Less Than Nothing by R.E. Blake Page B

dirty. I wash it.”
    “Uh-huh.” It isn’t dirty, but it’s fun to see him defensive.
    He stands up. I yawn.
    “What time is it?” I ask.
    “Seven.”
    “Figure what, half hour or so to make it to the Haight?”
    “Forty-five.” He moves to his rucksack. “I’m going to take a shower.”
    “Do they have a ladies’ steam room?”
    “Sort of.” He thinks for a second. “I’ll make sure nobody goes in while you’re in there if you want to use it.”
    I’m not convinced, but a shower sounds appealing. I decide on a punt strategy. “Let me see what it’s like. If it’s anything like the bathroom up here…”
    “It’s better. And most everyone gets up later, so we should have it to ourselves.”
    “Not a lot of heavy schedules, huh?”
    “Got that right.”
    One of the benefits of being homeless is you get to work your own hours. Which is a laughable way of saying one day blurs into the next and time stops having any meaning. The only reason I’m a stickler about getting to my spot every day by nine is to keep some scumbag from stealing it.
    My gaze flits to Derek. Who’s no longer a scumbag, I guess. He’s my partner. At least for the week.
    He walks through the beam descending from the crack, and the light seems to bathe him like a spotlight. I just about hear music, that waca chica waca chica seventies funk guitar, and I shake it off. What’s going on with me? I mean, my inner voice is usually spun, but even for me, this is weird.
    We climb down the ladder, and I see seven or eight sleeping forms on the theater main floor. Bull is dozing in a chair by the door, his bulk unmistakable even at a distance. I follow Derek through one of the exit doors by the stage, and we enter a darkened hall that winds around to a pair of bathrooms, one of them boarded up, the other with no door on it. He waves at the doorway. “This is the spa.”
    We go in, and there are two stalls with toilets, a couple of wall sinks, and a homemade plumbing job with an exposed pipe featuring a showerhead pointed at a floor drain. I approach the ‘shower’ and regard it with the caution I reserve for live cobras, and Derek joins me.
    “As long as you like one temperature of water, it does the job.”
    “I’m guessing that isn’t hot, right?”
    “That would be the other temperature.”
    “Mmm.”
    “I use a pair of flip-flops. And I don’t take long showers. Even in the summer it’s not really that fun.”
    “Don’t oversell it.”
    He shrugs. “I’ve got a towel. You can use it.”
    I’m not convinced. He doesn’t push it. He glances at the time and sets his rucksack down in a clean corner and tosses his jacket on top of it. “You’re welcome to stay,” he says with a grin.
    I go to the doorway. “I’ll just wait out here.”
    “Scream if you need anything.”
    “Or if the rats come.”
    “I wasn’t going to say anything.”
    I move outside and set my backpack down. The place is Turkish prison-level gross, but my sensibility’s changed a lot in four months, and I’ve seen way worse.
    Which saddens me and reminds me of Derek’s question from last night. Is this really what I want my life to be about? Running from predators and spending nights in hellholes? I’m going to be eighteen soon, and what do I have to show for it? A battered guitar, whatever I can carry, and a bag of spare change.
    I’m getting into full-blown ‘beat yourself up’ mode when I catch a glimpse of Derek, shirtless, pulling his jeans off. I avert my eyes and fumble for my cell phone, but not before his sculpted abs and stunning chest are seared into my brain. I’m tempted to keep looking, but the small part of me that has any decency left focuses on the phone screen instead.
    My battery’s almost gone. I charge it at the bagel place in the mornings, and it usually lasts a few days if all I’m doing is texting, which is the only thing I use the cell for. It’s not like I have an extensive list of friends to call and catch