Free Harlan's Race by Patricia Nell Warren Page A

non-verbal communication. With stoned dignity, he pulled up his pants and slid off the bar. Behind him, the bartender polished away his foot smudges.
    Warily, Vince squinted at me like a cornered wolf. Then he lunged at me. His rush carried me a step backwards against the bar. Damn — was he going to break my neck? No. He was embracing me. My nostrils were buried in his wet hair — breathing him was like being in a steam room crowded with fifty men. I crushed him against me, feeling the preciousness of his young life.
    People were whooping. Somebody blew a whistle at us. Then, suddenly, Vince sagged — light-headed. Too many poppers.
    Quickly I got his arm over my shoulder. People spent only a few seconds watching the mysterious wild man drag the reigning beauty away. Then they went back to their revels.
    Outside, in the cold air, Vince recovered. We went to Mario’s house. Vince’s amphetamine high was collapsing now. In a few minutes, he had fumbled into a dry sweat suit, running shoes and his black leather jacket. A travel bag was slung over his shoulder.
    Ten steps down the boardwalk he said, “Shit... I forgot my hair-dryer.”
    “Leave it. No power in Steve’s house.”
    We barely caught the next cab.
    During the long ride, Vince lay half passed-out against my shoulder, his face pressed into my neck.
    In Davis Park, as we walked toward Hotel Goodnight, my eyes nervously surveyed the dark dunes. It was past 3:30 a.m., the darkest horn-. The night belonged to anyone smart enough to use it. Had the enemy penetrated my disguise? Was he watching the two of us go in the house together, knowing what this meant?
    The Hotel was quiet. Joe had left one gaslight burning in the front room.
    Thunder boomed overhead as I closed the curtains in the North Room, then lit a kerosene lamp. A hot shower would warm Vince, and get the disco reek off. Shucking our clothes, we both stood under the steaming spray. He was so shaky he could hardly stand, let alone maintain a hard-on, so he just leaned into me, his magnificent limp cock nudging me. I ignored it, and scoured his shivering body from hair to toenails with a loufa and soap. Rubbing him dry with Steve’s luxurious terry towels, I inspected him for crabs, but didn’t find any.
    What I did find was a fresh needle track in his arm.
    “Speed?” I asked.
    “Yessir,” he mumbled.
    While Vince pulled on his sweats again, I made him some camomile tea, to warm him and calm him. Shortly he was in my bed, shivering under the covers. I blew out the lamp, then opened the drapes. Outside the open window, brush hissed restlessly in the storm breeze. My sniper panic and religious scruples were fading. But making love to him when he was so stoned didn’t seem fair.
    Wrapped tightly in a terry robe, I sat down by him.
    “Shit, man. I’m really crashing,” he murmured. “Sorry.”
    “Don’t worry about it. Just listen up,” I said, running my fingers through his wet-sleek hair.
    Lightning lit his face, as his eyes tried to focus on me. He looked so unconfident, so undone by feeling. I caught his thought. Billy’s death had opened the way for us to make love. We both shook the thought away.
    ‘Two problems,” I said.
    He closed his eyes. “Uh-oh. Problems.”
    “Problem Number One. You and me together might piss off the enemy.”
    “So you do think there’s a second guy.”
    “I wish I didn’t think so. I’ve spent a month covering my trail. But it feels like we’re being surveilled.”
    He moved his head to kiss my fingers. “I’ve waited a long time for this. They’re not going to stop me.”
    “Problem Number Two. I don’t want clap, or whatever you have. Monday, we go for tests. Till then... I don’t trust you.”
    “So I... stay?”
    “Would you have come for a trick?”
    “Babe,” he said, coming to life a little, narrowing his eyes with drunken seductiveness, “you wouldn’t trick with me.”
    ‘Why not? You’re the biggest whore on the Beach.”