Gay for Pay: Stories from the Sound, #1

Prologue

January 2010

Chris rolled his shoulders before laying his head on the couch, the pulsing bass of the music blasting from the stereo thrumming in his ears, his eyes closing almost involuntarily. A shriek that fell off into a laugh drew him out of his semi-comatose stasis. He sat up, blinking, watching one of the cheerleaders run through the living room. One of the wide receivers, Cliff, was hot on her heels, her shirt soaked through with the beer that had obviously just been dumped on her. Chris laughed out loud with his friends at the sight, catching his girlfriend, Amanda, as she flung herself into his lap.

They’d won the state finals, and the scouts at the game assured Chris he would be awarded a scholarship to Alabama in the fall. Roll Tide! So, of course, a celebration was in order. Football was his life for as far back as he could remember—PeeWee league as soon as he could walk, basically, grade school, junior high, and on into high school—it was the second most important thing in his life, next to Amanda.

The party finally started to dwindle around four in the morning, several people passing out where they sat, Michael walking through the house, throwing blankets over bodies. Later, dude. Chris saluted his best friend as he stumbled out the front door, moving awkwardly toward his truck with Amanda wrapped around him. Michael trailed behind, trying to convince them to stay.

Chris, seriously, you’ve had way too much to drink. There’s plenty of room here; just crash on the couch for a few hours, then drive home, Michael protested.

Chris opened the passenger door of his truck and poured Amanda in, fastening her seat belt. One hand on the buckle, the other flailing in the air, he waved him off. Nah, Mikey, I’m fine. I have a high constitution, and the alcohol just burns right off.

Michael glared at him, arms crossed over his chest. Seriously, Chris yelled as he went around the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat, I’m good!

He cranked the engine and rolled down the window. I’ll call you tomorrow, Chris promised his friend, and Michael shook his head before he turned and walked back up the sidewalk into the house. Shifting gears, he gunned it and jerked the truck out of the driveway.

He set the cruise control at sixty and turned the radio up, both windows open as he hit the highway heading toward Amanda’s house. Looking to his right, he thought about how beautiful she looked just then, asleep and oblivious, long blonde hair falling over one side of her face, a little line of drool pooling in the corner of her mouth. He steered with one hand, holding Amanda’s with the other.

Music blaring and the wind rolling in through the open windows—even the warmth from Amanda’s tiny fingers laced with his own couldn’t keep Chris from starting to nod off, and before he realized what was happening, there was a blinding light as he came around a steep hill. The sudden impact of an eighteen-wheeler slamming into his Ford F-150 was jarring, rattling his teeth. His truck flipped several times before landing upside down in a drainage ditch. As the world went black, the last thing Chris could remember hearing was the pounding of his heart in his chest and sirens wailing in the distance.

Chapter One

The Verdict

January 2011

The sky was dark and gray with ominous black clouds and patches of dense fog. A crack of lightning flashed in the distance, a loud clap of thunder following, rolling, the sound reverberating in the small, quiet room. Chris, please. Come sit and eat something, Michael begged for the third time in the past hour.

Not hungry. His stomach was in knots; anything he choked down wouldn’t stay in his belly for long. Not to mention the near-constant pain in his back, the pins in his spine still acclimating with the bones and muscle. Almost one year to the day after the accident and he could still feel the twisted metal shard digging into his flesh, still hear the screeching of the tires of the truck he’d collided with head on. He often wondered if his body would ever be fully rid of the pain, much less his heart. There was a dark void continually growing larger within his soul with each passing day.

The eight weeks Chris had spent in the hospital after the accident were the darkest time in his young life. Living with the knowledge that he’d killed the woman he loved was bad enough. But being abandoned by his parents, shunned by his friends and the community he’d grown up in—it was almost unbearable. He’d thought himself truly and utterly alone until the day Michael had burst into his hospital room, teary-eyed and apologetic, with his mother and Max right behind him.

If only I’d made more of an effort to stop you from getting in that goddamn truck! If I’d taken your keys, had the other guys drag you and Amanda back into the house... Michael was sobbing, his face red and splotchy.

Chris cut him off with a wave of his hand. Don’t. This is not your fault, Michael, it’s mine. It was I, and I alone, who made the decision to drive that night. This is not on you.

Staring out the tiny window into the blanket of gray water soaking the cars in the parking lot, Chris was reminded of where he was when his attorney cleared his throat. You okay, Chris? He turned to look at the man, nodding once sharply. Another bolt of lightning split the dark clouds like the red sea, his friend’s reflection in the window jumping when an angry clap of thunder boomed. Chris didn’t even flinch. He was broken...despondent and bereft. Way down deep in his soul, he felt almost hollow. The gut-wrenching guilt over what he’d done to Amanda, the ramifications that resonated within his small community—it was almost too much to bear. More than once he’d considered suicide, how easy it would be to swallow his entire bottle of pain meds, fall asleep, and never have to feel anything again. But then, that would have consequences as well, ones that Chris couldn’t be held accountable for. He’d ruined enough lives already. God, you’re such a fucking coward! the voice in his head chimed in. What was that old saying? The truth hurts? So he got up every day, got dressed, and lived the shitty, solitary life he’d inadvertently chosen for himself that night.

