Traffick (16 page)

the experience, but

time

is a luxury I have no way

to indulge, and why

did it have to be this guy

I was destined

to fall

for? I mean, Seth's kept

by the very man who gave

me a chance to jump-start

my career, here

in

a place where dreams too

often die, sucked dry

of hope by a city that

celebrates sin in favor of

love.

To fall in love again, and definitely

not here in Vegas, here in David's care,

here where I must be careful not to

expose that fact to anyone. Not even

Micah. Not yet. I mean, he has to suspect,

and if I dared trust my feelings, I'd swear

he's in love with me, too. When we're

together, the outside world melts away,

and it's just the two of us there. Despite

our different backgrounds, we have so

much in common, from our taste in movies

and books, to our favorite cuisines.

And where our opinions differ, we're willing

to compromise. For instance, I'll put up

with Broadway music and he'll take a listen

to country. Not sure we've totally swayed

each other, but we do agree broadening

horizons isn't a bad thing. He makes me

feel—dare I say it out loud?—hopeful.

Like there's a real future available to me.

That way, the reality of my situation

slaps me upside the head. To have

a real future with Micah would mean

deserting David, which could very

well lead to problems for Micah, unless

David was willing to let me go, and who

knows when he might get sick of me?

But then I'd need a place to live, which

would require an income. And if I were

to commit to Micah, I'd have to leave

escorting behind. What else can I do?

I didn't even graduate high school.

I suppose a minimum wage something

would be possible, but I'm used to living

well. I'm sure I could get my GED, but

then what? College? Paid for how, and

to study what? I'm just a gay hick farm

boy loser. So who am I fooling? There's

no hope of escape for me. For now,

I'll just pretend to believe in possibilities.

And I'm helping out at YouCenter,

which is hosting a big turkey dinner

this afternoon for kids with nowhere

else to go. David doesn't especially

care about the holiday, other than

the fact that most people spend it

with their families, rather than in

casino showrooms. Hell, even Have

Ur Cake expects a slow evening.

Guess L-tryptophan and pumpkin pie

bloat aren't especially conducive to

the desire for paid sex. Tomorrow,

Black Friday, johns will probably be

looking for deals. Meanwhile, kitchen

work is mostly keeping my mind off

my future. I've always enjoyed cooking,

though I've never attempted anything like

an entire Thanksgiving dinner. Good

thing Charlie's here to help. “This stuffing

smells incredible,” I tell her. “My mom

makes plain old cornbread with onions.

I bet the sausage really spices it up.”

Sausage. The word entices a memory—

Dad and me joking about venison

sausage and haute cuisine. Wonder

who's sharing Dad's table tonight.

Wonder if I should try calling him

one more time. Charlie stops humming.

Sausage, my dear, makes the stuffing.

That, and fresh rosemary. Of course,

I prefer it cooked inside the bird,

but I would have had to be here by

six a.m. to make that happen. Baked

in a casserole will just have to do.

“Is your mom a great cook? Where

did you learn your way around a kitchen?”

She snorts.
My mom is the frozen

food queen. No, my grandpa taught

me. But I love it. In fact, I've been

thinking about a culinary arts degree.

“You mean like go to school to learn

to cook? But you already know how.”

I don't know everything. Besides,

you can also take restaurant

management, which basically

gives you a business degree.

With the right credentials, you can

make bank, especially if you get hired

by a big casino or something. I'm

not going to be a doctor or a lawyer.

But that doesn't mean I don't want

to earn a good income. Why not

make it doing something I love to

do anyway?
She slides the big pan

of stuffing into the oven, closes

the door with a satisfied smile.

Huh. I like to cook. “Is a culinary

arts degree, like, major expensive?”

Depends. Le Cordon Bleu is pricey.

But College of Southern Nevada isn't.

Mom used to tell me that. Still,

she probably would've laughed

at the notion that a person might

be able to make a decent career

out of cooking, and Dad would

have chuckled right along with her.

I'm sure a short-order cook's paycheck

couldn't approach what I make on

a single night escorting. But what

about overseeing a five-star kitchen?

Definitely something to think about,

especially if things get serious between

Micah and me. And if not that, at least

I'm thinking outside the box, rather

than flinging myself into a big pond

of pity. Funny how when I think about

home any culture I managed to absorb

from Carl and David dissolves and rural

Indiana takes over. Home. Back home.

Home sweet home. No place like home.

People start trickling in, knowing

dinner is supposed to be served at three.

I'm familiar with many of the faces,

but some are new to me, and some

interest me for whatever reasons.

There's a butch girl who can't be

more than twelve. Surely she's not

homeless, right? Surely she has family

somewhere who cares? I asterisk

a mental note to ask Charlie about her.

Ditto the girl, maybe a year younger

than me, coming through the door now.

