The Guy With the Suitcase (Once Upon a Guy #1) (7 page)

He realized he hadn’t spoken for a while and tried to refocus to the man in front of him. Pierce was gazing at the road outside, seemingly undisturbed by the quiet between them. He appeared relaxed, calm even, considering he had just handed a group of thugs their asses. He was charming. A man’s man. To Rafe, Pierce didn’t look particularly macho with his sunken cheeks and his immature stubble, however, he caused an air of security. It was probably that fact that he had just saved him, but if he had a say in it, he wouldn’t leave this guy’s side for the world.

Their drinks arrived and the smell of cocoa hit Rafe’s nostrils, bringing his sense of safety into a full circle. He felt at home. All that was missing was Marissa and his
madre
and he would be the happiest man in the world.

Pierce concentrated on his coffee and the traffic outside more than he did with Rafe. Not that he was ignoring him. He acknowledged his presence, but Rafe assumed he wasn’t a man of a lot of words. He was and he would be damned if he didn’t find out more about this guy now that he had the chance.

“What’s in the suitcase? You carry it everywhere you go. Isn’t it uncomfortable to take it around town? Why don’t you get a rucksack, that way you can at least put it around your back?”
 

Rafe realized a little too late that maybe he had overdone it with the questions. Pierce didn’t seem bothered by it, though. He turned his attention to Rafe and answered. “It’s a family heirloom. It belonged to my grandad. He passed it to me when he died, so it’s got sentimental value,” he answered.

“I see…I think,” Rafe answered, trying to sound more sure of himself, but he still couldn’t see the point. He had nothing, he was carrying around that damned suitcase even though it was impractical.

Pierce breathed out as if contemplating whether to continue, took a sip of his coffee and explained. “My gramps was gay too. But he was late to reveal the truth to his family. It took him sixty-five years. And when he did, my family wrote him off. He was a castaway, no longer welcome in his house. He went on to travel, away from his wife, his kids. He lived a good life as a gay man. He traveled every inch of this world and back. I only saw him once after his coming out and that was on his funeral. Later on, his attorney read his will to us all. He’d left nothing to anyone, but me. And all he had to give me was his suitcase.

“My parents told me I couldn’t have it and kept it locked away for years. But when I turned eighteen I turned the whole house upside down and found it. There was a lock on it, and his attorney had given the key only to me on his funeral. So thankfully my parents hadn’t been able to throw away anything sinful in the suitcase and ruin my grandad’s memories. But that was all I had left of him and it was enough because whatever was inside made me feel normal, like I wasn’t a freak. Like I could be loved if I was truthful to myself. It’s what eventually drove me to come out to my parents. I thought they would have learned from their past mistakes, but they hadn’t. And here I am,” he said.

Rafe smiled. Now he got it. That suitcase was a reminder of all he was and all he could be, just like his
madre
was for him. Sure, one was an actual person, but they both had the same effect on them. Made them feel like they weren’t all that alone, or all that fucked up.

Pierce called the waitress with a wave of his hand, pushing his chair back. “Wanna go?”

“Sure,” Rafe answered reluctantly. Where would he go now? It was already very late and there was probably no traffic on his street. He’d have to spend yet more money from his fund to stay at a hostel. He didn’t see another option.

“Got anywhere to stay tonight?” Pierce asked stepping out of the cafeteria.

Rafe pointed at nowhere in particular. “I was gonna go stay at a hostel,” he said.

“I’ll walk you,” Pierce said casually heading down the road. Rafe caught up with his quick pace.

“You really don’t have to,” he told him.

Pierce shook his head. “It’s not a problem. So where to? Got anywhere in particular? I know a cheap place around the corner,” Pierce said, again avoiding Rafe’s eyes.

“Lead the way,” Rafe laughed, leaving them in quiet.
 

Rafe found it hilarious, how Pierce could go so long without talking. “Do you always talk this much, Pierce, or are you just shy around me?” he laughed.

