Anton and Daniel 7

Puerto Vallarta

April 11, 2018

“¡Jodelos, hombre!” The young man laughs companionably. Moving about Tyrone Casey’s gathering, the Puerto Vallarta local had been positively unobtrusive. “Mierda, you slammed that gili puertas. ¡Qué cabron! What did he say to you?”

Sergio Ochoa took the opportunity to leave when the tetchy puta hit the man feeling him up at the table. Sergio had been paid, the catering food was all laid out for the hungry, they would drown in the booze the rich host was providing. His polla had been aspirado seco, but nobody was tipping him for the blowjobs. “Jodelos!” Sergio repeats companionably.

The young waiter pulls out his phone. 9:06, still early. He was expected to stay until 11:00, who cares? It was hardly a job he needed. The host and all his many comings and goings would never notice. Housekeeping cleaned up anyway. It was still early, and the young prostitute Sergio was with was interesting. Sergio decided to stick with English.

“I’m Sergio, what’s your name? Where are we going?”

There was a generic ringtone from Fourteen’s phone. He ignored it. Whatever anger Beckett Calibaba had generated with his whispered banter was evaporating in the night air like the perspiration generated by his tangle with Gareon Brantley and Malachi Hooker. The punch was spontaneous. Fourteen left largely because he simply did not want to deal with explanations.

The call could only be from a worried Anton Schroeder. His new companion stopped beside him as Fourteen pulled his phone free. Sergio is showing me around town, chill, he answered. The excitement of the night was still burning through Fourteen’s veins like a heavy techno beat. “Hey, can you show me the pier?” Fourteen asks Sergio.

“Sure, man.”

Another alert from his phone. “Everything is alright?” Anton wants to know. Fourteen starts walking toward the marina where Sirocco is berthed. He taps out a few more replies. Anton is pretty cool. No mention of the punch that set the groper back on his heels. It felt good, connecting with his cheek. Fourteen does not need Anton worrying. Fourteen handled it, now it was done.

“I need my wallet,” Fourteen finally replies to Sergio’s question. “I’m Fourteen, just un apodo tonto.” The habit of concealing his real name persists.

It looks to Sergio as if Fourteen is staying at the Flamingo Vallarta Hotel & Marina. Instead, Fourteen makes him wait beside the limp American flag welcoming tourists to the facility. The young American strolls out to a big sailboat. Sergio runs through his phone apps while he waits. Perhaps the American is not a prostitute. Young and old men at a hotel party, who could tell?

“Is that your boat?” Sergio asks when Fourteen strides back to him. It is not. Fourteen is just a poor boy crewing for some rich man. He likes the men, Sergio noticed. Sergio likes the money. The men on their knees are welcome to his man-milk. He would fuck this boy too, if it was worth his effort. Maybe just for fun, Sergio admits to himself.

How much cash is Fourteen carrying? Sergio wonders. “It’s a long way to the pier. What do you say, Uber, rent some bikes, a bus? On bikes, we could get around.” His own bike is chained in the hotel parking lot. Sergio could avoid the hassle of returning for it.

Fourteen absorbs the darkness and feels an unexpected aversion. The night air is heavy, but not with the ozone-ominous approach of a Midwest summer torrent. It is tropical-ocean-rich like a night on the water. “No, I don’t ride.” This comes out flat.

They settle on a ride-share. Sergio hails the ride as they loiter on the road. Another app to add, Fourteen muses with his Galaxy phone. There is only so much he can do without a credit card. Levi Fisher never thought of that. “I can pay you back,” Fourteen offers. Right now, he is getting by on cash and gift cards. Anton might cover the credit. Something to negotiate, Fourteen decides. PayPal, I need to set up PayPal before we leave.

Up the palm-lined boulevard of Av. Francisco Medina Ascencio toward the tourist Mecca of the Malecon. Sergio talks about his town. “I’m from La Estancia. The city here is growing like crazy. Nothing to do in La Estancia, but here there is opportunity.” Sergio is twenty, the youth beside him looks far younger.

Across the harbor leading back to the marina, Fourteen can see the twinkle-towers of oceanfront high-rises. Sergio points out the towering cruise ships. “They pour off the fucking things and swarm the city. So much money to be made.”

Sergio switches back to Spanish, as if Fourteen is some inland boy fresh in the port. “They disembark right across the way. It is amazing, like lemmings all of the people streaming off the cruise ship and heading into the Walmart.”

“Por qué?” Fourteen asks.

“I don’t know!” Sergio shakes his head. “Can you imagine, taking a cruise, landing in beautiful Puerto Vallarta with so many interesting places to see and things to do and the first thing on your agenda is to head to a Walmart?”

