A Boy Called L: A Taboo Love Story Page 3

  To touch.

  And, unbelievably, when I look at this girl, I forget that sex means fear and pain. I can’t hear that voice—the one that lurks in the dark, taunting me from the past—from that long-ago bedroom. For me, sex equals only that voice. But at this moment, I can’t hear it. And even if I could, I’d just tell it to shut the fuck up.

  Because I want her.

  I want her in that way.

  A laugh rumbles out of me, because that’s a stupid idea. I don’t ever want any one in that way. Never have. Never will. Well, except that right now, there’s no denying the heat-party starting in my jeans or the fact that I do—I do want her.

  I want to fuck her.

  This is all so ridiculous, because I wouldn’t know what to do with her even if I did get ahold of her—really wouldn’t have a fucking clue how to proceed. I’ve never touched a girl before. Never wanted to. Well, maybe I’ve wanted to a little. I’ve definitely looked before, checked out some hot curves. Some inspiring butts. And wondered.

  But I keep my distance from the girls on the streets that stare at me. Even the ones that live hard—live rough—like me. And then there’s the college girls. The business chicks. I don’t want to scare them. They don’t deserve my anger. My pain. My filth. No way. And, plus, I’ve never wanted any of them enough to try… to see what would happen if I did touch them.

  This girl in the black dress, for some bizarre reason, she’s different.

  I want to know what she feels like.

  Tastes like.

  Sounds like.

  I need to know.

  Is her skin smooth? Soft? What color are her sad eyes? Would she care that my hair is dirty? My skin? My soul.

  What would it be like to kiss her? Press my lips against hers, and then fuck her mouth with my tongue. Not that I would know how to do that. I’ve only had guys try to do that to me. Kiss me. Then I fuck their mouths with my fist.

  So, this girl would have to show me everything, guide me. I wonder if she would?

  Jogging on the spot to keep warm, she looks across the street. If I don’t move, in half a breath she’ll look right at me. I’m not ready for that just yet, so I duck into the shadows. I’m not close, but I’m near enough to be assaulted by her eyes. Wow. I’ve never seen such a sad face before.

  My heart pounds. What will happen if I step out from the darkness and go and speak to her?

  I could say something like… ‘Hey, my name’s Lightning. What’s yours?’ and then vomit crème brûlée all over her high-heeled boots. No. I don’t reckon I’d puke on her. I’ve faced scarier things. I mean, I would only talk to her. It’s not like I can ask her on a date. Not in my situation. But maybe… maybe if things work out with this Ariana…

  I don’t know what to do. I can’t decide.

  Would a girl like her give a guy like me her cell number? I could call her tomorrow on the one Ariana is supposedly sending over. My brain whirs uselessly. I could show myself and risk scaring the crap out of her or walk away and maybe regret it forever. Guess I should… Wait—she’s with someone?

  She turns toward Joe Junior’s, smiling as an older guy steps through the doorway and passes her a bag of grease.

  My brain screeches to a halt. Jesus mother-freaking hell. Talk about a sucker punch. I lose control of my limbs, my stomach, and the crème brûlée lurches up and sprays over the concrete.

  Fuck.

  That guy standing next to black-dress girl is Cooper.

  Cooper!

  What the fuck is it with this goddamn stupid night?

  I’m dumbstruck. Feverish. It’s been years since I’ve laid eyes on him, and all I can see is red fucking blood and black fucking murder.

  Hate.

  I’m shimmering, blistering wrath and I’m gonna kill that fucker. I swear it.

  He’s not the first prick to fuck me over. Things had gone to shit long before I met him, but a couple of years ago, Cooper was first on the scene when I most needed help. And the dirty-slob-cop that he was, he chose to wrap me in chains, torture the fuck out of me, and drive nails into my coffin.

  My shock morphs into a rage that fires through every cell, even my fucking hair is fuming. I wipe my mouth and picture several ways to cause him pain. Somehow, I stop myself from rushing over to get started on him.

  Because with Coop’s connections, if he sees me, I’m a dead man. For me to finish him, it’ll need to be an ambush—a surprise attack. So I stay put.

  Why is he with this girl? Why her?

