glances back up, clears his throat. “See,” he says, then motions her to sit on the couch. Tentatively she lowers herself on the seats. Jensen sits down by her side. From her peripheral vision, she sees Jensen’s finger move. Hit a button.
The TV screen switches to black. Then a dark image pops up. It’s tinted green. Night vision. She can make out her son. He’s sitting by a bed. His back to the camera. It takes her a couple minutes to realize the creature on the bed is human. Is Jensen. “Oh god,” she gasps. Her eyes shoot to the man who’s sitting next to her.
Jensen’s eyes are transfixed on the screen. He’s brought a thumb to his lips. Gnaws at the nail. “Keep watching,” he says, dully With his free hand he motions at the TV. His eyes blink rapidly. His mind obviously working on something.
“Jensen?” She calls.
He freezes suddenly. Then slowly his face turns towards her. There’s no color left in it. “Jared knows me. You can’t say he doesn’t. He got me outta there. Got me to a hospital. Talked to my doctor. Took me home. He knows me. If he doesn’t, then who does?” She watches as tears start streaming down his face. “Who am I, then?”
Tentatively she reaches out for Jensen, cups one of Jensen’s hands. It’s cold. Trembling subtly. With her other hand, she turns off the TV. For a moment it freezes on Jared, inching up stained linen to cover Jensen’s privates. Then it snaps to black.
Jensen releases a rattling breath. Like turning of that movie has freed him. He wipes his face with his free hand. Doesn’t let go of her hand though. Tightens his grip, even. Says, “His hands were warm, too.”
She blinks, confused. “Whose?”
“Roy’s,” Jensen mumbles. “When he offered it to me. When I took it, hoping this time it’d be someone who really wants me.”
“Roy was…”
“Roy was the guy who said he liked my music. He was the guy who came by every day for two weeks and dropped a couple dollars in my guitar case. He was the guy who said I didn’t look twelve, said I’d look like a grown up.” Jensen chuckles. “He was the guy who said he could make me a movie star.”
Sharon swallows hard. Images of her kids talking to strangers pop up. The horror of every mother. “He was the one who-"
“Gave me my first shot of H,” Jensen interrupts her. But the haunted look in his eyes confirms her assumption.
Jensen gives an off kilter smile. “I don’t jus’ wanna have been… a movie star.” He shrugs helpless. “And only to Jared I wasn’t.”
“That day at the motel,” she says. Jensen nods, smiles softly.
“He didn’t stop talking about you for months.” She gives a lopsided smile. “He kept saying how he’s going to help kids like you.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“He is.” She sighs, apologetic. “Apparently, he takes after his father in that department.”
Jensen shoots her a confused look. “You’re a good person, too.”
“I haven’t been very nice,” she says, wringing her hands.
Jensen shrugs. Blushes faintly. “I like to think my mom would have been this protective of me, too, if she’d still be alive.”
Jensen
For a second Jensen thinks he said something wrong. Sharon’s eyes mist up. A tear rolls down her cheek. She leans forward, cups his face with both hands. He holds his breath, has no idea what’s coming next. But her hands just start to stroke softly along the side of his face. Brush tenderly through his hair. Then Sharon gently wraps her arms around him. Pulls him in tight. He closes his eyes, feels the softness of her skin. The faint smell of roses fills his nose.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Makes it sound like she means more than her own behavior. He feels her hands, moving in slow, soothing circles up and down his back. She’s not the first one who’s done this. But it’s still different than the touches from all his Johns. Even different than Jared’s touch. Sharon’s caress makes him feel four years old again. His chest constricts and he hiccups. “Why?” He croaks. Something wet rolls down his cheeks. He brings up his hands, clings to her. “Why did she have to die?”
“I don’t know,” Sharon says, quietly. “No one knows why people have to die, sweetie.”
He clenches his teeth. Tightens his hold on her. She lets him. Keeps stroking his back. And then she says, “But I’m here, now. I’ll protect you.” Trails one hand over his arm, until she reaches his fisted hand. Splays her pinky finger over his and says, “I promise.”
Jared
As soon as he’s through the front door, he’s met by a heavenly smell. Curious, he drops his stuff and follows his nose into the kitchen. The first thing he sees is a nicely set table for two. His best dishes, neatly folded napkins. A nice bottle of wine and a lit candle in the middle. He grins to himself, leans against the doorframe and loosens his tie. Harley and Sadie sit to Jensen’s left and right. Sniffing at the delicious looking Lasagna that Jensen’s lifting from the oven. Neither the dogs nor Jensen have noticed him, yet.
Jensen sets down the casserole dish on a trivet. Tosses the oven clothes and blows out a breath. Jared smiles amused but fondly, as Jensen lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe his forehead. His mood dims, though, as he spots parts of a fresh bruise on Jensen’s lower back. He clears his throat, straightens up.
Jensen finally notices him. A wide smile splits his face. “Hey,” he says. “Welcome home. I made dinner.”
He chuckles softly, steps over to him. “I see that.” He takes a deep breath. “Smells amazing. Did you do this all by yourself?”
Jensen grins, sheepishly. “Your mom helped me out.”
That surprises him. “My mom?”
“Yeah,” Jensen says. “We’re good now.” He scratches at his nose, blushes a little. “She said I… That I can call her mom, if I want to.”
“That… wow…” he laughs. Ecstatic, he pulls Jensen in for a hug. “That’s so great.”
Jensen joins in on the laughter, sags against him. Eventually, though, Jensen pokes him. Says, “Sit down, or the Lasagna will get cold.”
Jared shoots a glance over at the steaming food. The cheese is still popping bubbles. He doubts it’ll get cold anytime soon, but he humors Jensen and unwraps his arms. Takes a seat and splays his napkin across his lap. “To what do I owe the honor?” He asks when Jensen spoons a big helping of Lasagna onto his plate.
“Nothin’… just wanted to thank ya’…” Jensen mumbles. “For everything. Helping me get clean and stuff…” He keeps his face low. But Jared can spot the blush in the tip of his ears. He smiles softly to himself. “So,” he starts. Waits for Jensen to take a seat, too. “How’ve you been doing today?”
For a moment Jensen doesn’t react, busy with adjusting his chair. Then he shrugs. “Fine.”
“’s good,” Jared says, picks up his fork and knife. Cuts himself a bite. “What happened to your back, though?”
At that Jensen’s head snaps up. His face is blown wide with shock. “What?”
Jared frowns, pushes a heap of Lasagna into his mouth. Around it, he asks, “I saw a bruise when you lifted your shirt. What happened?”
“I… nothin’,” Jensen mumbles. But he’s not looking at him.
Jared swallows the food around a worried lump. “Jensen?”
There’s a moment of silence that stretches out like glue. Then very quiet, Jensen mumbles, “What was I supposed to do? Ya’ know all my job apps so far were rejected.”
“What are you talking about?” Jared gasps, confused.
Jensen shrugs. Pokes at his food. “I needed money for groceries.”
