Lighthouse Nights

5

trevor awoke to the eight o’clock courtesy call and found jules asleep on her stomach. he thumbed her panties and whispered in her ear, “i love you to the moon and back.” he peeled back the black lace and kissed her cheek.

he stretched his calves in the body-length mirror then touched his toes to pop his back. thirty pushups. forty sit-ups. he tucked the tip of his erection in the waist band of his boxers and pumped out another twenty of each. morning exercise made him horny, but his girl was exhausted and she needed rest.

trevor was the mastermind. this project was his baby... but julesie made it work. she had the personality, the empathy, the look; she was convincing and relatable. she took his good idea and made it shine.

besides, nobody wanted to spill their darkest secrets to a dude. especially not other dudes.

he sat on the floor by the lobster carcass, opened his computer and signed into the chat room. john’s webcam was still online. his body was still hanging.

jules was pissed that trevor got off on last night’s suicide. she couldn’t possibly understand the joy he found in that thrashing body. HE may be the mastermind, but SHE got to have all the fun; john’s death was the first time trev got to participate in the sickness.

big plans this afternoon then a thirteen-hour car ride tonight— trevor thought of jules and that body and rubbed one out in the shower.

the new york valet was a waste of time, artistry and pills. eight bucks, a dell laptop, an old-school nintendo (with ten games and a broken controller), fifty dvds, various electronics, a dime bag of weed (which he gave to jules), a pair of rollerblades... and the itchy green uniform with the “stanley” name tag. barely worth the gas money from jacksonville.

but for every waste-of-skin pothead, there were three spoiled brats boo-hooing about hating life or being fags or failing grades or stubbed toes just WAITING to top off. shotgun-doug was a spoiled brat. from the sound of it, emma was too.

to make up for stoner-stanley’s profitless suicide, trevor had a plan.

he brushed lint from the sleeves, buttoned the top button, worked his fingers into stiff white gloves, and tossed stanley’s name tag in the trash below the sink.

hotel checkout was at one. that gave him four hours to do this right.

*  *  *

“we heard he offed himself. or OD’d. maybe he OD’d.”

“stan was the kinda kid you don’t let in bell towers.”

“i dunno why they hired him. terrible with clients. mumbled. hey dude, where’s your name tag?”

trevor stooped to the parking-garage floor and plucked up a cigarette butt with an inch of good smoke. “they still need to make me one,” he said, though he didn’t know who “they” were. he simply donned the outfit, found the hotel’s address on stoner-stanley’s pay stub, and discovered these two knobs parking cars and taking keys. “got a light?” he asked.

dominique (”call me dom”) stood in the middle of a luggage cart with arms extended to both bronze polls. he shook his head. 

mike (said his tag) flipped a chrome zippo and covered the flame with his glove.

trevor leaned into it and inhaled to start the burn.

“how much you bench?” mike asked and snapped the lighter.

“haven’t touched a weight since college,” trevor said.

“that uniform barely fits. you’re doin’ somethin’ right.”