Traffick (29 page)

how bad our families make us feel about

ourselves. Perhaps we're approaching the true

Age of Enlightenment. Maybe not everywhere,

but in more and more places, including

here. Excluding assholes like the ones last

night, people are starting to understand

that gender is something you're born with.

We can be who we are, follow our dreams,

succeed on our talents, celebrate falling

in love. But if we buy into the bullshit, believe

our only option is submission, we're doomed.”

Pippa has listened quietly, sponging

the words, but now she says,
I wish

I could believe that, but people are

basically mean. Survival of the fittest

or whatever. Hurting others gives

them a small sense of power, and

that includes verbal abuse. And

men like the ones who did this . . .

She lifts her hand, not quite touching

her pulped face.
Want people like you

and me to disappear completely. They

want us on the endangered species list.

“Yeah, but they'll be extinct someday.

Until then, we can't cave in to fear.”

The tears, expected, begin to fall.

How do I keep from being afraid?

“You have to stop living in isolation.

Find an accepting community. Jump in.”

She thinks it over.
And where is your

community, Seth?
Excellent question.

All the way to Micah's. Other than

the YouCenter kids, I belong to no real

community. I don't fraternize with other

escorts, and even if I did, I plan to quit

the business ASAP, because now I'm

free to move in with Micah and living

with someone you love negates having

for-pay sex with others, at least in my mind.

Who knew I had any moral sense left?

What little I have totally disintegrates

the minute Micah opens the door,

wearing nothing but a pair of blue

silk boxers. It's been a few days

since we've seen each other, and lust

attacks fiercely, at least for me. Micah,

however, jerks backward as if looking

at a monster.
Jesus. What happened

to you?
My face. Forgot about that.

I set down my luggage, close the door.

“Is that any way to talk to a superhero?”

I repeat the grisly details, hoping

my manliness will impress him.

Unfortunately, it seems to have

the opposite effect.
Seriously, Seth.

You should have called 911, then run.

Those guys might have killed you.

“You sound like David. I couldn't

let them annihilate Pippa, could I?”

His shoulders relax.
I guess not.

So, you really
are
a superhero.

“Nah. Just a regular hero. Now,

where's my reward?” I push him into

the bedroom, kiss him hard as I lay

him down, all the right muscles tensing

between us. He looks up at me with

those amber eyes, and a confession

spills from my lips. “I love you, and

I want you.” I show him how much,

and what we share isn't sex, it's making

love. Micah becomes my community.

My cell phone rings. I ignore it, though

the thought briefly crosses my mind

that it could be important. No way

as important as this, though, and

when we finish I'm in no hurry to get

up. We lie tangled together in mute

satisfaction. Finally, I ask, “What do

you think about me moving in here?”

It's the first time I mention leaving David.

Micah's muscles (all the wrong ones) tense.

You can stay for a while, of course.

My main concern is David. If he finds

out, what would that mean for me?

Sucker punch. I'd hike hot coals for Micah.

I roll out of bed, go to find my clothes

and check to see if that call was critical.

There's a voice mail from Aunt Kate.

Thank God I found you, Seth. You have

to come home right now. Your father's

in the hospital. He doesn't have much time.

To judgment is a concept

I'm familiar with—

being that person

everyone's

analyzing, without

ever once asking straight

up where you've been

or why you were gone.

I understand self-medicating,

playing hide-and-seek with

a

personal monster. In my case

(not to mention my sister's),

our father, who returned

from the Middle East

conflicts tweaked. So, yeah,

I indulged in more than a

little

booze and pills and powders.

Anything to shut out

the noise of his waking

nightmares. Until I, too,

went most of the way

crazy.

It was a long, hard

journey back, but if I

could do it, Whitney can, too.

Flipping out at random

intervals, for reasons sometimes

obvious, and other times

anyone's guess. I knew

laser tag was a poor choice,

all that neon cutting through

the darkness too reminiscent

of my time with Bryn and the Lady.

If not for James, don't know

how deep into memory-

driven insanity I might've sunk,

clutching shallow breath

as I went under. He saved me

that night, and I still can't figure

out why, let alone the reason

he wants to see me again.

Today, I was scratching for a way

out of the house to escape

the dual energy of my mom

and Kyra, who's home on winter

break. So when James called

and asked if I wanted to see

a movie, I jumped at the chance.

He's picking me up at one.

As long as I can talk Mom into

letting me out of the house.

With Kyra, looking at plum

pudding recipes online.

They're planning to cook

Christmas dinner, too.

But seriously. Plum pudding?

Better play nice.

“What's wrong with gingerbread,

or maybe chocolate cream pie?”

Kyra cocks her head, points

her chin in my direction.

I happen to like plum pudding.

You got a problem with that?