Tourists do eventually make it into downtown Puerto Vallarta on one of the large buses that pick them up at the ship. “They buy overpriced jewelry and eat at Senor Frog's, to complete their Mexican experience. Their Mexican experience,” Sergio sneers. “These people take their cruises and go home and tell their friends that they have actually visited Puerto Vallarta!”

Fourteen can see more density approaching. They are still hugging the coast. His dad wanted to skip the Florida routine of visiting Aunt Anita in Key Biscayne. The Gates family trio might be those disembarking tourists his companion sneers at. Jeremy was nine. He would want to pick up some beach toys at a familiar-comfortable Walmart.

Well, I’m not nine years old! He is Fourteen, checking out the nightlife with this young local. Rafael Martinez in Topolobampo showing him Los Mochis; Sergio is like that. When he gets back on Sirocco, Fourteen can tell his father he really visited Puerto Vallarta. Hard to tell them anything, right now. Maybe someday he can share this though. Fourteen clings to the memory of hearing his mom’s and dad’s voices in San Diego.

Fourteen’s travelling companion nudges his shoulder. “I think it is just a matter of time until a cruise line outfits a ship with a Walmart’s, an overpriced jewelry store and a Senor Frog's.” Sergio pokes the Uber driver next. He wants to share the thought with a local who would understand. “That way it could just load up, move offshore a bit, and park there for a week. The tourists would be happy. Hell, they probably wouldn't know the difference.” The driver tosses her head to acknowledge the comment.

“Ah but then we would not make money,” Sergio admits.

The ride-share drops them off the Malecon by a block or two. It is a narrow one-way street of weathered cobble stones. Authentic cobbles that bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. You are in Disneyland, Anton corrected Fourteen as they approached Tyrone Casey’s exclusive Casa Velas boutique cabana for the gathering. This is not Walmart-chain familiar territory.

Or perhaps it is. Fourteen takes in the spot Sergio has dropped them: ATM, the yellow and red of a Burger King. Just down the block, Fourteen can see a Subway. Multinationals, sure, but perhaps Topolobampo with Rafael was less Disneyland-friendly than this. Fourteen recalls a mouthwatering snack at Rafael’s family restaurant.

“Are you hungry? I’m hungry.”

They do not sit down. Fourteen (not hungry) buys Sergio a Whopper. Sergio takes it back onto the street and the young man eats it as they walk the photogenic streets running along and up Puerto Vallarta’s mountain slopes. “Let me take your picture,” Sergio insists; with Fourteen’s phone. It is a shadowed image of Fourteen leaning into a brick wall, guayabera shirt white over his rust-spandex muscle shirt: tangerine in darkness, eyes bobcat-glittering.

They walk up a hillside of concrete steps along old buildings with dressed fieldstone foundations. After the open-ocean freedom of Sirocco, Fourteen feels claustrophobic amongst the vegetation-rich whitewash of old apartments with their small potted-plant balconies. It is a moment when Fourteen might like the security of the lost Beretta Nano tucked into the small of his back. Twice bitten … the gun had utility.

Best at the bottom of the bay. Too easy to John Cannon your way out of tight places. That way lies perdition. Live by the gun, die by the gun, Fourteen tries not to think about John Cannon overmuch. 70mm of Damascus steel with a clip point profile and a stag horn handle is tucked into his pants pocket: Levi-Evil Fisher’s Japanese Hikari folding knife. Slash, jab, that is really all Fourteen understands about knives. Boy Scouts was about blade safety, not street fighting.

Two girls pass them on the narrow street. They both have matching hoops in their ears and long straight hair pulled back into a bun. Some reflected light reveals a blue face tattooed on one forearm. (Fucking) Cordell memories disturb Fourteen’s ebullient mood. One has a blue-white swimsuit top. A patent leather-plastic fanny pack hangs loosely over her pale pink skirt.

The two young girls look back to speculate on Fourteen and his companion. The second girl is the extra one. She has cherry lips. Her T-shirt declaims You are awesome across her young breasts. Her skirt is gold lamé. It glitters-wrinkled even in the dark street.

“Let’s go down to the pier area,” Fourteen suggests. There is no evil vibe. It is just walking the unfamiliar city is a bit too (fucking) Cordell Faulkner ending in a (sexy biker) rape for Fourteen. He is fresh-fucked and satisfied by Malachi and Gareon, not wanting to stumble into unwelcome Latino-Elvis trouble. They start down the long cascade of steps.

“Hey, you want a mamada, man?”

Why not? Fourteen responds by pushing Sergio against the rough, vine-shadowed foundation. Maybe this was not what the waiter had in mind, but Fourteen wants to taste Mexico tonight.

Fourteen swivels his neck left and right while Sergio is in his mouth. He lets the sweet sensation of his mouth swirl around the sweet-sensation cock. He does the young man shallow throat, pressing the tip of his tongue to the roof of his mouth to protect the back of his throat. When Sergio’s glans hits the back of Fourteen’s tongue, it gives Sergio a feeling similar to when a man deep-throats him.

