Less Than Nothing by R.E. Blake Page B

gut.
    Which collapses when he breaks off another hunk of bread and puts it on his plate.
    The haze that descended over me lifts, and I force myself to snap out of whatever spell I’ve fallen under. What would Melody do – WWMD?
    Scratch that. I know all too well what Mel would do right now. Derek would be getting the birthday treat of his life, maybe before even leaving the restaurant if the bathroom door lock wasn’t broken. Instead, I opt for more questions.
    “So you’ve been on your own for three years?”
    “I guess that’s how the math works. Seems longer.”
    “You’ve been making it by singing the entire time?”
    “Yeah. Not a lot of opportunity for fifteen-year-old dropouts,” he says, his tone bitter.
    I so want to ask him why he ran away, but I don’t feel comfortable doing so, and something about the guarded look that’s now in his gaze stops me.
    “The whole time in Seattle?”
    He shakes his head. “Spent last summer in Portland. That was kind of cool. But still way too much rain. I made it as far as Vegas by the time the season was over, thinking it would be fat city there, but I wound up living in the tunnels underneath the Strip. It sucked. I got warned off of L.A., so decided on San Francisco after a Vegas winter. This is way better.”
    “What’s wrong with Los Angeles?”
    “Nobody walks. So good luck as a street musician. The only people you see are tourists, and they believe we’re scum, for the most part.”
    “I never really thought of it that way.”
    “Yeah, and the cops in San Diego are supposed to be complete ass hats. The Bay Area has a good reputation. So here I am.”
    “But you mentioned you’re leaving?”
    His face darkens, but we’re interrupted by the arrival of the lasagna, which is as big as a boxcar. The waiter dips into the oversized trough with an oversized serving spoon and leaves the service to Derek.
    “Oh. God. Is there meat in that?” I ask, horrified.
    He falters, and his face falls for a moment before he rallies. “Do the cockroaches count?” He pauses, trying to read me. “I think the giveaway’s that it’s called meat lasagna.”
    “I didn’t really look at the menu.”
    He nods. “Should we order you something else?”
    I’m crestfallen. My lower lip trembles, and then I smile. “I’m F-ing with you. Bring it on.”
    He stares at me like I just screamed at the top of my lungs, and then we laugh together, too loud. The table a few over, a family of four, everyone on their cell phones texting or web cruising or whatever, glares at us with distaste. I don’t care, and neither does Derek.
    The pasta’s insanely good. I eat until I’m going to burst, and I’m not a small eater – when I get the chance. Derek scrapes the plate clean, and we sit back, stuffed. My questions have slowed to random chewing sounds and occasional slurps, but now that we’re done eating, I resume my drilling.
    “Any brothers or sisters?” I ask, hoping that’s a safe question. You never know why someone leaves home, but it’s the only place I can think of to start again.
    He looks away. “Two brothers.”
    “They still in Seattle?”
    “I haven’t spoken to either of them for a while.”
    That sort of stalls everything. I try again. “So if we keep making money the rest of the week, you still planning on leaving?”
    When his eyes shift back to me, I see pain and confusion in them, but only for a second. He nods. “Yeah. It’s something I have to do.”
    I’ve been about as nosy as I can justify, but I decide to plow ahead. I don’t understand that flash of emotion I just saw, but it’s gone now, so whatever it was, it didn’t have to do with leaving.
    “Are you in trouble?” I ask softly. I’m wondering whether the cops are looking for him for some crime.
    “Are we back to me being a serial killer?” he asks, his tone playful again.
    “I don’t know. You say you have to leave and then go all Mr. Mysterioso on me.”
    He shakes his head, and