“Nope. Whatever you want

is fine by me. But can we please

have gingerbread, too? Maybe

Dad can pick it up from the bakery

if you don't want to make it.”

Why should I make it? You can

follow a recipe, can't you?

Why is she always such a bitch?

Back away, Whitney, back

away. “I'm happy to give it a try,

but it probably won't turn out

very well. Baking is not my thing.”

Change the subject . . . now.

“Hey, Mom. Can I go to the movies?”

Well, we're kind of busy here,

and I thought we might go out

to dinner later.
Finally, she pulls

her eyes away from the computer

long enough to notice I'm dressed

to go somewhere.
Oh. Did you

already make plans with someone?

“Well, yeah. See, I met this kind

of amazing guy at the arcade

the other night.” I never told her

about the incident. No need to

mention it now. “You'll like him.

He'll be here any second.”

You told him you'd go without

asking Mom first?
blasts Kyra.

“I know I shouldn't have,

but I really like him a lot,

and when he called I was so

surprised, I just blurted out okay.”

Okay, Whitney, make it good,

or Mom will never say you can go.

“Is it okay, Mom? He'll come

in and you can meet him.

You don't have to worry,

by the way. He's straight edge.”

I won't mention it's because his

sister OD'd. Mom might worry

about the genetic factor.

Mom's still considering. I let

James in. “Come meet my mother.

She's all worried about me going

out with you, so put on your best

perfect gentleman disguise.”

He grins.
What disguise? Mom

says I was the perfect gentleman

at conception. No morning sickness,

short labor. And I've only gotten

better with practice.
Sweet. Yep.

Sweet enough, that in less

than five minutes, he's got Mom

wrapped around his little finger.

Kyra is tougher, but even she mellows

and I'm allowed freedom.

James drives a new-model

Camaro, burnt orange and spotless.

He opens the passenger door

for me, and as I slide into the seat,

I wonder again what he's hiding.

No guy is quite this perfect.

He's probably a serial killer

or something. Wonder if he's ever

raped someone. Wonder if

he's ever hired a whore.

Wonder if I'll ever quit

thinking like a whore.

To the Del Mar, an amazing

old Art Deco–style theater

downtown that plays a lot of

off-the-wall indie films.

The one today isn't new,

but it is really good. It follows

a boy from kindergarten

through high school, and is

really about relationships—

how they change with time.

I don't freak out when the lights

go down, so that's good.

I like sitting next to sweet James,

who totally acts the gentleman

role quite naturally. I'm surprised

he doesn't come on to me—don't

all guys use a dark theater as

an excuse to run a hand along

your thigh? James doesn't,

sensing, I guess, my need

for trust. Is it that obvious?

After the credits, there's still

light left outside. “Want to take

a walk? I'm not ready to go home

yet. My sister's making me crazy.”

The words are barely out of my

mouth.
Wish my sister was still

around making me crazy.

“Jeez, man, I'm sorry. I'm an

idiot.” Without even thinking,

I reach for his hand and our

fingers lace. It's the first skin-

on-skin contact I've had with

a man in months, and my initial

instinct is to pull away. Instead,

I force myself to hold on, even

when he takes my other hand,

too, and coaxes me nearer.
It's

okay. No need to apologize.

It was an observation, nothing

more. Besides . . .
He smiles.

It brought us closer together.

I didn't want to rush you.

I study his eyes, seeking hints

of serial killer, but find none.

“Why did you call me? I mean,

after what happened the other

night, most guys would run

screaming in the other direction.”

Let's take that walk.
He lets go

of one hand, keeps hold of the other.

After a few steps, he says,
This will

sound weird, but from the moment

we started talking, I wanted to reach

inside you, grab hold of whatever

is haunting you and smash it to pieces.

Funny verb to use in that

sentence, but accurate enough.

“Is it because of your sister?

Do I remind you of her?”

To a point. You're tough like

her, on the outside. But she turned

tough inside, too. There's more

vulnerability in you, despite

what you show the world. Besides . . .

He stops, turns to face me again.

I never wanted to do this to my sister.

He leans toward me, but stops,

and his eyes ask permission,

which my eyes grant. His lips

are soft for a guy, and this kiss

is gentle, as if he's afraid to chase

me away. His instinct is good.

As nice as the kiss is, it's all

I can do not to yank back and run.

This he senses, too.
It isn't me,

though, is it? What happened

to you in Vegas, Whitney?

Before I can manufacture a word,

at the end of the block, a pickup

screeches around the corner. I cower

at the noise, and that's when the man

riding shotgun sticks his head

out the window.
Hey, lovebirds.

Want a beer?
A bottle comes flying,

smashes into the building beside me,

as the truck vanishes down the street.

It all happens so fast, I don't feel