“¡Qué te den por culo!” Sergio snaps at a couple moving past them on the stairs. “Oh yes,” he encourages Fourteen.

Fourteen sticks out his tongue. Then holds still as he takes Sergio’s cock at the base and quickly shakes it from side to side so that the sensitive corona slides against his tongue with firm pressure. The intense motion on this most sensitive part of the young man’s cock brings him to a sudden orgasm. Fourteen catches the jets in his open mouth.

“La hostia,” Sergio Ochoa grunts. Fourteen licks him clean with the rasp of his tongue. It might have gone the other way. Sergio did not really expect a blowjob on the street. The boy is like a wild animal. He saw him at the old man’s party. Fourteen strops up Sergio’s body and takes a kiss from the young man’s lips.

The pair move on down the steps until the broad Malecon opens up before them. Sergio nudges Fourteen to follow him. They come to a halt at Senor Frog’s. “It is so stupid.” The Mexican youth shakes his head. The open bar sits on a corner of the pier-promenade. Fourteen can see a Starbucks nearby. It makes him think of free wifi. Sergio wants him to look inside the cluttered-garish restaurant.

At first, all Fourteen notices are the heavy wooden chairs supporting overweight Americans. A hanging sign promises orange-on-black, it is Foam Party every Tuesday. Below the sign, a faded Great White rises up the wooden boards to bite it. Sergio points. Fourteen notices the scuffed black bar stools with their kinky butt-shaped seats decorated as bright bikini bottoms. Fourteen laughs loudly, with the taste of yeasty Mexico on his tongue.

Fourteen’s phone says just after 10:00. Tyrone Casey’s bacchanal is likely to be festive until dawn or drop. He hardly expects to see Anton back on Sirocco before noon. Fourteen takes in the nighttime energy around Senor Frog’s. There is every chance he might see Anton and his friends cruising the Malecon before too long. Tyrone and Anton by themselves, two giddy-predatory Peter-Pan-Millennials hunting cock. Fourteen has all night.

Sergio and Fourteen have started walking. “So, is this the Zona Romantica, Old Town?” he asks Sergio.

“Old Town is further south, still,” Sergio replies. “You’re interested in that?”

Sergio has wondered about the American youth. First thought, a prostitute flown south like the two gridiron players the party host brought with him. Fourteen says he is live-aboard with the man who sucked Sergio’s cock in the kitchen. Sergio understands this lifestyle. The sailboats bring a different sort of tourist to Puerto Vallarta, Sergio tries to understand them all. Not much different than a prostitute, he tells himself. There is no judgment in him. We all get by. Sergio likes women, does men. He is not sure about the very young man beside him.

“Puerto Vallarta is home to una tonelada de bares gay and clubs de baile. Mostly in the southern end. Are you looking for more gaycation, Fourteen?” Sergio nudges Fourteen.

“Are you from Puerto Vallarta? Is this your home town?” Fourteen asks.

“No, this is just where it is happening for me,” Sergio replies.

“So what do you do? How do you get by?” Fourteen persists. Imagine if Anton beached him in this tourist town. How would he manage? After the debacle with Rafael and Raul in Topolobampo, Fourteen has to consider this. We’ll decide in Puerto Vallarta, Anton told him in San Diego at the start. Well, Fourteen is in Puerto Vallarta now, what next?

“Come sit with me.” Fourteen’s question is not so unexpected. These live-aboards, they sometimes stay. People fly into Puerto Vallarta from their snow-choked lives, see the tropical excitement of it all, and want to stay. The rich ones buy condos on the beach. The rest, get by. The young men settle on a bench where they can perch. “You are a foreigner, but there are ways to get by, jobs to pick up here and there. You are good looking. That helps.”

Sergio plucks Fourteen’s shirt. “Look there.”

Two men at some distance, standing posed together. Both have carefully blown-combed faux hawks clipped tight against their ears. The flash of bright yellow draws Fourteen’s eyes to the sculpture of the young man’s torso. The canary singlet shows off the strong neck and bulging biceps. He has a handsome symmetrical face defined by the length of his nose and easy smile. The other one stands partly shielded by his companion. The spread of white teeth match his half-open shirt. The fabric stretches tight with every flex of his body.

“Eh, they are working. You know what I mean?”

Fourteen nods. “And them?” he asks pointing to three women of varying ages.

“Of course!”

The trio’s faces are unique: waiting, bored, and smiling. Two nibble on street food. One is pensively looking about, the other is completely absorbed in her dark pastry. They are all the same, despite their shape and age. They share black tops and pleated schoolgirl skirts that brush the middle of their thighs. A groping hand’s width of bare flesh and then there are long white stockings starting above their knees, condom-sheathing their legs down to matching patent leather shoes. Even a novice like Fourteen understands they are dressed for entertainment.

