Bad Influence (3 page)

Right now disgust for the name he’d left behind took care of any old feelings the tone might have stirred. He could have corrected Zeb, but it seemed pointless when Silver was the one dragging their past over hot coals. As long as Zeb’s ass came out equally barbequed, Silver could stand a bit more of it.

“You can’t think I wanted to— I’d have lost my teaching license.” Zeb went on in that same tone. “Jordan, I could have gone to jail.”

Silver cut his eyes toward the cell bars and then looked back with a smirk. Zeb started to chuckle, a smile so broad it turned his eyes to slits. Silver felt the laugh start in his own chest and fought with everything he had to let nothing show but a disdainful smirk. It was too easy to remember the sense of the absurd they’d always shared.

The guards saved him when they came back with the big black guy who’d been sitting on the bench and the skinny white meth head. After asking them if they had any candy or gum again, the meth head started pacing some more, dancing a little to whatever he heard in his head. The black guy sat on the bench opposite them, head back against the wall, eyes closed.

“I called.” They hadn’t been speaking loudly, but Zeb’s tone dropped to right above a whisper. “On your eighteenth birthday—assuming you didn’t lie about the date as well as the year.”

“It’s still August fourth.” Gary Carter’s was May first. Eli had thrown Silver a birthday party for the date on the fake license, and Silver had learned Zeb was in Baltimore. God, was it only two weeks ago?

“It wasn’t your number anymore,” Zeb said, doing the thing where his eyes were wide and intent, like he was so full of honest goodness in a minute Silver would be apologizing to Zeb.

“Ya think?” Silver sneered. “They took my phone and computer first thing. As soon as the little bitch opened her mouth.”

“I was in Haiti,” Zeb threw out like it had some meaning.

“And?”

“When I called. I was in Haiti. I couldn’t do anything about finding a new number for you.”

“Right. Because a happy birthday would have made it all better.”

The look Zeb shot him wasn’t one Silver had ever catalogued. Maybe Zeb had found it in Haiti. If he didn’t know Zeb better, Silver would have sworn it was cynicism.

“Exactly what was I supposed to fix, Jordan? The fact that you lied about your age from the beginning, or what you decided to do after that night?”

Silver stared back at the crack on the floor and dug the edge of his rubber-soled sneaker into it. “Absolutely nothing.” He willed himself to slide away inside the black space.

When he was younger, Silver escaped most of what sucked by imagining he was starring in the movie of his own life. No matter how much he’d tried, high school refused to completely blur into a longed-for montage, Linkin Park slamming on the soundtrack, drowning out all the fucking assholes with their endless refrain of
Die, faggot.
And no matter how many times he’d willed the montage into existence in his head, Silver never managed to emerge triumphant and successful, bursting from the school with the last power chords, flipping off the deaf-to-bigots teachers and epically moronic hicks as he got the hell out of New Freedom, Pennsylvania forever.

The only movies Silver ever starred in were straight—
ha
—to DVD or available for subscription online, not much of a soundtrack beyond the slap of flesh, grunts and gasps, interrupted by the occasional gag-inducing
Take all that meat, little boy.
At least it had beat hustling on the street.

The awkward and sometimes painful process of faking passion for the camera should have cured him of the fascination of pretending he was in a movie, but he still played the game, zooming out of his body to watch from as far away as he could get, convincing himself it was happening to someone else, poor fucker. Right now, the script called for a flashback. Something with a rippled effect, maybe special lighting or a filter like on Instagram to make it look really cool. But he wouldn’t flash it back to the night when he’d begged outside Zeb’s apartment.

Nope, hit rewind all the way back to the day when Silver had seen Zeb looking a little lost while pouring himself a coffee in the basement of New Hope Church. For most of the congregation, fellowship seemed to be about gossiping about who hadn’t shown up, and so far everyone had ignored tall, slender, sexy and oh-please-God-let-gaydar-be-for-real. The guy’s build and longish golden-brown hair had caught Silver’s—well, back then the audience would have known him as Jordan—eye during the service, but when the new church member bent to pick up the sugar packet he’d dropped, the sweetest ass Silver had seen not on a porn site had him eager to be polite and sociable like his mother was always nagging him to be.

