Traffick (22 page)

call down the hall toward a couple

of girls headed toward the rec

room. “Hello? Can someone

please find Bethany right away?”

One of them waves assent,

and I turn back to check on

Miranda, who definitely looks

all “kid” right now. It's striking,

really. I mean, we just threw

her a fourteenth birthday

party, complete with balloons

and cupcakes. But turning

tricks makes you ancient

inside. I think it ages your soul.

If there's such a thing as

reincarnation, Miranda will

come back as a thousand-

year-old newborn, and in this

life she's already an elderly

woman wrapped up in a child's skin.

Of footsteps approaching, I step

out into the hall to intercept

Bethany and give her a heads-up.

I offer the basic info, then add,

“She's thinking about running.

You have to call her caseworker

or she'll be gone by morning.”

And probably disappear forever.

I'll see if I can get hold of her,

agrees Bethany.
Meanwhile, keep

an eye on Miranda. I'll be right

back.
She scurries away and I

return to my room as requested.

Miranda looks catatonic, but at

least she's staying put. I decide

to check my messages, not sure

why, and I'm surprised to find

one from Alex. My heart stutters

happily. At least, until I read it.

MY MORNING SICKNESS IS OVER.

THE BABY DECIDED HELL WAS BETTER

THAN LIVING WITH ME. I MISCARRIED.

AND I DECIDED LIFE ON THE STREET

IS WHAT I DESERVE. DON'T TEXT ME AGAIN.

Is a privilege, one I reserve

for boys with exceptional

talents. It is well within

my

power to make or break

not only careers, but also

the very lives of young

men

and women, here in a city

spun on a web of connections.

The partners I choose

represent

my taste, and I handpick

them carefully.

Intellect is high on

the

list of requirements,

though I don't want them

better educated than me, and a

beautiful

body like Seth's trumps worldly

experience. In fact, I prefer

schooling them. Some

people

might disagree,

but breaking in a novice

definitely pleasures me.

Back home, it arrives, jacketed in ice.

Here, the only change of seasons

is sizzling to lukewarm and back again.

People tell me Las Vegas is no stranger

to snow, which makes me laugh. A few

flurries blowing down into the valley

from the surrounding mountains does

not a blizzard make. Still, even a pitiful

few snowflakes might shake me out

of this mood. I know it has everything

to do with Christmas coming. I've

never spent one away from the farm,

and nostalgia is suffocating me.

Familiar carols play in endless loops

in every store I happen into. It's almost

enough to keep me sequestered at David's.

But I'm even more uncomfortable there.

The parties have grown old. It takes

ever larger quantities of drugs to get

high. Ditto alcohol to dull the buzz.

Sex with David has become worse

than routine. It's how I imagine it must

be for couples together for decades—

a series of excuses followed by a single

let's-just-get-this-over-with encounter,

repeat the cycle. Even David must be

totally bored by the process. It feels

like things here are coming to an end.

But I don't dare make the first move

to disintegrate our relationship until

I've sorted out the far side. My bank

account is healthy, but won't last long

if I have to invest in a place to live

in Vegas, where a decent apartment

will set me back a minimum grand per

month, and I'd really prefer something

better than decent. I guess I've become

spoiled by living comfortably. Scratch

that. By living extremely well. How do

I give that up? Do I even dare try?

That makes me want to try is Micah.

Our relationship has grown beyond

infatuation all the way to serious love,

and it's killing me because I just want

to be with him. If his show was dark

tonight and circumstances were different—

yeah, right—I could spend the entire evening

with him. Nice dinner. Take in a movie.

Go home and straight to bed, where sex

would be anything but boring. Fall asleep

in each other's arms. But he's dancing

and David's entertaining, and as for me,

the sex I'll have, but not enjoy, will be paid

for by Peter from Kansas or Oklahoma

or New Mexico, who's here for a roll

on the wild side. We're connecting at

Liaison, a relatively mainstream gay

nightclub housed inside a major casino

right on the strip. One thing I've learned

is to meet these guys somewhere very

public first, to gauge demeanor

and hopefully avoid problems once

we go upstairs or next door or down

the street to wherever they're staying.

A couple of times I hooked up with creeps

who wanted rough play and figured

since they were paying premium rates

I'd be happy to accommodate. I will,

to a point. But I do have limits, and stuff

like fisting or asphyxiation are high on

my no-can-do list. It's another good

reason to maintain a certain level of

muscle mass. I may be gay, but I can

fight my way out of a bad situation

if need be. Luckily those two men

weren't interested in getting
that
rough.

We compromised instead. And while

I didn't get the hefty tip they promised,

I still got paid for my time. There's

a learning curve to the escorting business.

Becomes your best friend, and mine

tells me Peter from Wherever is safe

enough. The slender fortyish man is sitting

at a table for two, looking a bit unnerved

by the hunky guys dancing onstage.

I know it's him by the Stetson he wears—

our prearranged sign—and greet him

confidently. “Hello, Peter. I'm Seth.”