Chris turned when he heard a rap of knuckles on the door, and the bailiff stuck his head into the room. The jury is back, and the judge sent me to collect you.

I’m confident you won’t serve any time, Chris. We’ve presented a solid case for DUI registry, license revocation, and community service. Not to mention, this is your first brush with the law, ever. His attorney whispered as they followed the bailiff along the short hall and into the courtroom. The man’s words reassured Chris, and he made a mental note to thank Michael’s parents for the umpteenth time for hiring their family attorney to represent him. Otherwise, he’d surely have wound up with some crappy court-appointed moron.

As he made his way to the front, Chris let his eyes roam, some of the tension in his shoulders releasing when Carolyn, Michael’s mother, smiled at him and mouthed the words...We love you, good luck as Max stood so that Michael could take the seat next to his mother. While he didn’t dare meet their eyes, Chris could see his and Amanda’s parents in his periphery, in the front row, right behind the prosecuting attorney. Only his father had bothered to visit him in the hospital, just long enough to tell Chris that he was no longer welcome in the house he grew up in. True to his father’s word, when Chris was finally released from the hospital, he found everything he owned packed up in boxes in the spare bedroom at Michael’s house.

He’d barely taken his seat when the bailiff said, All rise, the judge and jury filing into the now unnervingly quiet courtroom. He’d been charged with one count of involuntary manslaughter, one count of reckless endangerment, one count of driving under the influence, and one count of assault with a deadly weapon. When the jury found him guilty on all but the last charge, his and Amanda’s families clapped and shouted, Praise the Lord! Chris was quite certain this was a time for anything but praise.

Does the jury have a recommendation for sentencing at this time? Judge Conroy asked.

A lovely older woman with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back in a bun stood. We do, Your Honor.

And does counsel have any objection to ending these proceedings today with my final judgment? The Judge addressed Chris’s attorney.

We do not, Your Honor. His attorney agreed quickly, which was no surprise. They’d discussed this as a possible outcome, so Chris was prepared.

All right, then. Madam Foreperson, what is the jury’s recommendation for sentencing?

Chris suddenly felt as if he were twelve years old again, running through his grandparents’ living room and knocking over an ugly monstrosity disguised as a vase, the glass shattering and his grandmother glaring at him sternly. Madam Foreperson met his eyes as she spoke. Time served with ten years of probation and two hundred hours of community service. Those two hundred hours are to be completed in relation to his conviction, either in an AA rehabilitation program, a halfway house, or somewhere similar.

When the judge sentenced him to ten years of probation, one hundred hours of community service, loss of his license for an indeterminate amount of time and mandatory alcohol awareness classes, Chris could only nod and agree that he understood.

You’re young, smart, and capable, Mr. Roberts. Your judgment on the night of the accident was, at the very least, reckless stupidity, and I sincerely hope you’ve learned a valuable lesson from this tragedy. Furthermore, I will be keeping an eye on you, and if I ever see you in any courtroom again, I will make it my mission to ensure you receive the highest penalty allowable. Do I make myself clear? The elderly man with gray hair, glasses, and a scowl that would probably make a gangster tremble stared down at him.

Yes, Your Honor, Chris responded quickly.

Good. The judge sighed, his face a mask of stoic resignation. I’m waiving incarceration at this time, Mr. Roberts, because I truly believe that you are not a violent person, that you are not a criminal but a young man that made a singular mistake that will likely haunt you for the rest of your life. And that, Mr. Roberts, is far greater than any time in prison I can impose upon your person.

Amanda’s mother cried out, sobbing, and Chris’s mother wrapped her arms around the despondent woman. Several people hurled angry words at Chris, but the judge wasn’t having any of it, banging his gavel on the desk loudly. Order! I will have order in my courtroom. The judge waited until silence bathed the room before he finished. If you ever show up in my courtroom again, or any other, for that matter that I’m made aware of, I can and will impose the maximum penalty for that offense. Are we clear, Mr. Roberts?

Chris nodded. Yes sir, I mean, Your Honor. Yes, I understand.

This court is adjourned. The sharp, angry bang of the gavel resonated in Chris’s bones, making him weak in the knees. He’d surely have collapsed were it not for Michael and Max rushing over to him. Michael wrapped his arms around Chris’s waist, tight, the hug almost painful, but Chris accepted it happily.

