Finding Home (2 page)

Megan stared at the red taillights turning a corner. She pushed off the wall and walked toward the lot a block away where her car was parked. There was a bitter taste in her mouth, probably the cigarette, but also a faint nausea after the scenes she’d just witnessed. All she wanted to do was get home to the security and comfort of her own world.

Back in her apartment, Megan kicked off her too-high heels and went to the fridge for a beer. She popped the top, threw herself down on the couch, flipped open her laptop and began to write. The faces of the street boys haunted her. She stared at the glowing computer screen. It was easy to write about what she’d seen, but how could she depict what it felt like down there on the boulevard?

ZY

The next day at work was so normal, it made the previous evening seem like a surreal dream. From morning coffee until she knocked off at 6:30, Megan slogged through her office routine. She chatted with coworkers and edited copy. The urge to completely rewrite Abbie Carolton’s boring article about the chili cook-off was hard to resist. Megan knew she was a better writer than Abbie. It burned her to have to correct instead of completely revise Abbie’s articles.

In the afternoon, the managing editor, Gerald Rossi, called her to his office.

Megan entered and sat, afraid she was going to be bitched out again for her perpetual lateness.

Rossi pushed a red-marked article across his desk toward her. “Abbie Carrolton complained about the hatchet job you did on her piece about the parking garage.”

She gazed at the paper on his desk. The article was about an accident due to structural damage that had brought shoddy construction work to light. The desire to change phrases and punch up Abbie’s description had been irresistible.

“Proofreading, not surgery,” Rossi reminded her.
“Yes, sir.”

He folded his arms, leaned back in his chair and regarded her. “I realize you’re anxious to make a big splash. Every journalist dreams of being a Woodward or Bernstein, but you’re more likely to spend the next twenty years covering city council meetings and dog shows. Before your career gets even that interesting, you have to put time in on the bottom rung.”

Megan nodded. Her cheeks burned. It was embarrassing that her aspirations were so evident. She tried not to care that Rossi made her feel young, naïve and foolish.

Rossi added in a voice probably meant to sound kind and paternal, “Don’t worry. You’ve got potential and a lot of drive. I’m sure you’ll make your mark.”

“Yes, sir.”

The rest of the day, she dreamed of proving Rossi wrong with the amazing article she would write. A few interviews, photos and a unique angle for her story would make her career. There was no reason to waste time as a copy editor. She was too talented for that.

No more nerves. Tonight she would get an interview and start her story.

ZY

Back on the street that evening, Megan looked for the lounging boy under the awning, but he wasn’t there. She leaned against her patch of wall and psyched herself up to approach one of the other hustlers, but before she roused the courage, the kid who’d gotten booted out of the sedan the night before came to her. He swaggered over, chock full of attitude.

“I seen you here last night.” He moved in close, invading her personal space.

Megan held her ground despite her urge to back away.
“What you lookin‘ for, girl? Maybe I got it.” He grinned, revealing a missing front tooth that made him look like a second grader—a slightly dangerous and sexually potent second grader.

“I’m writing an article. Got a quote for me?” She was proud of herself for keeping her tone light and relaxed despite her pounding heart.

“What you writin‘ about?” His black eyes narrowed.
“You.” Megan folded her arms over her breasts and continued to meet his gaze. “Working kids like you. What your life is like, how you got into hooking, stuff like that.”

“Shit.” He backed off, shaking his head. “Why the fuck I want to talk to you about that? Why you want to write about it?”

“People are interested. They want to know how someone gets into a situation like yours, and they want to know how they can help.”

“Help? They can help by coming on down here and giving me a hundred bucks for a fuck. That’s how they can help. I need cash, hear what I’m saying? Not some do-good bitches trying to get me off the street.” He glared and retreated a few paces. “You some kinda social worker or something?”

Megan followed him. “No. I told you, a reporter. Talk with me for ten minutes. Answer a few questions. I promise I won’t put anything in the article you don’t want.”

“Naw, I don’t think so. I gotta protect my rep, you know. Wouldn’t look good talking to some reporter.” He grinned. “But I do know somebody who’s a real talker. He’ll tell you anything you wanna know.” The kid pointed.

