Vegas Sun - 1. Vegas Sun

I’d never seen the Vegas sun. Sounds odd as a statement of truth doesn’t it? However, the truth it is; I’d never seen the Vegas sun. As far I was concerned, the only light Sin-City knew was the unnatural flicker and glow of overly extravagant neon signs and L.E.D. billboards.

    

It was better that way though. Wouldn’t the sun bring to light the awful, grimy truth of a stretch of pavement that has seen thousands of people walk down it in the past twenty-four hours? Yet, the fake neon glow masked the gritty urban reality.

 

Yes, an overstated truth it may be, but you’ll hear it again from me: Vegas is at its best at night. When the strip is overrun with manufactured light and kinetic energy. People crowd the sidewalks, whether too crowded, or too drunk, to notice their wallet has slid away into the auspices of the neon lit night. Okay, another sobering dose of reality which is endangered on the strip; you didn’t lose your wallet; the money didn’t disappear into a slot machine, or a bad bet on green when it should have been on red.

 

More often than not, it found its way to my pocket, or the pockets of those like me, the urban vampires, not that we were gothic by any means. All right, maybe a few of them were rather gothic, but they were the minority. It was simple; looking good sold, and a powder white face with heavy eyeliner wasn’t considered good looking by most. Those who did find that ‘look’ attractive usually didn’t have the money to back up their desires. Not to say that cash was the only way to transact our business, but it was the only method that was of any use to me.

 

I used the classic skater-punk look, just rough enough to provide intrigue, without being overly-threatening. I’m sure you know the style, baggy shorts cinched tight with a belt, logo T’s with a wife-beater underneath. The hair usually depended on my mood, sometimes spiked, sometimes wild or indifferent, or covered with a hat. It’s what I used to wear back when I had a home, so I fell into that ‘look’ pretty naturally.

 

It worked well, though not the best; those Abercrombie boys always got the lion’s share of the action. I held my own though, a few regulars. Some of them were woman, but most were older men. Yeah, they looked like shit for the most part, but young and good looking just didn’t put food on my table if you catch my drift. They didn’t need to pay for what they could get most anywhere for free.

 

Yeah, the occasional good-looking, semi-young professional would cross my path, and we’d have a grand time. He, or she, would pay, and then be on their way, usually. Sometimes they wanted me to hang around with them during their stay. Such a proposition is hard to refuse when the money is right, even though I dislike entering those mega-resorts.

 

The security people there just turned out to be smarter than I had first thought. I figured millions of people going in and out every day, I’d get lost in the shuffle. Yup, that worked for a week or two. I had been hanging out at one of the larger themed resorts for about a week or so, cruising the bars and eventually being invited to rooms.

 

It was a slow night; a Tuesday or Wednesday, I can’t remember which. Anyhow, I was in a corner booth people-watching, trying to figure out who would be feeding me for the next day, slowly drinking a watery coke. That’s when he appeared. Mid-thirties, built like a brick house that was lined with ample amounts of fiberglass.

 

Definitely Samoan or some Pacific Islander, the guy had no neck at all as he stalked towards me with his knuckles nearly dragging across the loud carpeting. Security was the furthest thing from my mind, so I didn’t even consider that. I was, however, strapped for cash and figured ‘what the hell’; he couldn’t be so bad, he’d sweat like a stock pig, but I’d get paid.

 

Do what you do best, and run, that’s what I told myself.

 

“Come with me,” he commanded grimly, breathing mostly through his large squat nose, using a tone that told me not to question, just move.

 

Not wanting trouble, I did as he instructed. He didn’t say another word, just started hulking away out of the lounge and through the endless forest of gaudy, annoying slot machines, one of which was ringing loudly about fifteen feet away, the clatter of the heavy coins in the metal tray adding to the electronic din. An older woman, late forties or early fifties, sat in front of it screaming and shouting while she bounced up and down in her seat, obviously taken with her haul.

 

Luck had left my side, opting instead, for hers that night.

 

He silently pulled a badge from his jacket pocket and slid the small white plastic card through a reader mounted next to a plain metal door. The simple maneuver resulted in the mechanical clink of the door lock. He pushed the door open and backed against it for me to enter ahead of him. Getting by him was a difficult task given his girth, and the width of the doorframe, but I managed, avoiding any contact with him. All the themed grandeur that had existed on the other side of the door was gone in the most blatant about-face that I had ever seen.

 

A long hallway stretched out before us with bare walls that had a slightly off-white tinge, and no carpet, nor tile, covered the bare-concrete floor. They obviously spent a shit-load of money, but only on what the public could see. I was now in the gritty truth behind the façade.

 

“Cheap bastards,” I mumbled to myself as the guard maneuvered into the hallway behind me.

 

I don’t know if it was my smart-assed mouth, or the fact the door had finally latched securely into the frame, but whatever it was, it was in that instant that the fat fuck spun the whole hundred and forty-five pounds of me around and introduced his meaty fist to my left eye.

 

Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had the distinct displeasure of having one single hit make your knees buckle beneath you and your stomach churn violently, but that blow did.

 

The bare floor rushed towards me in slow motion as I felt the need to vomit. I guess I could take a punishing blow rather well, seeing as I was still conscious. Or, as I said earlier, luck had abandoned me for better prospects that night, leaving me conscious to endure whatever would come.

