Less Than Nothing (9 page)

He removes his hand, his eyes now fully alert and with none of the earlier warmth in them. I turn and see who he’s talking about. In my anger I’ve forgotten the number one rule of street survival: always stay aware of your surroundings.

Derek doesn’t have to tell me twice. I spin and we make tracks, listening for running footsteps behind us. The good news is there aren’t any sounds of running pursuit. The bad news is they’re still coming, their voices low, but unhurried, too cool to sprint.

We make it to the corner, and he pauses, then whispers again, “When we get to the restaurant, run. Follow me. They’ll lose interest. We just need to make it hard for them.”

“Where are we going to go?”

“I crash near here. Three blocks away.”

My eyes widen. “You have a place?”

He touches my arm again. “Remember. When we get to the restaurant, run. We’ll be out of sight for maybe ten or fifteen seconds.”

He sounds serious…and something else. Not scared, which is what I’m feeling. No, it’s more like there’s an urgency, and even as we round the corner and approach the restaurant, I realize that he’s not worried about himself.

Derek’s afraid of what will happen to me.

When Derek reaches the restaurant entry he bolts, and I do the best I can to follow him as he pulls away. I’m afraid he’s going to lose me, and then I see him duck between two darkened hulks of buildings covered with graffiti, trash surrounding their bases. I trail him in, and he gestures to me and then takes my hand. My heart’s jackhammering in my chest so hard my pulse sounds like a drumroll in my ears, and I don’t even think about the implications of his skin on mine.

We exit out the opposite side of the buildings, and we’ve put a block between ourselves and our pursuers. Derek slows but doesn’t let go of my hand. I decide I don’t mind being led for now. My independent streak takes a back seat to getting someplace safe while we can.

He darts across the street with me, and we keep to the shadows. The streetlights are burned out or broken, and there are only a few lights on in second- and third-story tenement windows. I can see cars two blocks away, on Mission Street, but it might as well be the moon. Anything that’s going to play out will do so way before we can make it to a more populated area.

“Where are we going?” I hiss, my breath coming in ragged bursts. My backpack feels heavier with each footfall.

“We’re almost there,” Derek says, and I hope he’s got a plan beyond running from danger all night. I curse myself for coming into the Mission with him, but it’s too late now – what’s done is done.

A tall forties-style marquee rises into the night sky from the side of a darkened building. There’s a chain-link fence around it and vandalized warning signs hanging from the posts. Derek feels along the fence, and when we reach a section near an overflowing dumpster, he ducks and pushes the lower section in.

“Come on. Hurry.”

The fence is either loose or has been cut. I push through the gap he’s holding, and he quickly follows me through, then replaces it and takes the lead again. This time when he takes my hand I’m relieved. Where minutes before I was ready to clock him for grabbing my arm, now I’m happy he’s here, my hand in his.

He moves to a boarded entryway and feels along the side, then shifts a piece of plywood aside and points into the darkness. “After you.”

My fear of whatever’s in there isn’t as big as what’s behind us, so I go through. He follows and wedges the plank back in place. I feel a sense of vertigo. It’s pitch black, and my eyes instinctively try to find a light source, any source, but there isn’t one.

“Come on,” Derek says, and the room brightens when he twists on a small pocket flashlight. I look around. The dim beam plays over trash, broken desks, the remains of what looks like a vending machine, and rusting billboards advertising movies that haven’t played for decades.

My hand slides into his, this time of my volition, and we creep through the garbage until we come to a set of double doors. He knocks twice, and something scrapes on the other side.

“Where are we?” I whisper.

“Home sweet home,” he says, and then the door swings wide.

There’s light, not much, from a single lamp set on a slab of wood that’s resting on theater seats, half of them torn from the floor. A heavyset guy with a Mohawk and multiple piercings, holding a piece of pipe in one hand and a fire axe in the other, glares at me. Then his face relaxes into a smile when he sees Derek.

“I wondered where you were,” he says to Derek. “Who’s this?”