A beat passes. Then it hits him. He glances down at his plate. The delicious Lasagna turns into a heap of maggots. His gut churns. “You went hustling?”
Jensen doesn’t answer. It’s all the confirmation Jared needs. He drops his fork. It clatters loudly onto his plate.
“I wanted it to be my money,” Jensen says, forcefully. “But I got no luck here, so I went back to… But I don’t fit in with them, anymore, either…” Jensen’s pupils are blown. He’s breathing heavily. His hands white knuckle the flatware. “And I jus’… I thought… You weren’t-” Suddenly, he breaks himself off. His eyes plead for understanding. “Don’t you like the Lasagna?”
Jared stares down at his meal. Realizes shoving it away wouldn’t change anything. So he forces another bite into his mouth. “You know how much I love Lasagna,” he says quietly. “And I love that you made one for me, but…” he trails off. Locks his eyes with Jensen’s. “It’s a little too salty for my taste, though,” he says, softly. Reaches out and wipes a tear from Jensen’s face.
Jensen blinks confused, before his face tells Jared he gets it. Then he nods. “’s just this one,” he says quietly. “I swear.”
Day 7
Rating: NC-17
Genre: AU, H/C
Pairing: Jared/Jensen
Warnings: Prostitution, Mentions of: Past drug abuse
Word Count: ~8900
Disclaimer: The events described in this story are purely fictional.
A/N: Part of Summer Days
A/N #2: The San Antonio described in this story is fictional, therefore geographical inaccuracies are kindly to be ignored.
Summary: Jensen plans a nice dinner for Jared. First though, he needs money.
Summer Days
"If you are going through hell, keep going."
~ Winston Churchill
Day 6
Jensen
He steps out of the shower. Avoids the mat on the floor on purpose. The tiles are cold under his bare feet. For a moment he just stands there. Curls his toes. Feels the water pearl down his body. His arms and fingers. Listens to the drip, drip, drip of droplets falling from his fingertips. Liquid diamonds shattering on the tiles. All cleaned up. He swallows hard. The mirror fogs up. Goosebumps rise on his wet skin. Blindly he reaches for a towel. Wraps it round his body. Teeth chattering he waits one more beat. Thoughts wandering into nothingness. Adjusting. A new day. Slowly, he starts drying himself off. Tosses the towel and steps into plaid black boxer briefs. He tugs at the waistband. Tightens the laces until the boxers fit. Then he steps onto the scale. The numbers bounce up and down, up and down, up and… idle in on 136 pounds. 10 pounds in four weeks. And 4 more to gain until he’s in the normal range. Or so the doctor’s chart says. He ain’t sure four pounds are gonna make that big of a difference.
Idly he traces the ridges of his body. He ain’t ugly skinny or anything. At least he doesn’t think so. He’s thin. But he’s got hints of muscles here and there. A bit of a flat six pack. But Jared’s body… Jared’s body’s great. He wouldn’t mind looking more like that.
He flexes his fingers. Glances at the bulging tendons in his arms. His biceps are sore. He has started using Jared’s 20 pound dumbbells. Found them collecting dust in a corner of Jared’s room.
Take it easy, Jared had said the other day. They’re just fine, he had replied. They’re the lightest Jared has, anyway. Still, Jared had then said, take your time. Jensen wonders if he’s got enough time to take his time.
He fills a plastic mug with water. Picks his daily pill box from the mirror cabinet. Jared filled it back up for him. He flicks open the lid that reads ‘morning’. For a second he pauses. He wants that time, wants more time.
Blank faced, he tosses back one pill. A second and a third. His AIDS ‘cocktail’. Then two for his heart. One catches in his throat. He coughs it back up, chugs the whole mug of water and finally it slides down. He drops his head. Takes deep breaths, rubs at his chest. Looks back up and wipes his mouth dry with the back of his hand. Downstairs, in the kitchen, more pills are waiting for him. Supplements - vitamins, calcium, iron, magnesium and what not - brightly colored like Lover’s Speed. Or Smarties.
He brushes the teeth he’s got left. Squeezes some of that sticky crème into his mouth. Then takes his choppers from their box. Washes off the acrid smelling solution and shoves them into his mouth. Eight teeth at the top, ten at the bottom. But then again… he strokes his tongue over his lower incisors. The pair that’s brighter than all the others. Harder, too. A bridge. So, actually 12 new teeth for his lower jaw.
He bares his teeth, grins at his reflection. Snarls, “Why so serious?”
It echoes in the tiled room. He sighs. Drops his head and turns. Puts on a pair of washed out jeans and a black T-shirt. It’s got a man’s head with a Mohawk on it. He slips into his black velvet shirt, but doesn’t button it up. On his way out, he squirts some hair gel into his palm. Strokes his hand through his hair and checks his reflection in the hallway mirror. Done. He wipes the rest of the gel off on his pants.
“Good mornin’, Vietnam,” he calls, as he slides on bare feet into the kitchen. Hits the ‘on’ button for the stereo mid-movement. Soft radio tunes fill the room. Harley and Sadie trail after him. Dance around his feet. He briefly pets their heads. Then steps over to the counter where Jared left a note for him. Where Jared leaves a note for him every day. Today it’s just a smiley face and a brief ‘Call ya’ later.’
He grins to himself. Mumbles, “Ya’ bet,” and brushes his thumb over the note. Reads it again. Then, taking a deep breath he gets himself a bowl from the cupboard above his head. Retrieves the cereals and the container of milk. The cereals he pours out are the last. He sighs. Writes cereals on the grocery list.
As he sits down at the table, Sadie and Harley start nosing at his legs. Chewing he glances down. “Sorry,” he mumbles. “Can’t pet ya’. ‘m eating.”
They continue to stare up at him. Sadie’s panting, her tongue lolling out.
“The air is pretty heavy, today, ain’t it?” He tells her in compassion. A speck of milk flies from his mouth. Lands on the floor. Harley licks it up in the split of a sec.
Jensen wipes his mouth, grins. “Good boy.” Eats the rest of his cereals. With the remaining milk he washes down his nutrition pills. There’s a painful pang in his gut as he stands up afterwards. His stomach’s been acting up lately. He rubs it for a moment, then, once it’s a bit better, he puts the bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. It’s just his nerves he tells himself.
He fills the dogs’ water bowl. As they gobble down the liquid he lets cold water run into the sink. Slowly rubs his hands under the spurt. After a while he turns it off, again. Dries his hands. It’s time. He can’t put it off any longer. With trembling fingers he opens the drawer at the far right. Takes out his pack of suboxone. Inside the box only one Film is left. His last. Very last. A shiver runs down his spine as he puts it on his tongue. He keeps his head low as it dissolves. His shoulders tense, his arms a straight line, propping him up on the counter. Pushing him away at the same time. His fingers white knuckle the edge. In his head he counts the seconds until his mouth is empty again.
His cell phone rings. He gasps, shocked. Snaps straight upright. He picks up the phone, reads the caller ID.
