The Worst Best Luck (7 page)

“I don’t even know your name…”

“Cody,” he said, without looking back.  Peter waited, but Cody didn’t ask him for his name.

Cody had a motorcycle – of course he did.  And a spare helmet.  Peter had to smile, wondering how often this guy got laid if he was always carrying a spare helmet around. 
Oh my god I’m going to get laid, I’m going to lose my virginity to this incredibly hot guy,
he suddenly thought with a thrill, getting on the back of the bike, putting his hands on the back of the seat.  Cody turned around, saw where Peter was holding on, grabbed Peter’s hand and put it on his waist.  “The other one, too,” Cody commanded brusquely, in a tone that brooked no objection. 

Peter put his hands gingerly on Cody’s hips, but as the bike peeled out of the lot, he found himself holding on for dear life, his arms wrapped around Cody’s exquisite torso.  A surge of delight blew away all the cobwebs in his mind. 
This is the way it’s supposed to be, I’m alive, I’m young, I’m getting lucky.

The bike roared up past Millie’s house, down the driveway to the garage.  Cody slammed on the brakes and Peter jumped off, nearly pushed off by Cody as he threw a leg over only half a second after stopping. 

Peter raced up the stairs, Cody right behind him, unlocked the door with shaking hands.  “Do you want a glass of…”

Those were the only words he managed before Cody put a hand over his mouth.  “Shut the fuck up,” he growled, and Peter should have been afraid, should have been offended, but then the pieces fell into place as Cody shoved him to his knees, it made perfect sense, relief swept over him,
of course, he’s just here to use you, that’s all you are, a piece of easy meat, you’re lucky you were in the right place at the right time…

Cody had read him, all right, had seen his insecurity and his need and his willingness to do anything, anything for a man as cruelly beautiful as Cody.  Peter didn’t have to impress him, didn’t have to be good looking or clever or talented…he just had to be willing to give himself, all of himself…

Then they were on the bed, both of them with their pants down, Cody on top of him, pressing Peter’s face into the bed.  “Faggot,” Cody hissed, his arm wrapped around Peter’s throat, his cock stabbing at Peter’s ass.  Then the searing pain, the unbelievable agony of his asshole being forced opened.  “Fucking faggot,” Cody muttered, and Peter could tell it excited him, and beyond the pain Peter found something else, a black dog inside him that was nodding, wagging its black tail,
this is what you get, this is what you deserve.
  And he gave in, accepted it,
relished
it. 
Yes, take me, I’m so lucky you chose me…

Then a shout, wild, animal, as Cody came inside him, and it was over, the whole thing had taken five minutes.  Cody was up and off him, his belt buckle clattering as he zipped up and was halfway out the door before Peter could even catch his breath.

Wordless, Peter rolled over and watched him, aching for him, burning for him to come back.  He opened his mouth to say…

And some part of him, half shame and half pride, folded its arms and said,
what are you going to say, ‘call me’?  ‘Thanks, let’s do this again?’  Make a fool of yourself?

Cody went to the door, put a hand on the knob, then stopped, as if something had gone wrong in the script.  And Peter knew instinctively what it was – this never happened, nobody ever let him go without saying
something.
  You bastard, you asshole, or come back, don’t go.  Something. 

He turned, looked back, saw Peter looking after him, biting his lip, wanting so desperately to ask, a stubborn pride that…that a man like Cody would want to break, to smash.

He smirked.  “I’ll see you next Tuesday, then, outside of…class.  Don’t be late.”  And he was gone.

Peter sighed with relief. 
I’ll see him again!  He wants to see me again!
  It had begun, the way the mind sets the table for that kind of relationship.  Cody had submitted him, used his arms to pin Peter’s own and keep him from struggling…
no, he held me, he held me tight…
Cody had taken no care for Peter’s pleasure, no care for his safety…
no, he likes it rough and I do too, I do, it was exciting…

Cody had put his arm around Peter’s throat, nearly choking him…
and the skin on his arm was so warm and soft, his body’s so strong, oh god, the weight of a man on top of me, a moment in my bed with a man, a moment where I wasn’t alone at last…

Embarking on an obsessive relationship is like adopting a new religion – there’s a whole new calendar to live by, feast and famine days, lots of new rituals, and, occasionally, sudden head scratching as to why one’s new God was so capricious and cruel, followed in short order by acceptance of His Mysterious Ways. 