 

“Fuck,” I mumbled.

 

What was to come next were his size fourteen steel-toed shoes to my gut. My arms and legs gave out in the barrage, landing my face to the cold hard floor. It was a subconscious act at subservience. He was definitely not taking it though. Instead, he dragged me back up to my feet by my neck, pressing me harshly into the dingy wall.

 

“You came to the wrong hotel, you shitty little fuck,” he growled, narrowing his beady little eyes.

 

Pop Quiz: You’re staring at possibly the largest fucker you’ve ever laid your one good eye on, the other eye having swollen shut by way of said fucks fist. Do you:

A.) Remain quiet and hope to whatever God you believe in, that the guy’s done?

B.) Apologize and plead for mercy? Or;

C.) Spit in said fat fuck’s face?

 

Ya’ know, either A, or B, would have been perfect answers; ‘would have’.

 

No, I had to go and spit in his face and call him some derogatory name. Truth be told, I can’t remember much immediately preceding, or for about two hours after, the blow that landed square on my jaw.

 

I told you, luck had abandoned me that night. But, no, she hadn’t, only dealt me a different hand.

She taught me to stay out of the large resort properties, and tossed in a little bonus as well.

 

I have no idea how, or when, I was finally dumped in between a set of dumpsters in an alley way off the strip. A strong, young man pulling me out from that hole was the only thing I remembered. More the smell of him, rather than him specifically; it was a spicy musk. Drastically different from those tangy citrus colognes most guys wear, and much better than the sweet vinegar tang of rotting garbage.

 

“You alright?” he asked, propping me up against the side of his patrol car as I noticed the silver star-shaped badge on his khaki shirt.

 

His voice sounded pumped with adrenaline, as if everything was new and different, exciting. I stared at him stupidly for a moment before a movement to the left caught my attention. I surmised that it was his partner. Much older, around forty-five, I’d say off hand. He stood there looking stern, with balding reddish brown hair, and a long nose that was dressed with a full mustache.

 

“Can you tell me what happened?” the younger cop asked, forcing my gaze back to him.

 

I could only shrug, well attempt to anyway. I tried, winced, attempted again, only to wince again, so I gave up, and just stared. The older one had a long, narrow face. This kid, yes kid, he couldn’t have been much older then I was, he had a round gentle face that looked impossibly smooth. His hair was almost completely gone, lying on a barber shop floor somewhere. All he had was a short spattering of velveteen stubble that glinted in the amber glow of the streetlights.

 

I began to recount a false mugging to the pair of officers. You know the sort; I was minding my own business, yadda… yadda… There were three of them…yadda… yadda… Took my wallet and, all my money…

 

The young cop ate it all up with gusto, taking notes on everything. His partner, however, I don’t think he believed a word of it. He probably knew exactly what I was, and figured I had got the shit kicked out of me by a jealous boyfriend or something.

 

I ended that morning in the county hospital sitting in an uncomfortable chair, watching as his vest bulked torso slipped past the sliding doors and out into the rising sun. It wasn’t something I wanted to see. It was strange, having boldfaced lied to the only person that had shown me an ounce of concern since I stepped off the bus. Now, I felt regret with his absence.

 

Damn the heart, and damn the Vegas sun.

 

Luck, or fate, whomever, just hadn’t played her full hand yet.

 

I ran across my young cop again, several months, and a lonely eighteenth birthday, later. He pulled up, lights flashing, scaring off some Marine who had attacked me after I propositioned his wife of a whole two hours. I don’t think their marriage survived too long. She was ready and willing to go. It’s too bad, too, it wouldn’t have been my first threesome.

 

The newlywed had caught me off guard, spinning me around as I leaned on the railing watching a water show choreographed to some opera music. One second, geysers of white water, the next, a balled fist square to the right side of my face.

 

Okay, okay, I know. All these beatings, it sounds like I can’t hold my own, or I’m some sort of pathetic little shit. That’s not the case at all. It’s just an occupational hazard of sorts. Construction workers use hammers, they smash their thumbs. I solicit the wrong person, or people, I get the shit beat out of me.

 

“What’s your name?” he questioned, having sent my assailant on his way.

 

“Cody,” I answered, sitting on the uncomfortable curb.

 

“You look familiar, have I seen you around?” he asked, the red and blue lights playing off his bulked torso.

 

“Could have, I’ve been around for awhile,” I answered, rather harshly.

 

He picked up the tone instantly. He was different now; I guess the six or so months on the job had disillusioned him.

 

“You got any I.D. Cody?” he questioned, his tone turning serious, hard.

 

I didn’t answer, just pulled out my thin wallet and handed it to him. He took it and flipped it open, his eyes switched back and forth between the picture I.D. and myself.

 

“California,” he observed; had he been any other police officer I would have probably said congratulations. “How long have you been here?” he asked, closing my wallet, having made note in his little dog-eared notebook.

 

I shrugged, “Sixteen, eighteen months.”

 

“Why don’t you have a Nevada I.D.?” he fired off, not letting up.

 

“I don’t have permanent address just yet,” I answered, feeling rather ashamed to admit where I stood on the social ladder.

 

“Homeless?” he asked, a softness appearing in his green eyes while his tone stayed firm and professional.