“When I get the money, I want to go to college. Vizcaya maybe. So I work here and there like everyone else. The waiting you saw me doing. I am a good tour guide. The tourists always want a local guide. I’m good looking too.” Sergio grins at Fourteen, who blushes his reply. “Tomorrow we could hike from Boca de Tomatlan to Las Animas Beach. I could take you bike riding.”

Puerto Vallarta is safe, beyond the minor frustrations and petty crimes, like bag snatching or pickpocketing. “Americans expect the so-called "drug war." That is happening along the US-Mexico border. Apparently, someone in Tijuana gets stabbed every 52 seconds; poor bastard.” Sergio laughs at his own joke.

“Still, the cruise passengers worry. They like to have someone with them. I got a job once with this cruise-sponsored jungle tour. This fat old man and his friend were looking for something not on the itinerary. You get what I mean? I took them walking on an unauthorized side trail through the jungle well outside of the city at 5:00 p.m., well past the time when these excursions are supposed to run.” Sergio shrugs his shoulders. “This gunman mugs us. Nobody was hurt, the old men returned safely.”

Sergio takes out his phone and checks it. “This happens everywhere. Do people get mugged in your hometown, Fourteen? Just BAM! Entiendes de lo que estoy hablando?”

Fourteen has been watching the crowd as Sergio tells his story. “He estado allí, hecho eso, compré la camiseta,” he replies, not wanting to think of the August rain coming down as he was punched-shoved into Patrick’s Bronco in Chillicothe. “So what? You just stand there and wait for someone to pick you up?” Fourteen is imagining himself starving in Puerto Vallarta, desperately leaning against a graffiti-covered wall, ready to sell his body. Just like the three women.

“Prostitution is legal in Mexico. A lot of guys use social apps or Craigslist to advertise their services.” Sergio slides a little closer to Fourteen and points to his phone. “I use Craigslist myself. That party tonight? I have a friend at the hotel who gets me jobs. I make friends on cruise lines. They send me a message when they find someone who wants a special tour of Mexico. Just a word of advice, let a friend know when you’re going to meet. Sometimes they are bastardos.”

Sergio leers at Fourteen. “I like the older women. Do you like women, Fourteen?”

“Not really,” recalling Sophie riding his burning cock with the long black strap-on vibrating in his face.

“Well, lucky for you, this is gay heaven.” Sergio points toward the young men, but they have moved on to somewhere else. “Look,” Sergio’s phone app announces he has business to attend to if he likes. He shrugs at the invitation.

“Cruising is common, of course, and Puerto Vallarta isn’t shy about it.” The two youths perched on the bench are in the middle of it all. “The fun typically starts once the sun goes down. Walk beyond Playa Los Muertos to Playa Conchas Chinas and you’ll find guys looking to tap toca tu culo apretado. Plenty of action for a mandarina mojada like you. You’ll go home with money stuffed in your pocket and the memory of all that cock stuffed up your ass.

“Let’s walk.” Sergio points out a group of six in equal numbers laughing together. The bright white top of one girl Fourteen’s own age draws his eyes to her pretty face. An almost-couple in matching purple and black stand close. The boy’s T-shirt falls gracefully like a tabard from his shoulders. It is blazoned with an array of pure white fleur-de-lis. The star-flower field lies brilliant across the purple and black tie-dye. Fourteen’s eyes are drawn away to the handsome one in blue surveying the busy pier. Sergio knew Fourteen would spot him. “I know that one. He is on Craigslist too.”

Sergio takes Fourteen to a bar located in the Mall Vallarta at the end of the Malecon and up one block, it is 10:20 p.m. They are still putting the finishing touches on the place. It is a second-story bar and you get to it by taking an escalator from the street.

Fourteen feels very out of place in the near-empty bar. There are half a dozen wooden bar-chairs. Behind the bar hang two wooden cabinets with wrought-iron hinges. There is a television at each end, separated by mirrors. It hasn't been set up yet so there were no bottles on display. There is a DJ booth in one corner with windows on either side that look out on the Malecon and the bay. From the music being played it looks like it will have either a disco or techno flavor to it.

Sergio has come to meet an older man sitting at the bar. Fourteen wants no part of this Craigslist transaction. His evening with the Mexican waiter feels a bit disturbing. There is something very ugly-sad about this kind of street life now. While Sergio takes a drink of sparkling water, Fourteen moves to a wrap-around balcony with large glass windows and French doors.

The color scheme is light-orange (top) and dark-orange (bottom) painted plaster walls with a dark green band separating the two colors. The ceiling above the bar and the area immediately behind the bar-chairs is lower than the ceiling in the rest of the place and is painted a sea-green and has recessed spot-lighting. The rest of the place has a much higher ceiling with beehive lights and ceiling fans. The floor is large marble squares separated by stones inlaid in cement. Lots of small round wooden-topped tables sitting on metal poles with high wooden chairs.

