"Well, what would you like to do?"
I groan and cover my face with my hands.
"I don't know. Sleep. Die. Fuck? Kill? I'm a fucking roulette wheel."
In unison:
"Kill?" Heather asks, amused.
"Fuck?" Oswald asks, eyes narrowing.
Precious boy. Trying to figure out his odds.
They're good, he just doesn't know it yet.
The fan is spinning overhead, plastic blades whirring just audibly in a hypnotizing circle against the yellowed ceiling. The mattress is paper-thin, and every spring creaks and stabs into the small of my back when I shift around into a comfortable position.
I could use a good, noisy, cheap-mattress fuck, if Oz's up for it.
"Yes," I say. I shoot a look at Ozzy and cock an eyebrow.
He scowls at me.
"Who would you kill?" Heather asks, glancing over her shoulder. The ancient terminal casts a sickly-blue hue over her skin. Her shoulders remain hunched up, fingers only briefly paused above the keyboard.
"Me," Oz says with a laugh. I wink at him.
"No," Heather says. "Not you..."
She's click-clacking over the keyboard again.
"I'm going out for a smoke," Oz announces suddenly. He motions for me.
"Smoking's bad for you," Heather says.
Oz huffs.
"Heather-"
"Because if I smell it I'll kill you."
Oz sticks his tongue out at her and I can't help but snicker at them.
Closest thing to family, really, even with the new developments between Ozzy and me.
I follow behind Oz as he pushes through the cheap, white-paneled door into the yellow-green light in the stairwell. Cheap cermaic tile on the floor, rough, paneled tiles on the ceiling. We march noisily, footfalls sharp and echoing the cement stairwell, up to the roof. I keep my hand on the metal rail, distracted by the lumpy texture of the black paint.
Oz pushes through the roof exit with a bang and holds the brown-painted metal door open for me.
"Thanks," I say automatically, because it's him.
He grins.
"Need a smoke?" he asks, pulling his own pack out.
I shake my head.
"I'll take a hit of yours."
The packed brown gravel on the rooftop garden crunches softly like unbroken snow beneath our feet as we make our way to the low wall and the hundred foot plunge to Fifth Street.
I like this garden: the city smell, the air, the privacy...
I like Oz, even.
We stop by the low wall, looking down to the traffic below on Fifth Street. The constant movement of unending pedestrians, the cars honking and rushing by, people talking into phones or to each other. Above, blotted out stars never bothered to appear. All the light is down there, on the street, where the noise is.
In between nothing and everything else, that's where Oz and I are.
Oz lights his cigarette and takes a quick, unceremonious drag deep into his lungs. He coughs and spits.
"Gross."
"You'll fuck me anyway," he says.
I scowl at him.
"Maybe not, after that."
He laughs at me, soft and dark.
"Pierre," he chides softly. His voice is so condescending and amused.
He offers me the cigarette.
I take a soft drag, filling my lungs.
I hand it back to him as I blow out.
It goes back into his mouth, where it dangles from his lips.
I watch it for a moment, trailing smoke while he watches the city. He brings his hand up to the cigarette and takes another drag, then plucks it from his lips and rests his hand on the low rooftop wall. His lips make a little 'o' and he blows. The neon light catches the smoke and gives it a red glow.
He meets my gaze.
"What?" he asks with a laugh.
I cock my head to the side and shrug.
He holds his arm out.
I glance at the rooftop door and sidle next to him, under his arm.
He hugs me around the shoulder, then his hand softly grips my arm, massaging it.
I lean my head against his neck.
"Wanna fuck?" he asks.
"You're a poet," I say dryly.
He laughs that dark laugh, like everything is funny, or nothing is.
"But, yeah," I say. "I wanna."
Really bad.
"Where? Heather's going to be at that computer all night."
I shrug.
"I wanted to get railed on that mattress," I admit, crossing my arms. I mimic the sound of squeaky springs.
Oz laughs, genuinely.
"Maybe we can send her out for groceries and pull a quickie while she's gone."
I nod.
"Good plan," I say.
If any of us had money for groceries, anyway.
We watch the city.
My eyes trail a woman in a gray pantsuit, yelling into her phone. Her short blonde hair is pulled in a small ponytail. She looks fucking mad.
"What are you thinking about?" Oz asks.
I shrug.
"I, uh..."
I watch her, yelling, telling someone off.
It's expensive, to have an opinion.
You have to have the money for it.
"I'm just people-watching," I say. I look up at him.
He squeezes my shoulder, like he's comforting me. I smile, despite myself.
Why is Oz so funny?
I look down to the strip club across the street, pink neon signs buzzing, and black painted windows so no one can get a free show.
Candi walks out with a john. She's got this crazy red dress and matching lipstick on. She's teetering around like she's drunk, but half the time, she's just acting. She says if they're handsy when she's drunk, she won't go to the hotel.
"They gotta know consent, Peep," she says. "If they're handsy when they're being watched, they're rapey when they're not."
I don't know if Candi knows my real name, or that Peep is just what Heather and Oz call me. But, then again, I don't know Candi's real name, either.
She plays it close to the chest.
I like her.
"You're killing me," Oz says with a laugh. He sticks the cigarette between his lips, over half-gone, and puts his hand on my chin, forcing me to face him.
"Tell me," he says, and the grip of his fingers subtly tightens around my chin.
A rush of excitement fills my throat..
I suck my lips in and shake my head. His hand stays on my chin. I can feel my heartbeat pick up at his prolonged touch.
"Tell meeeee," he whines, smiling through the cigarette. He shakes my head playfully back and forth, his fingers firmly around my chin. Another squeeze, more demanding.
Fuck.
I cross my arms and feel the blood rushing into my dick.
I shake my head again, trying a coy smile on him, something like girls in movies do.
He smiles back and pulls the cigarette out of his mouth.
"Well, now," he says softly. He eyes me up and down. His hand drops from my chin and his arm wraps around my waist.
I lean against him and lace my hands behind his neck.
I can feel my shirt hike up a little under my jacket, and with Oz's hand on my back, I feel exposed.
Vulnerable.
He extinguishes the cigarette against the low wall and flicks it into the void, to the far street below.
His hand begins sliding back and forth over my lower back. He sticks his pinkie into the waistband of my jeans and, then slips it under my briefs. He moves it back and forth over the little blonde hairs above my ass.
I nuzzle into his neck.
"Right here?" I whisper, half-daring, half-incredulous.
He shakes his head.
"Where then?" I whine.
I don't mean to whine. I'm just turned on all of a sudden. And when it's him it feels urgent. It feels like something I have to do; not something I feel forced to do, or even expected to do. It's something I have to do, like drinking water or breathing. Something that hurts when you need it and can't get it.
He snickers at my childishness.
"Peep," he whispers, condescending.
I meet his gaze.
He leans forward and kisses me.