 

“No, I got a place, it’s just not stable. Only as long as I have the twenty bucks a night,” I answered, looking away, wondering why I couldn’t admit all this while looking him square in the face. It wasn’t the first time I had been asked all of this, just the first I didn’t like admitting to all of it.

 

“When was the last time you ate?” he asked quickly.

 

“This afternoon,” I answered, taking into account the bag of chips and Dr. Pepper I had splurged on.

 

“A real meal?” he asked, somehow knowing that it hadn’t been.

 

I shrugged, that feeling of shame washing over my shoulders again, “Yesterday… day before.”

 

“How did you end up here?” he inquired, sounding genuinely concerned.

 

Figuring he knew what I was by now, and finding no reason to gloss over what I do, I answered him. “That’s a long story officer, and time is money,” that’s right, gloss vulnerability with attitude. I knew I really shouldn’t have taken that approach, but I was feeling like he thought less of me, so I might as well live up to his expectations.

 

“Get in the car,” he said seriously, apparently not liking my tone, while he opened one of the rear doors.

 

“Man, I didn’t do anything wrong,” I complained. “That guy hit me, why the hell do I have to take a ride?”

 

“First of all, you’re soliciting on the strip; secondly you filed a false police report,” he said pulling me from my seated position, walking me to the rear door. “Don’t make me use these.” He followed the statement by grabbing for his handcuffs.

 

Discouraged, I did as I was told and, climbed into the cage they call a rear seat, discouraged, because he was taking me downtown, that, and the fact that he had remembered our previous encounter. I didn’t pay much attention to the streets of the city that passed on the opposite side of the windows, figuring a bus would get me back to my haunt at some later release date. I was so dejected with my current predicament that I failed to notice that we had pulled into a diner parking lot.

 

I tried rejecting his idea, but he was as stubborn as I was, so I finally relented, following him inside and eating a meal on him. Granted, part of me would much rather it be off him, but I hadn’t eaten, so I would take it any way I got it. The meal, however, came at a price to me.

 

“What made you become a prostitute?” he asked unexpectedly, having just eaten a fork full of scrambled eggs.

 

The question made me sit back in my seat, just staring at his ability to ask such a question, as if he was inquiring about the weather.

 

“You are a prostitute, right?”

 

I just slowly nodded.

 

“So did you run away from home, or?” he asked.

 

“Run away?” I laughed. “More like exiled,” I answered, feeling the smile fade from my lips as an echo of my mother’s pleas played in the back of my mind.

 

I watched as he nodded his head as if he understood while he shook Tabasco onto his scrambled eggs.

 

“What made you so lucky to get strip patrol at night?” I asked in a smart assed way that caused him to stop and look at me.

 

“I became a cop to help people,” he answered studiously, squaring his shoulders and puffing his chest.

 

“Don’t you think being a firefighter would have been better?” I questioned. “No one is ever pissed to see a firefighter.”

 

“I’m helping you aren’t I?” he asked, and I swore he sounded a little hurt.

 

“Yeah, but I’m sure this is more the exception, and not the rule. You mostly deal with drunken tourists.”

 

“Everything has to start somewhere,” he spoke the phrase, believing it had relevance for every facet of his life.

 

“To answer your question, I do what I do because everything ends somewhere. For me it ended here, broke, no hopes, no future.”

 

“Why don’t you get a job?” he questioned, sounding as if it were the simplest answer.

 

“You need an address to get a job, need a job to get an address,” I answered, pointing out one of life’s funny little paradoxical truths.

 

“If you got a place would you get a different job?” he asked, pausing his meal as he looked at me with something akin to hope shimmering behind his green eyes.

 

I was seriously getting annoyed by the Vegas Metro’s new social outreach program. “What for?” I questioned. In hindsight, it was rather abrasive, but hey. “We both know guys like to fuck. Don’t say you don’t. I get paid to do something I love, so why change it?”

 

He stared at me for what seemed like an eternity, trying to figure out what to say, or trying to say something he didn’t want to say. His radio spared him however; the mechanical sounding voice of the dispatcher talking about a fight at some snatch show.

 

Without a word, he pushed his plate away and threw eighty bucks on the table, more than enough to pay for the cheap food we had just consumed. Silently, giving me a look as if he really were displeased with my life choices, he walked towards the door. Only to stop as he reached the door, turn and return to the small booth we had shared.

    

He grabbed a napkin from the table and scribbled on it.

 

“You give me a call if you ever need anything, Cody. Food, money, even to get out of trouble,” he spoke forcefully before walking away.

 

I stared in shocked silence, first at his backside, then at the taillights of his cruiser as they drifted off into the city once more. When there was finally no trace of him left in my small corner of the world, I looked down at the paper napkin. Mike Harrison 702 555 5231 call anytime, for anything…

 

Mike, Michael; that was a good name, like the archangel. I carefully folded the napkin, and placed it safely in my pocket, I was even tempted to put it in my thin wallet, but I didn’t even put money in my wallet, knowing full well, what so often happened to that folded piece of leather.

 

The more I sat there and stared at his Tabasco covered abandoned eggs, the more I felt like a total shit for treating him as badly as I did, even my own eggs and country potatoes tasted flat without his company. After I had paid the cute, but bored, looking girl for the ten-dollar food bill with one of the four twenties Mike had tossed on the table, I thought about calling him and apologizing. I mean, he was only trying to help right? If he wasn’t, if he thought I was as worthless as he made me feel sitting on that hard curb earlier, he would have just taken me to lock-up with all the other whores and drunks.

