Varian Krylov (26 page)
Authors: Hurt
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She just slinked over and curled up beside him on the couch. He kissed the crown of her head, then went on watching. Her face went hot and her core went cold when she saw. Her and Khalid.
“I haven't watched it since . . .”
“Do you want me to turn it off?”
“No.”
Her whole, perfect body swung back and forth in the frame of the camera held out unsteadily at arm's length, Khalid's mouth on her throat, his hands sliding up her belly, her ribs, cupping her breasts, one already scarred. A visceral reaction, a phantom pleasure tingled through her missing breasts as she watched Khalid tongue and bite her nipple.
“The DVD was just there, with the others. I didn't mean to get into your private things.”
A tightness caught her belly. Galen sounded hurt.
”It's OK.”
“This was the day I left?”
“Yes.”
A long silence.
“Galen. I didn't ask you.”
“No.”
“Because you're . . . because of the celebrity thing, I thought you wouldn't want to. Because if the video got out . . .”
“You thought I wouldn't trust you.”
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“I don't know. I just figured you have to be careful about things like that.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn't plan on asking Khalid. It just occurred to me, in the middle of things.”
“And he said 'yes.'”
“Yeah.”
“I'm glad,” he told her, turning to her, smiling with obvious effort. “I'm glad you have that.”
“Do you wish it was you?”
“A little. Yes.”
“I'm sorry I didn't ask you.”
“It's all right,” Galen answered, still sad sounding. “It's good that Khalid did that for you.” In a different voice he added, “The two of you together. You're beautiful.”
“Were.”
* * * *
“You ran over? In this heat?”
Khalid answered with a small smile, gave the usual platonic kisses in greeting, and slipped into the cool shade of the house. The scent of him, the lingering sense of his lips on his skin had Galen taut. Nervous. He stayed at the open front door for a few seconds, letting the Santa Anas and the sun's heat burn off some of his need.
“Is she still asleep?” Khalid asked in a soft voice.
“Yeah. She had a bad night.”
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“And you?”
“Pretty bad, too, I guess.”Galen wondered if he looked as wrecked as he felt.
“Sit down. Let me make you breakfast.”
Smiling that Khalid knew without asking that he hadn't eaten anything in the hours he'd been up, Galen sank down in the armchair he always seemed to choose when he couldn't cuddle up to Vanka on the sofa. Maybe lack of sleep, or maybe the poignancy of the whole situation with Vanka had him emotional this morning, and everything Khalid did touched him—that he made coffee even though he wouldn't drink any himself, that he quietly found everything he needed and cooked the meal without even needing to ask Galen what he'd want.
They ate in the backyard, where they could talk without worrying about waking Vanka, then came in and did the washing up together. Back inside, shoulder to shoulder at the sink, Galen was aware of Khalid's scent again, the nakedness of Khalid's sinewy back. His lightly muscled chest and abs were unsettling, and his want was nagging him painfully. But nothing would happen, here. He actually sighed out loud, relieved, when the doorbell rang.
Khalid noiselessly dashed to the door and opened it. The silence after seemed oddly long, and then Galen heard Khalid politely saying, “Yes? Can I help you?”
Something about the tone of the male voice at it said, “Is Vanka here?” made Galen step into the living room where he could see the visitor. A twenty-something Ben Affleck type, his T-shirt too tight, his face already set in an expression of possessive indignation at finding Khalid, so beautiful and so half-dressed answering Vanka's door.
David, no doubt.
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“She is, but she's asleep,” Khalid answered in his serene way, his voice lowered to prompt the guest to be quiet, too, for Vanka's sake.
“That's too fucking bad,” the man on the porch replied, not raising his voice, but lacing it with menace.
The man hadn't so much as glanced at Galen, and it occurred to him that he was nearly invisible, standing right in the middle of that dim room. Lover's pride almost made him wish the guy on the porch would pull something, just so he could see the man's shock when he found out how much stronger Khalid was than his slight build gave away. But of course Khalid would never let things go that way.
