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Poor Boy excerpt

This is a small taste of Jamie Samms story ; Poor Boy

Poor Boy excerpt:

 Driving through the center of the city, the light from neon signs glided over the cars and flashed through the window, accentuating Stryker’s pale features and turning his hollowed out cheeks and bright black eyes ghoulish in their glow. The car slowed, and a teenager on the corner squinted in at us. Stryker liked people seeing him in this great monstrosity of a car. It made him feel rich even though his family kept him on a tight budget in an obviously futile effort to keep him sober. The kid on the corner grinned, nodded, and flipped a cord of blond hair out of his eyes. For a split second, I thought I’d seen a ghost of a kid with dead parents, then his face blended into the blur of people as the light changed and the car sped up again.

“Roy, what did you do to piss him off?”

“Hmm? Nothing. He’s been pissed off since I’ve known him.”

“What are we going to do? My allowance only pays for the condo and the car. How am I going to pay for my shit?”

“Maybe you should just cut down on the shit for a while,” I suggested, more than a little sulkily.

He glared at me, the first focused expression he’d managed since I’d hauled him out of my father’s house. “You know….” He shifted to confront me a little more directly. “I’ve never asked very much from you, Roy. I give you what you want, and all I ask is a few bills and a good time. If you can’t supply one, do you really think you can afford to refuse the other?”

“What?” The conversation slipped out of focus for a second, then snapped back, the new clarity making me sick.

“This guy, I know what he’ll take instead of money, but you have to help. He likes to watch. Maybe join in, maybe not.” He shrugged like sex with a stranger to pay for his drugs was no big deal.

“You’re trying to whore me out.”

Stryker smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “You know you like being my bitch. Besides, it’s not like it would be the first time.”

I hated that I couldn’t argue that point.

“Fuck you.” I knocked on the glass again, and the window slid down. “Stop here, please.” The man blinked at me, as though the word please sounded foreign to him. “Stop the car.” He shrugged and pulled up to the curb.

I shoved Stryker off me and opened the door. “Have a nice life, asshole.”

I slammed the door, Stryker gave me the finger, and the black Mercedes slipped away from the curb, back into traffic, and disappeared into the dark. I flipped the collar of my coat up around my neck. It didn’t stop the chill wind sliding down between my shoulder blades or whispering in my ear how much this was going to suck.

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