“My friend Sage. Sage, meet Bull. He’s the master of ceremonies here.”

“Sage, huh? Well, if the bard here vouches for you, welcome,” Bull says.

Derek still hasn’t let go of my hand. Bull turns and slides the length of pipe back between two metal eyelets, effectively blocking the door. I look around and see the door’s twin at the end of a second aisle, also wedged shut. Derek leads me toward what was once the stage and leans in. His breath is sweet from the tiramisu.

“I pay five bucks a night to stay here. The place was condemned years ago after the big earthquake, but something happened, and it never got torn down.”

“You pay to stay in this dump?”

“Hey. Bull keeps the idiots out, and there’s a bathroom and showers he’s rigged up. He and his boys run a tight ship. Nobody bugs you, and nothing gets ripped off while you sleep. It’s totally worth five bucks.”

Put that way, maybe it isn’t so bad. Beats dodging rapists in the park.

“What about the guys that were after us?”

“They won’t follow this far. This place has a rep. Bull’s been here for a long time. He’s got a deal with the gang that controls this block.”

“A deal?”

“Right. They don’t screw with him, and he doesn’t cause them grief. He grew up around here, so he’s a homeboy. Everyone’s just trying to get by, and if he wants to run a little hotel business out of here, nobody cares.”

I wonder whether he thinks my hand’s sweaty and gross. It feels like it. But he doesn’t seem to mind. We reach the end of the seating, and he points to an exit sign.

“What?” I ask.

“My place is upstairs.” I realize he’s pointing to a metal ladder that leads to the balcony. I slow, and he squints at me in the dark before dropping my hand and turning off the flashlight. “Are you afraid of heights?”

I consider the ladder. “I’m not afraid of anything.” My words sound hollow to me.

“Good. Up you go.”

“What about my guitar?”

“I’ll hand it up once you make it.”

Crap. I take each rung carefully, my eyes screwed tight by the time I reach the second level, and it’s all I can do to swing my leg over the balcony and get off the ladder. Derek climbs up behind me, easily mounting the rungs using only one hand, and passes Yam to me. I pull it up, and he returns to get his guitar, then follows me up and hands me his case when he’s at the balcony. I take it, and he climbs over next to me and then takes it back.

“Over here,” he says and moves to a clear area, where there’s a sleeping bag neatly rolled up by the wall.

I stop and shake my head. Derek slows and turns to me. “What?”

“I want to get out of here.”

“You will. When it’s safe.”

“When will that be?”

“Morning. By daylight, everything outside calms down.”

I shake my head again. “No.”

He looks at me, puzzled. “No, what?”

I exhale loudly and hear a rustle and a grunt from the other side of the balcony. Someone’s sleeping there. Maybe more than one someone.

Derek’s voice is hushed. “There aren’t many rules, but you need to know them. First, no stealing or violence, for any reason. Second, people come to sleep, not to party, so we respect everyone’s space. Break the rules and Bull boots you regardless of the time, and you get a beating on the way out.”

“So I should keep my voice down?”

“That would be good.”

I try to contain my agitation. “Derek, I’m not sleeping with you.”

He moves to the wall and sets his guitar and rucksack down next to the sleeping bag. “Is that what you think this is about?” he whispers.

“What am I supposed to think? You bring me into this area, and now I’m at your crash pad…”

“Right. You think this is all part of my birthday conspiracy. To get a little present for myself.” He smiles at me. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t need to kidnap girls to keep me company.”

I feel like a complete moron. Of course he doesn’t. For crying out loud, he’s catnip. He could probably be a gigolo and be driving a Benz or something.

He moves closer. “Not that you wouldn’t be the first girl I kidnapped if I had to.”

I stand staring at him as he moves back to his sleeping bag and unrolls it. He unzips one side and flattens it out on the floor, double wide. “So while sleeping with you would be top of my list of awesome ways to finish my birthday, I’m afraid that’s not why you’re here. I can’t get you back safely with those clowns on the street, so you’re stuck.” He sees my face and presses on, his voice calm and quiet. “Don’t worry. You’re safe. I’m not going to try to buggerize you or anything.”

