Fear and anger swirled like the night. He scolded himself, insisted that this was what he deserved. He wasn’t good for anything more than what was in his wallet anyway, and without that, he might as well take a boot to his back.
A minute passed. Two. Lawrence pushed his face off the pavement, saw that the men had left, and then dry heaved a little more. He found his wallet and the contents strewn across the sidewalk, and he did his best to wipe the vomit off of himself with some leaves.
Everything hurt, but he kicked himself in the ass and stumbled home as fast as he could manage anyway.
He loved that shirt, and gutter water and blood could really ruin satin.
* * *
“You can’t keep having these things happen, Lawrence,” Mayer said, clearly alarmed. She was holding her Bloody Mary in the air, a piece of celery sticking to the side. In a yellow dress and with a thin floral necklace hanging across her chest, she should have looked bright and happy, but her peachy face was scrunched with concern.
“Stop scowling at me,” Lawrence grumbled, pushing his French toast around the plate. “It’s bad for my hangover.”
“She’s right,” Tyler added. “If I don’t hear from you on Monday, I’m always convinced you got yourself killed over the weekend.”
One of Tyler’s arms was slung over his boyfriend Derrick’s shoulders, and Derrick nodded along. They both wore the same denim shirt, buttoned up to the neck, although Tyler had paired his with thin purple suspenders, and Derrick had pinned on a big purple clematis.
“It’s true,” Derrick affirmed. “And we all remember the time you disappeared for two days with that strange man on his boat.”
The waiter appeared to refill their coffees, and Lawrence sat there, fuming to himself in silence. Sure, going on a boat with a total stranger had been a questionable idea, but the man hadn’t actually wanted anything more than lots of sex, which happened to be the exact thing Lawrence was also looking for. He became a bit indignant about it, and once the waiter wandered away, he angrily shook a little packet of creamer at his friends.
“You know, it’s notmydamn fault I got mugged again last night. A person should be allowed to walk down the street, or get on a boat, or do any other damn thing without getting attacked.”
“Absolutely,” Mayer agreed, wagging a piece of bacon back at him. “And we certainly love our darling Lawrence, swinging from the chandeliers and making everyone laugh. But the fact is, lately, you haven’t been very successful walking down the street, or dancing at the club, or doing just about any other thing without getting yourself into trouble.”
“Except the boat!” Derrick chirped up. “Lawrence is right. The boat sounded like it was a great experience.”
“Thank you, Derrick,” Lawrence said with a smug smile, then kissed the back of his friend’s hand.
“Don’t try to distract us with flattery,” Tyler said. “This is serious! You’ve been mugged five times this year, Lawrence.”
It was six, but Lawrence wasn’t about to correct. “I only remember four,” he answered.
He pulled himself up in the chair, then took in a deep breath. Fresh Eggs, their favorite brunch spot, was filled as usual for a weekend, with twenty-somethings in carefully selected spring fashion, but the group had a standing reservation at a little table in the back every Sunday where they could talk more easily. He reminded himself that, more often than not, the advice his friends tried to push on him ended up being correct, although he was quite often loathe to admit it.
“So what?” he asked. “You think I should party less?”
“No,” Mayer answered. “We think you should get a bodyguard.”
Lawrence almost choked on his coffee. He checked his lilac-printed T-shirt to make sure he hadn’t spilled anything, then shook his head. “A bodyguard? Seriously? Like I’m going to walk around all night with some man looking over my shoulder? How would I even do that? Would he be there when I was dancing? Would he be there when I snuck off into the bathroom for a little treat? Or when I found some hottie to drag back to my condo?” He snorted, then smeared syrup across the plate with a bite of French toast, impaled on his fork. “How embarrassing. No way.”
“Lawrence, beautiful,” Tyler cooed. “Come on. You’re thinking about this all wrong. What type of people have nightlife security? Only like, major pop stars, young royalty, daughters of presidents and prime ministers.”
“You’ll look mysterious and impossibly cool,” Derrick added.
“And maybe they’ll stop you from waking up in a literal dumpster every morning.”
“Once,” Lawrence hissed. “And it was filled with cardboard and packing peanuts, not like, eggshells and coffee grounds.”
“We all know what it was filled with, darling,” Tyler said lightly. “But it was still a dumpster.”
Lawrence frowned. He took a drink from his Bloody Mary, then a drink from his coffee, then a drink from his orange juice, and then a drink from his ice water.
At twenty-three years old, he really would rather not need a damn babysitter. But for as much as he loved availing himself of the many rare pleasures that came through New York City nightlife, he had to admit, he’d been winding up in the dumpster a lot more often than the boat lately.
What did it matter, anyway? It wasn’t like Lawrence had much else going on. His father was mega-wealthy, and now that Lawrence was done with school, he had stumbled into a new career that consisted entirely of going to family dinner once every other week. In exchange for his muted presence, Lawrence’s miserable family would continue to provide him with a generous trust fund and a sham job at his father’s corporation, and Lawrence would be able to keep living his “preferred lifestyle,” as his grandmother so eloquently referred to it, all implications intended.
He wasn’t a political celebrity or a silver screen star. In fact, Little League baseball umpires had more power and authority than Lawrence did. But would it really hurt, if he had a bodyguard standing fifteen feet away?
Maybe, if he’d had someone around the night before, his face wouldn’t be so scratched up right then, and there wouldn’t be a boot print-shaped bruise on his back.
“Fine,” Lawrence sighed. “You win again. I’ll hire a bodyguard.”
Tyler, Derrick, and Mayer cheered, and almost immediately, the gossip moved on to the next topic. Stories and jokes flying, Lawrence leaned back in his chair.
He could be a mess sometimes, but at least his friends kept him from falling apart.
