Less Than Nothing (6 page)

A few bystanders clap, and one whistles. I look down. There’s a dollar thirty-five in the case more than when we started the song.

“Get a room, already,” a familiar voice says. I look up, and Melody’s there, studying Derek like a jeweler with a fine diamond.

“What are you doing here?” I stammer, genuinely surprised that she’s dragged herself out of bed.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your new partner?” she says, her voice totally fake and innocent.

Derek beams up at her and then looks to me with one raised eyebrow.

“Oh. Um, this is Derek. Derek, Melody,” I say, my eyes narrowing slightly.

Derek reaches out a hand to shake. “Nice to meet you,” he says, his voice smooth as velvet. I already hate how this is going.

“Mel,” she corrects, approaching and shaking, her hips doing her very best Shakira with every step.

Derek glances back at me. “That was pretty good for our first time.”

I don’t trust myself to speak. Melody has enough words for both of us.

“It was incredible. Really.” She eyes Derek like a snake eyes a mouse. “You’re very good.” She switches to me. “You too, Sage.”

I find my voice. “Thanks, Mel.” I look at Derek. “You know any Michelle Branch?”

He nods. “Sure. ‘All You Wanted’? ‘Are You Happy Now’? ‘Breathe’?”

I thought I’d stumped him. I only know “All You Wanted.” How many guys know three Michelle Branch songs?

I play the first notes, and he jumps in, leaning over and whispering in my ear like he’s telling me a secret. “You take the vocal on this again. Me trying to sing this with you next to me’s plain stupid.”

Melody retreats to the parking meter she was leaning against, and we start in. A couple of quarters land in the case as I give it my all. So far, we’re cleaning up.

The morning wears on, and after a few rough patches, we’re sounding pretty good. My assessment of Derek’s ability the prior day was conservative. He can play a guitar like nobody’s business, and when he opens his mouth, it’s magic.

When we decide to give it a rest after the lunch rush, it’s 1:45, later than I’d mentally decided the cutoff for our experiment would go. Melody wandered off after half an hour, when Derek didn’t follow her every move with his tongue hanging out.

He counts the money while I wipe down Yam, enjoying the sun’s warm afternoon glow on my face.

He turns to me with a disappointed look. My heart stops.

“Well?” I ask.

“Only thirty-six bucks.” His delivery’s like a judge sentencing me to life in prison.

I shake my head, sure I’ve heard wrong. “What?”

“Eighteen dollars apiece, counting this morning’s take. A little more than your usual ten, right?”

I try to keep my mouth from hanging open. “Yeah. I guess. You sure about that?”

He hands me a fistful of coins and a few one-dollar bills. “I can recount it, but I usually get it right the first time.”

I do a quick mental calculation, trying to ignore his look of triumph. Most of the real money will be made in the next four hours. If we’ve gotten this much already…we could end the day with fifty or so dollars apiece. A fortune by my standards and a personal best.

“Maybe we got lucky,” I say, for lack of anything better.

He nods. “Maybe we did. You want to grab a bite while I mind the store, and we’ll see if we can keep the streak going?”

I stand and crack my neck. It’s stiff from sitting with the guitar for hours. “What do you want?”

He smiles, and part of my heart shifts. I swear I can feel it move in my chest. “I’ll eat anything.” He looks me dead in the eyes, and I glance away after an uncomfortable second. Uncomfortable in a good way, but still.

“Be right back.”

As much as I hate to admit it, we sound really good together. Better than good. I can see why anyone who stopped and listened would cough up a few pennies. With one voice, one instrument, it’s limited. With two, it’s lush and full and playful and exciting. It’s everything I could hope for, with cream on top.

As I round the corner to the burrito place I figure I can splurge for, I wonder at how connected our harmonies are, almost effortlessly so. It’s like Derek knows what I’m going to do next, where I’m going to take the note, even when it’s a detour from the melody.

I look down at my faded Chucks, and a part of me questions whether this kind of thing happens all the time. Because it’s never happened to me before. And in spite of all my doubts, I have no question that by the end of the day, I’ll have a new partner.

It’s getting dark at 6:45, and we decide to call it a day. Derek counts the coins and bills while I pack up my gear, and when he’s done tallying, he’s got a smug expression.

“Hundred and eight dollars and forty-six cents.”

“What kind of person tosses a penny into the case? That must have been one of your fans,” I say, but I’m smiling in spite of myself. I’m rich!

“Probably someone that just threw all their loose change in.”

He ferrets in his rucksack and takes out two plastic Ziploc bags. When he fills them with coins and hands me mine, it’s heavy. I heft it.

“What is that, five pounds?”

“About that. I can give you some more bills if you can’t carry it,” Derek offers, a hint of amusement in his tone.

“Don’t go out of your way. I’ll figure it out one way or another.” After spending almost ten hours with him, the nervousness I felt when I first saw him this morning has passed. Although I still sneak a peek at his profile when he’s not looking, trying to find a flaw. The broken nose fits perfectly, and instead of marring his face, gives it a little air of danger. I want to ask him what happened, but I don’t. I actually want to ask him a million questions, but don’t want to seem too eager or give him the impression I’m interested in him or anything. My life’s complicated enough without that.

All day long there were women who stopped and listened, and not many of them spent any time looking at me. It’s obvious that Derek’s got some sizzle, and after about the fiftieth one eyeing him with flirtatious glances, I didn’t even notice that much. At first I felt an unreasonable surge of annoyance, but then it was almost comical. I’ve never seen that kind of mass attraction before, outside of the tamer version of high school football heroes and the airheads that chase them. But this is everything from older women to girls my age or younger.

I slide my coin bag into my backpack. Whatever it is, it’s working for us.

