Rundown neighborhoods have a smell about them. Sometimes pungent, sometimes subtle, but there’s always an undercurrent of stale cigarettes, body odor, and exhaust. The alley Nico leads me through is no exception. Eau-de-vomit hangs in the air as we pass an entranceway blocked by two men passed out on the stairs. Graffiti decorates the crumbling bricks and barred windows, bold slashes of yellow, white, and green crisscrossing in random patterns.
If done well, graffiti elevates a neighborhood and empowers teens. These walls look like they’ve been painted by a blind seeing-eye dog.
And I love it.
I’ve been in fast forward all day, the prospect of getting photos for my project like mainlining Red Bull. At work, I had Sasha’s gear loaded in her car in record time. I helped set up a couple of shots, even suggested we take a client’s reflection in a puddle. Afterward she scrolled through the images with me, explaining why each one sucked or rocked. Every day my brain expands with knowledge, my creativity hurrying to catch up. The more I can practice on my own, the better.
Nico slows as we near what looks like a construction zone and stops at a chain-link fence. He tips his head toward the gaping hole. “Once we’re in there, I don’t want you wandering off. Most of these folks are just down on their luck, but some will take advantage if they think they can.”
I was a tad disappointed when he picked me up today. A small (large) part of me hoped he’d be in his uniform, providing a tasty image to add to my ass montage. Although he’s in civilian clothes, the view is still mighty fine. His jeans stretch over the expanse of his thighs, his worn black belt tilted forward along the slide of his hips, his snug gray T-shirt practically painted on. I force my eyes to his face. “You could leash me if you want. I’m not opposed to bondage.”
His Adam’s apple bobs down his throat. “I’m serious, Raven. No playing around in here.”
I’m serious, too, about our outing, and possibly the bondage. But he doesn’t crack a smile. I gesture for him to go ahead. “I promise to stay on your heels.”
There are other parts of him I’d like to be on, but Nico’s body language has been as cool as his minimal texts. I’d given up sexting him after the first fail, and he never initiated. All I got was a peck on the cheek when I opened my door today. My taking-it-slow speech must have made him extra cautious. Nico is proving to be sweet like that.
He ducks and tilts his wide frame to fit through the gap in the fence, and I follow close behind. Once inside, he juts his chin toward the pile of rubble at our left. “The city was set to flatten this whole place, but there was a dispute over the land. The demolition stalled partway through. More squatters show up every month.”
Half of an apartment building fills a section of the fenced area, as though it’s been sliced through with a knife. A few toilets are visible in the open rooms that climb toward the sky; pipes and wires hang, attached to nothing. On the ground, people huddle in groups, piles of clothes and garbage bags and mattresses dotting the area.
We hang back, taking it all in. “Not exactly homey,” I say.
“No.” His tone is clipped, the lightness in his eyes clouded. “My brother lived here for a while. Six months or so.”
“Josh? Before he got arrested?” A whiff of smoke joins the sickly-sweet smells rising from the earth, and I wrinkle my nose.
“Yeah.” He kicks at the loose gravel. “We had a nasty fight the night he left. I’d dropped by to find out he’d stolen money from our mother. I lost my shit. Called him fucked up and heartless and weak. He railed at me about how I’m not his father. Took off after screaming himself raw. He thought his punk friends were his real family.” He scans the decrepit building, the trash littering the ground. “Turns out his friends were more than happy to use him as target practice.”
I nod, too aware of how welcoming a band of thugs can be. Like Josh, before I met Shay and Lily in art class, I bonded with my fellow high school delinquents. Throwing bricks through windows and pulling fire alarms were all in a day’s work. With each stupid prank, my guilt over Rose would ease momentarily. The badass brigade would pound my back. They’d praise my aim. They’d tell me I was awesome. My parents told me I’d amount to nothing.
Now I have a man like Nico wanting to care for me.
His cheekbones are sharp, intensity in his eyes as he studies these ruins, relives his worst days. No longer able to maintain this slow pace I requested, I move to slip my hand into his, but he clasps his fingers behind his neck.
The avoidance stings, hits me straight in the chest, but this is painful, what he’s sharing. “Sounds like it was the wake-up call your brother needed. And he probably wouldn’t have made it out if it weren’t for you. I bet he knows how lucky he is, no matter how the trial goes.”
He tips his head back and studies the sky. “Maybe. Josh doesn’t know my leads have dried up. He still thinks I’ve got him covered. Can’t bring myself to tell him.”
I almost hear his heart cracking, and mine squeezes in response. That’s quite a burden for one man to carry. A burden I’d like to help shoulder. The more I’ve thought about him the past four days, the more I’ve realized I’m ready to let him in. Give this thing with us a shot. Seeing him with Tim showed me who he was at his core. I told him about Rose because he truly cared, and it just felt right. I’ve also relived our kiss numerous times, how he smelled like sweat and man and beach and tasted like a fresh start.
The grudge I’ve harbored has blurred like a photograph exposed to too much light. Too much Nico. He may hurt me, intentional or not. It’s a chance I’ll have to take.
For now I need to get his mind off things beyond his control. “I visited the Indian reservation where my grandmother grew up this past winter, took a ton of shots. I used to look for her, before she died. Would check homeless shelters, hoping to show her I’d made something of myself. Since I can’t do that, I started thinking of ways to make a difference. It’s why I went there and photograph places like this. If I get enough images, I’m hoping to put a show together, bring attention to the homeless community.”
He brightens. “Sounds cool. Bet it was a great trip.”
