Chapter 1
Hudson
I’m not sure what makes me hit the brakes when I see him. A kind of a reflex, an instinct, a sudden pull to make sure the kid sticking his thumb out on the side of the road gets home safely? He’s not a kid, I can see that clearly as he approaches the car. Must be in his early twenties. He looks clean-cut enough in his neat T-shirt and jeans, so I guess it’s that, combined with me being bone-tired, that prevents me from recognizing his intentions right away. The illusion breaks when he leans into the passenger window and gives me a suggestive smile.
“Looking for a good time?” he says.
Sure am. Getting off the streets, locking my apartment’s door, making a cup of coffee that my body for some reason mistakes for a sleeping pill. Showering, getting into bed, putting on a movie, falling asleep ten minutes into it. Definitely looking forward to all of that.
Not the kind of good time he’s talking about.
He watches me, clearly noting my lack of enthusiasm. His smile might as well be stitched, but there’s wariness in his eyes. I haven’t seen him around here before. He’s new to this area, and probably to what he’s doing right now. My first impression still holds—he doesn’t look like someone who works on the streets, at least not yet. The smooth, recently combed dark hair, the clean clothes, the clear eyes. Not an addict. Not homeless, either.
I sigh. I’m off duty, but I can still arrest him. I just need to validate his intentions first.
“How much?” I ask.
His face relaxes a bit. “Depending on what you have in mind.”
“Blowjob?”
“Fifty,” he says, and it feels like a trap snaps shut. He’s soliciting, and I can arrest him right now. Yet I don’t want to deal with it here, alone. What if he runs? I’m in no mood for that.
“Thirty,” I say.
“Forty,” he says. “Because you look good.”
“Get in.”
He opens the door and gets inside. He smells nice, some kind of cologne. He clicks the safety belt like a good kid. Looks like he’s used to taking care of himself, but people who take care of themselves don’t normally get into strangers’ cars at night.
“I’m staying at a motel two blocks away,” he says, settling in. “We can go there.”
“We could go to my place.”
He stiffens. “Oh?” he says slowly, letting go of the safety belt. “Where is that?”
“Ten minutes from here.” I put the car into drive. “I’ll get you back afterwards.”
“Uhm... Okay.”
I don’t look to check his expression. Our interaction is going to be over soon, so what he thinks or feels doesn’t really interest me. I make a U-turn. The traffic is sparse at this hour. I’ll get him to the station and hand him over to the guys, and they’ll take it from there. They’ll have a good laugh, too. This kid. Offering his services to the head of the local task force on trafficking and prostitution. He’ll feel like such an idiot when he finds out.
I could let him off the hook, of course. I mean, I’m not on duty, so I could just drive off, and nobody would know. Yet I’m doing him a favor, even though he probably won’t see it that way. Who knows who’ll pick him up next. Throughout my career, I’ve seen enough bodies dumped in ditches outside the city or buried in shallow graves in the desert. Some of them were young, too—like him. Runaways, prostitutes, homeless people. I’m getting so sick of it.
I glance at him. He’s still watching me, his eyes alert. At least he has the good sense to be wary. He’s probably trying to calculate whether I have something nasty on my mind.
“So... how’s your day going?” he says at last.
“Is small talk really necessary?”
“No. But maybe turn on some music, then? It’s creepy quiet in here.”
I obey, switching the radio on as I stop at a red light. I check a few stations before settling on one with retro music where a familiar tune is playing. I tap my thigh to the rhythm, keeping my eyes on the light. The boy starts humming along; then, to my surprise, he actually begins to sing under his breath.
I turn to stare at him. I wouldn’t expect anyone below my grandparents’ age to know the lyrics to this.
“You know this song?”
“Sure.” He nods enthusiastically. “Sixteen Tones. Tennessee Ernie Ford, right?”
Coming out of his mouth, it makes no sense. I’d be less surprised if he spoke Latin. Tennessee Ernie Ford? Seriously?
“How do you know this singer? Or the song? It’s so old.”
“It’s from the fifties.” He shrugs, as if the decade was just around the corner, instead of having ended before even our parents were born. “I love the fifties’ music.”
“How on earth could you get into it?” The light changes, and I put the car into drive.
He shrugs again. “Kind of discovered it on Spotify and started digging. There were so many good tunes back then! The kind of stuff to cheer yourself up.” He shoots me a quick glance. “Works for me, at least.”
“You need some cheering up?”
“Don’t we all, sometimes? Feel-good music does the job.”
“This one isn’t feel-good.”
“Yeah, not this one. It’s... gritty. Sort of. But the rhythm is cool. Are you into fifties’ music, too?”
I can feel his eyes on me but keep mine on the road.
“A bit. My grandparents liked this singer, so I heard him a lot growing up.”
He nods. “He’s good. Others are, too. Chuck Berry. Ray Charles. Bobby Darin.”
“No girl favorites?”
“I’m into boys.” I catch the suggestiveness in his tone. “What areyouinto?”
I don’t answer. Why on earth am I even having this conversation with a guy I’m about to detain? Not the wisest thing to do. I can already see the police station two blocks ahead, the tall windows glowing cool white. I slow the car down, and check out the guy next to me again. He smiles at me—more natural this time, not the stitched-on, tense smile he had at first—and nods, as if encouraging me to speak. He seems less wary now, as if he really wants to have this conversation, to learn things about me, not just whether I’m a serial killer.
“I mean,” he says, “do you have a favorite band or something?”
I return my gaze to the road and, before I know it, the gleaming windows and the parking lot of the station fly right past us, and just like that, I’ve chosen not to do the right thing.
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