Author’s Note:
This is an unedited, ongoing serial that will eventually be published in novel form. Plot/characters/elements are subject to change as it is being written. It’s currently in 1st person/present tense, but I may change it to past tense, excluding the first chapter which will act as an intro. Read at your own discretion and take note of story tags below.
Genre: Post-Apocalyptic sci-fi
Tags: prostitution, graphic sex, large age gap, violence, theft, drug/alcohol abuse, depression, rape, gang rape, cannibalism, murder, incest, child/infant death and abuse, general abuse, (more to be added as the story goes)
Apple won’t meet my eye as he moves around the room packing his few belongings.
“You can’t be serious,” I say, laughing. “Turk’s just looking to make a few bucks off your ass.”
He stops and glares at me before resuming. “He says he loves me,” he replies, his tone high and annoyed. I look over at Pytre. The ex-Rimer just looks confused.
I snort, shaking my head. “I call bullshit.”
“He’s going to marry me,” Apple says, jamming a pair of pants into his rucksack. “And he’s getting me breasts for my birthday.”
Brow deeply furrowed, I stare at Apple—I’m not passing judgment, I’m just surprised. “I… didn’t know you wanted any.” I’m not the best at figuring these things out, but from the look on Apple’s face, I get the feeling that he hadn’t known he wanted them either.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me. It’s not like you ask me anything.”
He’s right, but I say, “I know your birthday’s next month.” I can’t remember the exact date.
“You only know that because it’s on the deed of ownership,” Apple shoots back, and I glance over at Pytre who raises his brows at me. Apple laughs. “Oh? You didn’t know I’m his sex-slave?”
Pytre looks at Apple then back at me and I wave him off. “No, he’s not a sex-slave.”
It’s Apple’s turn to snort and he turns his back to me, stuffing a shirt I recognize as mine into his bag. He can have it.
“I think you’re making a mistake,” I say.
“What do you care?” Apple flashes me a look over his shoulder.
Why do I care? With Apple gone, it’s a hell of a lot easier to get Pytre and me off this rock… But, what is this I’m feeling? I’m angry… wait, is that… jealousy? Resentment? I clear my throat and shake my head. “I don’t.”
I can’t put my finger on the expression that flits across Apple’s handsome face, but it’s not a happy one. I feel like an asshole—but, what about the way he “thanked” me last night? He knew he was going to ditch us and waited until the last minute to say anything. There it is again… that uncomfortable, hot feeling in my guts. The truth is staring at me in the face: I don’t want him to go. Fuck me if I can actually say it though.
“Take care of yourself,” I offer instead, holding out my hand.
Apple’s expression goes wary for a second, then he gives me a smile that doesn’t go near those pretty, mixed-up eyes of his. He takes my hand and we shake… then he’s gone.
“Why didn’t you tell him you wanted him to stay?” asks Pytre.
I ignore him and grab the hose attachment from the storage unit, heading to the showers so I can blast out my insides. With Apple gone, looks like I’m back to being the sole breadwinner.
Fucking great.
+++
It’s almost morning by the time I get back to the hostel. I open the door as quietly as I can, but I see the light’s still on. Looking around the newly tidied room, I figure Pytre never went to bed. Sure enough, when he looks up as I come in, I see he’s got dark circles under his eyes.
“You should be sleeping.”
“So should you,” he replies quietly.
I shrug, undoing the metal clips on my vest, my right hand weak with fatigue. It was a slow night—one blow job and three hand jobs. Another night like this and we’ll be homeless. As soon as I get a little shuteye, I’ll go see Drenner about changing rooms again to something smaller.
I settle down on the empty cot, slapping the light off before I get comfortable. Pytre’s eyes are on me in the dark, I can feel it. Rubbing my face, I shake my head slowly, annoyed and exhausted and embarrassed.
“What?”
“I just want to know why?” Pytre’s voice is so quiet, the end of the question is just a sigh.
“Why what?”
“Why don’t you do something else for money?”
“Like what?” I turn to face him—all I can see is his silhouette against the pale metal wall.
“Anything else.”
“Like what?” My tone’s harsh but I can’t help it. Apple’s desertion’s left me on edge and I’m touchy and tired and would love to pickle my brain in whiskey tonight, but I can’t, so sleep will have to do for now. If I’m lucky, I won’t even dream.
It takes a few seconds for Pytre to answer. “You were a soldier. Why not be a bodyguard? They’re as much in need as… uh… what you’re doing.”
“Whoring? Fucking for funds? Cocksucking for credits?”
“I’m sorry. I’ll let you sleep,” Pytre says, finally figuring out I’m in no mood for a little chat. However, a minute or two after I’ve turned over to the other side, I open my mouth again.
“I won’t touch a gun… can’t kill anyone else.” I frown, eyes closed.
He doesn’t answer so I assume he didn’t hear my confession… but then he says, “Okay.”
+++
The room is empty when I wake up a few hours later. There’s a note on my comm pad:
I can’t watch you do this to yourself.