When they filed out of the courtroom ten minutes later, a throng of reporters circling the four parents caught sight of Chris and stampeded his way. Always thinking on his feet, Max shoved him into the elevator, pounding on the button to close the door. As the elevator descended, the cacophony of questions and people chanting, Murderer! penetrated his ears through the steel doors. Those words wouldn’t leave him for a long time—if ever, and neither would his guilt.

Chapter Two

Life as He Knows It

January 2015

It was an unusually cold winter in New York, one for the record books. Blizzardlike storms had closed roads, airports, and schools. Chris wove his way through the crowded sidewalks that were busting at the seams with tourists, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, fingers numb. He didn’t want to spend another night flipping through channels, listless, tossing and turning on Michael’s couch. Braving the arctic temperatures and the crowded city streets had seemed like a far better option when he’d left the apartment, offering Michael and his boyfriend a night alone without him, the constant third wheel.

Chris kept his head down, his eyes only scanning his surroundings, making sure he didn’t bump into anyone—or worse, walk into a street sign. He chuckled at the thought; he’d seen the video on TV awhile ago of a famous rapper walking right into one of those while trying to avoid paparazzi. Chris didn’t much care for the guy anyway. He was always rude to his fans and generally everyone around him. He thought it was karma and was certain even the street sign had laughed that day.

Karma. He snorted. That bitch had been like a monkey on his back for the past five years. There was no escaping his past; even moving hundreds of miles away offered little reprieve. It did make life somewhat easier, he had to admit, not being followed by judgmental, condemning eyes everywhere he went. Whispers of how worthless he was buzzing in his ears like a swarm of angry bees, strangers questioning why that lovely, beautiful girl with her whole life ahead of her had to be the one to die. Why couldn’t the monster that had the audacity to show his face in the dairy aisle at the Piggly Wiggly be the one that was killed? It was a question he’d asked himself every goddamn day since that fateful night.

The therapist he’d seen in Alabama was no better, her barely restrained contempt always simmering just beneath the surface. But that was the way things went in small towns like the one he and Michael grew up in. There weren’t many options, especially when the judge that presided over his case made the bitchy woman his court-appointed therapist. It wasn’t until he moved to New York and found a business card pinned to a corkboard at a small coffee shop he frequented that Chris began to entertain the idea that he wasn’t completely worthless.

Fifteen minutes into his second session with Dr. Shwarma, Chris was forced to examine the moral and motives of the people in his hometown. Tell me something, Chris. What about what you lost that day?

I’m sorry, I...I don’t follow?

Sighing, the ethereal woman with honest hazel eyes stared at him for a few moments, a sad smile on her face. You lost your girlfriend, your family, and most of your friends. You didn’t get to graduate with your class, and your scholarship was rescinded. One bad decision cost you everything except for your life, Chris. That is what I am saying. Has anyone, especially you, ever considered that? And there it was. All his pain, depression, and sadness rolled into a misshapen ball with a tattered and torn bow wrapped around it.

––––––––

The only person that was right by his side through it all, even knowing that Chris was at fault, was Michael. Their friendship was unconditional and unwavering. In fact, Michael and his boyfriend, Max, were the only shining light in Chris’s otherwise dark life. Michael left for college in New York not long after the trial and convinced Chris to come with him. Chris quickly agreed, knowing there was nothing left for him in Alabama. Truth be told, he didn’t really feel like he belonged anywhere, was still convinced his life should have ended the night he killed his girlfriend. Michael was his strength, the brother he never had, and he helped Chris find some semblance of a life in New York while Dr. Shwarma worked on the pain and suffering he kept locked inside, a festering wound he allowed no one around him to see. Thank God the Judge presiding over his case showed him leniency, and Chris didn’t have to jump through hoops with the legal system in order to leave the state as long as his community service hours were completed prior to moving.

Music and flashing strobe lights within the building he was passing pulled Chris out of the misery of his memories. It was very alluring, the elaborate dancing colors pouring through the windows that were synced perfectly with the bass of the song, and he was drawn in. Showing his ID to the big, burly guy at the door that winked at him, Chris entered the club.

––––––––

Inside, slowly circling the perimeter, Chris was amazed by what he saw. Darkness surrounded the outer edges and corners of the large room, with cages of various sizes separating the circular dance floor. The DJ booth was opposite the entrance, with more cages on either side that held nearly naked men in various stages of undress. They were dancing, kissing, groping, and in one cage, Chris was certain they were fucking. As he slowly made his way through the crowd he was just now noticing were all men, he saw several chairs and couches lined up along the rear wall, and there was a man between another man’s legs, his head bobbing up and down, keeping time with the beat of the music.

He stood frozen in place for a minute, staring at what was obviously a stellar blowjob—judging by the look of ecstasy on the recipient’s face—right there, out in the open. How was it that these men were so brazen about what they were doing, and the place wasn’t swarming with cops? And how was it that Chris lived just a few miles away and had never noticed this place before? Michael and Max would