Coach, should be able to stop him from spending his own money.
âHey man, what you doing in there?â Seamus calls.
He panics, worried that this freak Seamus could be ransacking his duffel bag and the pockets of his jeans, not satisfied with the cash heâs taken from Darrell. Darrellâs too high to stop him; he wonât even try. KC jumps to his feet and rushes into the bedroom and finds them both naked. Seamus is on his back, sprawled across the bed; the soles of his feet are black with dirt. Darrellâs on his stomach, lying between Seamusâs legs, lazily sucking the younger manâs cock. Seamus pulls himself up onto his elbows, not understanding why KC is putting on his pants and tying his shoes.
âCome over here, buddy, and fuck me. Youâre gonna fuck my ass, arenât you?â
KC picks up his duffel, still unpacked, and smiles, explaining heâll be right back.
âI gotta do my laundry first. All my clothes are dirty,â he explains, promising to bring back a bottle of Belvedere.
âWeâll be here partying, buddy. As long as thereâs cash to spend,â Seamus says, falling back in the mattress.
The keys to Darrellâs rental and the parking garage ticket are lying on the bureau. KC slips them in his pocket and closes the door behind him.
Â
It takes KC an hour to find the rental car in the garage. Either the cashier gives him shitty directions to Interstate 5 or he makes a wrong turn. Heâs stuck in traffic near the Space Needle, then drives in circles until he finally finds the entrance to the highway. He doesnât stop until heâs miles across the Oregon border. He parks behind a Burger King to call Mr. Stapleton. He reaches into his pocket for his phone, finding only a few loose coins. A frantic search of his other pockets yields nothing but his wallet and a dirty handkerchief. His heart is pounding in his chest and he feels the blood pulsing behind his eardrums. He unzips his duffel bag and dumps the contents on the back seat of the car. He finds the charger, but nothing to charge. He opens every door of the car and drops to his knees, running his hands under the seats, praying that the precious phone is lying on the floor. He slumps onto the asphalt and squeezes his skull with his hands, trying to remember the last time he held it in his palm. The bathroom. His phone is on the bathroom floor of Darrellâs hotel room where he dropped it when he thought he was being robbed.
âFuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,â he hisses, spitting the words through gritted teeth.
He rises to his feet and pounds the hood of the car with his fists. His whole life is fucked, he swears as he kicks the tires. He could turn the car around and go back to Seattle. He can saunter into the hotel room as if nothing had happened, that he hasnât been AWOL since morning. Darrellâs probably still too high to realize his car keys are missing, but the rental company wonât be forgiving if the car has already been reported stolen. You canât use a phone in jail and itâs not worth the risk heâd be taking if he returned to retrieve it.
âHey!â
A kid in a fast food uniform shouts at him, keeping his distance, not straying far from the safety of the back door of the building. KC can be scary when heâs angry and the fry cook doesnât want to be tomorrowâs headline, the victim of a lunatic with a knife or a gun.
âHey, dude. You gotta go.â
KC starts to argue with him. Itâs a free country. He can park here if he wants. Go fuck yourself, asshole, he shouts.
âThis lotâs for customers only,â the kid says, retreating a few steps further.
âI donât want your fucking shit burgers,â KC yells as he slams the car door and races the engine. âYouâre a fucking loser,â he shouts out the window as he peels out of the parking lot, barely avoiding a collision with a
âHey man, what you doing in there?â Seamus calls.
He panics, worried that this freak Seamus could be ransacking his duffel bag and the pockets of his jeans, not satisfied with the cash heâs taken from Darrell. Darrellâs too high to stop him; he wonât even try. KC jumps to his feet and rushes into the bedroom and finds them both naked. Seamus is on his back, sprawled across the bed; the soles of his feet are black with dirt. Darrellâs on his stomach, lying between Seamusâs legs, lazily sucking the younger manâs cock. Seamus pulls himself up onto his elbows, not understanding why KC is putting on his pants and tying his shoes.
âCome over here, buddy, and fuck me. Youâre gonna fuck my ass, arenât you?â
KC picks up his duffel, still unpacked, and smiles, explaining heâll be right back.
âI gotta do my laundry first. All my clothes are dirty,â he explains, promising to bring back a bottle of Belvedere.
âWeâll be here partying, buddy. As long as thereâs cash to spend,â Seamus says, falling back in the mattress.
The keys to Darrellâs rental and the parking garage ticket are lying on the bureau. KC slips them in his pocket and closes the door behind him.
Â
It takes KC an hour to find the rental car in the garage. Either the cashier gives him shitty directions to Interstate 5 or he makes a wrong turn. Heâs stuck in traffic near the Space Needle, then drives in circles until he finally finds the entrance to the highway. He doesnât stop until heâs miles across the Oregon border. He parks behind a Burger King to call Mr. Stapleton. He reaches into his pocket for his phone, finding only a few loose coins. A frantic search of his other pockets yields nothing but his wallet and a dirty handkerchief. His heart is pounding in his chest and he feels the blood pulsing behind his eardrums. He unzips his duffel bag and dumps the contents on the back seat of the car. He finds the charger, but nothing to charge. He opens every door of the car and drops to his knees, running his hands under the seats, praying that the precious phone is lying on the floor. He slumps onto the asphalt and squeezes his skull with his hands, trying to remember the last time he held it in his palm. The bathroom. His phone is on the bathroom floor of Darrellâs hotel room where he dropped it when he thought he was being robbed.
âFuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck,â he hisses, spitting the words through gritted teeth.
He rises to his feet and pounds the hood of the car with his fists. His whole life is fucked, he swears as he kicks the tires. He could turn the car around and go back to Seattle. He can saunter into the hotel room as if nothing had happened, that he hasnât been AWOL since morning. Darrellâs probably still too high to realize his car keys are missing, but the rental company wonât be forgiving if the car has already been reported stolen. You canât use a phone in jail and itâs not worth the risk heâd be taking if he returned to retrieve it.
âHey!â
A kid in a fast food uniform shouts at him, keeping his distance, not straying far from the safety of the back door of the building. KC can be scary when heâs angry and the fry cook doesnât want to be tomorrowâs headline, the victim of a lunatic with a knife or a gun.
âHey, dude. You gotta go.â
KC starts to argue with him. Itâs a free country. He can park here if he wants. Go fuck yourself, asshole, he shouts.
âThis lotâs for customers only,â the kid says, retreating a few steps further.
âI donât want your fucking shit burgers,â KC yells as he slams the car door and races the engine. âYouâre a fucking loser,â he shouts out the window as he peels out of the parking lot, barely avoiding a collision with a
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