Less Than Nothing (2 page)

My dismal prospects for making a living just got worse with this guy working the same street.

And I was here first.

Talented and hunky or not, I need to protect my little piece of sidewalk, or I might as well print “Welcome” across my back and play mat, which isn’t my style.

A pair of women drop coins into his case when the last note dies, and I watch as he banters with them, his green eyes flashing in the sun’s warming rays, his smile easy and his laugh easier, almost musical. I heft my backpack and pocket my quarter, and after slipping Yam into its case, march over to where he’s sitting.

“Kind of rude, don’t you think?” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady, my feet spread apart defiantly. My heart sinks a little when I see he’s already amassed a dollar – each woman must have given him fifty precious cents. A dollar that should have been mine, on my sidewalk, here on my street.

“What is?” he replies, his tone gentle, a small smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“This is my block. I’ve been playing here for months.” I know there’s an edge to my voice. I try not to let my gaze linger on his face, but when my eyes drop to his tanned arms and sculpted chest, it’s almost worse. He’s wearing a form-fitting black T-shirt that’s like a second skin, and his biceps and pecs are as perfect as I’d feared. A stylized tribal tattoo runs down one arm, and on his right forearm, a fifties-era Elvis in dinner jacket and slacks dips with a mic stand.

I have no idea why I’m totally checking him out, and find myself eyeing his guitar so I’m not obvious about it. Besides, I’m pissed. He’s taking my customers. This is war.

He strums a few notes and adjusts the A string a little and then nods, satisfied. I notice it’s strung for a right-handed player even though he’s left-handed, which looks weird to me, but I refuse to be distracted any more than I already am. He looks up at me and offers a grin.

“I missed where you could own a whole block. Didn’t see the signs where you’d staked a claim or whatever.” His tone sounds reasonable, but I detect mockery in it.

“I’m telling you it’s my street, and it’s not big enough for both of us.” My eyes flare anger at him. Nobody makes fun of me. I’ve been living by my wits for the last four months, and I’ve learned that you never back down when you’re protecting what’s yours, or the world will take everything from you. Beautiful or not, he’s picked the wrong girl to try to buffalo.

He seems to think for a few moments and then flashes another smile. His teeth are so white they could be on a billboard or something. My heart rate accelerates ten beats per minute, and I have to remind myself to breathe. What the hell’s wrong with me?

When he speaks, it’s the worst John Wayne imitation ever. “Them’s fightin’ words, pardner.”

In spite of how angry I’m getting, I can’t help but laugh, and he laughs with me, his face warming with it and dimples appearing on his cheeks. The black leather necklace he’s wearing jiggles, and a small silver musical note glints hypnotically in time with his chuckling.

I will myself to hold it together. “I’m serious.”

He nods, as though I’ve finally gotten through to him. “What kind of parents saddle their kid with a name like that?”

I can feel the color rise in my cheeks, a flush that’s as reliable a warning as a snake’s rattle.

“Do I look amused?” I ask, my voice suddenly quiet. I’m using my ‘important matters’ voice, which I learned from my mom. It’s the subdued, “this is really frigging serious” tone she reserved for discussions about sex or drinking or drugs. I think mine is way more ominous sounding.

He sighs and stands. “We could do the dueling guitars thing from that movie with the hillbillies. Although I’m not into the whole rural rape thing.”

“
Deliverance
. And it was banjos.”

“I knew that.”

He seems genuine, so I soften my approach a little, since my current attempts to get him to acknowledge my claim on the area aren’t having the desired effect. I could threaten him, but it would be laughable. It’s pretty obvious that he could more than defend himself against anything I threw at him.

An image of me throwing myself on top of him flashes through my mind, and I shake it off. He seems to be able to read my thoughts, because his smirk returns. He takes a step toward me, and my eyes widen – but I don’t back off.

This. Is. My. Street.

He holds out a hand. “I’m Derek.”

Now what do I do? I didn’t ask his name. I’m not asking him anything. I told him to get the hell off my strip of cement so I can make enough to pay for lunch.

I hesitate and then shake his hand. “And you were just leaving,” I say, my delivery firm.

“I didn’t catch yours. Or should I just call you serious?”

Now I’m back to getting angry again, having been sidetracked by his little run at humor. “You think this is some kind of game?”

When he stares directly into my eyes and steps even closer, I draw a sharp intake of breath and hope it isn’t audible. He leans into me and whispers in my ear, like a lover telling a secret.

“I really need to make some money today, Miss Serious. And neither one of us is making anything arguing.”

I debate kneeing him as hard as I can while he’s so close – close enough to smell soap and the faint aroma of his tanned skin. As though he can sense my impulse, he pulls away, eyeing me with caution.
That’s more like it.

He studies me with an amused expression, like I’m a slide in lab class.

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?” he asks. The question takes me by surprise.
No, you can’t, you smirking interloper. Not in a million years.

Which isn’t how my answer sounds when I say, “Fine.”

He grins again like he’s won a round, and I wonder to myself what just happened. I clear my throat and debate repeating my claim on the street, but decide that a hot cup of java actually sounds pretty good, especially since I haven’t eaten anything today, having squandered my prior day’s fortune on budget Chinese food and a dog-eared paperback copy of
The Stand
I snagged for a buck to pass the time.

Contrary to what most people imagine, one of the worst things about being homeless is the boredom. No TV, no gaming, just one relentless hour after another, either hungry or trying to find someplace safe to catch a few Zs or avoiding danger…or the cops. But mostly sitting around doing nothing.

Which is why being a big reader turned out to be lucky for me. If you can call anything about living day to day by the skin of your teeth ‘lucky.’

Derek leans over and scoops up the change, and against my better judgment I sneak a look at his butt. Definitely impressive, if not world class. He slips on his leather jacket, shoulders his rucksack, and appraises me as he sets his guitar into the case.