“I'm Khalid,” he said, his gentle voice unchanged by the other's rudeness. Khalid reached out and offered the man his hand.
“David,” the other answered tersely, shaking Khalid's hand perfunctorily.
“David, of course.” Galen could hear the warm smile in Khalid's voice. “Please, come in.”
Khalid stepped aside and David entered, looking more awkward than belligerent, now.
“This is Galen.”
Even more unsettled at finding another man in Vanka's living room, one who'd stood in plain sight but had gone unnoticed, David shook Galen's hand. The usual look of startled recognition flickered over David's face, but there was enough going on, he didn't pursue it.
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“David,” Khalid said, keeping his voice soft. “I'll go and tell Vanka you're here.
First, though, there's something you should know. She's all right, but she's had an operation.”
“Operation? What operation?” Things were really stacking up too fast for David.
“I'll let Vanka tell you about it. Only, the incision, you can't embrace her.
Understand?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I understand.” Now David's voice was quiet. And then something made him turn and in his new-found, quiet voice he said, “Christ, Vanka.”
She'd come half way down the hall and was standing there in shorts and her big, baggy hoodie, despite the nintey-plus degrees. For a second Galen saw her as David must have seen her. Tired. Thin. Weak.
Sick.
“Hi, David.”
“What the hell is going on?” David asked, sounding more exasperated than aggressive. Vanka opened her mouth to say something, but David didn't give her the chance. “Fuck, Vanka, you don't answer my calls; you're never home; I finally track you down here, and the place looks and smells like a goddamned opium den.”
Galen guessed it was the weed and Khalid's naked torso that, in David's world view, made this tidy, cozy little house warrant the opium den label.
“And jesus, look at you. What kind of trouble are you in, Vanka? Everyone's worried to fucking death, and it's not—“
“David.” Vanka's voice was quiet, but she delivered his name with a note of finality, and David went silent. Then, her voice gentle, she said, “I'm sorry you've been 249
worried.” She stepped forward and touched his hand. “Come on. Let's go outside, and I'll tell you everything.”
Galen and Khalid went back to washing the dishes, Galen half glad and half not that the running water and clattering of the dishes made it impossible to hear their conversation. Whatever kept pulling his attention back to the garden wasn't jealousy.
More like a certainty that whatever was being said would reveal something of Vanka to him. She was so open, so artless in some ways but had a knack for slamming the doors she didn't want crossed. Ashamed to let Khalid catch him watching, Galen made a heroic effort to keep his eyes on the task at hand. But as he was opening a cupboard and putting away the coffee mugs, he glanced outside, and David was on his knees at Vanka's feet, his face buried in her lap, his back convulsing.
* * * *
If it was possible, Khalid was even more beautiful, sheathed in the sun's light.
Vanka took a chair in the shade of the big olive tree's pale limbs and silvered leaves.
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“Galen had a meeting downtown,” Khalid told her, not squinting, but keeping his eyes closed against the sun, except a sliver of white and gold behind the shade of his long dark lashes.
“Khalid. That afternoon, after Galen left for Chile.”
“Mmmm?” he practically purred, that throaty sound driving a thrill and then a punishing little sting through her almost simultaneously.
“You said Galen would be happy, us together like that.”
“Yes.”
“He didn't seem too happy when he saw the video.”
There was a long pause before Khalid asked, “You showed him?”
“He found it.”
“He was angry?”
“Not angry. Sad, I think. I don't know. He just seemed weird.”
Khalid was still and quiet for a long time.
“Vanka,” he finally said, “do you remember, you asked me that day, why did I agree to fuck you for Galen?”
”Yes.”
“I told you then, I was eager to do something he asked, because he had almost never asked anything of me, as a lover.”
“Yes.”
