| CHAPTER ONE |

The black leather is a cliche. I'm aware of that much. I could've cut back a little, ditched the leather for something a little more natural than aesthetically pleasing. The cigarette I smoke is methanol though, so I'm not entirely lying to myself. I'm not cool enough for straight tar to the lungs and I'd rather devour the taste of you while my mouth didn't reek of ashtray and stabbing depression. That being said, you're a half hour late. Probably still dancing with that blonde from the table near the bar.

And they call me predictable.

I've got maybe fifteen, twenty more minutes before the bouncer around front comes by and threatens me with loitering. You can't smoke idly downtown for too long without anyone thinking you're working the corner. And to some extend, I guess I am. Sin has never been a friend of mine, but we all have to make peace with it at some point and I'm tired of waiting. I'm working this entire alley, because you're worth it. Even if you are late.

Neither of us care about my time, which is growing more limited, and it kind of turns me on. I'm nothing – more specifically, I'm nothing to you.

The wind picks up, ratting the lid of a nearby garbage can. The scent of cheap whiskey and warm Heineken hits my nostrils. The empty cans whistle against the brisk air and I ignore the calls for help. To be recycled rather dumped into one of the thousand landfills plaguing this earth. The smell grows stronger. I try not to puke.

The tab of ecstasy some guy in the bathroom gave me makes my skin crawl in a way that does not remind me of straight MDMA. Another mistake I've made tonight as a way to quell my anxiety around you. I've probably been spiked, will spend the latter part of the week sweating it out. I'm okay with it though because the back door clatters open a moment later, letting out with it the stench of sweat and lust, and you're here.

It's time.