Runaway Model (4 page)

Either way, the wedding was annulled twenty-seven hours later.

But the club's notoriety lasted for eighteen months. An eternity in Vegas.

The place was past it now. Hell, most of Vegas was past it since the crash of 2007. The money had gone to Macau, where the games might be shite but the money-laundering regulations were suspiciously close to nonexistent.

But the managers still scraped together enough of a promotional budget to pay a star to party in their clubs once in a blue moon.

According to Kyle's online contacts, Stoney would be there tonight. Kyle wasn't sure how they would know. Something about a temp worker in a record company's LA office who somehow saw a contract she wasn't supposed to.

Kyle gallantly volunteered to check it out. And somehow somebody somewhere had been persuaded to put his name on the guest list. He didn't know all the details. Most of his contacts in the fandom were underage. You never knew if they could really do what they said they could.

But what's the worst that could happen? The bouncers would laugh at his still rather too-short hair and chase him away from the door?

Stoney was worth taking that chance.

Kyle had turned five years older overnight. The fake ID in his pocket said so. Not that it was all that fake. If somebody phoned it in to the Department of Motor Vehicles, they'd find it all correct in the records. Amazing how it worked in America. It was truly the wild west.

You'd never be able to introduce fake information into public records in England. You came to the right place to change your life, mate.

When he first arrived in Vegas, adults looked right through him, maybe because of the shaved head. But he had no trouble connecting with wild boys of his own age. For awhile he hung out with a Québécois runaway he met in a center strip food court.

Michel's English wasn't good, and Kyle's French was virtually nonexistent. But Kyle understood that Michel would never go back to Canada. He couldn't change his accent or his citizenship, but he already knew how to change his age.

A driver's license was everything in America. So you had to go to the Department of Motor Vehicles and get one with the proper code in it. Of course, you had to know which clerk to see and how much to pay him. Most of the clerks were honest, and it would be a disaster if he tried to pay off the wrong person.

Kyle hadn't been here long enough to be considered a visa overstay. But he'd still be deported if he got caught trying to bribe a public official. Kyle never had a moment's doubt about that.

A man had to dare great things to achieve great things.

Anybody could go into the Latino neighborhoods and get beautiful fake driver's licenses printed out by the pound in the name of your choice. But if you wanted to pass more serious scrutiny, you needed the real thing. Michel, like Kyle, was a great believer in quality. And he happened to know the name of a clerk that he said all the Québécois used. No reason a Brit couldn't use him just as well.

So Kyle walked into the DMV like he owned the place and asked to speak with a certain Hidalgo Harrison. Said the proper code words. Passed him the envelope.

"Got your green card yet? That's a federal thing so I can't help you there. This is the state of Nevada. You're cool with us but not the feds."

"I just arrived, mate."

"You'll need a green card to work. Unless you're working for cash."

"I know."

Harrison looked Kyle up and down. "Not that anybody ever listens to me, but you should go home, buddy. Any place is better than Vegas. Wake up in five years, and you're still selling your ass for a buck fifty. Wake up in ten years and you're pushing thirty and now your ass is only worth twenty. I've seen 'em come and I've seen 'em go and it never has a happy ending."

"Thanks, mate, but I don't need the speech." He'd already learned that a buck was a hundred dollars to a certain generation of Vegas habitués. A buck fifty was a hundred and fifty dollars.

No way I'm selling me pretty face that cheap. Let alone me arse.

"Then it was a pleasure doing business with you, and if you'll just step this way, Marcy will take care of having your picture taken."

Fifteen minutes later, Kyle Marchane was an officially licensed Nevada driver who had turned twenty-one just weeks before. He who had never sat behind the wheel of a car.

God bless America, as they said. No wonder these people were always flying the flag.

His clothes weren't right. He hadn't been in Vegas long enough to hit it big and go on a wild shopping spree. There were hundreds, if not thousands, of cameras on Las Vegas Boulevard, and Michel had already warned him he wasn't ready to make it yet as a professional shoplifter. 

So Kyle would just have to brazen it out. Pretend it was fashion. The Rolling Thunder Revue T-shirt was genuine vintage from the '70s. The moth holes in the faded pinky-maroon neck were genuine too.

