Tough Luck by Jason Starr

wouldn’t let up, kicking him in the face until blood started gushing from his nose.
    A few other cars had stopped, and some people were standing around, watching. Finally, Chris stopped beating up the driver and got back into the car with Mickey.
    “Give me the car keys,” Mickey said.
    “Move over,” Chris said.
    “No,” Mickey said.
    “You got two choices,” Chris said, “move over or get the fuck out.”
    “Asshole,” Mickey said and slid over. Chris turned on the engine and sped away.
    “Shit,” Chris said, looking down at his legs. “That scumbag got blood on my jeans.”
    “Watch the road,” Mickey said.
    “I’m watching, I’m watching,” Chris said.
    “You’re such an idiot,” Mickey said. “You forget you have a police record? If the cops catch you fighting with bouncers and cabbies, they’re gonna put you in jail. No juvie this time—real jail.”
    “The guy gave me the finger.”
    “So?”
    “See? That’s your problem, Prada. You let people step all over you. You gotta learn to do the stepping yourself for a change.”
    Chris ran a red on Seventh.
    “Where the fuck are we going, anyway?” Mickey said.
    “To get you laid. Where else?”
    Now Mickey realized what Chris had in mind.
    “No way,” Mickey said.
    “Too late,” Chris said.
    “Come on, just pull over.”
    “Nope.”
    Chris continued speeding down Twenty-third Street, swinging a sharp right onto Tenth Avenue.
    “You’re a real dick, you know that?” Mickey said.
    “Gee, and I thought I was doin’ you a favor,” Chris said, “finally gettin’ you some.”
    “I don’t want to go to a whore, all right?”
    “So what’re you gonna do? Stay a virgin the rest of your life?”
    “What makes you think I’m a virgin?”
    Chris gave Mickey a look then said, “Come on, who did you fuck, Linda Gianetti? You told me nothing happened with her.”
    Mickey remembered his date with Linda in tenth grade. He took her to see ET and near the part at the end, where ET phones home, he put his hand on her leg. When the movie ended, Linda said she was tired and wanted to go home and she never wanted to go out with him again.
    “Maybe I lied,” Mickey said.
    “Yeah, right,” Chris said. “No guy in the world would ever lie about getting laid. Guys only lie about not getting laid.”
    Chris turned left onto Twenty-seventh Street, past some barren factory buildings.
    “Can you please pull over and let me drive?” Mickey said.
    “No way,” Chris said. “Not till you meet Betty.”
    “Who’s Betty?”
    “ That’s Betty.”
    Screeching the brakes, Chris pulled over to the curb and parked. A tall black woman in a leopard-skin brassiere and a short black leather skirt wobbled toward the car on what looked like four-inch pumps.
    Chris got out of the car and went around to talk to Betty. Mickey watched Chris go into his wallet and hand Betty some bills. Betty looked drugged out, or drunk, the way she was trying to balance herself. Still, Mickey couldn’t help feeling turned on. She had a sexy body—big high breasts, long legs—and her face was surprisingly attractive for a hooker—smooth skin, lips painted with bright red lipstick.
    Chris returned to the car and said to Mickey, “Happy fucking,” then he walked away and Betty opened the driver-side door and said to Mickey, “Wanna move to the back, baby?”
    Mickey knew he would never live it down with Chris if he didn’t go through with this. Besides, Betty looked good.
    Mickey lifted the button on the back door, and then he stood out of the car. Betty got in the back. Before Mickey got in with her, he looked over at Chris, standing several yards away. Chris was smiling, sticking his index finger in and out of his partially closed fist.
    The backseat of Chris’s car was covered with newspaper, soda cans, and other junk. Mickey swatted away as much of the garbage as he could onto the floor, then he sat down next to Betty and closed the door.
    “Something smells