“Where’s the best coffee?” he asks. Anything that moves him away from his position on the sidewalk is a big win for me, so I point to a shop on the corner.

“Peaches and Cream. It’s rocket fuel.”

“Cool. Lead the way.”

I try to figure out whether he’s trying to check me out as I walk to the café, and decide there could be more unpleasant things. Besides, my clothes are baggy, as shapeless as possible, the better to avoid unwanted attention from the pervs and letches who are drawn to vulnerability like bees to honey.

I catch sight of my reflection in the display window as I approach the entry and realize how much taller he is, easily eight or nine inches – which isn’t hard, considering I’m all of five three on my tallest day.
God, even his reflection looks amazing. That’s just not right.

But one cup of coffee isn’t a surrender. I’m not backing down.

Just draining the enemy’s resources before the big battle.

At least that’s how I think of it as I glance to my left, confirming there aren’t many pedestrians out yet – so I’m not likely losing that much in earnings anyway by taking him up on his offer.

I get another good look at him in the window and notice he’s staring at our reflection, too, which immediately makes me self-conscious, wondering whether he caught me looking at him.

Then the seductive fragrance of freshly ground coffee reaches me as I near the entry, and the world seems to tilt. My nose twitches like a hamster having a seizure, and I’m lost.

I’ll be the first to admit I’m a coffee slut. It’s like catnip, and I’m unshameable. But there are worse things, as I know. Still, I feel a pang of guilt about giving up my spot to indulge my habit, and it’s with conflicted emotions that I reach out for the handle, wondering what the hell I’m doing letting a rival for my little patch of safety take me to P&C.

I push the door open and sense Derek behind me. We approach the counter and stop, taking in the huge blackboard, upon which are scrawled dozens of options in colored chalk. He stands next to me and considers the menu, a dizzying array of blends from around the world, with exotic names like Sudanese Symphony and Guatemalan Revolution, and leans toward me.

“They have coffee too, right?”

“I’m pretty sure they keep it in the back.”

“Or under the counter. Do these prices include a new car?”

“Relax. A large drip’s two-fifty.” I eye him. “Can you handle that?”

A spark of pride flashes in his eyes. “Of course.” He hesitates. “Do they take American Express?”

“You do have money, right?”

“I’m kidding. Knock yourself out. Large drips. Two of ’em,” he says.

I order, and the woman behind the counter waits expectantly. Derek fishes out a fistful of coins and counts out five dollars in quarters and dimes, leaving his pockets considerably lighter.

We get our environmentally friendly recycled cardboard cups, and he gestures to a weathered sofa in a dark corner of the café. The place is half empty now that the shops are open, everyone loaded up on caffeine and ready for another long day of retail servitude, so we have that area to ourselves. We set our guitars and bags down and sit on either end of the couch. I take a cautious sip and make a face. “Crap. I’ll be right back. Needs cream and sugar.”

I load it up with everything at the condiment station – powdered chocolate and cinnamon, nutmeg, six sugars, and enough creamer to whitewash a small house. Another thing you learn quickly on the street is to take your calories where you can get them, because your next meal’s never a sure thing. By the time I make it back to where Derek is looking at yesterday’s paper on the side table, I figure mine has enough oomph to keep a sumo wrestler going for days.

I sit back down and take an approving slurp, and Derek holds out his cup in a toast. I raise an eyebrow and tap my cup against his and sit back, waiting for him to fire the first salvo.

When it comes, it’s not what I expect.

“You’ve got an amazing voice,” he says.

I give him a sidelong glance. “Thanks. Yours isn’t bad, either,” I concede.

“How’s business?”

“I get by.” Which is true. What I don’t say is ‘barely,’ or that some nights I cry myself to sleep on an empty stomach, wondering how I’m going to make it. I also don’t bore him with details about how my biggest fear besides being raped or murdered is the rain – when it’s wet out the sidewalks are empty, so unless you’ve managed to squirrel away some cash, you’re screwed.

“Not really a get-rich-quick scheme, is it?” he says with a wry grin. Truer words were never spoken. One step above panhandling, it’s a tough gig at best. “How long have you been at it?”

“A while.”

He eyes me, sensing the defensiveness. “Now that I’ve blown my life savings on coffee, are you going to tell me your name?”

I don’t let him see the internal debate that’s raging behind my calm expression. I don’t want to be friends with this guy. I want him to clear out of my area. His gaze is equally calm, no trace of animosity or challenge in it, and I make a snap decision.
WTF. How will it hurt me to tell him my name?

“It’s Sage.”

“Sage,” he repeats, and I like the way he says it. Like it’s important. Like I just told him my PIN number or something. He says it again, a trace of that gorgeous smile flitting across his face. “Sage.”

I remember being about eight years old, at a fair, on one of those whirlybird rides where you strap in and the teacup or whatever spins and then goes vertical. When he says my name, that’s the closest feeling to what I’m experiencing. That, and my heart seems to have chosen this moment to skip every other beat.

“Don’t wear it out,” I say with cold indifference. At some point, as my pulse pounds in my ears, I’ve managed to remember I’m a tough street chick, not some frigging B-movie heroine in a melodrama. I’ve got moves, and enough attitude for days, and if I’ve momentarily lost my mind, because of my hormones or whatever playing tricks on me, he’s not going to see it. My attitude should be focused on letting him know what I’m all about, which in this case is protecting my interests like a mama bear with a hurt cub.

“No, it’s just that it’s a great name. Different.”

He sounds genuine, not like he’s trying to blow smoke up my dress (not that I’m wearing one). I know his kind – the sly charmers. I’ve bitch-slapped more of them down since being on my own than a Kardashian on a Vegas weekend.