Rafi says that Omar is secretly a Vulcan, but after all the layers he’s shown me today, I know it’s the furthest thing from the truth. I try to think of something to say when he wakes up, but our usual one-sided banter is too crass.
“I know this means I’ve lost the silent game, but I’m pulling over at the next rest area. I took down a whole sixty-four-ounce soda, and I gotta go.”
“Okay.”
Ten minutes later I signal and pull into one of the large, nicely appointed rest areas you find along Texas roadways. Omar sits with his hands in his lap. Quiet. After staring at the side of his head for a full minute, I unbuckle my seat belt and exit the car.
There are a few cars parked, and more than a few semis lined up, but no one’s in the restroom, so I’m able to get in and do my business undisturbed.
As I’m washing my hands at the sink, a beautiful young man approaches me, putting his hand on my arm.
“You feeling lonely tonight, sugar?” He has a dotwork bluebonnet tattoo on the inside of his wrist, and his voice is soft. He’s wearing mascara and a bit of lip gloss, looking like the kind of innocent and dirty that probably makes his pimp a lot of money.
I hate that this kid has no survival instincts. I’ve got about fifty pounds of solid muscle on him and at least six inches in height. If I were the kind of homophobic asshole that isn’t rare enough in this part of Texas, I could choke him out in a second and nobody would be the wiser.
Kids as pawns. God, it feels like sometimes I can’t get away from it.
“Nah, kid. Are you even old enough to be asking that kind of question?”
“I’m old enough,” he says, pouting. “And based on the way your boyfriend is icing you, nobody’s played with your balls in a hot minute. Maybe you should reconsider my offer.”
Okay, so the kid has fangs. Gotta admire that in an underage hooker.
“Look, I’m just worried about you out here at a rest stop, trying to turn tricks when you look like you’re about sixteen years old.”
Suddenly, his voice drops down nearly an entire octave. “I’m twenty-one, I don’t need a parent, and if I did, you would not be it. Do you want a fucking blow job or not?”
It is at this exact inopportune time that Omar walks into the restroom. I may have complained about his icy exterior before, but even that would be preferable to the look of utter disgust on his face.
He raises his eyebrows, and I shake my head.
I refocus on the guy trying to hustle me. “Not. Definitely, definitely not. But if we can take you to a safer place, we’d be willing to give you a ride. In a car, fully clothed.”
“Man, I’ve got my own car, and I probably make more in one night at this rest stop than you do in an entire month.”
“I can tell you unequivocally that you do not,” I say, thinking about all the zeros I’m about to put in my account from today’s op.
God, was that today?
Longest day ever.
Refocusing on the guy in front of me, I continue. “What I can tell you is we work with missing and exploited youth all the time. And you’ve probably got a pimp taking half of your cash right off the top, not to mention what he’s probably charging you to stay in a shit hovel he owns, and this hair and makeup and clothing didn’t come from nowhere, so he’s probably charging you for that as well.”
“The fuck you talking about? I don’t have a pimp. Stop trying to after-school-special me.”
“All right, fine. But how about a little free advice? Because you clearly don’t know when to shut the fuck up.”
“Oh yeah, what’s that?” he asks, putting his hand on my arm.
“The one thing you don’t do when trying to roll people in a state-sponsored toilet is tell them you’re completely alone. There are people in this world who enjoy killing for the sake of killing, and all they need is someone who doesn’t have anyone. That’s literally the common denominator in serial killer victims. They are, by and large, people who society deems disposable. And you’re not fucking disposable, are you?”
He rolls his eyes. “The fuck you talking about, disposable? I make people happy—that’s evergreen, bitch.”
I run my hands through my hair, wishing he were a little less confident.
“Look, apparently you’re of age and you clearly have a knack for sex work, and I promise, I’m not judging. It’s just…with the things I see, I wish you had a safer setup.”
“You’re not my dad.”