 

That was my reasoning as I approached the payphone just outside the diner door. I picked up the receiver as I fished the napkin out of my back pocket. It was after I had dialed the number, hearing it ring once, that I slid the carefully re-folded napkin into my pocket that my hand brushed across the small wad of bills there. By the time the second echo of a ring finished, I had slammed down the receiver, hard.

 

Who in the fuck did this guy think he was? Sure, it may not have been the most respectable way to earn a living, but in the end, I’d earned every dime I have ever received. I didn’t need his charity, and certainly didn’t want his fucking pity. So, the last thing I had eaten was a bag of chips and a soda, so what? Not exactly a God-fearing person’s idea of a good meal, but I got by. I’ve survived this long without the hand-outs. Besides, eating a bag of chips alone was far better than sitting in some crap diner eating, alone.

 

Pride demanded more of me, I decided, as I stood the there fuming at my own, whatever in the hell it was I was feeling, that I would hold on to Mike’s money and give it all back to him, all eighty dollars of it, and tell him just what I thought of better-than-you handouts. Let him know that all he had to do was sit with me while I ate. He didn’t have to throw me a bone like I was some two-bit crack-head snitch.

 

Alright, so I spent another forty of his ‘gift’ taking a taxi back to the strip. It was all good, two sweaty pigs later, I had his original eighty back, plus another sixty for myself. The one only wanted a blow-job, easy enough except he stank something fierce, had me gagging half way through it with his funk. The other had a reputation of getting rough, but he offered a good haul. So I staggered out afterwards, the lower left side of my back throbbing with a stabbing pain from where he punched me in my kidney as he dumped his load inside of me, but I had Mike’s money back, and some of my own.

 

I quit for the night; I had enough money, and I needed to wash the taste of vomit out of my mouth. The bastard actually laughed after I puked on the towel he had spread out for such an occasion. I was sorta pissed at his mocking of the meal I just had was wasted. I puked twice more on the way back to my small rented room. Once there, I showered and brushed my teeth three times to get rid of that sour tang that coated every taste bud on my tongue, then I curled up in my lumpy bed imagining I’d still be sore and have a wonderfully purple bruise when I woke up. The clock read two thirty-five the last time I checked it before I fell asleep.

 

I was tender when I woke up, just as I thought I would be, looked like shit too, all pasty and sweaty. I didn’t consider it a big problem though. Just threw on a hat hoping the shadow provided by the bill would make my skin appear a more normal color. I was slightly concerned with the pink swirling into the toilet as I took a piss. Just great, another friggen infection, which meant, in addition to finding the do-gooder cop, I’d have to get to the free clinic too.

 

The sun was garish that afternoon, making the oppressive heat that much more unbearable as it shone down on my shoulders. Okay. so I may have lied a little when I told you I had never seen the Vegas Sun, I had, in the late afternoon, the hours I kept just made it a lot rarer than the electric flicker of neon.

 

Running on my dime, I hopped on the Deuce line and road it south, down Las Vegas Boulevard towards McCarran. I hopped off the bus down by Mandalay Bay, and walked the last block to the Police substation. I felt uneasy as I crossed the scorched expanse of blacktop; the jarring public transportation had done little for my tender back.

 

I was relieved to see a group of three police cars parked out front amongst the various public cars; the cruisers were usually all parked in back behind an access-controlled gate. Relieved, that is, until I realized that I couldn’t possibly know which one was Mike’s patrol car. Sucking up whatever amount of balls I had left, I headed towards the door to the station, muttering off color remarks about how stupid this was the whole way there.

 

I was just about to reach for the door, when it pushed open, and a cop exited, his back to me, laughing at something he had just heard I guess. Laughing until he turned his head in my direction. The laughter stopped, switching to a look of surprise, maybe a touch of relief.

 

“Cody?” he asked, taking a step towards me.

 

“Mike, I wanted,” I said, digging my hand into my pocket and pulling out the wad of crumpled twenties, ones, and fives with some difficulty, whether the difficulty was due to my balled fist or me loosing nerve, I couldn’t tell.

 

“That’s Officer Harrison,” Mike’s balding partner said, crossing his arms as he spread his legs slightly in some sort of cop dominance display.

 

I cast the balding eagle a sparing glance; I wasn’t concerned with him, nor was I gonna waste a breath on telling him exactly where he could shove this ‘officer’ crap. “Mike,” I said, switching my gaze back to Mike and his questioning eyes, “You didn’t have to pay for last…” I didn’t even finish what I was going to say when Mike seized my upper arm and squeezed.

 

Holy shit! Who knew someone with such a gentle face could squeeze with such force? Sure, he had an impressive build, but most of his bulk in his uniform was the bullet resistant vest he wore. He ignored my protests as he drug me across the traffic lanes and then turned me to face him in between two of the parked patrol cars.

 

“What are you doing here?” Mike demanded, his brow knit as he almost shouted the words.

 

“I don’t want your money!” I shouted back, shoving the fist full of money in his direction, not caring who heard me as long as Mike did.

