Page 40 of Bobby Green
Ethan had kept things light and friendly, and after they’d collapsed on each other in a sweaty, giggling pile of naked after the final shot, going out with him had been as easy as Reg told him it would be.
And then Jessica had texted him, out of the blue, while he’d been sort of losing himself in Ethan’s easy conversation.
Whatcha doin’, hon?
Eating with a coworker, why?
We just haven’t talked in a while, that’s all.
Bobby gritted his teeth. No, they hadn’t. He’d kept busy—damned busy—with the working out and waiting tables and the working on Reg’s bathroom, and he’d done that for a reason.
Helping to fix a friend’s bathroom is all.
Don’t you want to talk to me?
Not now, Jessica! I’m eating!It was a lie, of course. They had to fuck the next day, and Bobby was already learning that starving was the key to a good scene.
He wasn’t sure how many years he’d be able to starve himself before a scene. He’d already realized he had no qualms about sex for money, and he wasn’t particularly ashamed of that. But going without food….
He stared at the crisp celery and carrots on their little tray and thought longingly of a hamburger.
“Tomorrow,” Ethan said with a weak laugh, and Bobby looked up from his frustrating phone conversation and put the damned thing in his pocket.
“Yeah, I know.” He breathed deep and took in the smell of hamburgers from the kitchen, hoping that would sustain him. “Sorry about the texting.” He didn’t want to tell Ethan that he didn’t reallywantthis girlfriend far away in Truckee, because that seemed mean somehow to Jessica, and Bobby was starting to see how being decent to people mattered in the world of Johnnies.
“I get it. People want your attention.” Ethan nibbled on a carrot stick disconsolately, like he was trying to think of another polite question to ask Bobby so he didn’t have to talk about whatever was weighing on his own chest. Bobby had purposely made light of his time in construction and the awful setup of exploitation he’d escaped while staring down a gun barrel to get out. He’d shown his scarred thumb as proof that he was clumsy and told Ethan the story in a way that made him laugh.
Ethan was putting a good face on what looked like some serious heartbreak—Bobby didn’t want to tell him the horrible shit. Who needed to know that about the guy you were working with? Seriously.
As if to confirm Bobby’s suspicion that Ethan had great deep, dark things going on in his head, he suddenly said, “Hey—do you want to come with me to get inked?”
Which was how Bobby found himself in a tattoo shop, a place he’d sworn he’d never go into, just because who had the money to suffer for vanity, right?
Ethan wanted a Chinese symbol, something small, in the small of his back near his ass. Bobby didn’t want to ask—the look on the guy’s full-lipped Italian face was one of fierce penance, and Bobby didn’t want to intrude.
He spent the time browsing through the art held in the poster displays around the room, and as Jessica buzzed fiercely in his pocket, he started to think about an image, any image, he’d want inked on his body for all the world to see forever. About all he could come up with was the innocence in Reg’s eyes, but hey, he’d only known the guy for a couple of weeks, and he’d always thought tattoos of people’s faces were stupid.
“Hunh….” He opened one of the display posters and saw a dragon, all in black lines, vertical and twined around a tower. The pic was beautiful, and suddenly he could imagine this drawing, stretched out over his ribs. He took a picture of it and texted it to Reg.
Think I should get a tat?
I thought you were saving money?
He smiled.Crap. Yeah. You’re right. Maybe after my mom’s paid up for the winter.
Jessica buzzed him again.So, what you doing?
He thought about her—she’d love a tattoo, or the idea of a tattoo. She’d gotten a few since they’d graduated from high school, and Keith had gotten a big chain around his bicep since Bobby’s last trip up the hill. But he didn’t want to share this idea. She’d probably get him something for Christmas, and then he’d havehermoney on his skin. God—at least when he fucked on film, it was his own doing, his own choice.
He didn’t feel owned by anybody—not with Trish, not with Dex, not with Ethan taking stills that afternoon. It felt same as carpentry.
Honest work.
What was he doing?
Waiting tables, he lied.Text you when I get home.He’d never told her about the miserable trailer with thirty guys on the floor, and he’d never told her he’d quit the job in construction.
He’d mentioned picking up shifts as a waiter—because Billy did that between gigs at Johnnies and school.
