Slide (4 page)

Odd, because in my life, there was no one to miss.

T
HE
room in the basement was dark and damp. Heavy air, thick with bleach fumes, stung my eyes, like I was swimming underwater in the lake behind the school. I liked the lake. Some days, it was so blue it seemed like another planet. The kid who slept in the bunk above me said it was like a lagoon, but I didn’t know what that meant. Not yet, at least. My teacher said she’d teach us about water soon.

A heavy weight lay over me, pinning me down. My hips dug into the mattress. Bare springs scraped my bones. It was cold in the room, so cold, but my face was hot… too hot. I fought to raise my head and strained to look over my shoulder, but I saw only a shadow before another weight hit the back of my neck and forced my face down again.

“Don’t move, you queer little whore.”

The voice sent shivers up my spine. It was the same voice that lived in my nightmares. Awake or asleep, I’d know it anywhere.

A flash of heat sizzled against the base of my spine. I stopped moving. I knew what happened if I didn’t. The pain, the heat… the crackling sound my skin made as it burned. Hands clawed at my back. Sharp nails broke my skin, and I felt blood trickle down my spine. Suddenly, I felt at peace with what was happening to me. The blood was my release. Despite the pillow blocking my airway, I felt like I could breathe again. The blood was warm and prickly, like bugs… like tiny insects skittering all over me. I liked bugs. They had weird eyes, and hidden colors on their bodies. I liked watching them. Sometimes I drew them if they stayed still for long enough. If I could roll over and….

Stupidly, I moved. Heavy, cold hands held me down, hands on my shoulders, on my head, pushing my face harder into the pillow. My back was on fire, my lungs were burning. I started to shake and someone screamed….

“Dude, wake up.”

The hands on my shoulders shook me gently. A body cast a shadow over my bed and confused brown eyes stared at me.

I lashed out, threw the body across the room, and bolted.

The bathroom door had slammed hard behind me by the time I knew what I’d done. I leaned over the sink and retched, but nothing came up and I sank to the floor, fighting to catch my breath. I hadn’t had a dream like that since I’d moved to Chicago three months ago. Naively, I thought I’d left it behind. Shame ripped through me as I realized Pete had just caught me screaming into my pillow.

Why didn’t I hear the door? I shut it. I know I did.

In rehab, in the halfway house, even in Ellie’s room, I
always
closed the door. On the street, there was no door, and before then, it hadn’t been my choice to make. But I didn’t live in that world anymore, and I’d shut the door. I knew I had.

Frustrated, I banged my head on my knees and pulled at my hair. I reached for my smokes, but they weren’t in my pocket—they were on the window ledge in my room, where I’d left them the previous evening. Without the calming nicotine hit, I couldn’t stop shaking, and it was a long time before I hauled my ass off the bathroom floor.

T
HE
following day, I was surprised to find Pete waiting for me when I finished work. He’d been long gone when I finally shuffled out of the bathroom, and he hadn’t been home since.

I’d been relieved by his absence, because I didn’t really know what to say to him.
Sorry I launched you across your own apartment. I should’ve told you I was a freak.
Yeah, because it wasn’t like he didn’t know that already.

Reluctantly, I made my way over to where he slouched against a wall. “Hey.”

He tilted his face away from the sky and grinned. His face was open and warm, with no hint of anger or offense. “Hey. I saw your schedule on the fridge, hope you don’t mind. Want to grab a pizza?”

I lit a smoke, covering my surprise. “You’re not working tonight?”

“Nope, off until Wednesday. Starving, though; I slept all damn day. Want to come to Mario’s with me?”

“Is that the place round the corner?”

Pete reached out and tugged on my elbow, feigning shock that I’d never heard of it. “Trust me,” he said. “This place has the best deep dish in the city. Come on.”

In spite of myself, I grinned and raised my hands in surrender. The feel of his hand on my elbow made me slightly giddy. “I’m coming, I’m coming.”

“Come faster,” he said with a wink. “I’m Italian; you don’t want to get between me and my pizza.”

We crossed the street before I turned to him with a frown. “Deep dish is American.”

That earned me another glare of outrage, but it seemed more genuine than the first. “
Dude
, pizza is still Italian. Didn’t they teach you that in school?”

