I pressed the answer button and held the cell to my ear.
"Where are you?" the man in the station wagon asked, his affect flat and tone cold.
I tried to explain. "I, uh, I got stuck somewhere."
"Tell me where," he demanded.
"I don't know the address. Let me go outside. I'll find it out." I said.
The man was silent. I patted around for any of my clothes, finding only Stanley's silk shorts. I pulled the elastic to my waist. Through the dimly lit house, I crept past the front door and to the pavement, searching for numbers on the sidewalk and home.
Impatience in his tone, he said, "You have Johns waiting, kid. Tell me where you are."
My breathing was shallow, my chest tight; I ran down the sidewalk searching for a street name, my loose cock jostled and bounced, slapping my legs. The tree canopies darkened the glow of the streetlights. Dogs barked near and far. The thud of my bare feet against the dry asphalt pounded between my ears.
At last, I found the street and reported to him. He hung up immediately. I stared blankly down the road, returning to Stanley's.
Through the still-open front door, I slipped into the house and stuffed one outfit Stanley'd bought for me the previous day into it and pulled the undershirt I'd worn yesterday over me. Stanley snored lightly, the moonlight glowing off his naked form, peaceful. I wished I could just climb back next to him again and rest my cheek on his chest.
My heart jumped in my breast. What had I done? In the panic and rush to appease that man, I'd given up my friend's address. I'd been so careful to conceal my own. How could I be so stupid?
Back to the pavement, my backpack straps over each shoulder, I trudged to the corner where I assumed he'd pass before reaching Stanley's house. Maybe I could remove the street numbers, so it wasn't clear which house was which. My mind raced for answers, but all required work and afforded no guarantee. How dangerous was he? Would he threaten Stanley and his dads? He could out me as a, as a -- I pushed the thought out.
The screeching of tires pulled my attention. The man was turning to me in the station wagon.
They screeched again when he braked before me.
"Get in," he said.
I did. The wheels squealed as the man in the station wagon drove down the street and past Stanley's. A second-floor light was on a man's silhouette behind the blinds. How much could he see? Did he see me in the car? Onto the second-floor light, my eyes locked until we turned, and I could see it no longer.
I sat there quietly for five minutes.
"Sir," I started.
"Shut up," he said back. "We're going to be over a half-hour late now."
He huffed, shaking his head. The tires hummed, rolling over asphalt, screeching after each red light turned green.
"We need to build a clientele, boy. Being late spooks the Johns, and they'll bail or never come back," the driver said.
I stared at my feet, silent.
We took a fast, shrieking turn into a single-story motel, parking in front of the door furthest from the main street and obscured behind the main office.
"Come on," he said.
I stepped out of the station wagon and walked with him.
He reached into his pocket, two sets of keys jingled in his hands, using one key to unlock it. It creaked, opening about three inches. He turned to me, studying my face.
"Wait inside, keep your clothes on. Call me 'Dwayne.'"
It was the best light I'd seen him; his grizzly facial scars stoked my nausea. My eyes focused on the knob; I nodded. He pushed the door the rest of the way open, and I stepped in. The lights were low, a single bulb out of three glowed, attached to a faux-wood-bladed ceiling fan, and a tiny recessed light above the curtainless shower. The floors, walls, and ceiling all bare gray concrete, even the bathroom which sloped toward an uncovered drain, a similar, albeit covered, drain sunk between the bed and 12 inch TV set, tuned to a vocal woman being fucked by a short hairy man.
"Don't open unless you hear this, twice," from his key chain; he pressed something into the door. It made a loud, distinct sound against the beat-up metal door.
I nodded, still avoiding his face.
Dwayne closed the door behind him, and I approached the bed. It was bouncy; springs crinkled as my weight smashed them. A thin sheet clung tight to the mattress, a crunchy plastic sheet under it, no pillows, no blankets, no extra sheets. Once again, I stood, testing the lock. I twisted the mechanism on the knob, and it opened. Dwayne was right in the crack. "Where the fuck you going? Keep this closed. I'm working on getting a guy here. Stay inside." He pushed me and pulled the door closed.
Stupidly, I'd left my backpack in the car. I couldn't text or call anyone. Instead, I just twiddled my thumbs, examining the bleak interior of my room before the sleep pressed harder and harder on my eyes.
"Wake the fuck up," Dwayne said, standing over me. My eyes rolled up his body, head lifting from a fetal position at the foot of the bed.
He said, "Someone is here."
"What, um, how, uh—." I rubbed my eye sockets with my fists, then covered a yawn.
"He wants to get slapped in the face with your dick while he jerks off."
"That, uh, doesn't sound, uh too—."
"If he does anything else, he needs to pay for it. Sprawl wide and flat in the middle of the bed if they receive more."
I nodded my head again, "Ok."
"Ok, so he's paid for dick slaps dick, no other slaps. So he isn't to touch you either," Dwayne clarified.
I cleared my throat, nodding. "How much is he p—"
"Your cut is twenty," Dwayne said.
"That's not w—," Dwayne slammed the door. "That doesn't answer my question," I finished in a whisper.
How, why did I let this happen? You're such a fucking idiot, Bret. My jaw quivered, stomach ached, mouth dried. I swallowed; it hurt. When would I go home? Would I leave at all? The minutes passed like hours, and I grew sleepy again. I bit my nails, which I hadn't done since my mom's first year in prison. Was I imprisoned now too? You're no different than your screwed-up parents, Bret. You piece of shit.
Dwayne's distinct taps wrapped. I stood and strode over to open it. Behind it was a tall man with skinny legs and a sizable belly, with thin three-inch-long hairs clinging to the skin around his ears, his forehead extending farther than I could see from my vantage.
I opened the door wide and stepped from his path, my head down.
The John stood, facing the mattress, and pulled his pants and white underwear down to his knees, already stroking. He looked over at me. "Get on the bed," he said.
I walked to and climbed on it, standing, his face nearly level with my hips.
"Drop 'em." the John said.
With my thumbs, I pulled my silky red shorts down just below my balls, exposing my shaft's base.
"Ah, yeah," he licked his lips. "Whip it out, slap me with that beast."
I cradled my shaft and pulled it completely out.
"Fuck yeah," the man moaned, his thumb and forefinger jerking his pick.
To my surprise, my cock swelled.
"Hit me," he said, insistent.
I took a swing. My half-hard prick walloped his poky jaw.
"God, yeah, harder."
Now I aimed higher, trying to avoid the stubble. The flesh on his cheek flattened and bounced under impact.
"Fuck, his eyes rolled back, again, harder."
I hit him much harder with a harder weapon. A sharp pain stung my urethra.