Answering the call, he lifts the cell to his ear, hands shaking shaking. “I took it,” he bursts out. “I just took my last dose of subox.”
He can hear Jared breathing on the other end of the line.
“What if-” He starts.
“It’ll be okay,” Jared interrupts him. “You’ll be okay, no matter what ‘if’ might happen.”
Jensen’s fingers curl tight around his cell.
On the other end, Jared continues. “I’m proud of you, Jensen,” he says softly.
Jensen’s lips stretch into a trembling smile. “Shut up.” He ain’t done nothing.
***
The printer rumbles, scratches then spits out a sheet. Jensen picks it up. He’s got his cell phone squeezed between his ear and shoulder. Waiting for the call to connect.
With his thumb he brushes down the freshly printed lines. ‘Original Italic Lasagna’ it says in bold letters at the top. A little smaller right below, ‘Recipe for 6 servings’.
“Alright,” he mumbles, smiling to himself. Jared better come home hungry.
A faint click echoes from the phone. Then, “Jensen, ‘s that you?” Gerald’s voice is deep. Jensen thinks he sounds a little like Santa.
“Hey, Gerry. Yeah, it’s me.”
“Hey, good to hear from ya’, son,” Gerry says. Jensen can hear the smile in his voice. His stomach warms at it, and the still subtle but prominent burning ache subsides. “Everything alright?”
“Yeah, yeah, everythin’ ’s fine. Took my last subox this mornin’.”
“Hell, that’s great news,” Gerry’s voice booms through the speaker. Jensen’s got to lift his phone a good few inches from his ear. But he grins to himself. That’s just Gerry.
“So, drug free now, huh?” Jared’s Dad asks.
“Well, yeah, kinda…” he trails off. Scratches sheepishly at his neck. “I won’t be taking no more shit, anyway.” Not that he ain’t a little proud himself. But it still kinda feels like a dream. And a little scary.
“We gotta celebrate that, son,” Gerry says, interrupting his thoughts. “It’s a big step, ya’ hear?”
“Uhm… ‘s kinda why ‘m calling,” he says.
“It is?”
“Yeah, well… I wanna thank Jared. Ya’ know. For getting me this far. I was thinkin’ I’d surprise him with some nice dinner… Lasagna. The real one, from Italy.”
There’s a soft chuckle on the other end of the line. Then Gerry says, “His favorite.”
“Yes,” he mumbles. Caught out. “It’s not too heavy a meal is it? I mean they said on the news there’d be a storm this evening, so…” He trails off, awkward.
“Sounds very romantic,” Gerry says.
Jensen hesitates. “I… uhm… That’s not…” He sighs. Slumps against the doorframe of the kitchen. The print-out recipe crinkles where his fingers tense up.
“It’s okay,” Gerry says. His voice calmer now. “You guys are big boys, it’s up to you what you do and don’t. Either way, I think lasagna is a great idea.”
His lips twitch into a lopsided smile. He glances down at the recipe. It fills the entire page. He strokes his thumbs over the ingredients. “Will ya’ help me make it?” He asks, quietly. Then, before Gerry can reply, he rushes out, “Jared said he’s gonna be home around six. I’ll buy the pasta and meat and all by myself, I jus’ need one to help me prepare it for the oven. I wanna make sure it’s good.” He pauses, sucks in a deep breath. “Please?”
Gerry sighs. Jensen can hear him rasp a hand over his jaw. “Boy… can’t say ‘no’ to you. Let me check my schedule, alright?”
“Yeah, sure,” he says, perking up. Crosses his fingers. Hears some rustling on the other end of the line. Then a beat of silence. And finally Gerry says, “Okay, looks good. I guess I can make it by four to four thirty. That soon enough?”
Jensen checks his recipe. It says ‘preparation time: 1 hour, oven: 1 hour’.
“Yeah,” he says slowly. Figures it won’t be too bad if it’s still gotta in the oven for a little while after Jared returns. “That’ll do. Thank you, Gerry.”
“You can thank me later, son,” Gerry brushes it off. Then, laughing, he says, “But you better have a cold one waiting for me, ya’ hear?”
Jensen laughs. “Will do, Sir.”
He hangs up the phone. Spreads out the recipe on the table. Now he’s only got to figure out how to pay for all this. Taking Jared’s money ain’t an option. Not this time.
***
He leaves the gambling hall with empty pockets. So much for that plan. Now he owes Jared five bucks.
He sighs, steps back onto the sidewalk. Glances up and down the streets. The tips of his fingers touch his lips. Old habits die hard, or so they say. He could use a smoke. With his hands shoved down his pockets he heads down the street. It’s only noon, but the sky is already clouding up. A mirror image of the dirty asphalt he’s walking on. He halts as he reaches a crossroads. Slings one arm around the traffic light post and waits. Stares across the street at the red light. He wipes a hand down his face. Rubs at his chin. The stubbles there make his palm prickle. His mouth suddenly feels dry. He clears his throat, switches to Plan B. Which really, if he’s honest should have been Plan A. He wonders if it’s been his Plan A all along. If he just didn’t want to admit it. Doesn’t matter, now, though. The light switches to green, but he ignores it. Heads down a different path. He just hopes Ol’Bob ain’t in San Antonio anymore. He don’t wanna have been takin’ subox for nothing.
***
A freight train rumbles over his head. Involuntarily he hunches his shoulders against the noise. Warm air blows under the bridge. His black shirt flutters around him.
Graffiti is smeared on the wall. Some of it has faded since he walked these streets the last time. But the stench of urine is still there. He steps onto dried out leaves of grass that waver in the sidewalk cracks. He has to walk further than he used to, though. The guys have moved. Lined up under the bridge. He doesn’t recognize a face, but he can still tell who’s fresh meat. It ain’t so bad right now, but they’re the guys pushed to the sides. Out from underneath the bridge, bare any shelter from rain or glaring sun.
Back when, they were all outside, waiting a good stretch of the road in front of the bridge. The bridge was the place for the homeless. The working boys had set up camp in a warehouse. Switching buildings every so often before the police threw them out of a place that wasn’t used anyway.
In retrospect, it’s a little weird that they didn’t mingle with the homeless folks. Team up, so to speak. But separation was what Ol’Bob wanted, and here you better did what Ol’Bob said.
Now it looks like the homeless are gone, anyway. He wonders what happened.
“Shit, is that you?” A quivering voice grabs Jensen’s attention. A figure pushes away from the wall. Says, “Shit, White Boy?”
He blinks. His eyes trail over long legs in baggy jeans. Up to a waistband that hangs far to low, revealing pubic hair and bone. A skinny torso in a tight, too short shirt. Long arms and large hands dangle off of small shoulders. The guy’s neck is just as small and his Adam’s apple looks like it’s gonna pierce the skin any second. His face is long and freckled, his chin has a small cleft. The fire red hair is unkempt and greasy.
“Tillman,” Jensen calls. Grins. “Fuckin’ Bastard.”