“Um, probably.”

Pete shot me a sideways look, but as we rounded the corner and the restaurant appeared in front of us, he was instantly distracted.

I followed him into the pizza place and habitually glanced around me. I could still remember the first time Ellie coaxed me from my bed on the sidewalk and took me into a diner back in Philly: the diner I used to hide behind during rush hour. Sometimes, it was hard to get my head around how much my life had changed. Ordinary things like eating in a restaurant felt too weird. I couldn’t shake the sensation that I didn’t really belong.

“Ash?”

“Hmm?”

Pete chuckled and slid a menu across the table to me. “Man, you’re a fucking daydreamer. Do you like that picture?”

“What picture?”

He pointed up at a canvas abstract hanging on the wall above us. “That one—you were staring at it.”

I shook my head. “Nah, I was just staring. Sorry.”

“Long day, huh?”

Long day, long night
….

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. I shrugged noncommittally, but Pete’s appetite saved me again. “You’re going eat all that?” I said after he’d rattled off his order to the server. Was he really going to eat two pizzas?

“Sure,” he retorted. “Or at least I will tomorrow. Have you been to the grocery store lately? Because I know I haven’t.”

That made more sense. Cold pizza was the bomb for breakfast. I ate it all the time in Philadelphia. If it had pineapple on, it was like dessert too. Ellie called it
double bubble
, whatever that meant.

Pete shuddered when I told him. “Cold pizza? That’s gross, man. Why would you eat that when we have a microwave?”

We agreed to disagree, and I relaxed slightly as he took a swig of his beer. Pete was easy to be around. Sometimes when I was with him, I forgot everything but the moment I was in. He was right about the pizza, too. It
was
really good.

After three fat slices, I felt like I’d morphed into someone else. We’d lingered after dinner and had a few beers, and being pleasantly buzzed was a nice change after feeling like crap all day. It felt good to have a full belly too. Being hungry used to be my baseline. Sometimes, I forgot it didn’t have to be that way anymore and whole days would pass by without me remembering to eat.

After our fourth round of beers, Pete showed me the stars on his shoulder again and persuaded me to sketch them on a napkin. “Now you’ve got a template.”

I picked up the crumpled napkin. “A template for what?”

“Whatever you want to do with it,” he said, oblivious to me watching his eyes crinkle up at the sides. “I’ve seen the way you look at it, like you want to scratch it off.” He paused for breath, but he didn’t give me time to protest before he went on. “I’m not that keen on it either. I got it when I was sixteen and stupid. I didn’t care what it looked like, I just wanted some ink. Do you think you can fix it?”

I studied at the napkin again. “Maybe. What sort of thing do you want?”

Pete shrugged. “Surprise me.”

I tucked the paper into my pocket and rolled my eyes. I never understood folks who were so blasé about shit they had permanently etched onto their skin, and it made me neurotic about my work. I didn’t want to be responsible for something somebody ended up hating. Still, I’d had those stars in my head from the moment I saw them, and Pete had the perfect skin for ink, smooth and flawless. The chance to draw on it myself was too tempting to pass up.

Much,
much
later, we left the restaurant and headed out into the night. I felt relaxed and more at ease than I had in a long time—definitely since I’d come to Chicago. I felt tired too, and drunk enough to sleep. With Pete home for the night, I almost felt brave enough to bypass the couch and go to bed.

Pete was quiet as we made our way home. He wove his way along the sidewalk, deep in thought, like he was contemplating something important. I lit a smoke and left him alone, but I found out what was bugging him as we neared our building.

“Did you have a roommate in Philadelphia?”

“Not exactly.” I flicked away my spent cigarette, resisting the urge to reach immediately for another.

Pete’s eyes narrowed slightly at my vague answer. “Did you live with a chick?”

“No.”

I held open the door to our building and followed him up the stairs. The urge to slow my pace, to let him get away and go into the apartment without me was strong, but I fought it. He was a curious guy. If I dodged him now, he’d only ask again.

Pete reached the front door, and perhaps sensing the war going on behind him, motioned for me to go ahead. I did, and once inside, headed for the kitchen to get another beer. It didn’t seem to matter if neither of us shopped; there was always beer in the fridge. I retrieved two, and hearing footsteps behind me, straightened up and turned to stand with my back to the counter.