Peter’s God was Cody now.  The next Tuesday, Peter stood outside of school, shaking with fear and excitement, waiting for Cody’s class to take its break.

“I can’t stay,” Peter told his study buddies.  “I have a date.”

“Oooh, girl!  Get out!  Miss Cynthia Celibate has a may-un!”

Peter blushed, grinned.  He did, didn’t he?  Cody was his man…

“So what class are you taking?” Peter asked Cody that next week, chasing him across the parking lot again.  He’d noticed the group of adults scowling at Cody, presumably disapproving of someone who left halfway through class two weeks in a row.

Cody chuckled.  “Fucking Bullshit 101.”  And said no more.  And the song was the same, that night, as it had been the previous Tuesday. 

Then, to Peter’s delight, that Friday Cody showed up at his door, unannounced.  Peter’s smile faded almost instantly when Cody walked in, grabbed his wrist in a fearsome grip, and yanked him over to the bed.

And so it went every time, only each time, Cody pushed Peter’s limits a little further, at least, that’s how Peter saw it.  They had a kinky relationship and Cody wanted to try new things, right?  But in actuality, Cody was seeing how far Peter would go for him, how low he would go.  They were all things that
would be, could be
kinky in a “normally bizarre” sexual relationship, but it wasn’t the kink that got Cody off.  It was the look of fear and dismay on Peter’s face, followed by the sheepish acceptance that whatever Cody wanted, Cody got. 

Cody even laughed at him when he ordered Peter to lick the dirt off his motorcycle boots – and he fucking did it!  He looked down disbelievingly at Peter on his knees, his adoring eyes as his tongue touched who knows what on Cody’s boot. 

“Jesus Christ, faggot, you’ll do anything I tell you to, won’t you?”

Peter nodded enthusiastically, and Cody got
so hard,
he wrenched Peter up and over and onto the bed and fucking
nailed that little bitch…

On the way out the door, it occurred to Cody to try something.  “I need some money.”

“How much do you need?” Peter asked instantly.

“How much have you got?”

“About…forty bucks.”

Cody smirked.  “Well, that’s what I need.”

One night he came out of the bathroom and Cody was using Peter’s smartphone.  “What are you…” he began, but then Cody’s gimlet eyes looked at him as if to say, how dare you ask?

“My battery died,” Cody said, casually dropping Peter’s phone on the table.  “You ready to take my cock?”

“Yeah…” Peter whispered, as always.

“Yeah what?”

“Yes sir…”

“Heh.  That’s a good little butt boy.”

He called me good
, Peter smiled inside. 
He called me good.

Peter’s friends wanted to meet his new boyfriend, but he put them off.  And off.  And off.  Much, much later, it would occur to him that this was because they would have seen the true nature of the relationship, confronted him with it,
ruined everything
.

One Tuesday, Peter waited in vain for Cody.  He sat outside for an hour, shivering, scanning the landscape, watching the door, never daring to look at his phone for longer than it would take to check for messages.  He realized he didn’t even have Cody’s phone number, didn’t know his last name.  Didn’t know anything about him, really.

He went home finally, and then came the knock at the door.  Cody sauntered in, put his cigarette out in one of Peter’s dishes, and groaned as he sat down.  “Finally,” he said, “I don’t have to do that fucking court-ordered bullshit anymore.”

“The what?”

“That twelve step crap I had to do.  Get a paper signed every fucking week proving I went.” He shook his head.  “What a racket.  Oh yeah, I need fifty bucks to make my restitution payment.”

Six months in, Peter had lost weight he couldn’t afford to lose.  He gave Cody his disposable income, all of it, and lived on Top Ramen and his friends’ charity and dinners at Millie’s – Millie, who one night made sure to be outside when Cody roared up on his bike.

She was standing on her back porch.  He took off his helmet.  Their eyes met.

“That boy is bad news,” she told Peter the next day.  “You can do better than that.”

“Cody?  Cody’s great, Millie.  If you just got to know him…”

“I know him,” she said, cutting him off rudely for the first time ever.  “I know all about that boy’s type.  I don’t want him around here.”

“Well, then,” Peter said in the same tone.  “Guess it’s time for me to move out.”