Megan turned.

The lounging boy was suddenly back in his spot, slouching against the wall.

“That’s Mouth. We call him that ‘cause he never stops running his. Go ask him. If he talks to you then you can come back and see me. Maybe I’ll change my mind.” The kid laughed and strutted away.

“Hey,” Megan called after him, “What’s your name?”

He turned and delivered another of those big, gap-toothed grins. “They call me Li’l Ricky. Only I ain’t little where it counts, know what I’m sayin‘?” He grabbed his crotch and winked at Megan, then turned and sauntered off.

Megan looked at the boy under the awning, bathed in the glow of pink neon. He shifted his back against the wall, finding a more comfortable position, and drew a long drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke out in a thin, steady stream through his nose.

It had been two years and one month since Megan’s last cigarette and the nicotine craving still ached like a sore tooth sometimes. Watching his sensual enjoyment of the cigarette awakened more than one kind of desire in her. She drew a deep breath and walked up to him. “Hi. Remember me from, uh, last night?”

He slid a sideways glance at her.
“That boy Ricky said you could help me with something. It’s a writing project I’m working on.”

He looked away from her without answering. Either he was considering speaking or waiting for her to give up and walk away.

“I’m a reporter. I just want an interview. That’s all. Really.”
“What are you reporting?” He stared at the street, dropping the hand with the cigarette to his side.

“I’m writing about street kids, how they get in that situation and what they do to survive.” When the boy turned and looked through her with his cool blue eyes, Megan’s idea for her article suddenly sounded completely stupid. How could she understand his life from asking a few questions? But she was here and she had his attention. Bracing herself, she plunged on. “I have a few questions about your background, a little about your daily life and what your hopes are for your future.”

He snorted in derision.
“If you prefer the interview to be confidential, we could go to that diner.” She gestured down the street. “I’ll buy you dinner. You answer my questions. Quick and painless.” She smiled.

“How much?”
“Excuse me?”
“Fifty bucks for twenty minutes. My time is valuable.”
“Um.” Megan calculated the cash she had available and what bills she needed to pay. “I can give you, uh, twenty.” He seemed to be considering so she added, “Plus the meal. It’s all I can afford.” The ethics of paying for an interview were questionable, but she decided this was a one-time transaction.

His gaze slowly wandered over her from head to foot.

Megan wanted to wrap her arms around her body to cover it.

Finally he nodded. “Okay.”
“Great.” It sounded way too enthusiastic. She repeated in a less spunky tone, “Great.”

This young man was so self-possessed he made her feel like a child. He strolled toward the restaurant with long, easy strides. Megan had to walk quickly to keep up.

She sat across from him in the booth, torn vinyl scratching the back of her legs. Inside the diner, she could see the boy more clearly than in patches of neon and shadow. His eyes seemed a brighter shade of blue in the fluorescent light. He scanned the menu and placed his order. The strappy, once-white T-shirt he wore showed off his well-defined arm muscles when he passed the menu back to the waitress. The material of the shirt molded to his chest, outlining the bump of each nipple pressing against it.

Megan quickly lifted her gaze back to his face.

He stared at her, eyes flat and calm as a lake on a hot summer day. She could read nothing in them and wondered what he could possibly be thinking of her.

“You have questions?” he prompted.
“Oh, uh, right.” Megan pulled out her notebook and a small recorder from her purse. “You don’t mind if I tape this? It’s easier than writing everything down.”

He considered a moment then nodded.

She pressed the button and spoke. “Interview with…Mouth. White male, age…?”

“Seventeen.”
“Can you tell me a little about your family and your parents?”

“There was just my mom.” He didn’t offer anything else. Megan began to understand why Ricky had laughed when he suggested Mouth for an interview. He wasn’t a talker.

“How did you come to be on your own?”
“My mom was an addict. After we got evicted, there didn’t seem to be much point in sticking around anymore. I could take care of myself better than she could.”

“You didn’t have any relatives to stay with?”
“No. I stayed at a friend’s place for a while, but I couldn’t live there forever. Then I hooked up with some other kids who live in this abandoned building.”

