He woke up on a bed of soft feathers.

Actually, it wasn't that soft, but a mattress--even if it was a little bit lumpy--was like paradise compared to a hard slab of concrete or a cardboard box in an abandoned building. It was even better than the paper-thin motel mattresses on the lucky days when the john would spring for a room. On those days, he ignored the smells on the mattress and the sheets that weren't as fresh as a country garden. He never got to spend more than an hour or two in those places, anyway.

Not only was the bed not that soft, but he hadn't exactly woken up, either.

How the fuck was he supposed to keep his eyes closed? The quiet in the room had almost driven him nuts. And if that wasn't bad enough, a humming sound filled the room. He tossed and turned and tried to ignore it until it felt like his ears were ringing. A quick look around the apartment had revealed the source of the noise--the fridge. It had been so long since he'd heard one that he felt stupid. So, back to bed he'd gone. He should have been able to fall asleep. He had a clean bed, clean sheets, no noise (except the fridge)--no rats or running around--at least none that he could see. Not that there were many rats out. Even they had somewhere to stay on cold nights like this. Either that or they were all dead.

He should be sleeping, but he kept waiting for the thud--the creak on the floor under sneaking footsteps--the hand on his shoulder to wake him up and take him up on his offer--the rough fumble when they woke him out of half-sleep and took what hadn't they wanted without asking. Better to offer before they took. At least, then, it was his decision. It didn't make bruises and torn skin heal any faster, but nothing did.

He waited for the creak or the thud or the sound of a voice outside the door, but it never came. Somewhere between the pitch dark of night and the faint light of sunrise, he did fall asleep--only to wake up again and again--sometimes within seconds, sometimes within minutes--never longer than an hour. When light began to stream through the window, he cursed that nagging feeling of waiting for the worst that hadn't let him sleep the one time he'd had somewhere warm and clean in months.

He was almost to the stairwell when the door creaked open him and the soft thud of sneakered feet echoed behind him. He knew it. All through breakfast, through the casual conversation, he knew It had been too good to be true. He turned and it wasn't 'Uncle Ben,' but the other guy--'Uncle' Ben's boyfriend--Michael. He waited for the inevitable because they always talked a good game until it was time to return the favors...

You're too young to be out on your own. I'll take care of you.

I don't want anything from you that you don't want to give.

Let me help you, baby--sweet thing--son.

Sometimes they'd even buy him a meal and try to butter him up, but in the end, they all wanted the same thing. It was better that way. The ones who really believed the crap they were shoveling were the worst...

Trust me.

The ones who swore they could be trusted all wanted the same thing too. And once they got it, all the pretty words dried up and blew away. He didn't believe them anymore and he hadn't been disappointed yet. This one--Michael or whatever his name was--was no different except he was a little better at playing the game. When he actually started to listen to what Michael was saying, he almost laughed. Was he supposed to care if the do-gooders got hurt? Nobody gave a shit if he got hurt--unless they could get something out of it. He wasn't about to break the unwritten rules, now.

Never let them see you too angry because that means you lost and the other guy opponent won.

Never let them think you have anything that you care about because they'll take it.

You don't need them. Even when you do, you don't. They want you. Never forget that. People could smell desperation from a mile away and it was the biggest turn off in the world.

And no gratitude...ever. Gratitude meant you owed somebody and once you owed, you were owned.

But the dark-haired man was still talking and Hunter almost broke one of the rules. He swallowed his anger and tasted the bitterness mixing with the coffee they had served him at breakfast.

He stomped off before he broke the number one rule: never let them see you cry. What the fuck did they know? Hustling didn't matter because it was just a job. They didn't matter because that would be too good to be true. HIV didn't matter. It wasn't real. It couldn't be because there weren't any good rules on how to deal with that one.