I stop at the thought. Us.

Is there now an
us
? I glance over at Derek, who’s changing the top strings on his guitar, having splurged on a set after I’d returned with our burritos. Today was awesome, but nothing lasts forever. And in my experience, good things come and go in a blink, whereas bad ones linger like fungus.

He seems to sense my mood. “Hey, so you have to admit, it worked pretty well.”

“Do I?” That came out wrong. I try again. “It did work well. I’m sorry. I’m just a little tired.”

He nods. “Where do you go when you’re done for the day?”

I hesitate. Now we’re crossing into personal territory. What do I really know about Derek? He could be some kind of serial killer, for all I know. I mean, unlikely, but my instinct is always to play it close to the chest with any information.

Because knowledge is power, and nobody’s going to get any power over me. Those days are over forever.

“Oh, you know. I’ll grab something to eat and hang out someplace for a while.” Can’t get much more vague than that, I think.

“What’s your favorite food?” he asks as he winds the final string on and turns the tuning key.

Seems harmless to tell him, so I do. “I love Italian.”

His face brightens. “Really? So do I. Might be because I’m part Italian. Yo, Vinnie,” he says, doing a passable Travolta imitation. At least I think it was Travolta. I’m not a big TV watcher, but I seem to remember it from growing up, my mom watching reruns all day long as she drank away her demons. “You want to grab something with me, Sage?”

Every time he says my name, I get the same electric shock of pleasure. I feel silly. I’m behaving like an adolescent with a first crush. Or feeling like one. Outwardly, I give no sign of the thrill his words bring. At least, I sure hope I don’t.

I stare at him for a few beats too long and then shrug. “Sure. Got any place special in mind?” I’m fat with coins, so I can spring for a real meal, as long as it’s a budget restaurant.

“For Italian? Oh, yeah. There’s a great place down in the Mission. They literally put awesome sauce all over the pasta. Mind-blowing food, and right now I could eat a horse.”

Maybe this isn’t a terrible idea. I can sneak in questions over dinner and find out more about him.

“The Mission?” I normally stick to the area around the Haight. It’s familiar, and I know the traps to avoid, especially as it gets later. Parts of the city can get really scary ugly at night, and the Mission is one of them, depending on the area. South of Market’s another. The Tenderloin’s another.

He senses my hesitation. “Don’t worry. I know the streets there pretty well. We’ll be okay.”

Part of me wants to believe him. In fact, part of me warms at the thought of him being protective of me. Not that I need it. His grin is infectious, and I catch a glimpse of him as an eager young boy, just for a second, trying to please, to reassure, afraid of being rejected.

I see a little of myself in that look. Or I should say, of myself from a long, long time ago.

I mull it over as he finishes tuning the guitar and sets it down in the case. “Come on. What do you have to lose?”

I think of my tattoo.

I really don’t have anything to lose by having dinner with the hottest guy I’ve met in forever. I hear Melody’s voice in my head and remember her femme fatale act from that morning, as well as the admiring glances Derek’s collected all day.

But still, I hesitate. I’ve built a hard shell to keep the world out, and this is a small step in the wrong direction.
Or is it
?

Crap.

“Okay,” I agree.

I wish I could take a picture of his expression. Pure happiness, kind of like a puppy with a new toy, which he quickly represses in favor of his usual easy smile. He’s trying so hard to act like my answer didn’t matter, which makes me both happy and sad. Here we are, circling each other like adversaries, like chess players or gladiators. My happiness fades and is replaced by the sadness. It’s a shitty world where you have to constantly be on the defensive, but I didn’t make the rules. And I’ve learned them the hard way. If you don’t let anyone in, you can’t get hurt. Simple.

Derek gathers his bag and guitar case and shoulders the rucksack effortlessly. He peers down the street and motions with his head.

“We can catch the bus a block down.”

He begins walking and then waits for me to catch up. His legs are longer than mine, and I can tell he’s deliberately slowing his pace so I won’t have to struggle.

My mind is whirling as we make our way to the bus stop, trying to frame the questions that have been burning inside me since yesterday. We get to the steel bench, the sign so covered with graffiti it’s indecipherable. Derek glances at the oncoming traffic and checks his watch – a steel Timex on a heavy leather band, very seventies.

We sit in silence for a few minutes, and then he leans into me. “Everything okay?”

I decide the truth might not be the worst approach I can take. “I’m trying to figure out if you’re a serial killer or something.”

His laughter is like bells, genuinely amused. I join him, mine both nervous and relieved.

“How many people do you have to kill to be a serial killer?” he asks. “Is there like a number, or is it vaguer than that?”

“Pretty sure it’s more than one.”

“Oh. Well, huh.”

“That’s not really an answer.”

One corner of his mouth tugs up. “Did you ask a question?”

“Something about killing.”

“That wasn’t a question. It was a statement.” He pauses. “Besides, I could ask you the same question.”

“I wasn’t the one joking about eating my former partner.”

“Oh. Right. Do you think a lot of serial killers joke about it with beautiful girls they just met? Kind of trying to put their best foot forward?”

An involuntary surge of pleasure runs through me. He called me beautiful! Then my inner dialogue kicks in – that cynical voice that keeps it real.
Get over it, already. He’s just flattering you to butter you up before he murders you
.

“For all you know, I could be one.” I give him my most mysterious glare.

We both crack up again. I obviously suck at being a psycho killer.

“Then I think that cancels it out. I mean, you never hear about serial killer A killing serial killer B,” he says.

“Maybe that’s because nobody knew the victims were killers.”

“Good point. How did we get on this topic again?”

“I was explaining that I’m trying to figure out whether you’re dangerous.”