 

Mike looked over his shoulder, watching his partner, who was still standing demandingly, before he looked at me, his expression cooling a bit, “Damn it Cody, I told you to call, not just show up at my job, out of the blue.”

 

“Just take the money,” I said, not liking the pleading quality I heard in my voice as I held the money out to him again.

 

Mike didn’t hesitate in roughly pushing my arm out of the way, “Just go, Cody… now,” he said, his voice commanding, but his eyes pleading.

 

I didn’t listen to either his eyes, or his tone of authority, but then I wasn’t listening to much because the moment I shoved the money in Mike’s face, his partner was on me, grabbing my wrist and twisting it round until he had my fist pinned high in the middle of my back. I let out a yelp as he slammed me on the hood of the cruiser and the dull throb on the lower left side of my back screamed to life with a jolt of pain that stretched clear around to my groin.

 

“Give me a reason I shouldn’t arrest your ass for violating a Vice order right now,” Mike’s partner hissed as he leaned into me, pressing me into the hot trunk lid.

 

I couldn’t answer him if I wanted to; I had exhaled in a rush as the jolt of agony spread through my abdomen, and before I could breathe in, he was squashing me into the patrol car. I should have struggled, but I couldn’t, I could barely focus enough to save myself from puking all over the back of the cruiser with the way the earth felt like it was swaying beneath me. I’m sure the pain had tears streaming down my face, just as the impending evacuation of my empty stomach had my throat lined with mucus.

 

“Phil, get the fuck off him,” I heard Mike yell as he pulled his partner off me.

 

My wrist fell limply to my side, letting the hundred and twenty or so dollars trickle through my fingers to the hot asphalt below. I was dimly aware of Mike squatting down by my feet collecting the crushed bills. I would have done it myself, but I didn’t dare move for a moment for fear of loosing what I hadn’t eaten in the first place.

 

“Cody?” Mike’s hand was on my shoulder rubbing me lightly. “You alright?”

 

Well he certainly sounded concerned as I shrugged his hand off my shoulder and tested the waters by lifting my head. Satisfied I wasn’t going to puke over God’s creation, I stood upright, wincing as I did, and tried to straighten myself out, tried to regain some of the dignity I had just surrendered in the parking lot of the South Central division’s station house.

 

“Here,” Mike said, grabbing my hand and pushing the bill’s he had neatly folded into my palm.

 

“I don’t want your money,” I said gruffly, pushing him away.

 

He had the nerve to stand there and look confused and hurt as he let the bills flutter through the hot air. Hurt damn it! He had to know some of what I had to go through to get that back, not to mention I currently felt like someone was twisting a corkscrew into some internal organ, getting ready to pull it out like a stubborn cork.

 

My face echoed the hurt that was so visible in his eyes. I sure felt it as I gave him a sorry shake of my head and turned, limping away. I half expected him to run after me and stop me, like you see in all those damn movies, but he didn’t even call after me to get my attention, he just left me to stagger off feeling defeated. So much for the Vegas Metro’s social outreach program, that was the bitter thought that crossed my mind as I stood at the corner, watching as his cruiser sped down the strip, while waiting for the walk light to fire, allowing me to cross Russell, and head to the bus stop a block down..

 

I tried not to think about him, his rounded face and the way he still smelled like I had remembered him smelling that first night, when all I could smell was the sour vinegar of rotting fruit juice and trash before he showed up. The same cinnamon tinged musk that I had the pleasure of smelling three times now, the last being the least memorable of the three, so of course that would be the way I would remember Mike, my Mike.

 

As I crossed the street I had the unbearable urge to take a leak, so I made my way up to the entrance of the nearest resort casino, the cacophony of noise in C minor assaulting me as I made it through the breeze way. Leaning against the door after it closed behind me, I took a moment to collect myself, gathering the will to walk as normally as I could to the bathroom. I did pretty well too, only starting to sway as I reached the urinal and unzipped my shorts.

 

Closing my eyes, I sighed, as I let loose a stream into the urinal. Done, I gave myself a final shake, feeling somewhat better. I stuffed my junk back where it belonged and opened my eyes. Looking down, my chin having come to rest on my chest while I took a leak, I stumbled backwards staring, as the room began to spin off axis; like a wobbly quarter coming to rest. I watched the red in the urinal smear to pink with the automatic flush of water, before the fading colors bled to grey, and then black, as my peripheral vision, and the world, closed in on me.

 

“I think… I need…” I mumbled between gasps, not knowing if there was anyone else in the public restroom with me, “help,” I managed to finish, before my legs wobbled and gave out.

 

Mike was there when I woke up the first time, just like I had dreamed he would be. He was sleeping; his head pushed back, legs stretched out in front of him. I figured I must have still been dreaming as my eyes fluttered closed. Mike was still there when I woke again the next day, the street clothes he had been dressed in where gone. Back was his khaki, vest-bulked uniform shirt, framing the prominent star on the left side of his chest.

 

“Mike?” I croaked, not believing it was really him.

 

He looked to the sound of my voice but remained seated, his eyes had dark circles under them and it looked as if he hadn’t slept that much. “Who did this?” he asked, looking afraid of the answer.

 

“Did what?” I asked, confused and still bleary.

 

“The Docs told me about the bruise on your back Cody. They say that blow probably caused the tear in your kidney,” he sighed, looking away again. “I thought it was Phil, I was half way through dialing I.A. when I realized I never saw him hit you.”

