Red caught him by the wrist.
“You’re all shaky, man,” Red said. “Let me help.”
Billy tried to pull away, but Red’s thick fingers encircled his wrist like a handcuff. He looked into Red’s face. Red smiled at him, his upper lip rising in a sexy snarl and his blue eyes watching him hungrily. God, he’s beautiful, Billy thought helplessly.
“Come on, baby,” Red purred. “I’ve got what you need.”
Billy cleared his throat. “I’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “My mom. She needs me. She—”
“I heard,” said Red. He put his hand on Billy’s neck, massaging the sore muscles. Billy relaxed into his hold. “Shame about all of that.”
“Yeah,” Billy said, his voice hoarse. “Yeah, it’s fucked up.”
Red stroked the side of Billy’s face with his hand. “So let me help you feel better,” he said.
Billy shook his head. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m busted.”
Red shrugged. “No problem,” he said. “I know you’re good for it.” He paused. “Or maybe we can work something out.”
Billy looked at the floor. The tile was dirty, streaked with footprints and littered with crumpled-up paper towels that had missed the trashcan. An empty condom wrapper lay beside Red’s foot like the discarded skin of some tiny creature.
“Come on,” said Red. He took Billy’s hand and pulled him toward one of the stalls.
Billy allowed himself to be led. Red bumped the door open and entered, drawing Billy after him. When the door was shut and locked, Red reached into the pocket of his jeans and took out a small plastic bag. He opened it and poured several white rocks into his palm. “Down or up?” he asked Billy.
Billy rubbed his nose. “Up,” he said. It was faster that way. If he swallowed the stuff he would have to wait twenty minutes, maybe even half an hour, for it to kick in. Snorting it would bring instant joy.
Red took a short piece of plastic straw from his pocket. Picking up one of the rocks between his thumb and forefinger, he crushed it into powder. He repeated the procedure with the remaining rocks, then swept the powder into a neat pile on his palm. Handing the straw to Billy, he said, “After you.”
Billy took the straw and, inserting one end into his nose, leaned down and snorted half the powder from Red’s outstretched hand. He winced a little as the crystal entered his nose, but gave several short snorts to draw it into his sinus cavity. He stood up and leaned against the stall door, closing his eyes. He heard Red snort the rest of the ice. Then, a moment later, he heard the sound of Red fumbling with his belt.
“All right, Billy boy,” Red said. “Time to pay up.”
Without opening his eyes, Billy turned around to face the door. He undid the buttons of his jeans and pushed them down to his knees. He felt Red’s hands at his waist, then heard the sound of spitting. A moment later there was a sharp stab of pain as Red entered him. He clenched his teeth and leaned his forehead against his crossed arms, feeling the cool metal of the door against his skin.
Thankfully, the crystal was good and began to work quickly. Red’s shit was always good, Billy had to give him that. He made it himself, and he was proud of his product. It was—mostly—worth the price he demanded for it.
Billy’s head began to spin as his heart sped up. This was the moment he loved best, when the ride was just beginning and the anticipation was at its highest point. It always made him think of being on a roller coaster, poised at the very top of the first hill, waiting for that first sharp drop that made his stomach leap and caused him to shout with joy. As a kid, at the county fair each summer he would ride the coaster over and over, always sitting in the very first car, never getting enough of that rush, coming back again and again for the two weeks the fair was open.
Now he was once again climbing to the top of that hill. He saw himself let go of the bar that kept him safely inside the car, lifting his arms high above his head as the coaster’s chain chucked-chucked-chucked beneath him. Then the sound stopped as the car crested the top. For one long, breathtaking moment he was looking down the other side, anticipating the fall, and then the car was hurtling down and his ears were filled with the delighted screams coming from his mouth.
The sound of Red buckling his belt brought him back. He reached down and pulled his pants up, wordlessly tucking his T-shirt inside and buttoning his fly. He unlocked the stall door and opened it, stepping out and going once more to the sink. Red followed. As he passed Billy he slapped him on the ass. “Hope you feel better,” he said as he left the men’s room.
Billy once again regarded his reflection in the mirror. “Yeah,” he said to himself. “Yeah, I feel a whole lot better.”
He washed his hands again, not wanting to leave the bathroom. When one of the other stall doors opened and a man emerged, he thought at first he was imagining it. When had the guy come in? Had he heard everything? Of course he had. How could he not?
The man came over to the sinks and stood beside Billy, washing his hands. Billy glanced at him and recognized the face. He tried to put a name to it.
“Greg,” he said. “Your name is Greg.”
The man turned and looked at him briefly. “Right,” he said.
Billy stared at him for another moment, trying to remember. “You’re from Syracuse,” he said finally. “We did it once. In your car. You have a Beemer.”
Greg turned the water off and drew a paper towel from the dispenser. He said nothing as he dried his hands.
“That’s right, isn’t it?” Billy asked him. “Greg. From Syracuse. You have a Beemer.” He reached out and ran his hand over Greg’s arm. “It was nice. I remember that. You were nice.”
Greg pulled his arm away and moved toward the door. “I don’t think that was me,” he said. “Maybe someone else.”
“But your name is Greg,” Billy insisted. “Greg from Syracuse. And it was nice!” He shouted the last word as the man disappeared back into the bar, leaving him alone.
“It was nice,” Billy said again, his voice now a whisper. “You were nice.”
He turned to his reflection in the mirror. “He was nice,” he told himself. “He was.”
CHAPTER 8
1983
It was weird sitting on the couch between James and Celeste. It made him feel like he was a little kid. But A.J. Derry was in his father’s chair, and his mother was in the other, leaving the couch as the only option. Billy crossed his arms over his chest, trying not to touch his brother or sister. Fortunately, they seemed equally uncomfortable, and each was seated as close to their respective ends of the couch as possible.
“Is this about Dad?” Celeste asked, voicing what Billy knew they were all thinking.
His mother looked at Mr. Derry, who sat on the edge of the chair, as if he knew he didn’t belong in it. His hands were clasped and resting between his knees, and his face looked troubled. So did their mother’s. Her eyes were red, as if she’d been crying, and her fingers pulled anxiously at her skirt, incessantly smoothing out wrinkles that weren’t there.
“Yes,” Mr. Derry said. “It’s about your father.”
None of the three kids said anything. Billy felt the tension between them as they waited for someone to tell them what was going on. They hadn’t even talked about his absence among themselves. Billy had assumed that their father was just busy with work, and since neither James nor Celeste had said anything to make him think otherwise, he didn’t understand the sudden change in mood.
“What about him?” asked James. “Where is he?”
Again their mother looked