Page 10 of Pretty Dogs

Theslightest reluctant smile pulls at his lips. “YouknowIcan’t.”Whenhe brushes a thumb across the blood-crusted lump on my forehead,Ijerk away with an irritated yowl that sounds likeRambothe kitten. “Ihave the recording of yesterday’s race pulled up.Youdidn’t cheat and look up the results, right?”

“Iwas too busy getting mugged.”Groaning,Ipull my ponytail out of the hair elastic. “Scaldingbath, then loud cars.”Ittook us a few months as roommates to find our only commonality–BeckandIboth loveNASCAR.We’vespent countless nights sprawled onBeck’sbed, drinking and freaking out at the big crashes.Whenwe run out of new races, we go back and look up classic ones from the sixties and seventies.Isquint out the window one more time, then give up. “I’llbe there in half an hour.”

Everything’sgoing to be alright, onceI’mclean and curled up next to my best friend, dozing on his shoulder.I’llbe able to feel his wound up predator body slowly relax until he’s back to the big goofballIknow, and this fucking day will disappear.

4

BECK

“Fuckingraccoons.Gottago.”Ihang up onScoutand grab my gun from the bedside table, checking to make sure it’s loaded.Eversince the guy across the street left an entire rotten chicken in his trash, the critters are overrunning my trailer, throwing garbage all over my front steps.IfIstart turning them into coonskin hats, maybe they’ll get the idea.

Kickingopen the front door,Iswitch on the outside light.Thelittle shits don’t care ifI’mquiet or loud; they just keep stuffing their faces likeI’mnot even there.

“Yourcorpse is gonna look real good on my head,”Iholler, cocking the pistol and aiming at the dented metal bin.

Askinny, dirty boy jerks upright from where he’s digging in the trash.He’sabout the same age as me–nineteen or twenty.Whenhe sees the gun, he stumbles backward in terror and slips in the mud, landing on his ass. “P-please don’t,” he stammers, his voice cracking. “I’msorry.”Hishuge, dark eyes look haunted in his thin face, and his torn gray beanie can’t hide all of the black hair tangled around his shoulders.

Ipoint my pistol at the ground and put the safety on. “Thefuck are you looking for?Isell anything worth cash.”

Heshakes his head quickly. “Justfood.I-Iwasn’t trying to rob you.I’llgo.”

“IfIhave food,Ieat it,”Ipoint out.Peoplearound here can’t afford to waste anything.

Bitinghis dry lower lip, he struggles awkwardly to his feet.He’seven filthier now, with mud smeared all the way from his hair to his sneakers.Hehugs himself, shivering.

I’malways half a step away from homelessness–hungry, cold, and clinging to a trailer that isn’t much better than a cardboard box.Ican’t afford to feel sorry for homeless people, even ifIwanted to.Butunderneath all the dirt, this guy has perfect skin,Luckybrand jeans, and a soft, confused look in his eyes that tells me he doesn’t belong inParadisePeaks.

“Comehere.”Islide the gun into the back of my jeans.

Heshakes his head warily, taking a step back. “No, thank you,” he says with perfect manners.Ohyeah, he’s fucking lost. “I’mgonna go…”

Whenhe trails off,Iraise an eyebrow. “Whereare you gonna go, raccoon boy?You’llhave to walk four or five miles before you find somewhere with food in the trash and people who don’t shoot everything that moves.”

Hisslim shoulders collapse, and he sucks in a slow breath like he’s trying not to cry.Whenhis brown eyes catch on mine,Ifeel likeI’mdrowning, or falling.

“Comeon,”Isay finally, turning and going back inside.Ipull some matches out of a drawer and use one to light the camping gas burnerIuse in place of my broken stovetop.OnceIfill my pot with water,Iput it on to boil and dig in the cupboard for a box of macaroni.Ionly have one bottle of my favorite beer saved in the fridge, butIget it out and set it on the table.

WhenIturn around, the boy is standing in the doorway, looking around curiously.I’venailed colorful wool blankets all over the walls, partly to make it warmer and partly to cover up the filthy, peeling paint.It’spretty cozy, if you ask me.

Istick out my hand. “Beck.”

Hiseyes flicker over me, taking in just how much bigger and strongerIam.Helooks even more delicate in the light, with a fine-boned jaw, rich light brown skin, and that thick, black hair.He’slucky someone as pretty as him made it this far in one piece.Grabbingmy warm hand in his cold one, he shakes it with a lot more stubborn courage thanIexpect. “Dallas.”

There’ssomething weird about the way he says his name, like it means more than six simple letters.Likehe’s daring me to question it.Hesmells like fear and courage and foolishness and hope.Itmakes me want to crowd him against the wall and sniff his neck untilIunderstand him.

Iblink back to reality when he smiles a little nervously and points behind me. “Yourwater’s boiling over.”

“Doyou know how to make macaroni?”Iask.Scoutusually does it. “Minesucks.”

Hisgrin widens into something real, his eyes brightening. “It’seasy.Doyou have an onion and some hot sauce?Oh, and some paprika?”Henudges past me and pours the pasta into the bubbling water.

“Didyou just ask me ifIhave fucking paprika?”Iwave my hand at the empty cabinets, but he’s too focused on stirring the pot to notice.

“Youshould pick some up.It’stasty.InIndiancuisine every dish has like sixty spices, but paprika is so underestimated in my opinion.”

Thismight be the weirdest conversationI’veever had.SinceIdon’t know anything about spices,Ipop the cap off my cold beer instead. “Wantsome?”Istill don’t understand whyIfeel the urge to share with him.

“Nothanks,” he answers solemnly without looking up from his work. “Beergives me reflux.I’mstarting to thinkImight have some kind of gluten intolerance, you know?”

---