You’re not completely useless, you can always serve as a bad example. Fourteen would rather concentrate on all this than watch Sergio prophesy Jeremy Gates’ after like the ghost of future-desperation. Sirocco takes him to Antigua because Levi Fisher sends him there with a passport and vague reference to some Great Expectations investment. This is Fourteen’s now, but the truth is, he has no sense of what waits for him in Antigua.

Sergio and the man have left the bar stools. Fourteen catches sight of them slipping into the bathroom near the kitchen door. Something compels Fourteen to follow them. The bartender glances his way as he leans against the door jamb. Fourteen meets his glance, but his mind is on the noises coming through the door. A hot blond orders a double entendre at the bar, Fourteen thinks, the bartender gave it to him. This is that sort of place. Even Anton would tell him to get the hell out of here.

He cannot quite make it out, talking mostly. Angry reverberations coming from his companion. Fourteen needs to know. He pushes through the door and catches the back sides of Sergio with his Craigslist date. “Eres un pedazo de mierda sin valor.  Quieres mi polla, ¿no?  Ruega por eso, maricón.  Dime cuánto necesitas mi polla en tu coño.”

The older man’s pants are about his ankles and he is flopped over the sink, clutching it for support. Pale cheeks jiggling as Sergio thrusts angrily into him. There are soft sobs and choking noises coming from the man. Sergio has barely opened his pants.

Fourteen listens as the Mexican waiter repeats it all in English for the benefit of his tourist fuck-date. “You worthless piece of shit. You want my cock, don’t you? Beg for it, faggot. Tell me how much you need my dick up your pussy.” It is all very violent in a way that seems divorced from the friendly nipping and cuffing he enjoyed with Malachi and Gareon. Sexy-clean while what he is watching seems San-Diego-dirty. This is what he is running from and it is horrifying, because Fourteen realizes this bathroom assignation could all too easily be his next after. Sergio has settled into a broken rhythm that pounds his manhood deep into the tourist’s rectum. “You will clean my cock when I am done with you.”

“Yes, yes!” the man gasps.

Fourteen turns away, nauseated. Without hesitation, he walks away from Sergio and the scene in the bar bathroom. Back on the Malecon, the ocean breeze scrubs his mind, but the after-image of this latest now clings to him like a diseased carcass. I don’t know what I’m doing, Fourteen realizes. He should not have left the friendly party. He wants the security-solitude of Sirocco. He needs something to anchor him to a world he can accept. Fourteen heads north toward the comprehensibility of Anton and Daniel.

He will have to pay cash for a ride back to the marina. You need to set up PayPal, he reminds himself. Standing along the busy street trying to flag down a ride, he hears some female voices calling out behind him. Fourteen ignores it and begins to walk down the street. When he gets halfway down the block, one of the girls is right there beside him. The other, behind him.

“Hey where are you going?” she asks him. Fourteen keeps walking. Then she says, “How about we have a little sexy sexy and you can give me a present?”

“I’m not looking for sex, just a ride,” Fourteen thanks her. He speeds up his pace.

Then again, about halfway down the block the same prostitute is right alongside Fourteen again. She asks him again if he would trade a little sexy sexy for a gift, and this time she decides to reach down and grab Fourteen’s crotch, through his new pants, and again the same offer.

Fourteen is getting a little mad, and a little nervous. First, there is the fact she is grabbing and rubbing his crotch, but the second member of this prostitute tag team is trailing menacingly behind. When Fourteen glances back, he can see her eyes darting from side to side almost as if she is expecting somebody else to join in.

As they all walk along the sidewalk, Fourteen pushes her hand away and tries to tell her kindly to back off. “¡No me interesa! I’m freaking gay,” he adds to put her off.

She laughs, “It doesn’t matter that you are gay.”

Fourteen quickens his pace and finally, his frantic waving catches someone’s eye. The car pulls to a stop and Fourteen jogs down to meet it. He will suck somebody’s cock if it gets him up the road and back to Anton’s ketch. The ladies of the night keep walking by. Just a little unsettling, but a warning to Fourteen what his life could become if he is not careful. Jeremy Gates is so tired of walking all alone.

April 12, 2018

Chillicothe Ohio

12:15 A.M. Eastern Daylight Time

He has a test first thing tomorrow and he's not really confident it's going to go well.  

Y did I have 2 take Algebra 1st period? was the last thing he texted to Shay before, hey gtg need sleep.  

So, he is solidly under and drooling a little on his left biceps when his phone vibrates insistently against the nightstand an hour later.

“What the fuck? Who’s the fuck -- it's midnight?” He sees the time on the clock face^[a][b]; groggily rubs his eyes, grabs the phone from the table by his bed.