“You look a little lost,” Jordan said as he held up a plate of hideously dry cookies from the bargain bins at Stop, Shop and Save. He knew where they’d come from. His parents might be loaded, but God forbid they actually spend any of it.

The man’s smile was even more devastating than the sight of his ass in tight khakis had been. He placed a hand over his heart in a sign of exaggerated shock. “You mean, New Hope Church isn’t a convention hall for fans of
Star Wars Episode IV
?”

It surprised a laugh from Jordan, brought it bubbling up through all the cynicism that kept him safe in hostile environments. Tall and Sexy was the first person to make the same connection since Jordan’s parents had dragged him to this church. “Do you really think you’ve got the midi-chlorians for so dangerous a place, Padawan?”

“Blasphemy,” the guy said.

The word shut down all Jordan’s amusement. So this guy was just like the rest of them. Then he grinned so broadly his eyes turned to slits, and Jordan would have sworn there was a CGI twinkle in one of them.

“Do not speak of
Episodes I through III
in my presence.” The man held out a hand. “Zeb Harris.”

Jordan shook it, dazzled by the impossible twinkle. No sunlight made it to the basement. He had to be hallucinating. Heat flashed where their palms met. Yes. This was it. Like a movie, but for real. Smiling back, he said, “Not even
Episode III
?”

“Maybe I can give that one a pass just for you. I saw you sing. Your voice is amazing.”

Nothing about how he managed to hit deep notes when he was so obviously young or skinny. Jordan winked and licked his lips the way he’d practiced in the mirror. “Lung capacity.”

Zeb flushed and swallowed. For the first time, Jordan made a heartfelt prayer of gratitude. Hell, yes. Zeb Harris was gay and interested.

“So, um, I’d love to talk more Star Wars with you.”
Damn, Jordan, why don’t you just ask if he wants to see your action figures.

“Jordan,” his mother summoned.

He turned instinctively.

When he turned back, Zeb was still smiling. “Jordan, huh?” Zeb’s voice was warm, like his hand had been.

“Like the river.” Jordan sighed. “Um—my parents haven’t quite—come to terms with—” It didn’t matter how carefully he whispered it, dropping the word gay in the church basement would echo like a gong. He gestured between them, hoping Zeb would understand.

Zeb nodded. “Mine either. Fortunately, they’re in Ohio.”

“Oh. So, maybe we could meet for coffee sometime?”

Zeb’s feet didn’t move, but suddenly there was a distance between them. “Jordan,” he began, and four years in the future, a guy in a jail cell remembered everything about how hearing his name like that had felt.

Jordan knew what the problem was. “I’m”—eighteen would sound too dead on—“nineteen. I know I look younger. Get that all the time. Guess it’s better than looking older, right? I live with my parents because I’m going to Pleasant Valley Community College, trying to save money to go to a bigger school. No point starting out in debt, right?”
Stop babbling, Jordan.

A pencil and the edge of a mini memo book stuck out of Zeb’s pants pocket. Without stopping to think, Jordan grabbed them. Zeb pulled away, then relaxed.

“I have to write stuff down or I forget it.” The shy smile on Zeb’s face made him look younger than Jordan’s real age. Not like age was a big deal. But the guy couldn’t be more than twenty or twenty-one himself.

“Don’t forget this.” Jordan wrote down his email and cell number. “I’ll bring an ID next time.” Taking a deep breath, Jordan stuffed the notebook back into Zeb’s pocket, letting his pinky stretch out toward the fly, barely brushing it. Maybe it was only the thought of what was under there, but the impression of heat sizzled right up Jordan’s arm. Without looking at Zeb’s face, Jordan sprinted to where his parents waited impatiently.

