Less Than Nothing (10 page)

I can feel Derek behind me, softly breathing, and I try to decide how I feel about the arm thing. My initial impulse is to pull away, but a split second after that I realize that I don’t completely hate it. In fact, it feels kind of nice to have him sleeping next to me.

Last night I was treating him like he was a molester. Now I’m spooning and happy about it?

If you’d told me thirty-six hours ago that I’d be waking up next to the hot guy who’d stopped traffic on Haight, I’d have asked you what you were smoking.

Now his arm’s around me.

I lie like that for a while, not moving, wondering at how fast life can change, and then my butt cheek vibrates. Not from Derek. My phone. I debate ignoring it, but he’s stirring, and then the arm disappears, and he shifts away from me.

I roll over onto my back and glance at him. He looks like ten million bucks, even with his hair flattened on one side of his head. He blinks, checks his watch, and looks at me. His eyes are sleepy, but there’s something else in them. Worry. I can see him trying to decide whether to say something, maybe apologize for the arm, but in the end he doesn’t say anything, so I do.

“Morning.”

His emerald green eyes warm, and the worry fades from them, replaced by…something else I really like.

“Morning.”

He moves his hand to my face and pushes my bangs aside so he can see my eyes, and then smiles. The worry’s back, and he clears his throat.

“About last night. Nothing happened.”

I realize I haven’t been breathing since he touched my hair, and if that keeps up, I’ll pass out. I sit up and draw a long, slow breath and then look at the sunlight again so I don’t seem like I’m fixated on him.

“I figured that out when I woke up with my pants on.”

He laughs. “I guess that sounded pretty dumb.”

I don’t say anything. He tries again. “It’s just you were so concerned about it…”

I close my eyes and think about possible responses. “Don’t sweat it.” What I really want is for him to put his arm back around me so we can stay like that all day. But I’m not going to say that. In fact, I don’t even know that I want that at all.

Lie.

I totally do. But I know I shouldn’t.

My conflicted thinking’s becoming a crowd in my head. I remember a cartoon where there’s an angel and a devil on the character’s shoulder as he tries to figure out what to do, and I smile at the memory.

Derek looks at me, trying to read me. I almost tell him not to waste his time trying to figure me out when I’m having a total Sybil moment, and then I feel my phone buzz again. I slip it out of my pocket and look at the screen – it’s Melody, of course.

Can you still walk? Can he?

One thing I can rely on is that Melody will go straight to the gutter and gladly roll around in it. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t be Mel. It’s one of the things I love about her – she’s so cheerfully slutty sometimes.

I text back:
How can you be sure I was even with him last night?

Her response is like lightning:
The way you two were looking at each other? Gimme a break. If you weren’t, I’m going to kick your skinny ass.

It’s pointless to try to explain, but of course I try, my color rising as I do.
It’s not like that. We had dinner. It was his birthday. Nothing happened.

She fires back:
I think we need to have that talk about where babies come from.

I giggle, and Derek looks at me with a puzzled frown. I text her, finishing the exchange.
I’m serious. It was just dinner.

Melody’s not happy.
You let that hunk of yum get away without road rash, I’m pimp slapping you, girl.

I turn the phone off and return my attention to Derek, who’s watching me with that edgy intensity I find so…Derek. I wonder when he became a verb in my head.
He Dereked me. He’s all Derek on his bad self.
I smile to myself, further mystifying him, judging by his expression, which is polite but puzzled.

I laugh as I turn to him. “Don’t worry. My head won’t spin around or anything. It’s been a while since that happened.”

“I don’t scare easy.”

I look around our surroundings. “I see that.”

“It’s better than a park bench or a doorway.”

He’s right, but that doesn’t mean I have to concede the point. “I just hope I didn’t catch anything, sleeping on that bag.”

Derek adopts a totally fake hurt expression. “It’s not dirty. I wash it.”

“Uh-huh.” It isn’t dirty, but it’s fun to see him defensive.

He stands up. I yawn.

“What time is it?” I ask.

“Seven.”

“Figure what, half hour or so to make it to the Haight?”

“Forty-five.” He moves to his rucksack. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Do they have a ladies’ steam room?”

“Sort of.” He thinks for a second. “I’ll make sure nobody goes in while you’re in there if you want to use it.”

I’m not convinced, but a shower sounds appealing. I decide on a punt strategy. “Let me see what it’s like. If it’s anything like the bathroom up here…”

“It’s better. And most everyone gets up later, so we should have it to ourselves.”

“Not a lot of heavy schedules, huh?”

“Got that right.”

One of the benefits of being homeless is you get to work your own hours. Which is a laughable way of saying one day blurs into the next and time stops having any meaning. The only reason I’m a stickler about getting to my spot every day by nine is to keep some scumbag from stealing it.

My gaze flits to Derek. Who’s no longer a scumbag, I guess. He’s my partner. At least for the week.

He walks through the beam descending from the crack, and the light seems to bathe him like a spotlight. I just about hear music, that waca chica waca chica seventies funk guitar, and I shake it off. What’s going on with me? I mean, my inner voice is usually spun, but even for me, this is weird.

We climb down the ladder, and I see seven or eight sleeping forms on the theater main floor. Bull is dozing in a chair by the door, his bulk unmistakable even at a distance. I follow Derek through one of the exit doors by the stage, and we enter a darkened hall that winds around to a pair of bathrooms, one of them boarded up, the other with no door on it. He waves at the doorway. “This is the spa.”

We go in, and there are two stalls with toilets, a couple of wall sinks, and a homemade plumbing job with an exposed pipe featuring a showerhead pointed at a floor drain. I approach the ‘shower’ and regard it with the caution I reserve for live cobras, and Derek joins me.