  I shake while I watch them eat fries and talk. She makes him laugh, but every time he looks away, her eyes turn haunted. She’s beautiful, but in a tragic way. It distracts me from hating on Coop. Maybe it’s her sadness that calls to me. But I can’t believe she’s associated with that dirtbag—the filthy ex-cop who holds my soul to ransom.

  What an insane night. I feel worse than I did at the beginning when I was starving.

  The rain has soaked through my top, and it clings to my chest in a suffocating way. I tip my head back and open my mouth, icy water splattering my tongue. It feels good. Cleansing. So, that’s it then. I’m outta here.

  Good fucking riddance sad-girl. And Coop.

  For now.

  Walking fast, I head in the opposite direction. I need to get maximum space between my past and my future asap.

  When I’ve stomped about two blocks, I hail a cab and give over Ariana’s friend’s address.

  Enveloped in the heater’s warmth, I drop my head back against the seat and let my mind wander. Immediately, it snaps back to the girl. Even after seeing her with Coop, I still want to speak to her, get her name. Ask if I can follow her to wherever the fuck she’s going just so I can look at her. And dream about touching her.

  Jesus, what is this shit? It’s pathetic.

  And then I let myself think about him.

  That asshole Coop.

  The Coop-factor must have caused my bizarre reaction to the girl. I could probably sense him on her—all the stress and hate and anger and pain that goes along with that guy. It’s got me all revved up. On edge. Ready to fight. Or fuck. Because that’s a weird thing about the fight or flight instinct. When it kicks in, you want to kill someone or fuck something.

  I guess.

  Half an hour later, the cab slows in front of a multi-story apartment complex, one of those renovated warehouses. In fact, the street is full of them. This is the industrial zone behind the beach—a cool area. There’s even an art gallery next door and a cafe that has slabs of wood for outdoor tables and wine barrel seats.

  It’s a promising sign. And the kind of place you could bring a girl like sad-eyes home to.

  Well, I shouldn’t get too excited just yet. Even hipsters can be psychopaths.

  “Thanks, man,” I say to the driver as I hand him the hundred bucks. “Keep the change.” Might as well spread the good fortune around, and if I get whacked tonight, I won’t be needing money.

  Loud rock music wafts down from a window. Party sounds. Laughter.

  More good omens.

  Just in case it’s my last opportunity to star-gaze, I give the sky a long look. It’s too cloudy for any real satisfaction.

  Man, in my line of work, it’s dumb to rock up to a stranger’s house. Within the hour, I might be minced into sausage filling.

  Fuck it. Here goes nothing. Before I can change my mind, I bolt up the steps and press the intercom.

  FOUR

  “LIGHTNING? IS THAT your ass out there?”

  I leap out of my skin at the loud voice crackling through the intercom. “Yeah. It’s me.”

  “Don’t just kill time on my doorstep, man. What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m waiting for your maid to buzz me in. You fuckwit.” I say the last bit under my breath. No need to get him offside. There’ll be plenty of time for that later on.

  He laughs, the noise like rumbling thunder. Then a long beep sounds. “At your own risk, ride the Starship Enterprise up to the top flo
or. Mine is the green door at the end.”

  Because I’m a smartass, I say, “Yes, sir,” and then open the steel doors.

  My jaw hovers an inch off the floor as I take in the massive foyer. It has a pressed tin ceiling that hangs high like stars, the space between the walls so cavernous you could run a nightclub in it. There’s blond wood, exposed brick, and metal everywhere. It’s shiny. Sharp. And cool as hell.

  There’s no doubt in my mind that this Angelo guy makes big bucks. Which is reassuring. I think. I still might be plunging deeper into the shit with Ariana and her so called friend, but I guess there’s only one way to find out. And that involves committing to the lift.

  Angelo wasn’t kidding about it. Inside the bling-filled gizmo, it’s full-on Star Trek. In five heartbeats, it propels me up ten floors. And, ah, more fucking mirrors. Again, I’m surrounded by them. I look bad. Slumped shoulders. Beaten up clothes. Pissed as all get-out.

  Happy to be removed from the sight of myself, I cruise down an eerily lit hallway, beams of light crisscrossing over my skin. This whole place gives off a serious Blade Runner vibe.