“So,” Pete said once he’d put his precious pizza away and taken a swig of his beer. “Are you ever going tell me where you lived before?”

“I rented a room in Philly,” I said cautiously. “Lots of people lived there.”

Pete leaned casually against the counter, but despite the alcohol-induced glaze, his eyes were shrewd, like he knew something I didn’t. “How long were you homeless for?”

I coughed over a mouthful of beer. Okay, maybe he did. “What?”

He shrugged. “You’ve got that street-kid paranoia, the way you watch everything and hear every sound. And you jump a mile when I talk to you, like you think you’re invisible. Am I wrong?”

There was a beat of silence. I took a deep, soundless breath and shook my head. “No.”

“How long?”

“Five years, on and off.”

Pete nodded slowly, processing the information while I tried not to think about what was bound to come next. I mean, really. Who wanted a tramp for a roommate?

“That’s a lifetime, dude,” he said. “But the past is the past. Provided you’re clean and you don’t rob me, I won’t get up in your face about shit.”

It was the last thing I expected him to say, but, strangely, words tumbled out of my mouth before I could catch them. “I
am
clean. I’ve been clean for a long time.”

I said it with more conviction than I’d probably ever said anything. It was the only thing out of the last decade that I was proud of. Facing life through clear eyes was tough, but it was the one thing I knew I’d done right.

Pete grinned, though I knew he was probably too drunk to really think about what I’d told him. “Good,” he said. “You don’t look like a junkie.” He paused for a moment before he let out a sudden chuckle. “Guess it’s ironic your surname is Fagin, though.”

“What? Why?”

“
Oliver Twist
, duh.”

The humor in his eyes was infectious. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I couldn’t help grinning back.

He stretched his arms above his head. His shirt rode up and exposed a sliver of his taut stomach. I swallowed and looked away.

“I guess life isn’t so bad for you these days,” he said, oblivious. “You’ve got a job and a hot chick. What more could a man want?”

He had me there. “What chick?”

“Ellie. Duh.”

I laughed—like I had several times that night—with relief as much as anything. He’d just effectively given me a free pass on my past. I knew he wasn’t a judgmental kind of guy, but his easy acceptance was humbling. “I’m not with Ellie,” I said. “We’re just friends.”

A look of understanding crossed his face. “Ah, I see, I get it now, I think. I just assumed you were dating. Sorry.”

I laughed some more, giving in to the strange feeling I didn’t recognize. “Don’t worry about it. Everyone thinks we’re together.”

Pete drained his beer and put the empty bottle on the side. “That’s not a bad thing. Trust me, there are worse things people could think about you.” He yawned hugely and stretched again. “I’ve got to crash again. Slept all day, and I’m still fucking tired. G’night, Ash.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving me dazed, confused, and clutching an empty beer bottle.

I
WATCHED
the blood as it trickled down my arm. The gash on my hand was accidental, but there was no denying the sick pleasure I got from the burn of physical pain. I held it up, kinda fascinated, watching as my blood oozed from me, taking with it the pent-up tension I’d had in my head for days. It was exhilarating, a dangerous sensation I’d been sucked in by before. This high was better than junk, and a damn sight harder to quit.

With my other arm, I pulled my shirt over my head and wrapped it around my hand to stem the dripping blood. I packed the rest of my stuff back into the box, cradling my hand against my chest, and shoved it under the bed. I’d been cutting cards for my catalogue designs. I’d have to try again tomorrow, if they weren’t all smeared with my blood. I glanced at my cell phone. It was late, so I dug out an old hooded sweatshirt and made my way to the living room.

I’d quit going to bed at night. Pete never mentioned the morning that I’d hurled him across my bedroom, but it weighed heavily on my mind. I couldn’t let it happen again. Most nights I watched TV until the sun rose, and then caught a few hours before it was time for work, but tonight, for once, I really needed a good night of sleep. I had a big design scheduled the following afternoon, and Ted was coming in to watch. He wasn’t around much, and he seemed to have an unexpected amount of faith in me. I couldn’t let him down. Luckily, I hadn’t butchered the hand I used to operate the tattoo gun.