Pierce stole some glances towards Rafe. He smiled. “Sorry. Bad habit. I’m not used to talking to anyone”.

Rafe winced, “you don’t have any friends on the streets?” Could he really be all that alone out in NYC?

Pierce shook his head. “Nah, can’t trust anyone”.

“Ouch!” Rafe commented and Pierce turned at him to apologize.

“I mean, it’s hard trusting someone when everyone’s looking out for themselves,” Pierce tried to justify himself.

Rafe stopped him in his tracks and looked in his eyes. “That’s a lonely way of thinking.”

Pierce looked to the pavement and didn’t say a thing.
 

“Sorry,” Rafe said. “I just feel bad that you don’t have anyone to talk to about your worries and dreams,” he told Pierce and continued their walk.

“What’s the point? Worries: where will I sleep? What will I eat? Dreams: When will I win the lottery and get the hell outta here?”

“There’s much more to friends than that, Pierce,” Rafe said.

They stopped in front of the hostel that Pierce had stayed the previous night. Pierce opened the door for Rafe and they both walked to the reception. Rafe asked for a bed and the receptionist told him they had one available for thirty-five bucks. Rafe bit his lip. That was half what he made a night. It was too much, but he couldn’t just walk out. Not when Pierce had insisted on walking him and making sure he was safe.

“Sure,” Rafe said and unhooked his rucksack from his back and loosened the string. Before he had any time to pull out his stash, Pierce pulled some bills out of his pocket and gave them to the receptionist. He paused before letting them go. “No, Pierce. You don’t have to do that. Really,” Rafe begged him, stopping the receptionist from putting the money away.

“It’s okay, Rafe,” Pierce said and walked out of the hostel. Rafe took the money off the receptionist’s hand and followed Pierce, excusing himself.

“Wait, up. Pierce!” he was standing outside when Rafe came out the door waiting for Rafe. “You don’t have to give your money to me. I can…” he started to say pressing the bills, and his hand, on Pierce’s chest, but Piece cut him off.

“Rafe, stop. I want to do this. I…I want you to be safe. Especially after such a stupid night,” Pierce said, staring at the traffic and pushing Rafe’s hand off his chest. The man was playing so tough — and he was, kicking everyone’s butt to prove as much — but ask him to talk about his feelings and he blushes like a little girl.

“Well,” Rafe said stepping in front of Pierce and his point of focus to force him once again to look him in the eyes and finish what he wanted to say. “Thank you. You…there’s a sweetheart under that brute after all,” he told him and placed a kiss on his cheek. “Don’t be a stranger, stranger”.

Rafe disappeared back inside the hostel and got his keys from the receptionist.

“He your boyfriend?” he asked, giving him a purple keyring with a number written on it.

Rafe smiled. “I wish.” He grabbed the keys and went to bed.

Sleep had been impossible that night, although the warmth had been welcome. It wasn’t often that a hostel was heated. But that did nothing for Rafe’s busy mind while attempting to rest. Every time he closed his eyes he would see the
cholos
that had attacked him in the alley. And he would see Pierce coming to his rescue and kicking ass, and whenever he thought peacefulness would be next, there would be the face of his abusers. Again. And again. Until the sun came up and he had to check out. Not before exploiting the breakfast provided with a stay, however.

He walked aimlessly with nothing planned for the day. He had nothing planned for most days. Only on evenings and at nights. He wished he had his canvases and his oils. Hell, even a sketchbook would be nice right now, instead of going nowhere.

The more he craved for a pencil and a piece of paper, the more it brought adolescent memories in his head. It didn’t seem to want to stop. Everything hurtful he had ever experienced, no matter how small, was coming to the forefront now.

He remembered when he came home with homework for art class from school, and he got to painting all day. It had been the first time he had devoted his time in creating something from scratch, and he found it so calm, so soothing, it had been midnight before he even realized it. He was fourteen at the time. He never had a curfew or anything, but his parents would always nag when he was still out of bed at a late time. That day his dad came in his bedroom and started shouting about him wasting his time all day instead of doing his homework. When he defended himself, his dad gave him a good whooping, told him to straighten up and go to bed.