“Shit,” Tillman laughs. Pulls him in for a quick embrace.
Jensen joins in with a laugh. Pats his back.
“Shit,” Tillman repeats. “It’s been what, five years?”
He nods, buries his hands back in his pockets. “My memory’s a bit foggy but ‘t sounds abou’ right.”
“Damn fuckin’ shit…” Tillman says, shaking his head. “’s good to see ya’ man. Ya’ look real good.” He knocks him playfully in the shoulder. “Are ya’ still with that guy… Shit, what’s his name?”
“Johnny,” he provides, “and nah, I ditched him.”
“Shit, that’s good, real good,” Tillman says, approvingly. His head bobs up and down in a weird nod. “Fucker just picked you off of this place… Missed ya’ man.”
“Missed ya’ too,” he says. Taps his head with his index finger. “‘s not the best, but ya’ don’t jus forget three years. Meant to get ya’ but it didn’t work out, ya’ know?”
“Yeah, I figured. Shit’s how it is, ain’t it?”
“Guess so.” Jensen squints his eyes against the wind. The dirt prickling at his contact lenses. “So, ya’ been here all the time?”
Tillman laughs and shakes his head. “Shit, no. I wish, but, I dunno… moved a couple times. Even got clean once or twice, but this world out there…” He waves down the street. The direction Jensen came from. “It ain’t for me.”
Jensen glances back down the road. Wonder if that world will ever be for him. Standing here, he’s not so sure.
“And I think better on H. Ya’ know what I mean, right? My art’s always been better when I was on,” Tillman says. Jensen squints back at him.
“Ya’ still painting?”
“Nah. Sculpturing now. I got a new piece. Can’t show it to you, though. ‘s still a work in progress, if ya’ understand.”
“Right,” he drawls. “’course.”
“Shit,” Tillman laughs, lightly shoves him. “Ya’ don’t believe me.”
“No, no, I do,” he retorts, holds up his palms. “I swear, I’m sure ‘s some great shit.”
Tillman points a warning finger at him. “It is. Real great shit, it is.” Letting his fingers sink, he glances around. A car passes behind him. Stops a few yards further down. Some guy in nothing but a pair of tight jeans wordlessly gets into the passenger side.
Tillman sighs. “Regulars, man… What time ‘s it?”
He glances down at his watch. 1:13 a.m. “Lunch break.”
“Not for me, fella,” Tillman says. Scratches at his crotch.
Jensen watches the action. Then clears his throat and looks up. Glances up and down the road. “Ol’Bob still around?”
“Shit, no,” Tillman says. “The old bastard got sacked by the police. This street ‘s free, now.”
Perfect. He grins. No need to ask anyone permission. No shooting up for old time’s sake.
Tillman’s face darkens, though. “Ya’ back here to hustle?”
“Jus’ a one time deal,” he says. “Jus’ need some quick cash.”
“That so?” Tillman reaches out, flicks at his Diesel Tee. Tugs at his velvet shirt. “Ya’ don’t look like ya’ need shit to me.”
“Dude,” Jensen says. “They were gifts, a’right?”
“Sure they were,” Tillman says. “Ya’ got yourself a sugar daddy, huh? What did he do? Cut you off H?”
“No,” he snaps. “I’m off it. I’m clean, okay? I don’t need the money for that.”
“No shit,” Tillman says, eye brows traveling to his hairline. “Mr. Pretty Boy with the fancy clothes is off it. Whatcha need the money for then?”
He hesitates. Takes a step back and shrugs. Averts his face. “A friend.”
Tillman laughs, full out, head thrown back. “So, a pimp then?”
“Shove it, man,” Jensen snaps.
Suddenly Tillman grows serious. Digs his finger hard into Jensen’s chest. “No, you shove it, White Boy or Black Boy or Fuck Toy or whatever the hell they call ya’ now,” he says. Pushes him back hard. “Ya’ wanna get a John? Fuck if I care, but ya’ take ya’ pretty face and move your shitty ass to the other new guys.”
“And fuckin’ take the leftovers?” He snaps.
“What’s the problem?” Tillman says, voice like a razor. “Didn’t ya’ say it’s a one time deal? Can’t be picky, then.”
“Fuck ya’!” He kicks some dust at Tillman. “And ya’ fuckin’ art sucks a big one. Always did!” He flips Tillman the bird. Sprints a few yards when Tillman threatens to run after him. He slows down when it becomes clear Tillman ain’t gonna move far from his spot. Claws at his chest. His lungs and heart scream at him. He has a hard time breathing in this weather. But the hostile eyes of the other guys keep pushing him forward.
By the side of the bridge, he finds an empty spot. He has barely stopped, though, when a boy, about sixteen or seventeen, emerges from the bushes behind it. He’s still zipping up his pants as he shouts, “Move it, old fart!”
Jensen rolls his eyes. But the spot’s not worth fighting over. Not for him. Dully, he walks until the end of the line this time. Johns without regulars will see him here, too, thanks to the bend of the road. Doesn’t matter if he’s standing a couple more yards up or down.
Sucking in a deep breath, he stops. Straightens and glances at a car speeding past him. For a split second he flashes back. Sees his old self in that car. But it’s just a guy with a white T-Shirt.
He shakes his head. Tosses the image. Sighs, and looks down at himself. Too many clothes. Too baggy. He takes off his shirts, until he’s naked from the waist up. Then he puts his black shirt back on. Lets it fall open around his torso. Folds the Diesel T-shirt as good as he can and shoves it into his back pocket. Then inches his jeans down as far as they go without opening it. The belt tightens around the curve off his ass. With this done, he steps to the curbside. Sits down, legs spread wide. He leans backwards, props himself up on his elbows. His shirt smoothly hangs down. Gives view to his chest and abs.
Barely fifteen minutes later, a car stops by him. He grins. Jus’ like old times. It’s a nice car to boot. German brand, BMW, in shiny black. Sports edition, but still with a spacious back. Swiftly he pushes back to his feet. Throws a glance down the road. Tillman is still standing under the bridge. Trying to wave down other business men looking for a quick lunch fuck. Without any apparent luck. He smirks. Then, wiping the dirt off his palms, he walks up to the passenger window. It slides down with a soft hum.
Jensen ducks down, hands on the roof and looks inside. The interior smells like a mixture of new car and old smoke. The man behind the wheel is dressed sharply. The jacket to his suit hangs on a hanger behind the driver’s seat. The man’s shirt is white, pinstriped baby blue and wrinkle free. It’s spotless, dry even around the armpits. The man carries it with ease. He looks to be in his late forties, early fifties. He’s got thinning salt and pepper hair. More salt than pepper though. The bridge of his nose is large and thin. His eyes are colored a faded blue. Low sitting eyebrows give him a stern look. He’s clean shaven, and for all Jensen knows the guy could just as well be on his way to a meeting with some corporate boss. He has slightly turned in the driver’s seat. The beginning of a belly pushes over the waistband of his pants. The engine’s still running. He drums one hand on the steering wheel. The other rests on his thigh. He’s calm. Clearly has done this before.