I sit back down on my cot and stare at the words, numb. Well, fuck. Alone again. I’m better at being alone… aren’t I? I erase Pytre’s note and swallow hard, blinking a few times to clear the dust from my eyes, then I lie back down. It’s still early and I don’t like working in daylight. Maybe it’s because the dark makes everything easier to stomach. I don’t know.
I must have fallen asleep because when the door creaks open, I sit up with a gasp, only half aware that I’m reaching for the sidearm I haven’t carried in decades. The figure sharpens in my vision once it steps over the threshold and I breathe out a sigh. It’s Pytre.
“Changed your mind?” I say, embarrassed by how relieved I sound. He stops in his tracks, fixing me with a look of confusion and I realize I might have misunderstood his note. I rake my hand through my hair, clear my throat, and gesture to the box he’s carrying. “What’s that?”
“A solution to our money problems,” Pytre answers, setting the box down on the floor between the cots. He lifts the lid.
“Holy shit, padre. Where do you find them?” I say, lifting out a bottle of Rimer’s chartreuse.
“There’s a chapter here in town. I paid them a visit.” Pytre smiles—it’s not quite genuine, but neither is it fragile like it was before.
“But… you renounced your vows.”
“They don’t know that.” The grin stretches wider and Pytre seems proud of himself. “I would have taken more bottles, too, except… I was afraid to drop them.”
I’m up off the cot and have my arms around the young man before he can react, pulling him into a rough hug. He’s saved our asses, mine literally, and I feel like luck is finally on our side. I’m so distracted by my own gladness that it takes a few seconds to realize Pytre’s gone still and stiff in my arms. I release him immediately and step back.
“Sorry.”
“That’s all right.” His cheeks are very pink, and his eyes are glassy as he looks away. I can’t help but wonder, after the shit he's been through, if I’ll ever be able to touch him—platonically or otherwise—without causing him pain. “The next launch is in five days,” he says softly. “You know, we’ll have more than enough for three tickets.”
I don’t answer right away. Then I nod.
+++
The setting sun is the same bright, sickly yellow it always is, but it feels hotter than usual. A huge dust devil whirls down the center of Launch Drive and Pytre and I duck into an alley to wait for it to pass. I’m trying not to hold onto any real hope that Apple will join us, but if my hunch is right about Turk… well, I can’t imagine the lad would want to stay here.
Sure enough, three streets down, I spot a familiar figure in a doorway. Apple’s slouching against the railing, his head down. He’s wearing a pair of bright orange pants with a clear panel over his groin and nothing else. As we approach, he looks up, then quickly turns his head, his posture tense.
“Come home,” I say, surprising myself. I don’t know what I’d meant to lead with, but that wasn’t it. However, it does get Apple to face me again, his jaw set and expression defensive. His eyes are brightly decorated with garish blue makeup and his lips are smeared in sparkling fuchsia. I’m not normally into that sort of thing, but it looks great on the kid. I open my mouth again to say something, but I’m stumped on the approach I should take. I don’t want to say “I told you so” but everything that comes to mind is along those lines.
Thankfully, Pytre rescues me.
“We’re leaving in four days. There’s a ticket for you if you’d like it,” Pytre says, his voice gentle and expression serene. Almost like his old self, though I know he’s forcing it.
“Turk and I got married this morning,” Apple says, his eyes flicking to me. “So I am home.”
“Isn’t it him you’re supposed to fuck on your wedding night?” I say, unable to stop myself from being cruel.
Shame flashes across Apple’s face, but he lifts his chin. “He’s going to take good care of me.”
I tamp down on my anger, shaking my head. “You stupid boy…”
“You’re the stupid one, old man. You and your stupid guilt and stupid sob story and stupid tiny cock.”
I laugh, a hollow, harsh sound. There's no sting in the gibe about my dick-size but I gesture to his outfit where his own obviously drug-hardened cock sits framed behind clear vinyl like an offering.
“Just look at you. He’s going to sell your ass every chance he gets… and you’re never going to see a fucking credit—” Pytre surprises me by putting a hand on my forearm. The touch calms me.
“This isn’t the way to do it,” Pytre says softly to me, dropping his hand. He looks up at Apple and raises his voice so the boy can hear him. “Four days. We’ll buy a ticket for you, regardless.” Then he pulls me away from the steps. “Come on.”
Apple crosses his arms over his chest and looks the other way as we leave.
“He’s embarrassed,” says Pytre. “And angry about his situation. I think he’ll come around.”
“He's a stubborn little shit.”
“Well, if he doesn’t, you can always force him to come with us without him losing face,” Pytre adds with a shrug.
“How’s that?”
“Technically, you still own him, correct?”
“Yeah.”
“Then his marriage isn’t legally binding.”
"I hadn't thought of that." I say. I know Pytre's only doing this because he thinks he knows how I feel. And maybe he's right. "Thank you."
This time, Pytre's smile is sincere... if a little sad.