A strange number, an 858 – normally he'd think it was some spammer, but not at this hour. He's curious and still more than half asleep.

“Hello...?” Still sleepy, he lays his head down on the pillow and lets himself drift for a moment.

“Wade is that – Wade …?” The voice is very quiet.

“Yeah, who's this?”

“Are you alone?”

Huh? The teenager is finally starting to awaken, and slowly realizing there is something really off about this call.

“What -- yeah I'm alone who is this!?”

Being a teenager, he instinctively keeps his voice down so he won't wake up his parents. He doesn't need the lecture about people calling this late, plus something in his back brain is telling him this needs to be private.

“If you recognize my voice don't say my name!”

“Fuck--? Wait talk again,” Wade is still a little sleepy-slow.

“You want to talk about the time we stole Ms. Porczynski's lunch in 7th grade?”

It takes him a minute. There are only three other people who even know that story, and he realizes it's not either of the other two in Chillicothe.

Now Wade is awake. “Wh-a-a-at...is it really you?”

“Yeah. It's really me, I need your help, Wade. I'm in bad trouble and I need your help.”

“Jer-- dude... I … where the fuck are you??”

“I can't tell you that, and for god's sake don't say my name, Wade! I'm in way too much trouble...”

“Fuck yeah, you are dude, oh man...everyone in town was talking about you, you can't even imagine! Hell we thought you were dead, dude!!”

Wade is all of a sudden WAY awake. His heart is racing. He knows who this is and he knows there's got to be some serious shit behind this call.

“Okay man, I'm awake now, I won't say anything at all like that. What do you need from me?”  Teenage loyalty to his childhood friend is suddenly to the fore.

“I need you to go to the house on Mill Street and give your phone to the people there.”

Christ he's all 007 isn't he?

“Ah man, it's after midnight I gotta sneak out of the house.”

“I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important. You got your bike in the garage?”

“Man, I can just jog it faster than trying to get the bike out without waking the rents. Besides, since you disappeared, no kid rides a bike after dark, man. Parents go apeshit thinking their kids are gonna get snatched.” Wade catches his breath. “I'm in shape now and I’ve been running cross-country this year.”

The mundane mention of school sports suddenly reminds the boy on the line of how much he has already missed; how much Jeremy Gates is missing his old life, of how very much his circumstances have changed. Fourteen looks around the salon of Anton’s ketch. He came back from the pier to find security here. Suddenly, Fourteen wishes … Oh god I want to go home...

Fourteen closes his eyes and pulls himself together. “Okay, but hurry please, man. I need to talk to them without anybody knowing.”

Wade is up, grabbing sweats off the floor. His heart is pounding already with excitement. He slips on his old socks and shoves his feet into his running shoes, ignoring the stink. Wade starts to put on an Ohio State hoodie, thinks better of it. Red is too prominent for sneaking around this late. He grabs a black one from his closet, shoves his wallet in his pocket. Then he thinks to hook up to his Bluetooth earbuds so he can talk without holding the phone. Jeremy Gates gets put into his other pocket.

“Okay, I'm out the window man,” Wade explains as he slides the window up a little. With practiced ease, he slides over the windowsill and behind the bushes underneath. Quietly sidestepping everything, his newly grown body pleases him with its athleticism. Normally Wade wouldn't move so carefully, but he is gravid with the importance of not getting caught this time. This mission is big for Wade G.

Wade sets out across the lawn and, despite not being warmed up, slips easily into a comfortable jog. Then he kicks it up a couple notches. This is no conditioning run, he needs to get to his destination fast. He is feeling very daring and important on this midnight run.

“Hey, I can't talk to you while I'm running, but I am listening,” he says quietly to the distant boy.

It is only a few minutes for him to run the six blocks. His strong young legs easily eat the distance. Two blocks south, three east, and another south again along the empty streets, he jogs through the old historic neighborhoods lined with Craftsman houses to get to his friend's house.

Wade’s brain has been awhirl in the meantime. He stops in front of an immaculate white house with a wide porch and suddenly realizes that it's going to be awkward to go up on that porch and ring the bell at 12:30 a.m.

“Uh, hey, are they expecting your call or like, do they know I'm gonna be ringing the bell?” Wade is breathing a bit heavily from his run.

“No. No they don't know I'm calling. Just ring, they won't mind.” Fourteen thinks about the minutes he is eating on his final burner phone. He looks at a half-finished bottle of wine on the galley counter and decides a drink is a bad idea. As Wade jogged, Fourteen could hear his measured breaths, he could follow Wade’s path in his mind. So many times back and forth before.

“Right.” Wade replies.

The slim teenager trips his light-footed way up the wide grey wooden stairs and across the broad porch. Wade reaches out and presses the bell, hears a distant chime. He can't contain his excitement and presses again.

