“Who are you talking to at this hour of the night?” I ask.
He looks up, startled, frightened at first, then relieved, happy, when he sees it’s only me.
“Hey. Hey,” he says, letting himself breathe.
“Who are you calling?”
I see the wheels turning as he searches for a plausible answer, one credible enough to not prompt another question.
“The program director at the radio station. She left me a message. I need to get back to her.”
“It’s late.”
“She’s open all night,” he says.
“Always working too?” I ask, not too sarcastically.
“Yeah, right. Uh, she found an apartment for me. I have to get back to her.”
The cell phone rings. He hits the answer pad, then, having a change of heart, smacks the OFF button. He looks up at me, trying hard not to cry.
“Can I come with you?” he asks.
This boy is as alone as I am.
I can’t leave him here. He insists we put the duffel bag in the trunk. In case we’re stopped, he says. I wonder what the contents of the bag are worth. This is fucking crazy, I tell myself. But I want him to be safe. I want him to be with me. I want to leave quickly. Somewhere in the city, an engine is turning over, a determined foot is flooring the accelerator, a cigarette’s being lit in anger, Douglas ’s number is being punched into a cell phone.
I reach for the ignition and he attacks, knocking my head against the window. I panic, certain I’m being robbed. But what Douglas wants isn’t money. He bears down, smashing his mouth into mine, his teeth clipping my tongue, drawing blood, a kiss too furious and aggressive to be mistaken for affection.
“Come on,” he says, pulling at my arm as he crawls over the seat. “Come on. Hurry.”
Twisted and contorted in this jack-in-a-box backseat, he manages to wriggle out of his crackling running suit and kick off his sneakers. The car stinks of sweat and dirty socks. He feels like a plush toy, soft and furry. He crushes my face with his damp armpit and squeezes my head with his arm. His other hand grabs my cock through my pants. “I hope it’s big.” It’s big enough, but smaller than his fat firecracker with its thick, padded cushion of pink flesh.
“Oh yeah,” he says as he frees me from my pants. Something much fiercer than desire compels him. “Please,” he begs, actually tearing my shirt from my chest. “Fuck me. Fuck me really hard.” He’s too impatient to waste time on foreplay. He doesn’t want me to stroke his body, tease his balls, and take his enormous cock down my throat. I reach between his legs, thinking I’ll have to finger him to get him loose. But his ass yields without resistance, threatening to swallow my entire hand. He’s wet, maybe not entirely clean.
“No. No. Not like that,” he says, wiggling away. “Fuck me with that big cock.”
I tell him I can’t. I don’t have a condom and I’m certain without asking that he doesn’t either.
“I’m okay. I promise,” he pleads.
I have no reason to believe him. All things considered, I shouldn’t. But I do.
I lower my hips and push inside. It’s thrilling, feeling this alive. He grabs me by the waist, challenging me to ride him harder. He bears down, squeezing my cock. He says he can feel me shooting inside him. Don’t stop, he begs, not yet. I stay hard enough to keep pumping until he splatters a huge load on his chest. He flashes his most wicked smile as he licks his cum from his fingertips. My heart is racing and my pulse is pounding. For the first time in months, years maybe, I’ve made someone happy.
“It’ll be better when we’re in bed,” he promises. “I want to show you what a good bottom I can be.”
Cleaned up and on the road, he tells me his rock and roll dreams. He claims he’s the cousin of the bass player in a famous band. They share the same last name. I ask if they’re close. Very, he says, crossing his fingers to emphasize how tight. He squirms when I ask why he’s not on the road with the band. Well, your cousin must have helped you get the job with the label, I say, trying to bolster his fantasy. Right, he says, and changes the subject.
“I love you, man,” he says, grabbing my hand.
He feels safe now and he knows I’m his savior. He’s escaped another scrap, another ugly confrontation, and he has me to thank. He knows only one word to describe how he feels. And tonight, when he says he loves me, he means it.
“Where we going?” he asks, smiling.
“Next town over.”
“Cool,” he says, feeling completely at home in the car now.
There’s an endless string of cheap motels between Charlotte and Gastonia. Free cable. Pool. In-room coffee. Vacancy. I have enough cash in my pocket to front a week in any one of these dumps. I should pull over, check in, wear him out with another bout of sex, then sneak away when he’s in a deep sleep. But something keeps the car on course, the autopilot set, destination home. I’ll spend the night watching over him, feeling his chest expanding and deflating until dawn. Maybe I love him back. It’s a vague enough word to describe how I feel.
“Cool,” he says again. “What’s your name?”
I tell him.
“Sorry, I must have forgot. Sorry.”
I tell him not to worry. I’d never told him.
“Look, man!” he says, pointing at the big white moon looming ahead.
He listens, enraptured, while I tell him the old Indian legend of the buck moon.
“You know a lot about a lot of things,” he says, impressed.
“Not really.”
“I know something too,” he says, self-conscious.
“What’s that?”
“I know I’m glad I met you.”
For the first time in weeks, months, a year, since the arrest, years before that even, I am exactly where I want to be. Not ten minutes, three hours, a month, a year in the future. Not yesterday, last week, five years ago, not revisiting every crossroad, taking a different turn this time. And then, on the radio, a drum roll and a power chord and Joan Jett is singing about loving rock’n roll.
“Hey, it’s our song!” he says. He tightens his grip on my hand. “Let’s just keep going.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. Just keep going. Drive through to Tennessee. Let’s go to Gatlinburg.”
“What’s in Gatlinburg?” I ask, laughing.
“You’ll be there.”
I pull my hand away to downshift, tapping his gently to reassure him.
“But I’m right here in Gastonia,” I say.
“Can I stay with you in Gastonia?”
“Tonight. Sure.”
“Only tonight?” he asks, heartbroken.
I think ahead to tomorrow, the morning call to the hospital, the status report, and, then, hours and hours of sitting and staring into space. Tomorrow at least I’ll have him to think about, after he’s disappeared into time and space, nothing left of him but a first and last name, maybe real, maybe not. For a week, maybe two, I’ll obsess over him, an object desired because it’s inaccessible. I’ll imagine him going about his mundane routines, brushing his teeth, yawning, scratching an itch, charmed as if they were something magical. I’ll coast on these pleasant fantasies until they’re exhausted, stale. In the months to come I’ll think of him now and then. I’ll never know how it all turned out, his story, never know if he’s checked out of this world, a victim of a collision or gunfire. I’ll tell myself I loved him and mean it since it’s easy to love someone who touches your body once and disappears in the morning.
“We’ll see,” I say.
“I love you,” he says, taking my hand again.
I pull the car into the drive and turn off the engine. We’re home, I say. He likes my choice of words. I hold the car door for him, as if it was 1957 and this was the prom. He asks for his duffel, the precious bag.