Finding Home (7 page)

Elf shrugged. His eyes were bright with tears. Knowing how close he was to Ricky, she could imagine what losing his closest ally on the street meant to him. Suddenly, there was no one to have his back, no one to sleep with at night or share stories with about his day.

“So what was wrong?”
“Looks like Ricky had some good quality smack,” Mouth said. “Purer than usual. Apparently, there’s a batch around and they’ve seen lots of ODs of kids who can’t handle the concentration. Scary shit.”

In the car on the way back to the boulevard, both Mouth and Elf were quiet.

Megan turned on the radio, surfing channels until she found a music station that played guitar bands with a minimum of chat.

She dropped Elf off at a junction before they reached the street. He wanted to go check on Ricky’s stuff before word spread Ricky was in hospital and being sucked into the system, which would make his possessions fair game.

She sat in the car, watching Mouth and Elf on the sidewalk. Mouth leaned down with his hand on the skinny boy’s shoulder, giving him some kind of pep talk. She was struck again by how easily he assumed the mantle of responsibility.

“Want to get something to drink?” she asked when he got back in the car. “I’d kill for something cold and for some air-conditioning.”

“Sure.”

A blast of tepid air hit them as they opened the door of the diner. It wasn’t the air-conditioned comfort Megan had hoped for, but it was a hell of a lot better than the stifling air out on the street.

“So, you looked like you knew what you were doing out there,” she said as they sat in the booth with their trays. She’d just gone for an iced tea, there was too much adrenalin in her system to consider eating, but Mouth had an order of french fries. Evidently, it took more than a friend’s OD to curb a teenager’s appetite.

Mouth snorted. “Growing up with my mom? Yeah. I got some practice.”

“She did heroin, too?”
“Heroin, crack, speed, meth, you fucking name it. Yeah, Mom liked to party.”

He sounded so matter-of-fact when he spoke Megan found it difficult to link the events he described with him. She couldn’t imagine what his offhand comment about drugs had meant in real life, what it was like to grow up in a household where day-to-day living was dominated by what substances were available or needed.

She shook her head. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s the way she chose it. And I got out of there as soon as I could.”

“I didn’t mean to pry. I’m just, you know, trying to do this thing right.”

“Yeah,” he scoffed. “And I bet Ricky’s little drama is giving you plenty of material to sex up your article.” The bitterness in his voice was so unexpected, it felt like a slap.

“What?”
“Oh, come on.” He reached for a french fry and popped it into his mouth. “It’s all good copy, isn’t it? Stuff to make sure your boss runs the piece and you get all the credit.”

“That’s so unfair! You know I’m not doing this as a sensational piece. I’m trying to give our readers a real insight into your lives. I’m—”

“You telling me you won’t use this?” He skewered her with his dark blue eyes. He was calling her on it, and Megan couldn’t deny Ricky’s O.D. made for a touching, immediate angle to her story, especially since she’d been an eyewitness to the event.

“I… It’s not like that.”
“Yeah? How is it? Tell me you’re not doing this ‘cause you want to get your big break and have your career take off.”

“I do, but that’s not why I’m writing about you guys. This is about telling it like it is, showing the reality of life on the streets.”

“Do me a favor. Save the spiel for your readers. You’re using us for your career. At least be honest about it. You know, like my clients are honest about what they want.”

“How dare you compare me to one of your johns!” Megan’s temper flared.

He gave her a sardonic half-smile, then bit into another fry. “Yeah, like you’ve never thought about it like that. Besides, you’re really naïve if you think your story’s gonna make a difference in the way people treat us—like that bitch at the hospital.”

“Fuck you, Mouth. If that’s how you feel, why did you ever agree to talk to me?”

“Hey, you paid me for my time. That’s how it works.”

His laid-back ease was infuriating. Megan knew he was putting up a front, because he did it all the time. She knew he was worried about Ricky and angry and scared, but she was so upset at his insinuation, she couldn’t control her fury.