“What about a foster home? Did you consider that?”

He stared at her for a second like she was stupid. “No. I’d rather be on my own.”

“How did you reach the point of,” she searched for a polite way to phrase the question, “considering prostitution as a source of income?”

“Some of the kids I knew were whoring, but I wouldn’t at first. I was sure I could find a job. But the days went on and I had no money. This kid, Donnie, convinced me sucking cock was a pretty simple way to make fifty bucks. So one night I did it.”

Megan swallowed. “How did you feel about it?”
“I didn’t feel anything. He was right. It wasn’t such a big deal and I had enough money to eat for a few days.” His voice was perfectly steady and emotionless.

Megan felt the cold reality of his answer hit her in the chest. Jesus, what kind of a life was that for a kid? She stared at her notepad, scribbling a few words, afraid he might see the pity in her eyes. “So how old were you when you did that? When you first sold sex?”

“Sixteen.”

He hadn’t been on the game all that long then. Megan remembered what she’d been like at sixteen when the whole focus of her life was school, she had an unrequited crush on the captain of the football team and her knowledge of sex was still mostly theoretical except for a little fumbling with Ray Marsden at a house party one summer evening. And even then, nothing much had happened.

“May I ask about your early sexual experiences?” She referred to her list of questions. “How old were you when you first had sex?”

“Fourteen.” Again, his answer was succinct, and Megan had to ask him to elaborate.

“Kristina Taylor. Eighth grade formal. In back of the gym. Less than five minutes.”

“How did you feel about it?”
“Embarrassed. But she was cool about it and it was better the next time and even better after we’d had more practice.” There was a hint of humor in his tone despite his blank face.

“When did you realize you were gay?”
“I’m not.”

Megan paused, taken by surprise. “But your clients are male.” “What I do is work. Doesn’t mean I like it. You know anybody who works at McDonald’s and loves the job?” He smiled slightly for the first time.

“True.” She returned his smile.

The waitress returned with Mouth’s meal and a soda for Megan, who turned off the recorder.

The boy tore into the burger, his jaws bulging as he chewed an oversize mouthful. He didn’t look at her as he methodically ate his way through the food, chased by great gulps of soda.

Megan wondered when he’d last eaten.

If it bothered him to be watched, he gave no sign of it, but then anyone who engaged in intimate acts with strangers on a daily basis must have long ago lost all self-consciousness.

“Why do they call you Mouth?” she asked when he’d finished his burger and she’d put on the recorder again. “Ricky said it’s because you’re such a talker, but it’s nothing to do with that, is it?”

He looked at her significantly, eyebrows raised and a smirk on his lips.

“Listen, even if I know why, I need some quotes from you.” Megan felt her cheeks flush and her tone was sharp.

He shrugged. “I’m good at blowjobs.”

She fought the desire to shoot back “How good?” and said instead, “So it became your nickname.”

“Yeah, well it’s better than Ass, don’t you think?”

Megan had trouble taking his teasing lightly. “So you also engage in penetrative sex?” She sounded like a prissy schoolteacher, but couldn’t find a better way to phrase the question.

“No. I only do blowjobs and handjobs. Mostly guys want blowjobs. Because I
am
good.”

“And that’s all you do?” She felt like a pervert poking through other people’s dirty laundry, which in a way was exactly what she was doing. Rossi had better publish the damn article when she was finished.

“Now and then, some guys pay me to jerk off over them. Or they want to suck me off.”

“They do? And you…?” Her cheeks burned hotter as her questions brought more explicit answers. She couldn’t help feeling this interview would be easier if he wasn’t so attractive.

“Yeah, they do. I can close my eyes and use my imagination to get off. It beats sucking cock.” He critically examined a burnt fry, setting it to the side of his plate.

Megan looked down at her written questions again. She’d hoped the conversation would flow more easily, but it seemed to be getting more stilted as the garish details of his life were laid bare in front of her. “Are all your clients men or do you also get women?”

He didn’t answer immediately. When she glanced up, he was watching her speculatively. “Guys. But I had a client who wanted me to go down on his wife once. So, yeah, I guess I do do women.” His voice grew huskier.