 

I let out a huff, and turned my head away from him, preferring to make patterns out of the dots in the acoustic ceiling panels. I would have rolled over away from him, but something told me the throb in my side would have screamed loudly if I did. I didn’t answer for several minutes, and I could feel him staring at me for every second of them. I relented with a weak shrug of my shoulders. He knew, why did he want me to say it?

 

“Cody,” he whispered, his strong hand falling on my wrist, just below where an IV needle was taped to my forearm.

 

I wanted to tell him as his hand began stroking my wrist lightly, sending chills racing all the way to my shoulder. I really did, it was just… for the second time in the last year and half I felt shame. The first time being right after I had first sold myself to whoever was willing to pay.

 

“Cody,” he whispered again. “Tell me, did you have the bruise when you arrived at the station?”

 

I nodded, feeling the searing streams racing down my cheeks.

 

“Who did it?” Mike asked squeezing my wrist with a gentle grasp, just strong enough for me to know he was there, as if I could forget that he was.

 

I stiffly shrugged, shaking my head. It wasn’t a lie; I honestly didn’t know the sadistic pig’s name. He only told me Franklin, but I knew that was in reference to the note, not his name. “I dunno,” I rasped, my throat feeling like a dried frog. I swallowed a few times before I finished, still not satisfied with the hoarse sound of my voice. “Some guy, the night before.”

 

His hand slid from my wrist, and I mourned the loss of his touch. “Cody, I gave you money,” Mike said sadly.

 

I swallowed again, this time fighting the lump developing in my throat. “I had to pay you back, I didn’t need…”

 

“Don’t be,” Mike said, standing quickly and leaning over me so he could look into my blue eyes, or maybe so I could look into his firm, solemn green eyes and know he was being serious. “Don’t be proud, Cody,” he continued, his hand reaching out to stroke my cheek before he stopped himself. There was a struggle playing out behind his green eyes as his fingers curled into a loose fist. “You need rest, and I’ve gotta go,” he smiled wanly before turning to leave.

 

“Mike,” I called my voice heavy with more emotion then I wanted to show, stopping him after a step.

 

“I’ll be back, Cody,” Mike answered, casting a spare glance over his shoulder and walking out of my room. Again, leaving me feel like a right piece of shit.

 

Maybe he was right, maybe I was proud, too proud to admit when I needed help, when I needed someone else besides me. Pride could’ve been what landed me on the bus to Las Vegas the night my father said he never wanted to see me again, while holding my pawing, wailing mother behind him and away from me. I’ll never forget her tears, or the way her fingers dug into his shoulder as he stood between her and me.

 

Sometimes, in bad dreams, I still hear the garbled ‘no’ she screamed as he pushed her back and slammed the door, that and the muffled sounds of her wailing on the other side of the massive piece of oak in the middle of that horrible night. He hadn’t seen me again, but it didn’t matter to him, it mattered to my mother, she was the one who paid for my pride that day, and his.

 

Mike did come back the next day, smiling, telling me I looked better when I had some color and wasn’t all bruised up, and he was there the day after as well, always sitting there when I woke up. The nurses gushed over him like a bunch of teenage girls fawning over this hot guy. I even caught one of the female interns giggling over the thought of him.

 

It annoyed me, so I managed to ask why they where all clamoring over him.

 

“He’s gorgeous,” the doctor said, sparing a moment to blush. “I just want to run my hand over his buzzed head,” she continued, before figuring that she may have said too much. The nurse who was with her, Desiree, told me not to mind Dr. Hall; she didn’t mean anything by it.

 

“What do you mean?” I asked, as Desiree slipped a blood pressure cuff on my right arm.

 

“Dr. Hall is a romantic, always gushing when the girls get roses.” Desiree’s answer confused me further.

 

She could tell by the confused look in my eyes that I was lost, and maybe a tad uncomfortable with the constriction of the cuff she was using. She smiled, holding up a finger as she concentrated on listening to my pulse with a stethoscope. The pressure on my arm released as she jotted down a note on my chart. The whole time I had been trying to figure out what in the hell she had been talking about.

 

“Your cop friend, he’s been here to see you everyday,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

 

I nodded. I mean that was obvious, I had been conscious for the last few of them, and the smell of him was a helluva lot better than the sterile smell of alcohol and Lysol that permeated this place.

 

“And every night he’s charmed the whole night shift, he has,” she smiled as she put the blood pressure cuff back into its basket on the wall. “All he does is sit in here and watch you sleep.”

 

“That’s kind of creepy,” I said, and it was. I didn’t know how great I thought being watched was, but a small part of me did rejoice with excitement over this bit of news.

 

Desiree shrugged, “He told the story of how he was out looking all over for you the night they brought you in,” she explained. “He said he felt bad for getting angry with you earlier in the day, so he was out looking and asking around, but no one had seen or heard from you since the previous night. So he went back to the spot where he had run into you and sat there waiting to see if you’d show up.” Desiree smiled down at me as if she knew something, but was not sharing. “You didn’t of course, and that’s when his phone rang. He thought it was you, but it wasn’t, it was the nurse down in the ER, you had already been in surgery and she was trying to find your family. She found …” The nurse paused in her story, her head lulling forward on her neck, looking for something from me.