His eyes swing my direction and assess

me curiously.
Oh. Yes. Hello. Um . . .

He stands and offers a weak handshake.

Please. Sit down. Drink?
At my request

for bourbon, he goes to the bar, returns

with two whiskey sours. It's well liquor,

which suggests that the bundle he'll drop

to spend time with me is beyond his budget.

Or maybe he's already dropped a wad

investing in slot-machine play. Either

way, I'll request payment up front.

I sip my drink and he gulps his, gaining

confidence and growing bolder.

You're different than I expected.

“Really? You're not disappointed,

are you?” He drains his glass to ice

before he answers.
Oh, no. Not

disappointed. In fact, I'm pleased.

I kind of thought you might be more . . .

effeminate, I guess. I mean, I did

request a . . .
He lowers his voice.

A top. But you're exactly right.

Okay, a little strange. There's some

kind of story here. Another drink,

and he tells it, slurring slightly.

See, when I was a kid, there was this

guy who lived around the corner.

He looked a lot like you, except older.

I used to ride my bike by his house

and one day I got a flat out in front.

He was working in his yard and

offered to fix it. I followed him around

back to his shed. There were lots

of pictures on the wall—not naked

ladies, like most men have, but guys

in the buff, doing unmentionable things.

While he fixed my tire, I kept staring

at them. I didn't even know penises

were meant to do anything but pee.

Finally, he says, “You know, it feels

really good to have someone touch

your wiener. I'll show you if you want.”

He showed me, and it did feel really

good. I kind of knew it was wrong,

but that made it even better. I went

back a few times. At first it was just

hand jobs. Then he taught me oral.

One day, he wanted to demonstrate

“the very best way.” I was only ten,

and penetration hurt like hell. Plus,

it made me bleed. My mother noticed

my underwear, and that was that.

Is for me to play dirty old neighbor.

Hey, it's his cash, and I do ask for it

up front before we head to his room,

which happens to be at the Mandarin

Oriental, a short walk from the club.

We go up to the twelfth floor, to superb

accommodations. Apparently Peter

is flush after all. Maybe he just likes

cheap booze. He pours two deep

glasses of Jack Daniel's before going

to the bathroom to get ready. I return

most of mine to the bottle, turn on

the TV and find a country music

channel. I'm betting Peter is a country

kind of guy. If not, I am, and I get

to be in charge. I take off my shirt,

leave the jeans on so I can order him

to unzip them. I also take a quick whiff

of powdered encouragement from

a little bottle hidden in my sock.

By the time he wobbles back,

I'm ready to go. Ready to play dirty

neighbor who has gay porn hanging

on the walls of his shed. “Come here,

kid. Get down on your knees.” And,

we're off, Toby Keith warbling in

the background. Peter has come prepared

with a number of toys, including his favorite

vibrator. If I wasn't buzzed and expecting

a very good tip, I'd have a hard time

stomaching the coming play. Instead, I

jump into the game and an hour passes

before I know it. Little boy Peter finishes,

completely satisfied. “If it's okay, I'd like

to clean up before I go.” He nods mutely,

and doesn't even put on his underwear

again before shuffling over to say hi to Jack

Daniel's again. I take a quick shower,

and as I'm leaving, Peter says,

I'm not even gay, just so you know.

Then again, who knows? I've read

that a lot of men who don't identify

as queer enjoy a good male-to-male

romp once in a while. Apparently,

some of them don't believe it's cheating

on their partners if they have sex with

a man instead of another woman.

I guess you can justify anything, as

long as you have psychological

parameters firmly in place. Whatever.

As far as I'm concerned, cheating

is cheating. And suddenly, I'm struck

by a fierce attack of guilt, despite

the eleven hundred dollars in my pocket.

No way can I go home to Micah

after performing the way I just did

with someone else. I've got to get out

of this business before I lose any more

of Seth. Wonder if I can regain what

I've lost of him already if I do quit.

And time to eliminate Peter from

my mind, I wander down to the far

end of the strip, then cut down a side

street to the monorail station, where

I'm sure I can catch a cab. I'm almost

there when I hear a couple of male

voices yelling and, just underneath

them, soft pleading. Shit. Last thing

I need is to get involved in a row,

but someone is getting pummeled.

I move closer, and sure enough, back

up against a building, a female form

is on the sidewalk with two large men

standing over her, and I can see her arms

raised to try and protect her face.

Fucking fag!
screams one of the dudes.

I don't let no queer touch my dick.

I'm gonna kill you, fucking whore.

Ah, shit. Now I have to do something,

don't I? First thing is pull out my phone

and dial 911 to report an assault

in progress. Now I hear the victim

wheezing.
Please. I'm sorry. Take

my money. Please. Leave me . . .

Oh, man. I recognize her voice.

“Pippa!” I yell. “Is that you?”

H-help me.
Now she falls silent

and her body slumps, motionless.