She shook her head.  “No.  You can’t.  You don’t have any money, Peter.  I know you give it all to
him.
”

Peter blushed.

“Do you think you’re the only person to ever be in an abusive relationship?”

Peter laughed nervously.  “A
what
?”

“He’s preying on you.”

Peter fumed.  “Do you think so, do you think I’m…some weak sister?”

“No,” Millie said sadly.  “I think you’re strong, Peter.  So strong.  And that’s what fascinates him.  He wants to see how strong you are.  How much you’ll take.  How much you’ll give before you shatter.  And when you do, he’ll be gone.”

He turned and walked away, fuming. 

But from then on he was screwed, because he was awake.  He’d avoided it this long, but now it was apparent, it was true, he was pathetic, he was so desperate for a man’s touch that he’d do anything, anything…

Cody sensed it the next time they were together, saw the sad resignation on Peter’s face as he knelt and closed his eyes and got ready for Cody to spit in his face, slap him around, call him names. 

He shook his head.  “That fat old bitch got to you, didn’t she.”

Peter got up.  “I don’t feel so good.  Maybe we better call it a night.”

Cody grabbed Peter by the hair, pulled him into his chest, his voice slithering into Peter’s ear.  “I say when we call it a night.”

“Let GO!” Peter shouted, and tore himself away, losing some hair in the process, facing Cody now, fuming.

Cody raised his hand, but Peter didn’t flinch. 
Go on,
Peter thought. 
Then it’s not a game anymore, is it?  Go on and hit me because then I’m…then I’m free.
  His eyes widened and Cody saw it, read it.

And Cody wasn’t really going to hit the little baby.  Because he knew, what the limits were.  Knew how the world worked.  Anything less than physical violence was…a turbulent relationship, a passionate affair.  The minute you hit ‘em, the law came in, Not Even Once and all that shit.  Cody didn’t have to hit a woman, or a man for that matter, with his hands.  He knew how to hit ‘em where it hurt.

So this was over, or close enough.  It wasn’t fun when they started to get cocky, started to complain and bitch and whine.  It was nice to get his rocks off on demand, and of course free money, fuck yeah!  But he’d met this lady schoolteacher a week ago, typical of his good luck, and what do you know, she’d do anything for a young stud like him… 

Besides, he thought, he had his little insurance policy in place now, right on the stupid faggot’s phone.  If Peter started texting his friends how much he missed Cody, Cody would know.  If his bank balance got a little boost, Cody would know. 
You think you’re free,
Cody laughed. 
You’re mine, bitch.

“Your loss,” Cody said and made for the door.  Peter had one more chance to stop him, to cry WAIT! and start the dance all over again.  But Cody knew he wouldn’t take it.  This game was over.  For now.

Cody didn’t even shut the door behind him.  And Peter collapsed on the floor, sobbing, great heaving gusts of loss and loneliness and relief and fear,
it’s finally over, oh god what do I do now, it hurts, it all hurts so much, Mom I miss you so much I’m so alone…

Peter had been alone ever since.  Until Matt.  Matt, who in bed had been strong, and dominant and aggressive but…gentle, careful, probing, watching,
seeing
him, Peter, a real person.  Matt who had made him see that there was a way to go to those dark places inside him, a way to feel pain as pleasure, to do crazy pervy shit, but in a way they
explored, together…
 

He had a date with Matt for Friday night.  And then, he’d have to tell him about the lottery, about the…FOUR HUNDRED MILLION DOLLARS.  An amount of money that screamed, that deafened him, that made him want to clamp his hands over his ears and run away.  Four hundred AND FORTY million, he remembered, and he had to laugh, sure, round off that mere forty million, forget about it, chump change!

That Friday at lunch time, Peter was walking down Madison Avenue and something occurred to him.  The thought was so powerful that it stopped him in his tracks. 

“Fuck, asshole, watch it!” a lady shouted at him as she ran into him.

“Sorry,” he replied, moving out of the swarm of people flying on their errands, gnashing down their lunches, hurry hurry hurrying before whoever ruled over them, frowning at a watch, could get them in trouble for coming back five minutes late. 