  When I arrive at the green entrance, I knock twice. Please, please.

  I’m not sure what I’m silently begging for, but it sure as fuck isn’t the sight that greets me when the door swings open. Because Jesus Christ, I’m staring at a Nubian princess crossed with a rasta dude.

  With shoulder length dreads, bulging muscles covered in dark mocha skin, eyelashes as long as a giraffe’s—this guy is the prettiest freaking thing I’ve ever seen.

  Doe eyes wide, his pouty lips say nothing.

  “You Angelo?” I ask.

  He flinches like he’s amazed I can speak. “Shit, man, I’ll be anything you want me to be!” He grins and reefs me into his apartment by my t-shirt. Scratching his chin, he circles me like a shark while I give him my best piranha smile. He better not fucking touch me again.

  He gives a long whistle. “Damn, boy, you are really something else. No wonder Ariana sounded like she was shitting bullion on the phone. Lightning Boy. Fuck! Pretty as a pony and as hard as a muscled-up gangsta rapper. Ka-ching, ka-ching. You’s the shit boy.”

  I narrow my eyes and puff my chest out a bit. “Boy? How the fuck old are you?”

  “Twenty. Relax, man. I don’t bite. Come. Come on over here and sit.” He ushers me onto a king-sized couch and retreats to a high-tech kitchen. “Want a beer?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Might be my last. Or maybe not. This jerkoff isn’t exactly giving off serial killer vibes.

  I try to keep my mouth closed while I check out his digs but fail miserably. Shit! Tonight, it seems all I’ve done is travel from one incredible movie set to the next.

  Exposed brick columns, humongous wooden beams, stupid sized windows, a fireplace I could live in, and the largest flat screen TV that’s surely ever been sold leave me gob smacked.

  “It’s cool, huh?” he says, handing me a beer as he reclines opposite. He nods at the screen. “You like gaming?”

  “Uh, probably. Never tried it, but I’m sure it’s a good time.”

  “You never gamed? Shit. You’re a babe-in-the-woods, my man. But woooooo I’m here to tell you that we are gonna have us some fun in this here bachelor pad of mine, Lightning Boy.”

  I look him square in the eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

  He laughs. Clearly, he has no intention of stopping. “So, you been stuck out on the streets, huh?”

  I nod.

  “And wild Ariana happened to pick up your ass and pull you outta the gutter. Well, you are one lucky dude. That woman can get you the easiest money you ever made. I swear it. Think traveling to crazy-ass places. Getting your photo taken prancing down a runway. It’s money for nothing. Worse thing is, you have to wait around a lot, but that’s okay because you can always get your dick sucked while you’re filing your nails and…” He trails off.

  Smoke must be coming out of my nostrils or something.

  “What? You don’t like the sound of that? You hustled for cash out there, I’m guessing.”

  I grunt.

  “Yeah, well that’d probably put anyone off blowjobs. Giving them, anyway. Maybe what you need is to receive a no strings attached one for a change. I’m willing to pay it forward if you’re interested in a little stress relief. You look kinda wound tight.”

  I don’t get it. Why does everyone want to do this shit with me? “No thanks. I’m not into guys.”

  He gives me a look that calls bullshit.

  “I swear it.”

  “You’re a rent boy. So how does the not liking guys thing work out for you in that profession?”

  “Well I have to eat, and there are plenty of idiots happy enough to pay to shove their cocks in my mouth. So...” I give a lazy shrug so it looks like I’m not angry. “I just make sure it’s over fast. That’s why they call me Lightning.”

  “You fuck them?”

  “I try not to. But sometimes… not very often and only for a helluva lot of money.”

  His smile mocks me. “Right. You don’t like guys, but you miraculously get your dick hard enough to penetrate their un-sexy hairy bodies. Your story is not ringing true, my man. I think you might need to face facts and admit that you—”

  “I can only do it if I hurt them,” I say fast. I can’t believe I’ve finally said it out loud. The ugly truth.

  His eyebrows leap. “For real?”

  “Yeah, man. Tie them to a chair and make the fuckers cry.” There aren’t too many chairs in public restrooms, but still. It’s an idea for the future if things don’t pan out with Ariana and this photo thing.

  “Fuck. That shit turns you on?”