“Hey,” the man says. His voice is smooth. Almost slick. A salesman or something like that. It’s good. Means the guy knows his way around doing business. ‘cause that’s what this is. Business and nothing else. “Haven’t seen you around before,” the salesman says.
“Yeah…” Jensen drawls. “Been outta town for a while.”
“That so?” The salesman says. “What brings you back?”
He shrugs. Then gives a smirk. “The men.”
“Good answer,” the man laughs. He reaches out. A shiver runs down Jensen’s spine, but he forces his body calm. Breathes through it as the man touches one of his nipples. “You’re just my type…” he drawls, voice low. Slowly, he retreats his hand. “How old are you?”
“25,” Jensen lies.
“Perfect,” the Salesman says. “If you’re good, I’m inclined to make you my regular go-to-boy. I pay good money.”
Jensen clicks his tongue, averts his face. “Sorry, jus’ here for the day. But I’ll offer you a special deal.”
The Salesman’s eyes widen. “Really, now?” He drawls. “Well, lucky me, then. What’s your offer?”
He inclines his head. “Depends. Whatcha’ want?”
“All the way.”
Jensen nods. “100 bucks.” A beat, then. “With condom.”
“100,” the man repeats. “Without condom. I’ll only give you 50 with condom.”
“80 with condom.”
The Salesman shakes his head. “50 with condom. I don’t bargain. Take it or leave it. I don’t have all day.”
Jensen bites his lip. Glances back down the road. He’s running out of time and this guy at least looks decent. Next guy might be dirty and ugly and only want a blow job. In a place like this, that’d only earn him 25 tops. He sighs. Nods and slaps the roof of the car. “Alright, 50 bucks, with condom. Money upfront.”
“That’s my boy,” the Salesman laughs. Unlocks the passenger door. Jensen has barely enough time to slide in and close it, before the Salesman hits the gas. He leans back in the seat. Feeling a bit queasy.
“Here,” the Salesman says. Tosses his wallet onto Jensen’s lap. It’s made of smooth leather. “Take your money.”
Jensen opens it. Finds six fifty dollar bills. He must have stared at it for too long, because the Salesman shoots him a look. Keeps both hands on the wheel though. “Don’t think about it, or I will frisk you.”
Jensen huffs a laugh. Picks one fifty dollar bill from the wallet then closes it again. “Aren’t you gonna do that anyway?”
The Salesman shoots him a smirk. “You know,” he says. “I think I’ll call you Alec. Like my son. He’s a smartass, too.”
***
They don’t drive far. There’s an empty field just outside the warehouse area. It’s surrounded by a five feet high, run down board fence. Jensen remembers the place. The working boys call it ‘The Lot’. As far as he knows it’s the only truly public place around here. At least there’re no signs proclaiming ‘Private Property’ or ‘No Trespassing’. Which makes it kind of perfect, especially for the Johns that have limited time at hands. Like his salesman.
There’re two more cars on the Lot. One’s already rockin’. The Salesman parks his car a good distance away from them. Cuts of the engine. Blows out a breath, then gives a curt nod over his shoulder. “Get in the back, Alec.”
Jensen does his best not to roll his eyes and pushes open the door. As he gets off the seat the Salesman smacks his ass. Then tugs at his Diesel shirt that’s still hanging from the back of his jeans.
“Hey,” Jensen calls. The Salesman ignores him, unfolds the shirt.
“New collection…” he says. “Pretty expensive, too. Limited edition, I believe.” The Salesman looks up. “Did you steel it?”
“No,” Jensen snaps. “It was a gift. Give it back.” He makes a grab for it. But the Salesman pulls it back. Out of reach. “Relax,” he says, voice so calm and collected it drags out like goo. An image flashes in Jensen’s mind. Cum leaking from some asshole. He doesn’t know who either belongs to. Doesn’t remember if he’s seen it live or on tape. Probably both. He grits his teeth against the image. Blends it out. Instead focuses back on the John. “I said give it back.”
“And I said relax,” the Salesman says. Tenderly folds the shirt and puts it on the passenger seat. When Jensen reaches for it, he grabs his wrist. His hold is fierce. Painful. “Leave it,” the Salesman says emphatically. “You won’t need it anyway. Now, get your ass in the back and take off the rest of your clothes.” He throws Jensen’s hand back.
Jensen rubs his aching wrist. “A’right, a’right,” he mumbles. Takes off his black velvet shirt and gently lays it over his Diesel shirt. He got Jared’s white velvet shirt dirty. He ain’t gonna soil the black one, too. Across from him, The Salesman moves the hanger with his jacket, too. Hangs it into the relative safety in the front of car. Undresses from the waist up.
Jensen gets into the back seat a moment before te Salesman. He kicks off his pants. They fall into the foot well. The Salesman just unbuckles his belt and opens his fly. He leans over him, blocks out the sun. Jensen flinches, involuntarily. But the Salesman just reaches past him. Into the pocket attached to the back of the passenger seat. When he leans back he’s got a condom in hand. Jensen releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. The Salesman kneels down between his thighs. Props himself up on Jensen’s hips. “Rub me till it’s fully erect. Then turn onto your belly.”
He reaches out. Does his thing. The Salesman gasps. “Fuck, you’re good at that.” The head of his dick splits the fly of his pants. Jensen retreats his hand. Flips onto his belly. He’s forced to pull his legs underneath him in the limited space of the backseat. The Salesman keeps a hand between his shoulder blades. It forces Jensen to only lift his hips in the air. Jensen’s hands smash up against the door. So does his head.
“Roomy car,” he mumbles, sarcastically.
The Salesman pants heavily above him. His hands have wandered down to Jensen’s behind. Squeezing both globes he says, “I like it tight.”
Jensen huffs a humorless chuckle. Under his breath he mumbles, “’course ya’ do.” He hears the liner of the condom being torn open. Steals himself. Forces the tension away from his ass, curls his hands into fists instead. Not a moment too soon. His buttocks being spread apart is the only warning he gets before the Salesman shoves his cock in to the hilt.
Air escapes Jensen’s shocked lungs. His eyes squeeze shut. But all he sees is a dark, tiny, dirty room. A hundred greasy, greedy hands whose owner’s he can’t remember. Even more cocks, their gooey, angry red heads probing and prodding at him.
Confused he forces his eyes open again. Focuses on the passenger side safety belt. It dangles in and out of his vision as he’s rocked back and forth by the Salesman’s thrust.
“Hey,” the guy pants. Smacks his ass. “Don’t space out. Do something for your money.”
“Not for meager 50 bucks,” he laughs through gritted teeth. If the fucker had any idea what price he went for only a couple months ago. This is vanilla stuff, but still…
A sudden punch hits him hard in the kidneys. He groans in pain. “The fuck?!”
“I said work with me,” the Salesman snarls. Hits him again.