It takes a bit for the hall light to come on and then the porch lights, and he suddenly feels himself in a metaphorical spotlight, tongue-tied. The glass-fronted door opens, but his eyes have to adjust to the light so he cannot see clearly who it is, just a silhouette.

“Wade?” the surprised man exclaims. “Is something wrong?”

“Mr. Gates, I uh--- I need to come in and talk to you!” He is breathing fast because of his run, but also his excitement has been building ever since the phone rang. His voice conveys the urgency he feels in his mission.

“Come on in. Are you okay?”

Wade notices that his friend's father is in boxer briefs and a T-shirt. As he pushes through the screen and front doors into the foyer, Wade can't contain himself any more.

“It's HIM on my phone, it's HIM!”

“Him ... Jeremy!?”

“HE told me not to use his name it's HIM.” He excitedly pulls the phone out of his pocket and hands it to the man still breathing hard.  Then, Wade remembers to kill the Bluetooth so they can both talk to Jeremy.

“Remy, Remy! Come here! It's – come here!” Greyson isn't sure why he shouldn't use Jeremy's name, but he's nothing if not cautious. He puts the phone to his ear. “Son is that you?”

“Dad! Oh Dad! I'm, yes it's me.”

“Hold on your mother is coming.”

“Dad ask Wade not to listen, please!”

Covering the phone, Greyson Gates turns to Wade, who has finally caught his breath. Wade presses in to hear the conversation.

Greyson clears his throat politely. “Wade, we need to talk to him privately if you don't mind. Could you go in the kitchen and get yourself a drink or something?”

Wade feels suddenly let down, but then realizes of course Jeremy’s parents want to talk to him privately, bummer! Probably going to ream his ass, come to think of it. Sort of awkward with Wade listening in. Everybody in town, and especially at Chillicothe High, has been talking about Jeremy for months. Wait until Wade tells them about this!

Remy was awake the moment the bell rang. Her hypervigilance ensured that. But Grey is closer to the door and she took a minute to get her robe and slippers, then was down the stairs into the foyer. She quickly took in Wade Garner's unexpected presence. Her husband is holding a cell phone and Remy immediately knows who is calling.

Wade retreats to the kitchen, where Greyson turns the light on for him. Then he turns to his wife and says, “Let's go to the parlor. ” As they walk, he puts Wade’s phone on speaker. “Son hold on we'll be with you in a second.”

Handing Remy the phone, Greyson closes the pocket doors to the parlor and they sit on the Chesterfield sofa. The phone lies on the plush velvet upholstery between them. Greyson's arm reaches protectively around Remy's shoulders.

“Son where are you, tell us please?”

“Dad I can't tell you. But I'm a long way from home,” and then the tears come.

The parents fight their own tears, reminding themselves that they need to keep calm and help their boy.

“Okay first off Jeremy you don't have to be afraid of calling us, the FBI took the tap off the phones. And we have a number you can call that they don't even know about, a prepaid cell phone I got. I assume you had Wade come over with his phone so no one could intercept the call.

“We met your friend Sophie and she told us what happened. I talked to an attorney about it all. He tells me, assuming we got the story straight, that you have nothing to worry about legally. Everything you did was self-defense. And I want you to know, whatever else it is we can handle it.”

Greyson looks at Remy as he says the next part. “Whatever it is, whatever it was. No one has come to us with any suggestion that you are in trouble or that they think you've done anything wrong. We couldn't find anything in the news that matched up to what Sophie Wright said, so it's possible you didn't do...as much as you think. And the FBI is convinced you were kidnapped. We know that's the truth.”

Greyson looks away from his wife. “This Levi Fisher, you don't want to admit it but he was the one who took you, wasn't he?”

“Dad no, he was not, I told you he saved me, those guys who took me they would have killed me if not for Levi,” Fourteen continues hollowly, “I'm pretty sure they killed kids...” His voice trails off. These explanations, they are so exhausting, Fourteen thinks. He has been pacing from the gangway, where a tipsy Anton might tumble down to interrupt his call, to the V-berth, and then back again. He finally flops down on the bench between.

“Okay okay we won't go there, but Jeremy, I am telling you there is nothing to be afraid of, and son, we want you home, we need you home. And you were just protecting yourself. We were horrified to hear what has happened to you, but what you did if it ever came to light was pure self-defense.” Remy reaches over to take Greyson’s hand.

Before Jeremy can respond his mother speaks. “Jem, it's mom.”

“Yes mom,” his voice is small and meek. She imagines her son somewhere in the dark, somewhere alone.

“Jeremy, how are you right this minute, tell me how you are and how you feel.”

“Look, I'm safe mom, dad, I need you to know that. I have to travel all the time. I can't call sometimes, but I am safe. I had kind of a bad day today, something happened here. It scared me, but it's just, it's not, it doesn't matter. I wasn't in danger or anything. I just – I kind of got scared for no real reason.”