Fuck it was cold. He blew warm air into his hands as he walked back to his corner. The trick who had dropped him off was long gone, the dark sedan already a fading memory. The only memories he needed were tucked into a pocket inside his pants leg. Every week there was a new hiding place for his stash. Inside the shoes was the first, but he'd stopped using that the first time he woke up to find his shoes and his stash gone, pulled off his feet while he'd slept on a park bench. He stomped his feet to bring back the feeling. A car crawled by. He called out an invitation, but the car kept rolling. He knew that the Eskimo jacket had been a bad idea. He was warmer, but he'd had few takers. They drove by with their rolled down windows and their sunglasses--trying not to get caught, trying not to be seen. He'd been out there for hours.

He stuck his hands in his pockets and bumped into the bottle of pills. Shit. He forgot to take the medicine they'd given him in the hospital. The pills were huge and they made him sick to his stomach if he took them without eating, but he didn't have time to score a quick meal. He wondered, idly, if it was too late to go back to dear, old Uncle Ben. His watch read 11:37. The trick from whom he'd "borrowed" it had never even noticed. It was cheap and it was too big, but the metal wristband was mostly unscratched. He made sure that no one else noticed him looking at it. The bruise on his back was still fading from when he'd been jumped earlier in the week. No point in giving any one an excuse for the instant replay.

After the next three cars passed by, he started walking. Soon enough, he was entering the building and running up the stairs. He looked at his watch again. 11:42. He raised his hands to knock or to turn the doorknob, but something stopped him. It was a rushing feeling. That one that you get when an elevator stops short and your stomach doesn't. Like your insides would slip out and leave you like a shell or one of those cartoon characters that slides to the floor as if liquefied. His hand fell back to his side and he started to pace.

What the fuck did they want? He'd made his offers and they kept saying no. Fucking do-gooders. No one did anything for free. He'd known that for years. It wouldn't be so bad. They were both clean looking. Uncle Ben could do some damage like he'd done when he'd jumped in and scared off the gang, but he didn't seem the type. Of course, those were the ones who were the worst. The quiet ones who acted like they wouldn't hurt a fly always had the worst kinks--like they were saving it up for a rainy day. The boyfriend was about his height. Two of them might be tricky if they turned on him, but he'd studied the layout of the apartment and figured he could get out fast if he needed to.

A door opened down the hall and an old woman stepped out. She looked at him with The Expression. It was on everyone's face when they looked at him--everyone except the tricks. There was a funny way that they looked without really looking--out of the corners of their eyes--past him to whatever was behind him. They always coughed or cleared their throats, or pretended to look at their watches, or dig through their pockets. It had become a game to him. He stared at them until they looked at him and he laughed inside when they looked away like peepers who'd been caught peeping. The game was played now and the old woman scurried back into her apartment after dumping a stack of old newspapers outside the door.

11:55. He stopped in front of the door. Putting his ear to it didn't help. There was no TV or radio that he could hear. There were no voices. Maybe they were sleeping. He reached for the knob, but stopped. What was the point? It would be locked. He knew it would be. By this time, the boyfriend would have warned Uncle Ben not to let in the trash. They would change the locks and sit in there laughing while he was outside freezing his ass off. He could sleep on the steps, but too many times in one place and someone would call the cops and then Social Fucking Services would be on his ass again.

He turned to head down the stairs, but got only as far as the landing. His fingers were already cramping at the thought of going back outside. Why the hell hadn't he gone down to Florida when he'd had the chance? A few of the other boys had left. Then he remembered: he hadn't saved up enough money and they wouldn't let him come with them. No one wants a broke freeloader, especially another broke freeloader. He took a few more steps down, but turned back and jogged to the door to the door. Deep breath so they wouldn't know he'd been running. He rang on the doorbell and waited on anxious feet, ready to bolt--from whatever waited behind the closed door.

The door opened and Ben's face appeared. "Eleven fifty nine and thirty seconds."

He pushed his way inside as if he owned the place--before Ben could change his mind and slam the door shut. He replied, "You said midnight," with just enough of that 'I don't give a shit tone' to let Ben know that it wouldn't matter if they had lied. It wouldn't matter if they hadn't let him in. Nothing mattered.

Never let them see you sweat.