 

“Mike?” I questioned. It must have been the right answer as a smile bloomed on her dark face.

 

“Mike’s number in your pants and gave him a call,” Desiree chuckled. “She said he sounded frantic when they told him you were in surgery and a half hour later he was here, pacing the halls.”

 

My heart did a flip in my chest. I didn’t know how to explain Mike’s actions, but that didn’t mean I didn’t like them any less. I smiled as I woke every morning, knowing that Mike was there, until the one morning a few days later when I woke and he wasn’t. I felt hollow, disappointed, the doctor had said I was going to be released today and I thought for sure he would have been here for that.

 

“He’s going to need to take it easy for the next several weeks, no heavy lifting or strenuous activities,” the Doctor said as he entered my room, talking to Mike as if he was my older brother or something.

 

He was back! Mike hadn’t left me, and I smiled more as I laid there, watching him steal side glances at me as he talked to the doctor. That was, until my smile faltered, realizing I more than likely didn’t have a place to go home to; my rent was due every week, and it had been at least that long since I collapsed in the Casino restroom.

 

“Don’t worry,” Mike said, “I’ll watch him and take good care of him, if anything happens I’ll bring him right back here.”

 

I would have objected, if I was listening, but I was trying to figure out how I was going to eat with the Doc’s orders of ‘no strenuous activities’. Survival, that was my preoccupation as I sat in the wheelchair and was wheeled out to Mike’s dark blue Yukon SUV. It was only about twenty minutes later, sitting in horrid Vegas surface street traffic, that I even thought to ask Mike a major question.

 

“How do you know where I live?” I asked, watching as a slow smile bloomed on Mike’s lips.

 

“I’m taking you to my home, Cody,” he answered easily.

 

“No,” I objected. He laughed, expecting the reaction.

 

“You heard the doctor, Cody, I have to keep my eye on you,” he smiled, in a way that told me I could argue the point all I wanted and he wasn’t even going to pretend listening.

 

That’s okay; I had another gripe. “My stuff?”

 

“You mean the three drawers of clothes?” he questioned, still grinning like a cat sitting in a canary cage, minus one canary.

 

Now I was confused, how did he know how many drawers of clothes I had, he wouldn’t unless he… “How’d you know where I lived?” I asked, this time assuming he had been and gotten my meager amount of crap.

 

Mike shrugged, “I asked around Cody, there were some guys out there, I wouldn’t call them friends, but they were worried about you.”

 

I accepted this, even knew the one or two guys he could be talking about; he would have probably had a heart attack if he knew the one was only fourteen. Then another worry flashed across my mind, “My picture!” I almost shouted.

 

Mikes face turned serious as he looked at me, giving me a tight nod before looking at the traffic again. “I got your picture,” he answered to my relief, which I showed visibly as I relaxed into the leather passenger seat. “Beautiful woman,” he observed. “Your mom?”

 

I nodded, thankful that Mike had sense enough to grab more than just the clothes.

 

“I figured, you have her eyes,” Mike said, watching the traffic.

 

“How old are you?” I asked out of curiosity. Age was a big deal with me for some reason, I was usually pretty good at guessing peoples ages, but with Mike, I couldn’t tell. He looked my age, but he had to be older, being a cop and all.

 

“Twenty-three,” he answered simply. We shared the rest of the ride in a comfortable silence.

 

He lived in a small apartment complex, nothing overly fancy, he said as we pulled through the gate. He was right; I had seen better, but right now a roof was a roof. The apartment was sparser then my rented room was. The furniture of the living room consisted of a black leather sofa, which looked like you could just fall into it, and a large television. Off in the corner was a small table right off the kitchen.

 

“Welcome home,” Mike said, showing me around.

 

Again, it was average, two bedrooms, and one bath. One of the bedrooms had a queen-sized bed, while the other held an impressive weight set. I was already uneasy with this whole moving into Mike’s place thing, even if it was just temporary, but noticing there was only the couch and the one bed I got a little nervous. It could have been nervous excitement though.

 

“So am I supposed to sleep on the weight set?” I asked, as the quick tour finished.

 

“No you can have the bed,” he said quickly, “I can sleep on the couch until I get another bed and get this weight set moved out into the living room.”

 

I didn’t really like the sound of kicking him out of his bed, or him having to go out and buy another bed just because I was going to be there for a while.

 

“You don’t have to,” I started to say, but he held his hand up silencing me.

 

“Just till you’re better, Cody,” he said and moved out of the second bedroom heading back to the living room.

 

His answer brought another worried question to mind as I followed him into the living room, “What about all the girls you parade in here? They’re not going to like snuggling on the couch,” I said, looking at his comfortable-looking couch.

 

Mike had stopped on his trek to the kitchen, turning to face me. There was a nervous smile on his face as his cheeks lightly flushed. “There are no girls.” His smile faltered as he turned away.

 

“No?” I questioned, smiling myself. “There was a doctor at the hospital that,” I paused trying to remember the exact words, “just wanted to run her hand over your shaved head.”

 

Mike’s blush deepened, as he nodded. “She offered,” he looked me in the eye his eyes sparkling. “And now I know why you got beat up so much.”

 

“What?” I chuckled, having some idea what he was talking about, but I still wanted to hear him say it.

