Unworthy Of Love (BXB)

29. Lost And Found

My eyes keep gravitating to the two women on the corner, to their long legs and short skirts. One of them wears thigh high leather boots like the ones that Julia Roberts sported in "Pretty Woman". The similarity ends there, though, for there's nothing pretty about this woman's face. Her tense expression only briefly switches to fake inviting smiles as she follows the passing cars with her eyes. Thick layer of makeup fails to properly conceal what could be either severe acne or meth marks on her cheeks.

Her friend is taller and broader in the shoulders and could be a transvestite as far as I can tell. She—he?—catches my eye and smiles. I look away, drumming my fingers on the wheel, waiting for the light to change.

The exhaust fumes of the cars in front of me rise into the cool night air. Neon signs blink along the road, distracting from the dirty brick walls on which they are mounted. Not a good part of New York to be at night, unless you're looking for a hookup or drugs or just plain trouble. People who pass through here on their way someplace else do so quickly and with their windows rolled up.

I'm driving slower now, glancing at the shady figures on the sidewalk. A car honks behind me, and I pull over to let it pass. Overall, the traffic is light at this hour. Most people are home. Only the night creatures are out, those working in bars and clubs and on the streets.

I glance at the clock on the dashboard. My shift begins in half an hour, so I better get going. Another uneventful night of a port security guard is ahead of me: patrolling the grounds, responding to the rare security breaches, performing random vehicle screenings and so on. Not a fancy job. Not what Catherine wanted for me, but all I managed to find on a short notice after Brandon, one of my past classmates, had called and told me whom he had spotted in one of the Big Apple seedy nightclubs.

I'm going to set my life straight one day. I will go to college like Catherine wants me to. I'm nineteen, and the time runs fast; yet I can't quite bring myself to concentrate on my life. It's hard to open a new page when you haven't had a chance to close the previous one.

So, I moved to New York and rented a room and got a job and kept on searching until I have found what—whom—Brandon has found.

At least I think I have. I only need to make sure.

People in revealing clothes step out of the shadows as I slow down further, my pickup now barely crawling along the sidewalk until it comes to a halt by a blind brick wall. A flock of colorfully dressed girls cheer and wave at me, but only a guy in a leather jacket and a white scarf comes over. I roll my window down and he peeks inside.

"Hi there." He looks me over; then, his expression relaxes as if he somehow concludes that I'm not a cop. "How's your night going? Looking for some fun?"

I'm not sure how to talk to him, so I just nod.

"Girls, boys?" he says. "Black, white, latino?"

"Boys," I say, my mouth dry. "White."

"Blond is okay? I have a terrific blond dude."

"No," I say. "Someone more of an...emo type."

"Oh, I have exactly what you need." He straightens up and gestures at someone. "Arturo, come here!"

Behind his shoulder, I can make out a slender shadow detach itself from the wall, and begin to walk towards the car in playful, springy steps. I can make out black jeans and a simple black tee shirt, and what looks like a boa on the young man's shoulders, and the pale face with heavily made up eyes.

My heart leaps in my throat.

The next moment, I step on the gas, twist the wheel, and speed off down the road, leaving the annoyed leather jacket guy and his flock of professional sinners behind.

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