Page 6

Willys of the World

Harrison

I’m full. So fucking full that I can’t stop the groan from escaping me.

A minute later, I’m empty.

Opening my eyes, I watch as Willy, a bespectacled and sweaty college student, rolls onto his side. He adjusts his glasses, which have slid precariously down the bridge of his nose, with his index finger and flashes me a wide smile.

Willy.

What a name. What a man. What a guy with long fingers that can dig deep and a dick that can burrow even deeper.

We matched on a hookup app about a week ago, and true to his profile, he’s every bit the sexual overachiever.

He runs a hand through his damp hair, breathing heavily. “That was…”

“Yeah.”

I stare up at the exposed beams of my loft’s ceiling and try to catch my breath. The sounds of Bushwick’s nightlife seep through the brick walls, mixing with the hum of my ancient refrigerator and the occasional creak of the building’s old pipes.

“You’re something else, Harrison.”

“I know. ”

“I mean, the mouth on you? Damn. Who knew you had that in you?”

“I did. But only when I’m getting drilled.”

Willy’s laugh is a light, tinkling sound that’s almost too delicate for someone who, just moments ago, had been?—

“Can I stay the night?”

Ugh. Why do they always ask this? Every guy wants to stay over, cuddle, and make it more than it needs to be.

My answer is always no. “I have work in the morning.”

His hopeful expression falls.

“We’re hosting a poetry slam tomorrow night,” I explain, even though I don’t have to. “It’s a big deal for my boss.”

A small smile appears on his face as the wheels turn in his head, no doubt calculating his next move. Perhaps if he stays, we can have breakfast together. Then he can walk me to work like a doting boyfriend would.

But we’re not boyfriends. We’re not even friends. We’re a fling, and so my answer is still no.

“I understand.” No, he doesn’t.

Of course, I’m not heartless. “Before you go…” I grab his cock and lower my head, taking him all the way down my throat.

Willy finally leaves, two additional orgasms later. I should be tucking myself in for the longest sleep of my life now, but it’s two in the morning, and I’m wired as fuck.

Turning on the stereo, “Mr. Jones” by Counting Crows fills the room.

I walk over to the wide window that spans the entire wall and peer down at the street below.

A group of hipsters chain-smokes outside of a dive bar.

A food truck dishes out late-night tacos to a line of drunk and hungry patrons.

A couple of police officers sit in a police car, idling beneath a streetlamp.

I’ve always had a soft spot for Bushwick at night. The chaos of the neighborhood takes on a different hue after dark. The murmur of conversations, the clinks of glasses, and the occasional shout all form a soundtrack that makes me feel less alone.

I’ve been living here since I graduated from high school a few years ago. Struggling. Living paycheck to paycheck. Finding fleeting happiness with the Willys of the world.

My phone buzzes on the floor next to the mattress. There’s no bed frame because the instructions were too damn confusing to figure out. I scoop up the phone and glance at the lock screen, even though I already know who’s texting me.

Danielle Nichols, my boss. She’s letting me know when I need to be at work tomorrow because I’ve been late every day for the past two weeks. And even though she’s my best friend, her patience is wearing thin.

I choose to ignore her and hop into the shower. The hot water pounds against my sore muscles, washing away the scent of Willy and the memories of all the other guys that have come before him.

It’s always so easy with them—straightforward, no strings attached—just physical release, and then they’re gone. It’s everything I need to fill the void that’s been expanding inside me since New Year’s Eve. Since that night in the drunk tank.

Since I met…them.

The memory of Charlie and Daniel has been a splinter in my mind, sharp and persistent. Their kisses were a spark of dangerous promise that I’d never experienced before. The suggestion that we all kiss was meant to be a joke, but they took me up on it. Surprising me.

And if I’m not mistaken…surprising them too.

Every time I close my eyes, I feel the ghost of their lips against mine. The taste of cheap beer on my tongue. The heat of their bodies.

The water from my shower runs cold, shocking my skin. I linger for a moment longer, letting the icy cascade numb me before stepping out and dripping onto the concrete floor.

I don’t bother with a towel as I walk out of the bathroom. No one can see me.

No one ever sees me.

It’s not the alarm clock that wakes me up. It’s the buzzing of my phone telling me I have an incoming message.

From Willy. A picture of his hand wrapped around his sizable penis and the words, wish it were you.

Rolling my eyes, I check the time and choke on my tongue. 9:30. Shit.

After running around like a chicken with my head cut off, I fly down the stairs and out into the way-too-bright morning light. Breaking out into a jog, I dodge dog walkers and kids on skateboards.

The subway platform is packed. I squeeze through the crowd right as the train doors close. Of course, my messenger bag gets caught and nearly takes my head off. After yanking it free, I stumble deeper into the car as the train takes off.

My job isn’t the most glorious one in the world, but it pays the bills.

Working as the receptionist/assistant at a small, independent art gallery satisfies my urge for creativity when I can’t be out on the streets, tagging buildings and making bold statements.

Statements that have elitists clutching their pearls and crying for retribution.

As the train lurches along, I end up wedged between a group of college students heading to class at Ashford University. One couple catches my attention.

The guy, with his perfectly coiffed hair and designer clothes, gestures wildly to his girlfriend. “I’m telling you, babe. That graffiti is ruining the aesthetic of the whole neighborhood. It’s a total eyesore.”

The girlfriend, equally put together in her sundress, flats, and oversized sunglasses, shakes her head. “I don’t know, Louie. I think there’s something kind of…powerful about it. That flaming stack of dollar bills is a statement against th e 1 percent.”

I scratch my nose to hide my smirk. If only they knew that the artist is standing right beside them with his messenger bag on the floor, pressed against the guy’s Gucci loafers.