Her eyes stung, but she could not, would not, cry in front of him. She got up and grabbed her bag. “If that’s how you see all your dealings with the world, no wonder you’ve ended up on the street sucking dick,” she spat, her voice hoarse. The moment the words were out of her mouth, she wanted to take them back.

There was a flicker of shock and hurt in Mouth’s eyes as if she’d slapped him across the face. He quickly covered it with an expression of detached amusement, but Megan knew what she’d seen.

The tide of Megan’s anger stopped her from apologizing and swept her out the door without looking back. She knew if she did, he’d still be picking at his fries, as if he hadn’t heard her at all.

Megan walked the street looking for Mouth, although she no longer expected to see him. He’d been missing almost a week. Six days since she’d last talked to him and pissed him off so much he’d probably relocated to a new area of the city or maybe even hopped a bus for somewhere else completely. She no longer tried to pretend she came to the boulevard for any other reason. She’d finished the article a few days ago and submitted it to Rossi, all the while hearing Mouth’s voice in her head telling her she was using the kids’ lives to further her career. It took most of the pleasure out of her sense of accomplishment at finishing the piece and, although she knew it was a riveting article, part of her almost hoped her boss wouldn’t print it.

She’d told herself tonight was the absolute last night she would come down to the boulevard and look for Mouth, but she’d promised herself that several times already. Then she looked up and there he was, standing in his usual spot, back against the wall, arms crossed loosely over his chest, one leg cocked while the other bore his weight. His face was profiled half in shadow and half in the light and Megan thought of the photo she’d snapped and how that striking image alone would sell her story. She felt a rush of relief coupled with a strong swell of desire at the sight of him. Overlaying those emotions was anger that he’d caused her so much worry—even though it wasn’t any of her business where he went or how long he stayed away.

Megan approached him just as he turned his head. In the harsh light, the left side of his face was swollen and bruised. One eye was a mere slit and his mouth on that side was twisted downward by the swelling. She gasped and her stomach dropped as she surveyed the damage to his face. The need to touch him, to assure herself he was really there and safe flooded through her. She walked more quickly toward him.

He caught sight of her, registered her presence with a blink of his good eye, then pushed off the wall and began to walk away. He carried himself stiffly and favored his right leg, but still moved fast.

Megan hurried to catch up. “What happened?” She trotted along at his side.

“Go away,” he answered. “I’m trying to work.”
“Look, I’m sorry about what I said the other night. It was rude and wrong, but please don’t shut me out. Whatever happened to you, I want to help.”

Stopping abruptly, he turned to her.

She stumbled as she came to a halt beside him.

His angry stare made her step back. “You want to help? Then get the fuck off my street and leave me alone.”

“Please. Don’t.” She reached toward his injured face.

He reared back, raising his hand to block hers. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed it hard once before dropping it. “I don’t need your help. I need you to get the hell away from me.” His voice was icy and level. It would’ve been easier to take if he yelled.

“Listen.” She tried once more. “I didn’t mean what I said. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please forgive me.”

He looked up the street, then back at her. “You didn’t upset me. For you to upset me, I’d have to care what you think, and I don’t. I’m not your friend. You don’t need to apologize or help me. Just finish your article and stop hanging around here.” He added with an ironic grimace indicating his bruises. “It’s not safe.”

“So I’ve been told before.” Megan paused, then said in an impulsive rush, “No, it’s
not
safe and you’re in no condition to be out here right now. That’s why I want you to come with me.”

“What?”
“Come and stay at my apartment for a night or two until we can find someplace safe for you to go.” Her inner voice asked her if she’d just made that offer aloud.

“Like where, a group home or shelter? I don’t think so.”
“Fine, then. No authorities. No foster care or institutions or shelters. No interfering, just a couple of nights of sleeping on a couch in a warm living room instead of in a drafty, abandoned building.”

He looked down at the ground, his shoulders slightly hunched and his neck muscles tight. With the distortion of the left side of his face, it was hard to read his expression, but he seemed to be considering it.

“Hot soup thrown in, no extra charge,” she said with a smile, trying to lighten the fervent tone of her plea.

He sucked his torn bottom lip into his mouth, then winced as the scab opened and it began bleeding. His tongue darted out to lick at the blood.