I almost laugh at the word and stifle it with my hand. He smiles again and yawns. “You want to use the bathroom? Showers are downstairs, but there’s a bathroom up here. It’s not the Hilton, but everything works, and Bull cleans it once a week.”

I’m here with a guy I don’t know, in the middle of a war zone with no way out, and he seems more worried about whether I’ll think the toilet’s gross than getting my panties off. I don’t know whether to cry or not, but my response surprises me.

“I’ve probably seen worse. Might as well show me where everything is.”

I’ve never been to Calcutta or Bangladesh, but the bathroom would probably give them a run for their money. When we get back to the sleeping bag, Derek kicks his combat boots off and stretches his arms over his head before removing his jacket. It’s warm inside, bordering on too warm, and I debate how I’m going to sleep. He grins and lies down with his hands folded on his stomach, using his jacket for a pillow.

I stand watching him for several minutes, and there’s another stirring from the far side of the darkened balcony. Derek looks about as interested in attacking me as the waiter did in giving us free wine, and after he throws me a final look that clearly says, “You going to stand there all night?” I move to him and set my backpack down. I’ve used it as a pillow before, so that’s nothing new. I slide it next to his head and untie my Chucks and, after slipping them off, lie down next to him.

His breathing is deep and regular. I’m as jumpy as a meth fiend in withdrawals, but slowly the tension seeps out of my shoulders and back, and I start to relax. When he speaks, it’s so quiet I almost don’t hear it.

“Sorry about the bogus dinner.”

I smile. He’s apologizing for the first real meal I’ve had in months. Maybe he’s not a serial killer after all.

“Good thing it’s against the rules to sing happy birthday or you’d have me up all night, wouldn’t you?”

It’s his turn to smile. I can make it out in the dark, his teeth seeming to glow in the dim light from the lone lamp downstairs.

“Nah. I’m actually beat. But thank you for making it my most memorable birthday ever.”

“You must not get out a lot.” I pause. “What’s with the bard thing?”

“What?”

“Bull. He called you the bard.”

Derek snorts. “Oh. That’s nothing. It’s a long story.”

“Seems like I’m not going anywhere for a while.”

He stirs, and a part of me trembles – and not from fear. I’ve never felt this way before, and I do my best to stifle the unexpected sensation. He moves a few inches closer and turns his head to face me. I continue staring at the ceiling, which I can see is ornately sculpted.

“I had a copy of
Romeo and Juliet
when I first started crashing here. Bull gave me nothing but shit about it for the first few weeks, and when I finished with it, I left it for him – he’s not a huge reader, in case it isn’t obvious.”

“The Bull nickname was the giveaway.”

“Anyway, I guess he read it to pass the time, and now there are two people in this dump who’ve read Shakespeare.”

I close my eyes, the last of my anxiety draining away. “Three,” I say.

He nods to himself and returns to his original position, closing his eyes as his breathing slows. I can barely hear him when he whispers his final words of the night – words that keep me awake for another half an hour before I’m able to drift off.

“Sleep well, Sage.”

I start awake, and it takes me a second to remember where I am. It’s been so long since I slept more than a few hours at a time I feel drugged and disoriented. I’m lying on my side, curled in a fetal position, and as I crack an eye open, I realize there’s an unfamiliar weight on my waist.

An arm.

Derek’s arm. Around me.

A beam of sunlight’s shining through a long crack in the theater ceiling, and I can see dust motes floating in it like a slow motion snow flurry. In the dim light I can make out how trashed the interior is, at least the section in my view. There’s graffiti everywhere, spray-painted A for Anarchy symbols next to elaborate works of art featuring street scenes from around town –
vatos
in zoot suits next to low-rider cars, the Golden Gate bridge with a marijuana leaf superimposed in the clouds above it, Fisherman’s Wharf with stylized caricatures of fat, clueless tourists toting oversized cameras.