 

“Always propositioning the straight guys, and not doing a thing with the ones who actually liked you,” Mike answered, his smile bleeding into a serious look, as if he was mentally kicking himself for saying that. His answer gave me pause. Sure, I suspected that he may have been into guys, but I never thought I’d hear him say that he liked me.

 

“Why were you mad at me, Mike?” I asked. He looked confused, for a moment. “The day I tried to give you your money back?”

 

“Oh,” he answered as his face fell. “I wasn’t really mad at you Cody; I did tell you that you could come to me for anything. I was just scared, when you said that I didn’t need to pay for anything. Phil would have taken it the wrong way, he could have reported me and I could have lost my job. I was just scared Cody, that’s all. If I was mad at anyone it was me for the way I let you walk away.”

 

I wanted to kiss him, I really did, and for nothing more than he meant something to me. “Why me?” I asked, curious as to how I stood out from all the other waifs.

 

Mike shrugged, “You didn’t belong out there. I didn’t know until after Phil and I left the hospital the first time we dug you out of the alley. He bitched, loudly, all the way back to the stationhouse about wasting half the night on a diseased…” Mike stopped, looking sorry he had let that slip.

 

I didn’t blame him, and somehow I knew I’d never think highly of the balding eagle he called a partner anyhow.

 

“I didn’t believe him, and I felt kind of bad when I picked you up the other night and took you out to dinner. He had been right, and I didn’t want him to be. I guess I was hoping I could convince you to try other options before it got too late, but you had an answer for everything, you seemed so accepting and defeated,” he finished staring at me in the eyes. “You’re better then that Cody, you’ve had a shit hand of things, but you’re better.”

 

“I got tested regularly,” I stammered under his statement, not knowing what else I could say. I didn’t have any fight left, not where Mike was concerned.

 

“And how many of the others out there do you think took the time to do that?” he asked, being completely serious. “Actually cared anything more than where their next fix was coming from?”

 

I shook my head, feeling the need to tell him I didn’t mess with that crap, my life might not have been the greatest thing, but I wasn’t running away from it. “I never,” I started to say, but he shushed me with his hand, cupping the side of my face softly, as his thumb brushed over my lips.

 

“I know,” he whispered, a new affection gleaming in his green eyes.

 

We stared at each other time lost to our silence. I didn’t have to sell myself, make myself sound better then I was for him. I understood that as he quieted my rebuttals. I wanted to say something, anything, to break the urging I had to kiss him. I didn’t, and he didn’t stop me as I leaned into him. His hand slid over my ear, and snaked with the curve of my head as our lips met.

 

I luxuriated in him, his smell, the warmth, and tickle of his fingers as they grazed through my black hair. The taste of his lips and his tongue as it entered my mouth. I collapsed into him, wanting to feel the heat from his lips spread across my whole body, I wanted it to rush against me, warm and comfortable, like the desert wind at midnight.

 

I grasped at his shirt, as the kiss stretched to a point where I no longer cared about anything else, than Mike, my Mike. Satisfied with the feel of the taught muscles under his shirt, my hand drifted south, slicking over his shirt until it collided with the rough denim of his blue jeans. I roamed my hand across the front of his pants, colliding with the stiff fly, and the hard ridge hidden beneath. Mike sighed, grinding his sheathed crotch into my hand. Placing both of his palms on my chest, he pushed lightly, and then with a little more force, breaking our kiss and my contact with him.

 

I gave him a confused look.

 

“We can’t do this, Cody,” he said with a mournful look.

 

“Why?” I asked, ready to fall back onto some lame ‘it’s what you want and what I want’ spiel. I hesitated because I had used that line plenty in the past, and never meant it. This time, I wanted it to mean more than anything else I had ever said.

 

“I’m not going to fuck you now, but when I do, I want you to know it’s for you and not because I expect it as payment for you living here,” Mike sighed, stepping away from me. “I don’t want you feeling like you owe me anything Cody, I just want you, no expectations.”

 

As he spoke, I had a flash of anger born from rejection, but as he continued, I knew he wasn’t rejecting me, just telling me that it wasn’t going to happen that way. In the long run, it was for the best. We got to know each other better. We had our own little tiffs, but it wasn’t anything that taking a breath and talking things over didn’t solve.

 

Mike helped me get a copy of my birth certificate and my social-security card, and a real job at a retail store in the mall. I even enrolled in the community college and adult school so I could finish the diploma I had abandoned. It was weird, the way Mike made me strive to be a better person in that respect.

 

It had taken six months, but when it did finally happen on his couch, I knew it was because he wanted me and I wanted him. I wasn’t confusing it as something I owed him, some sort of payment to him for services rendered. It was just for him, the way he moaned and cooed. The faces he made as he towered over me, the feelings of his hands roaming over my torso uninhibited, and finally snuggled up against me, circling me in his arms.

 

I was glad, in that moment, glad in some odd twist of fate; I was the one who ended up catching his eye. Glad that he thought I was worth all the trouble it took to end up where we had started. Thankful for all the little screw-ups that put me finally where I belonged, a scorched desert away from where I had started, safe in my Mike’s arms. I thanked lady luck, and apologized for thinking she had abandoned me that night a year ago. I even mumbled a silent thanks to that fat fuck who had kicked my ass. Whether he knew it or not, he had saved my life and given me Mike.

 

 

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