Fourteen pauses after this tangled rush. Tyrone Casey’s gathering with its sexual abandon. The freedom-flow of men mingling, men watching, there is no way to speak of that with his parents. Then there was Fourteen’s journey into Sergio Ochoa’s twilight world of hustling for money, hustling for tricks. It is a frightening way forward. (Fucking) Cordell fell into that in San Diego and tried to lure Fourteen into this same hard world. The tears have to come fresh-hard. Oh god, mom, I can’t do that!

“Mom, I can't come to you. I can't. I have done too much you can't even understand it, it's not just San Diego though that's so... it's so awful...” Fourteen is silent for a few seconds. Fourteen reflects, feeling momentarily empty. Then he is somber, not crying any more. “I know I've hurt you, and I know I'm hurting you now by not coming home but I really cannot do that. I don't know, maybe someday, but... you don't know how I've changed, and what I've done.”

Remy is staring intently at the phone beside her, seeing Jeremy in her mind as if he was sitting across the room with them. She wishes her wounded fifteen-year-old son could see the conviction in her eyes. “Jeremy, you will never disappoint us. We know this. You need to recognize that.”

Greyson is looking stoic across from her, but he nods his affirmation. Remy smiles at her partner, and then she goes on. “I said that we have not heard one word from the police or the FBI to suggest you have done anything wrong. It is true that there is some question about whether, well, some people are saying you've run away. But they don't even know you got to San Diego as far as we can tell, we haven't been able to ask directly of course.” She persists, wanting to understand exactly how her boy is doing. “Please son, you can talk to us, tell us what you think you've done, beyond what Sophie told us. If there's more, or you think we somehow won't love you, no; you need to know that is never going to happen.”

Silence.

“Its, it's bad dad. I can't talk about it.” The adrenaline from his exciting first night in Puerto Vallarta has burned out. The oh-so-necessary conversation is exhausting Fourteen as much as his parents’ voices are helping him rebound from his existential crisis in the seedy bar. He lifts off the bench and finally pours a shaken glass of wine while he listens to the reassuring voices from Chillicothe. It is his dad who picks up the conversation.

“The things we heard about in San Diego were bad, very bad. But they were not you being bad. Now supposing you have done something bad, something else, something you think is bad. We all do bad things sometime, son. And whatever you did, it was a product of stress and trauma. You've been kidnapped for god's sake, and ...and....” Greyson’s voice fails him for a second. Then again, stoically, keeping his voice as unemotional as possible, “and raped, son, she told us, and that is not your fault! And if you think it changes our opinion of you, it absolutely does not! Jeremy you are much too young to have to handle all that, any of that on your own. No doubt you made mistakes. But we can work it through. We want you here.” Greyson pleads.

Fourteen is looking at the gimballed stove that cleverly stays level despite the way the tempest might toss it. Clever girl, he thinks. The juice glass full of wine has not been touched. It is tempting. It is reassuring. But it's wrong.

“I can never get past this dad. I can't undo it, ever. I'm just so afraid to keep going.” Down to the pier and narrow streets, suck a cock indifferent to the strangers walking by. Add Craigslist to his phone, just so he can live. It is an ugly twist on the animal pleasure of being with Malachi and Gareon, Anton and Daniel.

His mother speaks. “Jem, we love you. Listen to me. We know what kind of a person you are. Sometimes teenagers, they start to question who they are and that's normal, but we know who our son is. I know what kind of a boy you are. Jeremy, I want you to know that good people can do bad things. People under stress make mistakes, but I know absolutely, there is nothing bad in the heart of Jeremy Gates.”

This is consoling. The words reach him from the Chillicothe before to where he stands now. Fourteen knows it doesn't change things, but it feels better anyway.

 “But I'm Fourteen... I think I should go.”

Later, they reflect on this, “...But he's fifteen now...” and think it a sign he's not really okay.

“No!” they both exclaim simultaneously.

“Well, I need to. I – I can call you again sometime.”

“Jeremy, if you insist on going, please, we have a phone that can't be traced to you or us. We can talk to you on that.” Greyson gives his boy the number he has memorized for just this situation. “Repeat that back to me son.”

How am I going to explain this to my dad? wonders Greyson, he just won't understand. He'll wonder why we can't get the boy to come home.

Fourteen walks out of the galley to the chart table. Picking up a pen, Fourteen repeats the number and writes it on his forearm like a tattoo. For a good time, call …. Fourteen recalls the tattooed face on the girl’s arm. Sexy biker tattoos, Fourteen is off tattoos at the moment, (fucking) Cordell!

Three people all in pain, coming to the same important conclusion, I needed this. If I can still have this, if we’re still three, then maybe after ….

Fourteen breaks the silence first. “I am going to go, but I will call again, I promise. Please, don't worry so much. I'm in a safe place. I'm with good people, not alone.”

And he is gone.