She's pretty enough to model, except

she looks so scared. Not sure there's

a market for that. Oh, but wait. What is it

about her? She's lanky, and wearing heels

that make her even taller. Is that why her gait

is awkward? I nudge Charlie. “Who's that?”

Pippa. Born Philip. You should talk

to her. She could use a friend like you.

That explains a lot. But transitioning,

or just cross-dressing? Only one way

to find out, at least if she feels like

sharing the information with me.

Once dinner is on the table, I make

sure to take the seat next to Pippa.

It isn't hard. No one else has chosen

it. “Hi. I'm Seth. Mind if I sit?”

She looks at me nervously, with dark

eyes enhanced with expert makeup.

Uh . . . No. I mean, I guess so. If you

want to.
Her gentle voice is more

male than female, but it belongs

to a boy, not a man. “I'd like to . . . ?”

She understands the implied question.

Philippa, but you can call me Pippa.

She passes a big bowl of cranberry

sauce, skips it herself.
You work here?

“Volunteer,” I correct. “I haven't seen

you here before. Are you new to Vegas?”

Not really, but kind of new to YouCenter.

I ran into Charlie downtown. She told me

about it. It's nice to be around people

who don't think you're a freak, you know?

“I do know. So, where you from?

I mean, if you want to tell me. Oh,

and please pass the gravy.” I notice

she skips it. “What? Don't like gravy?”

Love it. But I'm watching my weight.

I'm from Provo, which explains why

I'm in Vegas. Other than Salt Lake City,

which is more open-minded than most

people realize, Utah isn't exactly trans-

friendly. Las Vegas was a cheap ticket.

We take a few minutes to stuff food

into our mouths. “Man, Charlie, you can

cook for me anytime!” Everyone nods

and murmurs agreement, and Charlie

beams.
You ain't seen nothing yet,

she replies.
Wait till you taste the pie.

But seems content enough watching

me devour pumpkin cheesecake.

Afterward, everyone helps clear

the tables, and a few step forward to

wash the dishes. Pippa and I grab cups

of coffee and wander outside to sit

on a bench haloed by the duskish light.

“The days are short. Almost December.”

I hear they've already had snow

in Utah. It definitely fell early.

“I used to like the snow, but we only got

four or five inches a year in Perry County.

Sure did get cold, though. Not like here,

where they think fifty degrees is cool.

So, anyone missing you in Provo? Do

your parents know where you are?”

Incredulity spikes her laugh.
They

couldn't give two fucks about where

I am. They stopped worrying about

me years ago, when I wouldn't quit

insisting God put me in the wrong

body. My mother says God doesn't make

mistakes, but I identified at three. All

I wanted was to play with my sister's

Barbies. All my father wanted was to

beat the girl out of me. Couldn't do it.

Different fathers. Different states. Different

religions, I'm guessing. Similar attitudes.

“My dad didn't beat me when I came

out, but he completely disowned me.

I can't imagine what he might have

done if I'd told him I was a girl in

a boy's body. Gender dysphoria is not

in his vocabulary. Are you transitioning?”

Pippa nods.
Started hormones, and

I've done a few rounds of electrolysis,

but that's so expensive. I want to go

all the way at some point, though.

A girl doesn't need a penis. In fact,

it's counterintuitive to who I'm becoming.

“Do you have a safe place to live?

How are you supporting yourself?”

Let alone affording estrogen

supplements and facial hair removal.

I have a little studio, yes. Not much,

but it's cozy and clean enough. As for

how I pay my bills, you can probably

guess. No back alley blowjobs, not

anymore. I'm not proud of it, but I've

no other way to make that kind of money,

and I'm saving up for procedures.

Besides . . .
She smiles.
What better

excuse to shop for pretty clothes?

I'll quit someday, once I've become

the woman I was meant to be. In

the meantime, I'm surviving. But mark

my words. Philippa Young will make

something special of herself one day.

“I believe you. Until then, never

apologize for doing what you have to.”

My personal connection to “doing

what you have to do,” but I do offer

Pippa my friendship. “Anytime you

need to talk, you can call me, okay?

Be really careful out there. This city

is crawling with creeps, and some

of them are dangerous.” I take time

to study her face really closely.

“You're lucky. You have amazing

bone structure. You won't need

surgery there. In fact, you could

model. Have you considered it?”

What girl hasn't? Actually, I'd love to

find work dancing. The one real gift

my parents gave me was dance classes,

and my teachers told me I have talent.

“Believe it or not, I might have an in

for you. And not pole dancing, either.”

She smiles.
I'd do that, too, except . . .

Yet another reason I don't want a dick.

But I'd give my left nut for a chance

to dance. Nah. I'd give both of them.

Which cracks me up. “I can't promise

anything, of course. But I do know

some people.” I don't mention names,

nor my living arrangement. “I should