Louie, the boyfriend, scoffs. “Statement? It’s vandalism, plain and simple. And it’s not just a building here or there. I heard it’s all over the Upper East Side.”

My smirk widens into a full-blown grin that I no longer bother to hide. My parents’ world has always been nothing more than one of privilege and excess. A place where art is a commodity to be bought and sold, not revered, and never appreciated.

They think they own their culture and can trade it like stock options. It’s satisfying being able to shake things up. Watching them gape in horror while trying to make sense of something that isn’t up for auction is better than anything I could ever come up with.

It’s almost too easy to get under their skin, my graffiti forcing its way into their carefully curated spaces. My grin stretches even wider as the guy decries that his precious world is under attack.

The girlfriend leans in conspiratorially. “I heard a rumor—not sure how true it is—that the artist is the black sheep of a wealthy family. A real rebel with a cause.”

Louie rolls his eyes. “A rebel with a cause? Try a toddler throwing a tantrum to get his mommy’s and daddy’s attention.”

The hand not currently gripping the metal pole clenches.

What he said hits way too close to home.

As much as I want to tell myself that I’m doing it only to make a point, I am also doing it for the attention.

Granted, I don’t leave my name on any of my artwork, so is it really going to attract my parents’ ire if they have no idea it’s me?

I’ve put up with a lot of shit over the years from them, but they’re still my parents.

They’re supposed to be the two people who’ll love me unconditionally, who I can go to when I need a shoulder to cry on.

But they’re as emotionless as robots. All they care about is how much money they can make, who they can rub elbows with to climb that social ladder up to the heavens.

They have no space in their heart or minds for their son.

And it fucking sucks.

The train screeches to a halt, jostling me forward.

I slam into Louie’s back. He turns, ready to unleash his annoyance, but something in my expression must give him pause.

He swallows the remark on the tip of his tongue and quickly averts his gaze down to my messenger bag at his feet. “I think you dropped this, bud.”

He picks up the bag and hands it over to me. Our fingers touch as I take it from him, but it gives me no pleasure.

With a curt nod, I shoulder my way onto the platform, hustle up the stairs, and make my way to Washington Street.

The gallery’s front window displays gaudy sculptures and paintings from past exhibits. Inside, it’s more of the same. I find my boss moving some of the stuff to the sides to make space for more folding chairs. A podium sits atop a small stage at the back of the room.

“Harrison!” She waves me over. “What do you think? Does the place scream ‘poetry slam’ yet?”

“It’s an art gallery, Danielle. If you want a real poetry slam, find a library.”

She scowls. “Hey! You know I’d much rather have another exhibit. However, this place is barely scraping by, and the organizer was offering a good amount of money to host. Would you rather be out of a job?”

“Of course not. It’s just…”

She sighs and adjusts the cat-eye glasses on her face. “I know. But what can we do? I’m not made of money.”

The silent “but you are” hangs in the air.

Danielle’s known my family history since the day we met.

She’s very in tune with high society despite the fact that she’d never last a day in that world.

She’s a woman in her mid-thirties with wild blonde hair and an even wilder fashion sense—think Betsey Johnson meets your kooky aunt who collects lawn gnomes.

They’d laugh her out of any function she tried to get into .

She also knows I hate it. I hate who I am and where I come from. And even if I wanted to help her, I could never because they hold the purse strings.

Danielle’s eyes soften, and she reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. She must see something on my face to change the subject. “Honey, I worry about you sometimes. You’re always closed off. When was the last time you let someone in?”

I shrug off her touch as the familiar walls rise inside of me. “I don’t need anyone, Danielle. I’m fine on my own.”

“Are you, though?” Her knowing gaze cuts through my defenses. “I don’t think I’ve ever known you to have a boyfriend. Hell, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you date. All you ever do is?—”

“Fuck?”

She flinches and nods. I turn away to fiddle with the giant stack of flyers on the reception desk promoting tonight’s slam. “I don’t do boyfriends. You know that.”

“But why not?” Danielle persists. “You’re a catch, Harrison. You’re talented and handsome, and beneath that James Dean exterior, you have a heart of gold. Any guy would be lucky to have you. Why do you insist on ‘extracurricular activities?’”

I can’t help but snort at that. If only she knew the extent of my extracurricular activities. The illegal graffiti, the constant run-ins with the law. It’s not just a string of one-night stands that leaves me emptier than before. “Trust me, Danielle. No one wants a piece of this mess.”

“Oh, stop it,” she says with a laugh, swatting my arm playfully. “You are not a mess. You’re just…complicated. And there’s nothing wrong with that. Do you think I’m a piece of cake?”

Danielle has a way of seeing the best in people, even when they can’t see it in themselves. It’s why she took a chance on me when I came in with an application that had no prior work experience and no references. It’s also why we’re best friends.

“Seriously, though.” She leans against the desk and fixes me with a determined stare as I sit down in my rolling chair. “ When are you going to bring a nice boy around here? Someone who can appreciate your passion for art and make you happy.”

“Danielle, I don’t want a relationship. Not now, not?—”

“Ever? You expect me to believe that? Everyone’s built for love.”

She says it with such conviction that I almost believe her. Almost.

“Not me.” I shake my head adamantly. “I’ve got too much baggage. Too many issues. I’m better off alone.” Two truths, one lie.

“Well, if that’s how you feel.” She starts to walk away, then shuffles back. “Oh, I almost forgot! I need all of those flyers posted around the block by noon.”

I gape at her. There must be two hundred printed here. And when she says block, I know she really means a ten-mile radius.

“I hate you,” I grumble as I gather my belongings and figure out how I’m going to carry all of this.

“Clearly,” she laughs. “Because it’s like you said…you’re not built for love.”

I hate her even more.