Best not to look too closely at the provenance of the cheap jeans or knock-off trainers.

The bouncer didn't think so much of Kyle's look. He put up both hands as if he meant to push him physically away. "Geddouddahere, kid."

"Check the list, mate. I'm a guest of Stoney's. Special invitation."

The English accent might have swayed the bouncer. He pointed to the man at the door, who took Kyle's license. Found his name on the list. Looked at his face, then pulled out a scanner to check its authenticity.

All the right numbers came up.

But the doorman still wasn't happy. He scrutinized Kyle's license some more, this time with his own eyes, as if they'd spot some critical defect the scanner couldn't. "What's your date of birth?"

"March 15, 1991."

The gatekeeper didn't look best-pleased that Kyle gave the right answer. But he had no further excuse to deny him.

Kyle thrust out his arm for the red wristband.

"You get two free drinks with that. After that, you pay."

Kyle never paid. But he wouldn't trouble himself to explain that to this wanker.

After all that, the rumors seemed to be wrong. Stoney wasn't here. Or, if he was here, he was in some backroom where Kyle had no access.

He nursed his two drinks as long as he dared.

Even if a fan doesn't smoke, he likes it when his hero smokes. Kyle could feel guilty if he thought too much about it. He cared about Stoney's well-being, of course he did. Nothing was more important than Stoney's voice and Stoney's health and Stoney's happiness.

Still, it makes it so nice if a celebrity smokes. It forces him outside into the open air. It makes him more human.

It also makes him more accessible.

Kyle had a mental map of the resort. It wasn't a huge leap to figure out the most likely place for Stoney to go after a long night of drinking in a private room.

"Hey. You leaving already?" A stranger grabbed sloppily at Kyle's lean hip. "Let me buy you a drink."

"Next time, love," Kyle said, not even glancing at the guy.

Outside. Four AM. It could have been broad daylight, considering the heat. Thirty-five degrees in fucking May. Ninety-five degrees in American. What would it be like in August?

He finished his bottled water and continued to wait.

Kyle gambled that Stoney wouldn't emerge at the brightest, best-lit spot where most of the limos pulled up. He'd come out this side exit and have a smoke first. It wasn't one hundred percent but it was a good bet.

Come on, Stoney. Come on. Be here.

And then he was. Kyle's heart caught in his chest. Stoney was there. He was real. He had a greasy sheen to his face—the heat from a night's heavy drinking—but it looked good on Stoney.

Those legs, those sleepy eyes. A large star sapphire on his pinky drew attention to his long guitar player's fingers.

The sex appeal came off Stoney's skin like a rare perfume.

"Stoney. Mate. I'm your biggest fan. Can I get a photo?"

His bodyguards were huge. Especially the bald one who continued to push Stoney forward. But the singer had already stopped to light his cigarette. He put a smile on his face. A weary smile but a smile just the same.

"It's been a long night, pal," the bald guard said.

"It's all right," Stoney said. "It's good to hear a voice from home."

"I love your music. Everybody in me village loves your music." Kyle had always imagined he'd say something more creative when he finally got to talk to Stoney face-to-face.

"Make it fast," said baldie. Being a celebrity's bodyguard evidently didn't endow you with much of a sense of humor.

"Gerard, you take the photo for him," Stoney said. "It won't have to flash so close to me eyes."

Gerard seemed to be the guard with hair. Without comment, he took Kyle's phone and stepped back a few paces. He didn't need any instructions. No doubt he'd done it a thousand times before with every kind of phone in existence.

Stoney wrapped his arm around Kyle's waist. Kyle couldn't believe it. Thrilled, he wrapped his own arm around Stoney. The star happened to glance down at Kyle's wristband.

"Nice club, innit?"

"Strong drinks." Kyle was unwilling to admit he'd stuck to a couple of bottled Stellas.

The phone flashed. But Stoney didn't let him go. It tickled where he whispered into Kyle's ear. "I'd like to get to know you better. After I've had me sleep."

Am I dreaming? I must be dreaming.