What had frozen him was a vision of his mom in her bed, sick, dying.  Peter or Millie were always on the phone fighting to get her in to see the doctors, the good ones, who could help her, if you could successfully beg their gatekeepers for an appointment.  Gatekeepers!  Sullen harpies, their tone always going from cool to cold when they heard the word Medicaid.  The hateful battleaxes acted like it was their own money and not the doctor’s, and the answer was always, we’ll call you if there’s an opening but we all know there won’t be, don’t we, so stop calling and die already.

If I’d been rich then, she’d be alive now.

That was when he knew he was going to do something with the money.  Something great.  Something wonderful.  He didn’t know what, yet.  But it would help people.

The money stopped crushing him then, its weight exchanged from gold to paper, a burden he could carry now. 

He smiled.  He had a plan.  He was going to slow down now and do this right.  And doing it right would mean telling Matt everything.

Peter left work early, which he never did, even when everyone else was long gone to the Hamptons or Fire Island or wherever they went on the weekend with their boyfriends and their money. 

Katie had ambled over to his desk around 3 and sat down on the corner, then looked around at the empty office before saying anything.  “You’re still here?”

“Yeah, I don’t know why, when everyone’s gone for the weekend.”

She rolled her eyes.  “I mean,
still here
as in still in this job.”

Peter laughed.  “Right?  Well,” then he too looked around to make sure nobody was around to hear, “the therapist your dad sent me to said don’t make sudden life changes.”

She snorted.  “Dude.  You could
buy
this agency if you wanted to stay here.  Which of course you don’t, right?  You’re going to be a big Broadway producer now.”

Peter laughed.  Other than mentioning it to Matt on their date, he had forgotten, had set aside…no, get real, he’d
buried
that dream. 

It had lived, here in New York, for a moment.  He’d come out of community college with a two year degree and, amazingly, the opportunity to work for a real producer.  Which he had taken. 

The job had lasted three days.

“Where the hell have you been!” Ronald Prater had yelled at him that third day, after sending Peter out to get his laundry.

“I…”

“And where’s my Frappucino!”

“You didn’t…”

“I shouldn’t have to!  Didn’t you get me one yesterday?  What’s wrong with you!”  The short bald man with the bulging eyes snapped his fingers, inches from Peter’s face.  “Wake up!  Pay attention!”

“I’ll go and…”

“That’s right, you will.”

The first day, Peter had written Prater’s temper off as a bad day.  The second day, he’d blamed himself for not being fast enough on the draw.  This day, he walked out of the office to get Prater’s coffee, shocked and depressed.  Was this how his Broadway fantasy was going to end? 

As he stood in Starbucks and watched a scrawny rich woman with pineapple-blond helmet hair, stabbing her bejeweled hand at the barista, barking her order as if sure he’d get it wrong, he realized,
this is what I ran away from with Cody.  This is abuse.

He picked up the Frappuccino, walked outside, saw a homeless man, and handed him the drink.  “Enjoy it.  Courtesy of Ronald Prater.”  He never went back to the office, and signed up with a temp agency the next day.

But now he didn’t have to do it that way, didn’t have to “eat shit from crazy” just to get a foot in the door.  Instead he could invest in a show and learn the ropes, sure, he had to learn the ropes, but from the top, not the bottom… 

He could lose money on a show, not knowing what he was doing.  And lose it again on another show, and another, until he got it right.  For the first time in his life, he could afford to make mistakes.

“Okay!” he said brightly.  “I’m out of here.  For today.”

She raised an eyebrow. 

“Seriously.  I’ll see you Monday.”

She laughed and patted his hand.  “Of course, dear.”

Joining the Friday early rush, he’d walked down the streets looking at stuff in a new light.  He could give away so much money, and still have enough to live on for, well, forever. 

He could get a new smartphone, for instance.  He’d had this one for three years now on a pay-as-you-go plan, no free upgrades to the hardware.  It was practically a dumbphone now, compared to what was out there today.  Or some really cool running shoes, to replace his beat-down old Asics.  Or one of the ten million dollar penthouse apartments in the back of the New York Times Magazine. 
I can afford that
, he thought. 
Whatever it is, I can afford it.

Well, not until he cashed the ticket.  Which he would now, he knew.  And most of the money was going to go to charity – who the hell needed that much?  How many lifetimes would it take you to spend it all?  But all the same, keeping even a few million, they wouldn’t begrudge him that, right? 