It was that time he realized he might like drawing more than he initially thought. He started drawing everywhere he went, everywhere he sat. He bought sketchbooks with his pocket money. In a matter of a month it was full. His dad always complained when he saw him drawing. But he enjoyed it, both drawing and being nagged at. His dad despising his hobby meant his dad spent less time complaining about the other quirks of his son. Like that he was skinny and not playing any sports at school. Like the fact that he loved pink, or that he’d put up posters of his favorite divas on his walls. Everything was obscured by all the sissy drawing. It was comforting, no matter how weird it might sound.

When he looked up from his thoughts, he found he was halfway across Manhattan, at a place he had never been before, from what he remembered, and with an arts store calling him from across the street. He laughed. Life was such a weirdo sometimes. The way it worked you up. The way it mocked you.

He crossed the street and went inside. He bought a small sketchbook and a couple pens and pencils. To heck with his savings. He’d missed drawing. Having nothing to do for the rest of the day, he found his way to Mario’s and sat inside filling in the pages of his new possession. He was so indulged in his activity that he let his hot cocoa run cold, a sin of biblical proportions in his book.

He felt a cold hand on his shoulder and he jumped. It was Sonia.

“Sorry, sweetie, didn’t mean to scare you. Are you okay? You haven’t said a word in the…” she looked at the clock on the wall and calculated, “three hours you’ve been here. You haven’t even touched your cocoa. Is it not good? Do you want another one?” Her eyes were wide with concern and her lips sucked in forming a thin pale line.

He nodded. “I’m good, Sonia. Thanks. I’m just…I don’t know…I guess it has been so long since I’ve had a pen and paper that I got carried away,” he replied and she formed an indistinguishable smile. Rafe could tell just by the change in her eyes’ size. “I’ll take your offer on the cocoa, though,” he said.

“Ok, but you better drink this one, or I’ll call the meds to get you tested,” she chortled as she walked back to the counter.

“Gotcha,” Rafe replied and resumed his drawing. It had been three hours, yet it felt like only minutes since he’d sat down. He looked at what he’d been drawing. He hadn’t decided on anything before he started, but his hands had shaped a human body and then added the details, and looking at it now, the almost finished piece looked so much like Pierce he was astounded by both his lingering talent and his photographic memory concerning the man.

What had Pierce done to him? He seemed to be the one anchor that his mind went back to every time it remembered a traumatic experience. This kick-ass, macho, shy man who didn’t speak much but blushed a lot, was making his stomach ache, but in a good way. As if it would hold his breath captive until they saw each other again.
 

“Oh, who’s that? Your boyfriend?” Sonia sang as she put another cup next to Rafe. Rafe saw her looking at his pad.

“No. I wish,” he answered. What was wrong with him? Why did he keep saying that about Pierce every time someone asked him? He knew he wouldn’t stand a chance with Pierce. They were both homeless and hopeless. Even if they did manage to get something going, how long would it last before Rafe beat it? He was sick, and without money he would eventually die.

He downed his cocoa and decided to color Pierce in.
 

A hand pulled his notebook down, making him jump again. This time, it was Marissa.

“Hey, guuurl!” she said, taking a seat across him. “Whatcha doing?” She peeked at Rafe’s half-colored Pierce and hummed. “Mmm, who is this hottie?”

“No one,” Rafe said before he could express it as a wish like he’d done twice before.
 

“What’s up with you?” Marissa asked.

Sonia approached the table again and put down a cup of tea in front of her. “Oh, he’s been like that all day. I think someone is in love,” she said, prancing back to her counter.

Marissa laughed. “Is that true?”

He shook his head. Just because he’d drawn a guy he’d met and really liked didn’t mean he was in love. Just because he was sitting in silence not touching his hot drink didn’t mean he was infatuated.