  “Ah… no. Not in the traditional sense. Because… at the time, I’m not really thinking—oh man I so wanna fuck you. It’s just… the thought of causing these shits pain has been known to get the blood flowing in the direction it needs to.”

  “Shit, man. You are one fucked-up dude. Someday, I want you to tell me exactly how you got that way.”

  Funny, I have a feeling that I just might.

  His chin tips at me. “So, you on anything?”

  Suddenly, his game controller has become the most fascinating item in the room. I study it, memorizing the buttons.

  He waits. I stay silent.

  Then he sighs, a bag of what I guess is junk food crinkling under his butt as he sags backward against the couch. “Right. Like that, is it? So you do the hard shit?”

  I shrug. “Whatever I can get to ease the pain. Sometimes the harder the better, you know?”

  Eyes bugging, he blows out a breath. “Well, you can forget about doing any of that garbage if you sign with Ariana. A bit of coke is fine. But nothing that will spoil the skin on your pretty face. Get it?”

  “Sure. It’s just a painkiller. That’s all. If I’m comfortable, I won’t need it.” I don’t think I will, anyway.

  He gulps his drink, the sound loud and funny. Bang goes the bottle on the coffee table as he sets it down. “One more question about your fascinating sex-life.”

  Or lack thereof.

  “Do you do girls?”

  I bite my lip. Should I tell him? Completely beyond my control, my face scrunches up.

  Angelo chuckles. “Well… spit it out. It’s a simple question. Yes or no?”

  “No.”

  Dreads swinging, his head pulls backward.

  “I mean… I haven’t done it with one… haven’t, you know, fucked a girl. Uh… but sometimes I think about it, but then—”

  “No way! You’re not a pussy-virgin.”

  Why am I baring my soul to this nosy guy? I zip my lips.

  “You are! You ain’t never done no girl before. Shit, man. You want me to fix you up? I know plenty of lovely ladies who’d be happy to help you get rid of your V card.” He reaches for his cell. “Or should we call it a P.V. card?”

  Before I can think it through, I launch myself at him, tearing the phone away.

  “Hey!�
�� he yells as I throw it across the room. “You’ve probably done gone and fucked it now, you caveman.”

  I lean forward and pull at my hair. The pain feels good. “Sorry. I just… I don’t really do sex. It’s complicated. Don’t hassle me about it and we’ll get along fine.” I hope. Because I want to stay here. This place is the coolest, and he’s a pretty funny guy.

  Raising his palms, he says, “Peace, bro. No problem. You go crazy cranking your plank, and I’ll leave you to it.”

  Instantly, my mind goes to sad-girl. My dick, too. I picture her body. Her face. I start to burn.

  Need to get rid of Angelo fast.

  I yawn loudly, and he laughs. “Tired, huh? I’ll show you the spare room. And tomorrow I’m gonna give you the low down on this crazy modeling caper. After that, I’m gonna teach you how to cook a Jamaican curry and then, because this is even more important than good food, we are gonna game our asses off for twelve-hours straight.”

  “Wait.” I shoot up, shaking my head as panic sets in. “I don’t think I can—”

  “What? Sit down,” he interrupts. “You’re not gonna stay?”

  “No, man, I wanna stay. But, will it be okay if I sleep on the couch?”

  He looks at me like the zombie apocalypse is upon us and I’ve just come out of the closet as a flesh-eating freak.

  “Why? The spare room is awesome. It’s no trouble, I assure you.”

  “I bet it’s a great room. But, I just can’t handle too many doors between me and the outside.”

  “Worried I’m gonna lock you in and fatten you up so you taste better, Goldilocks? That’s okay. I get where you’re at.”

  I flop back on the soft, comfortable couch. “You know, I think that was Hansel and Gretel… the story with the cage and the food.”

  “Well, since you’re so savvy with your fairy tales, Lightning Boy, you should be well aware that the handsome pauper-boy always turns out to be a prince. That’s you. Things are looking up for you kid. You’re safe. You can relax.”

  Safe?

  I whisper the word, bite down on the sound as it breezes over my lips.

  “Well, that’d be cool,” I say, stretching my arms overhead. My back cracks loudly. “No one’s ever helped me before so…”