“Who’s ‘they?’” Jessica Zane had asked him.  “Who’s the ‘they’ who would want to stop you from keeping some of it?  Or any of it, all of it for that matter?”

He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  People.”

“Do you think people will think you don’t deserve the money?”

“Who does?  Who deserves that kind of money?  I mean, who gets it, in real life, without… trampling everyone?”

“But you didn’t trample everyone to get it.  You got lucky.”

“Right.”

And I’m going to share my luck
, he thought, his mood lightening. 
I’m not going to hoard it.  Whatever I do is going to be the right thing to do.
He thought of Matt, how he knew, just knew, Matt would approve, and he got all warm inside.  It was all going to be all right.

Peter walked into the same little bistro where he and Matt had dinner last time.  Matt stood up from the table, his radiant smile lighting up the room, and pulled Peter’s chair out, which made him blush. 

“Now there’s a gentleman,” Elena the owner said, handing them their menus.  “And I think a nice bottle of wine on the house for my favorite customer,” she said, pinching Matt’s cheek, making it his turn to blush.

“Thanks, Elena.”

Peter sighed.  “So.  How was your week?”

“Good.  Got a couple interesting projects.  It’s always good when I get old cars.”

“Why’s that?”

“New ones are just…”  Matt thought about it.  “They’re not built to tinker with.  They’ve got computers and they’ve got all this shit that’s…well, that’s there to stop you from taking care of stuff yourself.  Like the Mercedes that doesn’t come with a dipstick – you can’t even check your own oil.  When the oil gets low the light just comes on and says ‘Service Required.’” 

He shook his head.  “But it’s what people want, all those layers between them and their tech.  Like Apple – you can’t even open an iPhone to change a battery, you have to take it to the shop.  People just want to delegate stuff like that to someone else.”

“Yeah,” Peter nodded.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You seem a little distracted.”

Peter laughed.  “I am.  I actually…oh good,” he laughed nervously, “here’s the wine.”

They clinked glasses and took a drink, Peter drinking more deeply than Matt.

“So,” Matt said, his smile gone, replaced with a look of patient concern.  “What’s up?”

“Well.  I don’t know where to start.  It’s about money.”

“Do you need a loan?”

Peter laughed, harder than he should have.  Matt looked at him, and wondered, for just a second, if he was on drugs.  No, he decided.  But something was stressing him out, for sure.

“No.  Not even close.  It’s just that something very big has happened and…” He looked around, leaned across the table, and Matt did too, coming in close to hear the secret.

Peter even cupped his hand so nobody could read his lips.  “I won the lottery.”

Matt blinked.  “The…you mean the…”  He made the connection immediately.  “The ticket was sold down the street from the shop.  The day you…”

“Yeah.”

“Holy crap.”

“Yeah, right?”

“Congratulations, man!”  Matt said, high-fiving Peter, who responded awkwardly, half-missing Matt’s hand.  “That’s great!”

“Thanks.  It doesn’t feel great.  It feels…weird.  Scary.”

“Ahh.  Yeah, I get it.”’

“You do?”

Matt nodded.  “It’s like…too much.  Too overwhelming.  How much everything’s going to change.”

“Yeah…and you know, it’s going to be batshit crazy when I cash the ticket.  I can’t be anonymous.  So,” he said as quickly as he could, “if you want to check out before my life becomes a circus well I totally understand and…”

Matt reached across the table and took Peter’s nervously fluttering hand.  “Dude.  Do you not recall last Friday night?”

“Yeah! Duh!”  Peter laughed, remembering Matt’s hands on his body, Matt inside him, really truly inside him, in every way…

“Right.  Duh.”  Matt’s emerald eyes were like green laser beams boring into Peter’s soul.  “It’s you and me, buddy.  You and me against the world.”

Peter started crying. “I’m so lucky.  I never could have…trusted anyone else.  But I trust you.  I know you don’t give a shit about the money.” 

He dabbed his eyes with his napkin.  “I don’t know how I know, but I do.  But I have to admit, I do care, I do care about the money.  I’m gonna keep some, but I’m going to give most of it away, but I was poor growing up, not ‘romantic college student’ poor, but
fucking shitty miserable poor.
  You know what I mean?”

It was Matt’s turn to laugh.  “No.  I don’t.”