Free Tracers by J. J. Howard

him.
    Cam picked up a little glass pot that was sitting near the edge of the roof. It was pretty: red and gold glass panes in diamond shapes. The plant inside had died, but the roots were still there, tangled up in the dirt. He looked down. The cat was gone, the alley empty. Cam held the pretty thing up and then let go, watching the pot burst apart in the light of the street lamps below. He realized then that the glass had been broken and had cut into his hand. Now he would need to find something to bandage it. But at the moment he couldn’t make himself move, or care. He lay back against the cold cement of the roof and stared out into the darkness.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    The text message from Jax pulled Cam out of his thoughts:
    Jets game & grub @ my place-104B Ave C @ 7
    Cam smiled down at his phone. It had been forever since he’d gotten a come-hang-out text. He didn’t hang out with any of the messengers at work.
    His hand was still bleeding a little, so he ripped off the hem of an old T-shirt and wrapped it around his palm, then took the train down to Jax’s place, which looked like one-quarter of a loft.
    Jax answered the door wearing head-to-toe green and white. He clapped Cam on the back. “You made it! Welcome!”
    â€œThanks,” Cam said. He walked in and looked around. There were three beds in one corner. “Nice place. You guys all live here?”
    â€œMe and Tate and Dylan,” Jax answered. “Oh, and my boys!”
    At that moment, three pit bulls rushed toward Cam, almost knocking him over.
    â€œI told you to hold them!” Jax called over his shoulder.
    â€œI did,” Tate yelled. “Noodle started slobbering all over me. Your dogs, dude. Control ’em.”
    Jax smiled sheepishly at Cam. “They told me if I bring home one more, I’m out,” he confided. “They’re rescues. I’m in this group, and they call me . . .” Jax shrugged as though to indicate his helplessness in the face of pit bulls in need. He led the way into the middle of the loft, where there were two big sofas and a flat screen already tuned in to the game.
    â€œTold you before, dude. You gotta get your name off the sucker list,” Tate said, standing and greeting Cam with a handshake. “Welcome to the dog pound. Have a seat. Hope you don’t mind dog hair. Or drool.”
    â€œNo worries,” Cam said, sitting. One of the dogs promptly climbed up on top of him, staring at him with sad doggie eyes. He noticed that he only had three legs, and his ears looked like someone had attacked them with scissors. Cam reached up and petted his head. “Poor dude. Looks like you really needed a rescue,” he said.
    Jax sat down across from him. “Yeah, Sammy there had it the worst. He was a bait dog. People suck. But enough about my monsters. What do you like on your pizza?”
    â€œAnything,” Cam said. “I mean, I guess anything except pineapple. Pizza’s just not the place for fruit.”
    â€œNo arguments here,” Tate said. “Dylan’s on his way. With Nikki.”
    Cam wasn’t sure how to feel about that news. Part of him wanted more time with her. Part of him just didn’t understand her, and feared he never would.
    Tate was calling for the pizza. “So you guys lived here long?” Cam asked Jax.
    â€œMaybe a year? When I first came here I lived in this—
crap hole
doesn’t begin to describe it. Finally, after meeting up with these guys, I went over to Tate’s, and his place was a crack den too. So I had the idea we could go in together.”
    â€œYeah, I’ve lived in my share of garbage places,” Cam agreed. “You said you came here? From where?”
    â€œVirginia, the bottom part—near Tennessee.”
    â€œ
Why’d
you come here?” Cam asked. “No offense or anything. I’ve just spent most of my life trying to get out.”
    Jax