“Only one other time, he asked something of me. It was I think two years ago, Galen asked me to let him film me. It was very hard for him to ask, I think. His face and his voice showed that it was hard for him, and I understood why. And it was the first 251
time, in some ways, the only time, he spoke to me, asked something of me, as a lover.
And I refused.”
A little twinge grabbed at Vanka's gut. Khalid, so in love with Galen, had told him
” no.” And he'd said “yes” to her.
“Why?”
“It's another of my long stories,” he said.
She just looked at him, wanting to know.
“I left Algeria, left my family, very young. Fourteen. My two older brothers both had been killed in the civil war, and my mother could think of nothing but getting me out of our country, away to some safe place.
“My father had some connections in Paris; he'd had his education there, and had worked there in his early twenties. He managed to arrange a visa for me. So I went.”
“Alone?”
“Alone. There was some idea I would go to live with some friend of a cousin of mine, but no one had been able to reach him, beforehand, and when I arrived in Paris, he did not live any more at the address I had for him.
“It's a usual story, for boys and girls like me. I had only a little money, I knew no one. I was afraid that soon I would not have enough money to eat, so I slept on the street so I would not spend what I had to rent a room. Even so, the money went too quickly. I tried every day to find some work, but there were more people than jobs. Older people than me, French people, had no job. Nobody would hire me. A few times some kind person would give me some little job to do for a little money, but it was impossible to make enough to live on, like that. And I did not want to beg.
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“Every day, every night, I watched the boys on a certain street, leaning against walls, smoking cigarettes, waiting for the cars. Men would stop at the curb and call out to one of the boys, and he would get into the car, and the car would drive off.
“I understood what this was. At first the idea frightened me. Already I knew I wanted to fuck men, even though I had no experience—not with boys or girls, except for little, childish things. So it was not as hard for me as it must have been for some of the boys. But intuitively I felt that I would be weak, and the man in the car would be strong.
But the less money I had in my pocket, the less that danger seemed. And in truth, even the danger had some appeal for me. As a boy, dangerous things always excited me. It was one reason my mother was so anxious to send me away, away from that place where many factions would eagerly give a boy a weapon and take him into war.
“So, for a while I watched. And then, one day, I went and talked to one of the boys. He told me how it worked, how much to ask for. And then I joined the line.
“I was very popular. My first week, I made more money than my parents had given me to live on. I rented a small room, but I needed very little money. The other boys all smoked and drank and did drugs, but I never wanted to do those things. I thought I could survive by working only one or two nights each week, or maybe one week each month. The rest of the time I could write, as I had always wanted.
“But then I had an idea I could earn enough money to bring my father and mother over, and even to help support them there in Paris. And so I worked every night, and lived and ate as cheaply as I could, to save the most money as fast as possible.
“One of my customers was a man named Michele. Always he chose me from the line, never another boy. Most of the boys had one or two like that, men who only wanted 253
them and no one else. The first few times it was just sex, something quick, there in his car. Then he began to take me to hotels, to keep me the entire night. He began to ask me about my other clients. He wanted to know everything—what the men looked like, how they dressed, did I like any of them more than the others. He would ask me what these other men would have me do, and make me say everything in a lot of detail, always asking what I liked, what I did not like. More and more he was jealous, and certain men he did not want me to go with anymore. Finally, he said he would pay me twice what I made if I would give up the line and have sex only with him.
“I agreed to this arrangement, mostly because it meant I would have enough money to get my parents out of Algeria sooner than if I kept to the line. And it also was safer. Michele I knew. But getting into the cars of strange men every night, always there was a chance something very bad would happen.
“In the beginning things seemed very good. I was happy not to be in the line every night, cold, afraid of the police, afraid of the customers. I had time to write. And soon Michele moved me into a small apartment in a better neighborhood, because he was disgusted by the poverty in the building where I'd had my little room. So now he not only gave me more cash than what I had made before, but also my rent was free. He even began to make some inquiries, seeing about arranging to get my parents into France.