“Alright, alright, cool it,” he grits. His back still throbs painfully as he shifts for better leverage. Gets in on the action. Rockin’ on the guy’s cock, there’s a moment he longs for a jolt. Not the kind of the past couple years, not the one that just makes the pain fade away. But the one that makes you feel good. Real good.
The Salesman’s next thrust is hard. Harder than the others. It catches Jensen off guard, shoves his head hard against the door. His arms give out and he face plants onto the leather seats.
The Salesman’s so far gone, he doesn’t even notice. Just pants, “So good, Alec, so fucking good. Alec, Alec… Alec…”
All smashed up, Jensen’s eyes fall on a sleeve of his black velvet shirt. Jared’s bright, smiling face pops up in his mind. Morphs from the carefree teen that taught him how to swim, into the handsome young man who gave him a new life.
His heart clenches in his chest. Suddenly, all he wants is to push the Salesman off his back. But he can’t. It’s too late. It wouldn’t change anything. So he averts his eyes. Squeezes them shut tight. Buries his face in his arms. The Salesman’s movements turn into short, rapid thrusts. His panting into a wheezing whimper. The kind of sound Jensen knows from countless guys. He doesn’t have to see it to know the Salesman’s eyes have rolled into his head. Only a moment later, the Salesman tenses, spasms and collapses across his back. At least this has been a quick job, Jensen thinks. Finds himself sandwiched between the Salesman and the leather seats. He can’t move. The Salesman’s soft belly squishes up against the small of his back. The guy’s arms bracket his sides and his harsh breath echoes in Jensen’s ear. The Salesman’s still inside him. His after spasms tear at Jensen’s ass. Jensen remains motionless. Force his mind blank until the Salesman calms down. Finally, after an eternity, the Salesman seems to get a grip on himself again. He starts to shift. Lift up slightly. He trails one hand over Jensen’s side and shoulder. Gentle, almost caressing. At the back of his armpit the Salesman’s fingers stop, though. “What’s this?” He asks.
“Huh?” Jensen tries to take a look, cranes his neck as far as he can, but it’s useless. He can’t see. Blowing out a weary breath, he drops his head back on the seat. Shrugs. “I dunno.”
The guy pokes at the spot. Then sighs. “Some bug bite or something.”
“Yeah, whatever…” He tilts his hips. “Do ya’ mind?” He asks. Then adds, “Sir?”
The Salesman laughs. Places a peck between his shoulder blades then pushes himself up. First his sweaty body lifts and finally the Salesman pulls his cock out.
Jensen turns and sits up. His entire body aches. His arms are sore. He can’t suppress a groan when he contorts in the small space to step into his jeans.
An arm suddenly slings around him. The Salesman tugs him against his side. Starts playing with his nipples. “You okay?” He asks.
“Yeah. Peachy.” He pulls his pants up. Buckles up. Then sighing, he brushes a hand through his hair. “Ya’ got a smoke for me?”
The Salesman nods. Pats his chest a couple times. Then pulls out from behind him, motions at the front seat. Wordlessly, they both get dressed. Then Jensen steps around the hood, to the driver’s side. The Salesman has already lit himself a smoke. Holds the pack out for him. Jensen picks one. His fingers shake as he sticks the smoke between his lips. He leans forward and the Salesman lights it for him.
“Thanks,” he mumbles. Takes a deep drag. Nods his goodbye and turns to leave. But then something that’s nagging at his mind makes him pause. It’s weird, he never cared for it before. But it won’t stop nagging at him, now. He turns back around.
“Hey,” he calls. “Got a question.”
The man’s already back in the car. Hand on the door about ready to shut it. His brows furrow. “Yeah?”
“Your son… Alec… did ya’ ever…” he shrugs. Takes another drag of the smoke. “You know?”
The Salesman watches him silently. His eyes darken. “No,” he says eventually, voice hard. “I would never.”
Jensen nods, slowly, mulls it over in his head. He looks into the distance. Squints his eyes against he sun. “’s why you come out here to fuck guys’ who ain’t anyone’s sons, huh?” Suddenly, he thinks of Gerry. But Gerry doesn’t count, no matter how much he wishes for it. Or does it? His gut churns. This used to be easier.
The Salesman has gone rigid in his seat. “Who the hell do you think-”
Jensen waves it off. “I ain’ judging,” he says. Takes one last, deep drag from his smoke. Then flicks off his half smoked cigarette. He’s gotta watch his health, after all. “Besides,” he says. Catches the Salesman’s eyes. “I’ve seen worse.” He pauses. “Done worse.”
There’s a beat during which the Salesman just stares back at him. Then he says, “I didn’t ask for this.”
Jensen shoots him a sad smile. Shrugs and says, “Me neither.” The Salesman drops his eyes, works his jaw, lost in his thoughts. Jensen leaves him like that. Heads down the dusty road. After a moment, the Salesman drives past him. Doesn’t slow down. They’ve got no business with each other anymore. The fifty dollar bill sits heavy in Jensen’s pocket.
It’s all been familiar, routine. He doesn’t get why the shivers won’t stop.
***
Jensen stands under the spray of the shower. Bend forward, one hand pressed against his aching gut. “Fuckin’ nerves,” he grits. It burns. His stomach rumbles with hunger. He forgot lunch, just walked the dogs and went shopping right after he returned from the Lot. The grocery bags still sit on the kitchen counter. Still packed. He had to get a shower. His skin’s been itching.
Gerry’s supposed to show up any minute, now. For some reason he can’t bring himself to hurry up, though. He turns his face upward. Closes his eyes and lets the spray drum on his face. His ass burns, too. Thanks to that damn John. And there’s a fresh bruise on his lower back, where the Salesman hit him.
“Fuckin’ asshat,” he grits, smacks his fist against the wall.
His stomach gives another rumble. Clenches up. He groans, thumbs his head against the tiles. “God, I could really use a hit…” he groans under his breath.
A cluttering noise startles him. He straightens up, listens. Then, a female voice, “Jensen?”
He shuts of the shower.
Louder now, “Jensen, it’s Sharon!”
He blinks water droplets from his eyes. Wipes a hand over his face. Sharon? Jared’s mom… What’s she want here?
Sharon
“Jensen?” She calls. Pockets her spare key. The sound of gushing water stops. Harley and Sadie trot up to her. She briefly pets them on the head then sends them to their beds.
“Jensen,” she calls again, “it’s Sharon!” Wary she climbs the stairs. There’s still no response. At the top she pauses. Contemplates turning around, claiming she didn’t encounter Jensen. It’s been three weeks, but Jared’s pleading eyes are still etched into her mind. Before they had left Megan’s place, Jared had pulled her aside. His hands a tight grip around hers. Desperate. Try, Jared has asked. Give him a chance. Jensen is a good guy, her son had promised her.
And he’s not wrong. She knows that. Jensen had been nice and polite. Relatively mannered, considering.