“As long as you like one temperature of water, it does the job.”

“I’m guessing that isn’t hot, right?”

“That would be the other temperature.”

“Mmm.”

“I use a pair of flip-flops. And I don’t take long showers. Even in the summer it’s not really that fun.”

“Don’t oversell it.”

He shrugs. “I’ve got a towel. You can use it.”

I’m not convinced. He doesn’t push it. He glances at the time and sets his rucksack down in a clean corner and tosses his jacket on top of it. “You’re welcome to stay,” he says with a grin.

I go to the doorway. “I’ll just wait out here.”

“Scream if you need anything.”

“Or if the rats come.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

I move outside and set my backpack down. The place is Turkish prison-level gross, but my sensibility’s changed a lot in four months, and I’ve seen way worse.

Which saddens me and reminds me of Derek’s question from last night. Is this really what I want my life to be about? Running from predators and spending nights in hellholes? I’m going to be eighteen soon, and what do I have to show for it? A battered guitar, whatever I can carry, and a bag of spare change.

I’m getting into full-blown ‘beat yourself up’ mode when I catch a glimpse of Derek, shirtless, pulling his jeans off. I avert my eyes and fumble for my cell phone, but not before his sculpted abs and stunning chest are seared into my brain. I’m tempted to keep looking, but the small part of me that has any decency left focuses on the phone screen instead.

My battery’s almost gone. I charge it at the bagel place in the mornings, and it usually lasts a few days if all I’m doing is texting, which is the only thing I use the cell for. It’s not like I have an extensive list of friends to call and catch up with. It’s pretty much my Melody line, and that’s it.

I pick up the texting where I left off.
So I spent the night at the place he crashes. It’s a total poophole.

Her response is immediate.
OMG. You did not.

Me:
We didn’t do anything.

Uh-huh.

Me:
We should be in the Haight by the usual time.

I’ll stop by. Totally jealous.

Me:
Don’t be.

Did you at least kiss? Tell me you did.

No.

Melody:
What’s wrong with you?

Fair question, I suppose. Maybe I’m not a tramp who rubs all over every guy she sees?

But that’s not really the whole story, is it, Sage?
Not even close. The truth is, I’ve got some hang-ups. I just don’t feel the way girls like Melody do. All I feel when I make out with a guy is a creeping sense of dread.

I’m not some goody two-shoes. Not morally opposed to mutual attraction or happily ever after. I’ve just never seen the point of it with any of the dudes I had a chance to date – they were boys, more about trying to score than who they were doing it with.

Which at least kept me from getting knocked up. Life’s complicated enough without that. My mom’s years of drunken warnings about boys only wanting one thing and the dangers they represent had their desired effect. Every time I kissed someone, all I could think of was how I might be catching something or where their mouth had been. Like a broken record.

I envy Melody her easy virtue and fun approach to life. She has the morals of an alley cat, and she’s fine. I know a lot of the crap that’s sloshing around my head is dysfunctional BS from my alcoholic mother and her creepo new husband (even after five years, that’s how I think of Ralph – the new one).

What a roadmap those two are. The drunken fights, the anger, the violence…

I block the memories out with a shake of my head. What was it Melody says? Garbage. Throw it out. Don’t carry it around with you – toss it and move on.

Of course she’s right, but it’s easier said than done. When you grow up in a household like mine, trust is a sucker bet and everyone’s a threat, either trying to take advantage of you or hurt you in some way. Or both.

My better judgment slips for a moment, and I peek around the corner. Derek’s toweling off. I duck back, my eyes wide, hoping he didn’t spot me. If Melody could see me now…

Who am I kidding? If Melody were here, she’d be in with Derek. No question. In fact, most of the women who’d thrown money into the pot had that hungry look when they eyed him. It was a natural reaction.

And yet here I am texting.

Epic fail.

I sign off as Derek comes through the door, clothed, his hair still dripping wet, looking like a centerfold, his skin glowing with vitality.

“How was it?”

“I’m clean. I’ve got soap, a towel, the whole works. You in or out?”

I consider it. My skin feels like it’s coated in a film of grime. I could probably manage a day without a shower, but it’s going to be a gross afternoon. I’m torn.

Derek raises an eyebrow at my obvious consternation. The smug confidence he exudes decides it.

“I’m in. If you promise not to look.”

“No photos?” he teases. I swat him. He hands me his damp towel. “I left my flip-flops and soap in there in case you decided to go for it.”

Which means he completely expected me to say yes. I’m such a dolt. But now I’ve committed myself, and I’ll look like an even bigger weenie if I back out.

At this point the only thing I can do is shrug it off like I don’t care. I mean, it’s no big deal. Even if he peeks,
like I did
, it’s just a body. I’m sure he’s seen more than a few of them.

The self-talk doesn’t help. If I have to rely on him being more honorable than I was…

Crap. Might as well get this over with.

I enter the bathroom while Derek busies himself rooting around in his bag. The floor’s a hazardous waste dump, and I pull my shoes and socks off, balancing on one foot while I feel for a flip-flop with the other. I’m congratulating myself when I realize I still have my pants on, so I repeat the whole performance while trying to avoid touching the floor as I strip them off.

If Derek’s watching, he’s laughing his ass off, I’m sure. Talk about dorky.

Next comes my shirt, and I approach the shower wearing only panties. I figure they can use a rinsing, too, and I’ll change them once I’m done. I know I’m being a total prude, but I can’t help myself – the conditioning’s hard to undo.