Here and now under the courthouse or police station or wherever this hole was, Silver felt that same warmth—though not the remembered heat. Despite the constant reminder of “No Touching”, Zeb had moved his foot until his ankle pressed into Silver’s from behind. The flashback had mellowed him enough to return the pressure, but now he jerked away. The shackles clanked and chimed like an alarm. Since everyone was staring at him already, he did the chain-gang shuffle toward the bars, and a guard met his eyes.

“What?” It was the one who’d called him Blondie.

“Someone is supposed to be bringing me my prescription. How will I know when he gets here?”

Silver didn’t think it was possible for the guy to look more disgusted, but he managed with an exaggerated shake of his head. “Must be true what they say about blonds. No way we’re giving you something someone brings in. Should have told the booking officer.”

“He didn’t ask.” The film in his head replayed the smiling but serious expression of the woman at the clinic. “I have to take it every day at the same time. It’s really important.”

“I’ll put a word in. Get the paperwork started.” The helpless, pathetic tack had been the right one for the guard. He sighed. “What’s it for?”

Silver didn’t have to fake embarrassment. On top of everything else, he was a fucking cliché. He lowered his eyes. “What do you think?”

The guard snorted. “Shoulda figured. Yeah, we get a lot of that. They know how to handle it.”

Silver should have been past the shame brought on by the guard’s sneer. How could something like that have power when Silver had spread his ass for a camera so close it was almost in him? Turned out, he had a bottomless pit of shame, especially when he became conscious of Zeb’s watchful attention.

An hour ago, he’d been determined to hurl every bit of the last three years at Zeb, make him gag on that first bitter load Silver had swallowed to earn a ride from Morgantown to Shrewsbury only to get turned away by the man who said he loved him. Wanted to fill Zeb’s gut with the fear of trying to find an unlocked car to sleep in, an abandoned building that hadn’t been taken over by a gang. Then to burn him with the shame of trading his ass or mouth for the hope of someplace safe and warm.

Now he didn’t want Zeb to find out about any of it. Least of all about the last nail in Jordan Samuel Barnett’s coffin. He shuffled back to the bench.

“What was that about?” Zeb murmured.

“I’m hungry. I asked when they were going to feed us.” Other than the lies and omissions to keep his age a secret back then, Silver had never lied to Zeb. Now it came as easily as it did with the rest of the world.

“What did he say?”

“When they get around to it.” Rather than wonder how long it would take before Zeb got curious again and asked questions Silver didn’t know if he had the energy to make up answers to, he said, “So, Haiti, huh?”

“Went with a mission group to rebuild a school. Stayed to teach.”

“What was it like?”

Zeb shrugged, and brought an end to the conversation. He could lecture, for sure—Silver knew more than he wanted to about how important math was for the real world—but when it came to personal stuff, Zeb was a much better listener than a talker. Back then, it had been awesome.

First it had been the dizzying warmth every time he thought
I have a boyfriend.
The tingle of secret knowledge,
I’m going over to my boyfriend’s tonight.
The kissing and touching were awesome, and an orgasm with someone else’s hand on his dick was the most amazing thing ever. Until it was someone’s mouth. But by then it wasn’t only having a boyfriend, even one he couldn’t tell anyone about. It was Zeb.

Zeb listened. He paid attention. And kept track of stuff in his little notebook. Which wasn’t always good, considering how sometimes the truth had to get a bit twisted in order to keep up the I’m-nineteen lie. But everything Silver felt, and everything he told Zeb about those feelings—that had been real.

Around two thirty, two more unlucky bastards ended up in the tank. They tried socializing, but when no amount of prodding would get anyone to answer their “What are you in for?” questions, they sat and muttered to each other on the bench opposite.

Silver watched the hands move on the mesh-covered institutional clock. Everything on cop shows had been specific with numbers. Time of death calculated to the instant. When was the Baltimore PD going to catch up to the digital age?

“I’ll keep an eye out if you want to catch some sleep,” Zeb said after the new guys had stopped trying to organize a group share.

“I’m usually up most nights anyway.”

“Oh.” Zeb’s slow nod had Silver pressing his lips together in frustration.