But that’s not the issue. She’s a mom. And an Ex-Junkie with AIDS and approximately half a year to live isn’t what any mother would want for her kid. She does appreciate her son’s altruism in helping other people, but she’s convinced there should be a limit to it. After all, they have institutions for people like Jensen. With personnel better suited, equipped and educated to support them. It may sound harsh, but she finds it difficult to understand how Jared can care for, even - god forbid - love a man like Jensen.
Then, half an hour ago, her husband had called. Told her about the promise he’d made to Jensen this morning. Asked her to go in his stead because an important appointment that he couldn’t postpone came up at the last minute. Said it might help her connect with Jensen.
Now she’s here. Doubts it’ll do anything for her view on that man, but she promised. She closes her eyes, blows out a breath. Straightens her clothes to re-establish her composure. When she turns, there’s Jensen. Steam wafts from the open bathroom door. He stands in the hallway. Dripping wet in all his naked glory. It’s a rather pathetic sight. He’s thin as a rail, his skin pale and scarred. Goose bumps rise the hairs on his arms. He rubs them. Blinks against the water dropping from his eyelashes. “Where’s Gerry?” He asks, quietly.
Something fragile shatters in Sharon’s mind. A memory wells up. Jared at 13, growing an inch a minute. Scarily thin, no matter how much he ate. All gangly arms and legs. Awkward and the joke at school. The other kids had a game: Trip the leggy ‘lecki. She can’t remember how many times she had to patch up Jared’s scraped knees and hands that year. Whenever Jared came home with new injuries, he would call for her. Would call ‘Mom?’ in the same, quiet, vulnerable voice Jensen just asked for Gerry.
For a beat she can’t do anything but stare at him. Then she clears her throat. Regains her self-control and pushes the memory aside. Says, “He had an unexpected meeting come up at work. He said you wanted to do something for Jared?”
Jensen nods, wipes a hand awkwardly over his wet face. “Lasagna,” he mumbles.
She nods. “I will help you.”
“You will?” He asks, surprised.
Again, she nods. Pushes down the embarrassment at his surprised. “As soon as you’ve dried yourself off and put on some clothes.” She points at her watch. “We’re a bit on a time table.”
For a beat nothing happens. Jensen stand rooted to the spot. She swallows hard, but remains firm. Then finally, his posture relaxes. He gives a faint nod, and a sheepish smile. When he turns and vanishes in the bathroom, he looks no older than 12. She turns, heads for the kitchen, but the image stays with her
Jensen
The meat boils on the stove. He stares into the pot. Takes a cooking spoon to it. A speck of hot grease sprays upwards. Hits him on the arm. He hisses, takes a step back.
“Careful,” Sharon says. “Don’t stir the meat too hard.”
He nods, works his jaw. Instructions are all she’s saying to him. He blows out a breath, leans against the counter. At least she’s here, though.
He watches as Sharon throws the vegetables into the pot. Stirs the whole mass with calm determination. He averts his eyes, glances at the floor. “Hey, Sharon?”
“Uh-huh,” she mumbles, distractedly.
“Thank you,” he says, softly. “For helping me out.”
There’s a beat of silence. The sizzling of the cooking meat the only sound. Then Sharon clears her throat. Jensen looks back up, but her face is turned away from him, when she says, “I’m doing this for Jared.”
He smiles, softly. “Guess we’ve got something in common, then.”
At that, Sharon glances up at him, her face widens. “Jensen, I…”
He waves her off. “I know you don’t like me. And that’s okay. I’m used to that.”
But to his surprise, Sharon shakes her head. She takes a step back from the stove. Brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m sure you’re a nice enough man, but…” She trails off. Her shoulders slump and her eyes turn pleading, desperate. “I’m just worried for my son.”
It hits him hard. His throat clogs up. “I’m not going to hurt him,” he croaks.
Her fingers curl around the counter. “Maybe not voluntarily, but…”
“No buts,” he protests, emphatically. “No. I got this, we got this.”
“Do you?” She asks, her voice harsh. A knife through his chest. “How can you be sure that you really are in control?” His mind snaps back to earlier. To the salesman hitting him hard. Him hitting the John even harder by asking about his son. He remembers how he longed for a jolt just being out there. Remembers how that faded once he was back home. How the urge returned, when the pain did.
He gnaws at his lower lip. “I guess I can’t.” There’s no such thing as absolute control. There’s always, always the possibility of an unexpected scenario. “But,” he says, “Jared knows what he’s gotten into. Jared knows me.”
Sharon’s hand curls into a fist on the counter. A wet sheen glimmers in her eyes. “How can he?” She asks. “Tell me, Jensen. Tell me how can he know who you really are?”
He stares at her. Opens and closes his mouth. But no words come out. There’s no way to explain it. No way he can tell her, make her… Make her see… Jensen swallows hard. “Let me show you something.”
Sharon
She dabs at her eyes with a paper tissue. Wipes the counter down with a wet cloth. Checks on the boiling bologna sauce then sets the oven timer to 45 minutes.
Jensen returns to the kitchen. In his hand he holds something small. An SD-card. Wordlessly he motions towards the living room. Then leaves again.
Frowning, she follows him. Confused, but curious. When she reaches the living room, Jensen is just turning on the TV. He shoots her a brief glance. Faces back at the TV, navigates some Menu that has popped up on the screen. “Jared doesn’t know that I know he still has it,” he says. “He kept it for the police or some investigation or something. I dunno if there ever came something off it… Not sure I want it to…”
Jensen sighs, then shrugs and turns towards her. His eyes have taken on a weary look. “I haven’t watched it… Stuff is still vivid enough up here…” He taps at his head. “But…” He trails off. His gaze drops, his fingers play with the remote.
“Jensen,” she says, slowly. “What is on that card?” She asks it, though she’s got an idea. But that can’t be true. Did Jared download pornography? Pornography of the guy he’s been longing to safe for years?
Jensen glances back up, clears his throat. “See,” he says, then motions her to sit on the couch. Tentatively she lowers herself on the seats. Jensen sits down by her side. From her peripheral vision, she sees Jensen’s finger move. Hit a button.
The TV screen switches to black. Then a dark image pops up. It’s tinted green. Night vision. She can make out her son. He’s sitting by a bed. His back to the camera. It takes her a couple minutes to realize the creature on the bed is human. Is Jensen. “Oh god,” she gasps. Her eyes shoot to the man who’s sitting next to her.
Jensen’s eyes are transfixed on the screen. He’s brought a thumb to his lips. Gnaws at the nail. “Keep watching,” he says, dully With his free hand he motions at the TV. His eyes blink rapidly. His mind obviously working on something.
“Jensen?” She calls.
He freezes suddenly. Then slowly his face turns towards her. There’s no color left in it. “Jared knows me. You can’t say he doesn’t. He got me outta there. Got me to a hospital. Talked to my doctor. Took me home. He knows me. If he doesn’t, then who does?” She watches as tears start streaming down his face. “Who am I, then?”