“A shower. Clean sheets. Stouffer’s lasagna, which isn’t half bad,” she cajoled.

He shrugged and crossed his arms over his chest. “I guess so,” he muttered. “One night.”

“I’m parked in a lot about a block away. Do you have any stuff you need to pick up?”

“I got a bag over there.” He jerked his thumb toward one of the bars. “I’ll go get it.”

“I’ll bring my car around.”

He walked away with a halting step that made her wonder what his catalog of injuries included. The limp convinced her she’d made the right decision, impulsive or not, in inviting him home, and even her logical inner voice agreed and shut up. Part of her wanted to run after him, not let him out of her sight until he was safe inside her car, but she knew she had to trust him. And when she pulled her car around and he was waiting there on the sidewalk with his stained duffle bag over one shoulder, she felt like whooping for joy.

ZY

When they got to her building, Megan led Mouth up the stairs to her apartment on the third floor. She never took the elevator since the day Mrs. Ryan got stuck in it for over five hours. He moved slower and slower by the time they reached the last flight, and she cursed herself for being so insensitive as to make him walk up. She glanced over at him as she put her key in the lock.

He leaned against the wall, his eyes half-closed, his mouth a grim line of discomfort.

She wondered how badly he’d been beaten and by whom, but she hadn’t asked questions during the ride home, waiting for him to volunteer the information. Maybe a john had whaled on him or he’d been in a brawl with other kids. Mouth made no secret of the violence that often erupted on the street, fueled by the drugs and booze which most of the kids used to numb themselves to their wretched situation.

Dragging her mind away from the depressing images her question generated, she led him through the small foyer and into her living room.

“Sorry, I don’t have a sofa-bed.” She gestured at the couch.
“It’s fine.” He looked around the room, seeming subdued and smaller somehow inside the confines of the indoors. Or maybe he was just exhausted from his climb up the stairs.

“I’ll improvise something with sheets and blankets while you clean up.” She eyed him critically. “I think I can find you a pair of sweats and an extra large T-shirt to change into while I wash your clothes. I mean, unless you have clean stuff in your bag.”

He looked down at his torn jeans, ragged jacket and filthy white T-shirt, which had bloodstains on it as well as grime. “This is fine. I don’t want other clothes.” His voice was firm and his arms hugged his duffel to him, as though unwilling to surrender any more of himself into her overbearing goodwill.

Megan knew how to pick her battles. Mouth was clearly uncomfortable in her territory and unwilling to admit he needed her help. She tried to tamp down her anxious babbling and adopt a more casual tone as she pointed him toward the bathroom, giving him a fresh towel and washcloth from the linen cupboard.

She noticed his hands when he took them, how the skin of the knuckles was abraded from fighting and the fingernails were bitten short. For the glimmer of a second, she thought about how those hands would feel touching her body, his rough skin skimming over the tender surface of her stomach or inner thigh, then she slammed the door shut on the image. But not before the thought had seared itself into her mind, leaving traces of arousal in its wake.

ZY

After he’d showered, Mouth joined her in the small kitchen.

Megan was relieved to see he had, after all, decided to make use of the clean clothes she’d set outside the bathroom door. With his hair wet and slicked back, clad in sweatpants and a baggy T-shirt, he appeared younger. He was clean, but still looked like he’d been dragged down the street behind a car.

Standing in the doorway, barefoot on the tiled floor, he was clearly unsure of himself.

Megan smiled at him, feeling she needed to act the role of hostess and put him at ease. How long had it been since he’d been a guest in someone’s home? Someone who wasn’t a client.

“I promised lasagna, but it’ll take another twenty minutes or so to warm up. What do you want to drink in the meantime?”

“Beer would be good.”

Megan hesitated for a second, then sent her inner chaperone to hell. The kid might not be twenty-one, but he sucked cock for a living. It wasn’t like a beer was going to corrupt him. She opened the fridge and pulled out two bottles of a local microbrew she kept for when James or Sasha’s husband, Stevie dropped by because they were both such beer snobs. She popped the caps and handed him a bottle.