***

K
yle knew he shouldn't see Stoney again.

Kyle was sixteen. Stoney was twenty-six.

Kyle was a runaway street kid yet to prove he could make it as his own man. Stoney was a celebrity who partied with groupies or other stars almost every night.

It would kill his soul to have Stoney for a night and then end up as just another discarded groupie. He couldn't do that. He couldn't make his feelings for Stoney result in anything so cheap. Kyle wasn't cheap. Couldn't be. Wouldn't be. Other boys in Vegas might give themselves away. But he'd seen how Michel refused to allow himself to be possessed, and Kyle was determined to follow his example.

Besides, in America everything to do with sex was so complicated. In England, the age of consent was sixteen. Fine. No problem.

But in America there was a different rule for every state. Here in Nevada the age of consent was also sixteen. But cross the border into California and it was eighteen. There were millions of people in California, and all of them enjoyed gossip about celebrities. It wouldn't do Stoney any good to have it get around that he was playing with a teen.

And there was no way Kyle could ever do anything to hurt Stoney. His career was more important than Kyle's dreams and desires.

Besides, he knew very well the only reason Stoney hit on him was because he saw the wristband and assumed Kyle was twenty-one.

Stoney didn't want a teenager. He wanted a man.

***

K
yle was rather rudely awakened at around six the next evening. He'd slept in Michel's bed, the two of them entwined like vines when the air-conditioner went on too long. Even if the electric company suspected somebody had an illegal hookup, they were reluctant to cut off power during a heat wave. That was a good way to kill people. On the principle of taking all you could get for free, the boys in the squat set the thermostat to sixty-five degrees American.

Cold if you didn't have a sleeping partner. But Kyle must have slept more deeply than he realized, since he hadn't noticed when Michel disentangled himself from their embrace.

The bond between them was hard to put into words. They were both runaways who didn't talk about what they ran away from. They were both demonstrative boys with a hunger for physical touch. When they walked hand-in-hand on Las Vegas Boulevard, tourists sometimes snapped their picture thinking they were twins.

"Brothers," Michel had said the first day they met in the food court. The slightly older boy had a funny way of cutting up his hamburger into little bites, bread and all, before he ate it bit by bit. Suddenly he put down his plastic knife and looked Kyle straight in the eyes.

"
Mon ami
. They say there is no money left in Vegas, but there are many men who will pay for a young boyfriend."

Kyle didn't fly across an ocean to sell himself. "I'm nobody's boyfriend. I have to be me own man first."

"
Oui
, me also. Nobody owns me. I make my own way,
mon ami
. We agree on this." He pulled something out of his jacket.

Kyle's passport.

Michel Damera was a pickpocket. A better thief than Kyle, with lighter hands. Kyle hadn't felt a thing.

"This is what I do," Michel said. "But not here. Never here." He looked up, and Kyle followed the line of his gaze. There were cameras—and not all of them were aimed at the cash registers. Michel's chin tilted a different way, and Kyle turned slightly to see a uniformed police officer nursing a cup of coffee in a booth nearby.

"There are more police just outside. There is always an officer on a bicycle so he can thread through the crowds. But never fear,
mon ami
. I will show you all the dark places the cameras miss. We will be brothers."

Kyle supposed the other Québécois thought they were lovers. They weren't though. Michel said little about his background, but Kyle guessed from all the tiny hints that Michel had a horror of sex. Some trauma in his past. Sometimes he awoke in the night with a jerk, screaming words in French that Kyle mostly couldn't understand.

Kyle would hold him, sometimes for hours, until Michel stopped shaking.

Speaking of words in French that he didn't understand, there was a loud argument going on in the kitchen.

Time to climb out of bed and into his skinny jeans.

Michel came into the room. His eyes were swollen. "They say you have to pay rent. Everybody pays. I told them you were new and needed time but—"

"It's OK," Kyle said. "I'll get it. It's at the bank. I got a safe deposit box there like you said. So... later.
Plus tard
." He hoped he said that right.

He glanced around to make sure he had all his things. It wasn't hard. Everything he owned fit on his back or in his laptop bag.