Tentatively she reaches out for Jensen, cups one of Jensen’s hands. It’s cold. Trembling subtly. With her other hand, she turns off the TV. For a moment it freezes on Jared, inching up stained linen to cover Jensen’s privates. Then it snaps to black.
Jensen releases a rattling breath. Like turning of that movie has freed him. He wipes his face with his free hand. Doesn’t let go of her hand though. Tightens his grip, even. Says, “His hands were warm, too.”
She blinks, confused. “Whose?”
“Roy’s,” Jensen mumbles. “When he offered it to me. When I took it, hoping this time it’d be someone who really wants me.”
“Roy was…”
“Roy was the guy who said he liked my music. He was the guy who came by every day for two weeks and dropped a couple dollars in my guitar case. He was the guy who said I didn’t look twelve, said I’d look like a grown up.” Jensen chuckles. “He was the guy who said he could make me a movie star.”
Sharon swallows hard. Images of her kids talking to strangers pop up. The horror of every mother. “He was the one who-"
“Gave me my first shot of H,” Jensen interrupts her. But the haunted look in his eyes confirms her assumption.
Jensen gives an off kilter smile. “I don’t jus’ wanna have been… a movie star.” He shrugs helpless. “And only to Jared I wasn’t.”
“That day at the motel,” she says. Jensen nods, smiles softly.
“He didn’t stop talking about you for months.” She gives a lopsided smile. “He kept saying how he’s going to help kids like you.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“He is.” She sighs, apologetic. “Apparently, he takes after his father in that department.”
Jensen shoots her a confused look. “You’re a good person, too.”
“I haven’t been very nice,” she says, wringing her hands.
Jensen shrugs. Blushes faintly. “I like to think my mom would have been this protective of me, too, if she’d still be alive.”
Jensen
For a second Jensen thinks he said something wrong. Sharon’s eyes mist up. A tear rolls down her cheek. She leans forward, cups his face with both hands. He holds his breath, has no idea what’s coming next. But her hands just start to stroke softly along the side of his face. Brush tenderly through his hair. Then Sharon gently wraps her arms around him. Pulls him in tight. He closes his eyes, feels the softness of her skin. The faint smell of roses fills his nose.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. Makes it sound like she means more than her own behavior. He feels her hands, moving in slow, soothing circles up and down his back. She’s not the first one who’s done this. But it’s still different than the touches from all his Johns. Even different than Jared’s touch. Sharon’s caress makes him feel four years old again. His chest constricts and he hiccups. “Why?” He croaks. Something wet rolls down his cheeks. He brings up his hands, clings to her. “Why did she have to die?”
“I don’t know,” Sharon says, quietly. “No one knows why people have to die, sweetie.”
He clenches his teeth. Tightens his hold on her. She lets him. Keeps stroking his back. And then she says, “But I’m here, now. I’ll protect you.” Trails one hand over his arm, until she reaches his fisted hand. Splays her pinky finger over his and says, “I promise.”
Jared
As soon as he’s through the front door, he’s met by a heavenly smell. Curious, he drops his stuff and follows his nose into the kitchen. The first thing he sees is a nicely set table for two. His best dishes, neatly folded napkins. A nice bottle of wine and a lit candle in the middle. He grins to himself, leans against the doorframe and loosens his tie. Harley and Sadie sit to Jensen’s left and right. Sniffing at the delicious looking Lasagna that Jensen’s lifting from the oven. Neither the dogs nor Jensen have noticed him, yet.
Jensen sets down the casserole dish on a trivet. Tosses the oven clothes and blows out a breath. Jared smiles amused but fondly, as Jensen lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe his forehead. His mood dims, though, as he spots parts of a fresh bruise on Jensen’s lower back. He clears his throat, straightens up.
Jensen finally notices him. A wide smile splits his face. “Hey,” he says. “Welcome home. I made dinner.”
He chuckles softly, steps over to him. “I see that.” He takes a deep breath. “Smells amazing. Did you do this all by yourself?”
Jensen grins, sheepishly. “Your mom helped me out.”
That surprises him. “My mom?”
“Yeah,” Jensen says. “We’re good now.” He scratches at his nose, blushes a little. “She said I… That I can call her mom, if I want to.”
“That… wow…” he laughs. Ecstatic, he pulls Jensen in for a hug. “That’s so great.”
Jensen joins in on the laughter, sags against him. Eventually, though, Jensen pokes him. Says, “Sit down, or the Lasagna will get cold.”
Jared shoots a glance over at the steaming food. The cheese is still popping bubbles. He doubts it’ll get cold anytime soon, but he humors Jensen and unwraps his arms. Takes a seat and splays his napkin across his lap. “To what do I owe the honor?” He asks when Jensen spoons a big helping of Lasagna onto his plate.
“Nothin’… just wanted to thank ya’…” Jensen mumbles. “For everything. Helping me get clean and stuff…” He keeps his face low. But Jared can spot the blush in the tip of his ears. He smiles softly to himself. “So,” he starts. Waits for Jensen to take a seat, too. “How’ve you been doing today?”
For a moment Jensen doesn’t react, busy with adjusting his chair. Then he shrugs. “Fine.”
“’s good,” Jared says, picks up his fork and knife. Cuts himself a bite. “What happened to your back, though?”
At that Jensen’s head snaps up. His face is blown wide with shock. “What?”
Jared frowns, pushes a heap of Lasagna into his mouth. Around it, he asks, “I saw a bruise when you lifted your shirt. What happened?”
“I… nothin’,” Jensen mumbles. But he’s not looking at him.
Jared swallows the food around a worried lump. “Jensen?”
There’s a moment of silence that stretches out like glue. Then very quiet, Jensen mumbles, “What was I supposed to do? Ya’ know all my job apps so far were rejected.”
“What are you talking about?” Jared gasps, confused.
Jensen shrugs. Pokes at his food. “I needed money for groceries.”
A beat passes. Then it hits him. He glances down at his plate. The delicious Lasagna turns into a heap of maggots. His gut churns. “You went hustling?”
Jensen doesn’t answer. It’s all the confirmation Jared needs. He drops his fork. It clatters loudly onto his plate.
“I wanted it to be my money,” Jensen says, forcefully. “But I got no luck here, so I went back to… But I don’t fit in with them, anymore, either…” Jensen’s pupils are blown. He’s breathing heavily. His hands white knuckle the flatware. “And I jus’… I thought… You weren’t-” Suddenly, he breaks himself off. His eyes plead for understanding. “Don’t you like the Lasagna?”
Jared stares down at his meal. Realizes shoving it away wouldn’t change anything. So he forces another bite into his mouth. “You know how much I love Lasagna,” he says quietly. “And I love that you made one for me, but…” he trails off. Locks his eyes with Jensen’s. “It’s a little too salty for my taste, though,” he says, softly. Reaches out and wipes a tear from Jensen’s face.
Jensen blinks confused, before his face tells Jared he gets it. Then he nods. “’s just this one,” he says quietly. “I swear.”
Day 7