Page 45 of Guitars and Cages

“How old were you when you ran?”

“Fifteen.”

“And where did you go?”

“Damn near everywhere. I’ve seen most of the lower 48—that’s, um, what the people up in Alaska call the rest of us—well, all of us but Hawaii.”

“I see. So you went to Alaska, then?”

“Yeah. I’d heard you could make good money up there on the boats, but it, uhh, turned out I was too young. I was thinking of going back one day, trying again—who knows, maybe I’ll get lucky.”

“So then how long have you lived in the city?”

I had to think about that. This was the longest I’d stayed anywhere in years. “Uhh, eighteen, maybe nineteen months, something like that.”

“What about the city drew you to stop moving and stay?”

“Morgan. When I pulled off the highway, I was so tired I didn’t even realize where I was. Well, maybe deep down I did; I mean, I’d been on the road and alone for a long time and I was lonely. When I realized where I was, I called him, because I was too tired to remember how to find my way to the bar. He came and got me and my Harley in his pickup, and I stayed with him until I got a place of my own.”

“How do you support yourself? Is it the bartending, or do you have another job?”

“I play guitar when I can; it doesn’t pay much but I was good at it for a while. Not so much now. I mostly fight now; there’s good money in it.”

She leaned forward, studying my face, my arms, the scars not caused by a blade. “What kind of fighting?”

“Underground.”

Her mouth drew taut in a frown and her eyes narrowed. “I see. How did you get involved with that?”

“I got in a fight one night, in a bar in San Antonio, and this guy came up to me afterward and he asked if I’d ever fought for money. I told him no and he said I should, so I did, and it paid more than what I was doing before.”

“And what was that?”

I blushed, looked away, and muttered.

“I’m sorry; I didn’t quite catch that,” she said.

I groaned and looked back at her. “I sold myself to whoever wanted to pay to fuck me,” I said.

Damn, she didn’t even blink.

“How did that make you feel?”

“Better.”

She made note of that. “How so?”

“I wasn’t worth more than that and I knew it, so at least when I did it, I wasn’t living a lie.”

Yeah, she made note of that, too.

“Who told you that you weren’t worth anything more than that?”

“No one had to tell me. I know the shit I’ve done; I know what I am.”

“And what are you?”

“A lying, betraying bastard.”

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