“It was. I’ll show you pictures sometime.” The offer is out before I realize the thought even existed. More secrets shared with Nico. More vulnerability unleashed.
He considers my proposition and lowers his voice. “I’d like that.”
I’m surprised how much I’d like that, too. “They’re nothing special. No swimsuit photos,” I say, remembering the Sports Illustrated magazine in his car. “Might not be your thing.”
He cracks a smile. “Were you wearing a bikini when taking the shots?”
“Nope. It was northern Ontario. Middle of winter. I would have lost a nipple.”
His gaze drops to my chest, and the nipple in question salutes him. Abruptly, he looks away. Still distant. Still barely flirting. The evening sun dips behind the rotting concrete, and a wolf-like dog darts in front of us. I focus on its matted fur—a welcome distraction from Nico’s confusing behavior.
He places his hand on my back, like that day on Hastings—his palm low, his fingers brushing lower. “We should head in. There are a few regulars who talk to me, one in particular who hangs with Josh’s old crew. I hit him up from time to time. The ring leader, Jericho, split, but I’m hoping someone knows something.”
I played poker in high school, for kicks and for cash. I usually read a bluff like nobody’s business. Except the time I lost my favorite Clash CD to Simon Wright. He played the entire hand like he was having a stroke, touching his nose and blinking and swallowing and generally acting like a douche to throw me off. His plan worked. But Nico isn’t trying to hide his turmoil. The rigid set of his lips and deep crease of his brows are telling. He’s grasping at straws.
We walk ahead. A couple of women wearing skirts the size of headbands sneer at us, smacking their gum as they slip into the shadows. Twenty or thirty men and women lounge around their makeshift homes and stare or look away. Rose could be here. She could have ended up like our grandmother, homeless and alone. Nico has been looking for her, but hasn’t offered an update. I haven’t asked; my nerves have turned me into an overworked painting, one muddied step from falling apart.
“Fucking hell. Which one of them punks stole my blanket?” A woman gestures wildly, her gray hair a ratty mess. Her loose shirt and trousers are covered in stains.
“That’s Betty Leroux,” Nico says. “She’s been here awhile. Doesn’t drink or use. When she lost her husband, things went downhill. You okay if I talk to her?” I nod, and he strides her way, familiarity in his easy smile. “What seems to be the problem, Betty?”
He towers over her, the contrast between the two almost comical, but I don’t laugh. Before, with him next to me, I didn’t worry about my safety, didn’t feel the need to keep alert. Now my senses heighten. Gravel shifts beside me, and I whip my head around. Just an oversized rat. I tighten my grip on my camera and focus on the reason I’m here: photographic journalism.
This place is my Mecca.
The hardships of life are emphasized by the half-demolished building. Deterioration. Destitution. Luck turned on its ass. Nico and Betty are a perfect example of the haves and have-nots, the juxtaposition of their size and positions in life impossible to ignore. I lift my lens.
Click. Nico’s huge hand on Betty’s shoulder.
Click. Betty’s arms flung in the air.
Click. Nico’s black boots facing her ripped sneakers.
There’s a chance I snap one of his ass.
Once Betty calms down, his attention drifts behind her, to two guys on milk crates. He looks over at me and holds up a finger to tell me he’ll be a minute. Absorbed in my craft, I return to my living canvas. I snap an image of the mangy wolf dog licking a McDonald’s wrapper, and several frames of two women spooning in their sleeping bag, the moment almost too intimate to shoot. I glance behind me once, my neck tingling with intuition, as though someone is watching me. Probably just the wind.
Through the remnants of a concrete wall, I spot the source of the air’s smoky haze. Flames lick from the inside of a garbage bin. A teenage boy and an older woman huddle close to the fire, and the poster behind it makes the scene a photographer’s wet dream: A mouthwatering burger is pictured, the caption reading, Grilled to Perfection.
Nico’s crouched in front of those guys, deep in conversation. Instead of interrupting, I walk a wide circle, making sure no one’s behind me, looking for the perfect angle. I lose sight of Nico as I round a half wall of concrete, the garbage fire coming into view. I stand in what must have been a kitchen corner, lift my lens, and play with the focus.
It’s not a cold evening. I’m in jeans and a T-shirt, not shivering in the slightest, but I’ve eaten today. The boy and woman stand close to the fire as if it might warm their skeletal frames.
If I put enough work together and stage a proper show, I could effect change. Maybe people would donate to their local food shelter instead of buying a fifth pair of Jimmy Choos. Maybe they’d remember to care. I snap a number of frames, adjusting the shutter speed and aperture as I go, getting lost in the camera’s clicks and pops, the sounds like insects in my ear.
“Hey, pretty lady.”
My spine snaps straight at the unfamiliar voice. The sleazy, unfamiliar voice. Slowly, as though not to disturb a wild animal, I lower my camera. A disheveled man with boots too big and pants too low sways from side to side, his feral gaze locked on me.
I glance around for Nico, but he’s hidden behind the slabs of concrete. Hoping the man’s harmless, I force a smile. “Hi.”
I step to my right, trying to make a quick exit, but he’s faster. He blocks my way.
Maybe not so harmless. There’s no crowbar or pipe around. No shards of glass to use as a weapon, and screaming could set him off.
“You sure are pretty,” he says in a singsong. “You taking pictures?”
It’s the same stupid question Nico asked me on Hastings Street, but my snarky reply dries up. Ready to crack the man over his head with my camera, I shift left. His body sways with mine. I dodge right, but he mirrors my move. My pulse thunders in my ears, my voice lodged in my throat. When he reaches down and pulls his dick out of his pants, I’m left with one option.