Lying Eyes Read online

  Gently, Randy touched the boy’s bony shoulder. There wasn’t much flesh there under the sweatshirt. “Kid, can you hear me? It’s okay now. They’re gone.”

  The boy opened his eyes and stared up at Randy, his breath coming fast and his hands raised to keep Randy back. A wince of pain washed over his pale, delicate features. “I don’t have nothin’, mister. Please don’t hurt me.”

  Aching for him, Randy leaned away quickly and released his shoulder. But that look of fear hurt.

  In the Secret Service, Randy had never felt more worthy than when he could stand between danger and someone in trouble. He loved being big and strong. The power in his arms and legs, the way his jeans stretched around his thighs, the shadow he cast—all of it made him proud. Yet he’d had women or slight men cross the street rather than pass by him on a sidewalk at night. It always stung.

  Randy suppressed a grimace as he held out his hand, palm open. “I’m not gonna hurt you. I just want to see if you’re all right.”

  The boy scooted back on his butt, then pushed himself up awkwardly until he was in a crouch. He winced and closed his eyes as he touched his ribs.

  “Easy, easy,” Randy murmured. “Your mouth is bleeding a little. Did they get you anywhere else? Did they cut you?”

  The boy looked at him in alarm but shook his head slightly. That movement made him groan, and he held his side where they’d kicked him. “I think I’m okay.” He paused but then asked in a trembling voice, “They had a knife, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah. Did they get anything from you?” Randy rested on his haunches to try to be less intimidating. In the glow from his truck’s headlights, he studied the boy’s face and what he could tell under the sweatshirt. He didn’t see any blood besides the split lip, and nothing seemed to be broken based on how he was moving.

  The kid seemed to think about Randy’s question for a minute. “Nothin’ to get.”

  “We should call the cops. You live around here?” Randy asked. “I can give you a ride home. Or call someone if you want.” He pulled his cell phone from his jacket pocket to dial, but the boy shook his head more energetically.

  “Please don’t get the police. I’ll be okay. Thanks for… Thanks for stopping them.”

  He got to his feet, swaying a bit. Randy stood up quickly and reached out to help steady him, but stopped when he flinched away.

  “I’m not gonna hurt you,” Randy said again, and the kid froze.

  “I know. Sorry. I just…” He blushed and glanced down at the pavement. He couldn’t be more than five-seven, and if he weighed a buck and a quarter, Randy would be surprised.

  “Where do you live, kid?”

  “Danny. I’m Danny.”

  “Randy Vaughan. Where do you live, Danny?”

  Danny turned in the direction of the nearby park and shrugged. Randy knew a lot of homeless people slept among the trees there, or down at the edge of Rock Creek where it ran through the park.

  “You got any family around? Friends?”

  He shook his head with his eyes on the pavement.

  “You turning tricks, Danny?” Randy asked softly. The kid jerked around in alarm, eyes wide.

  “No! I don’t do that. I was just…” His eyes flicked to the dumpsters that Mata Hari shared with a few restaurants on P Street. Searching for food. Of course.

  Randy’s thoughts flew to his friend Joe, who ran a shelter for homeless LGBT youth. He didn’t know if Danny were gay, but there was time to worry about that later. “How old are you, Danny?”

  “Seventeen.”

  Randy frowned. “Honestly?” It could be true, he supposed. He was a lousy judge of age, which was why he carded almost any new customer in the bar who didn’t have gray hair.

  “Really. I’m just small.”

  Okay, this might work. Joe’s shelter, Rainbow Space, took kids until they were seventeen, but after turning eighteen they had to move on because Rainbow Space had too few beds as it was. Randy could give Joe a call, and if Rainbow Space was full, maybe Joe’d have another suggestion. But he wouldn’t call at two in the morning.

  Randy looked out at the trees that edged the P Street park. Danny might be hurt more than was obvious. Someone should keep an eye on him for a few hours at least, to make sure he had nothing worse than a few bruises coming. Well, shit.

  “You hungry?” Randy asked. Danny licked his lips nervously and shook his head even as his stomach gave a loud rumble.

  “I just closed my bar there,” Randy indicated with a shrug of his shoulder, “and I’m planning to grab a burger at the diner over on Eighteenth Street. I’m not looking for sex. You’re welcome to come eat with me, and you can clean up in the bathroom there.” Danny’s stomach rumbled again, and his eyes had a slightly glazed expression that worried Randy. “I mean it, Danny. Just food, and no strings attached.”

  Danny stared at him so long that Randy was about to give up. He wished he hadn’t given his cash to Malcolm. Suddenly Danny made up his mind and nodded quickly. “Thanks. I’d really appreciate that.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want me to call the police?”

  Danny pleaded with his eyes. “Please don’t. They didn’t get anything anyway. An’ I don’t know what…” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to get sent to a foster home.”

  Randy wasn’t sure a seventeen-year-old would be put into foster care, but he didn’t really know. He could understand Danny’s reluctance to come to the attention of the police, and it was true the cops were unlikely to have much time to track down three guys who didn’t even manage to rob Danny.

  “Okay,” Randy said reluctantly. “No cops.” He opened the passenger door of his truck and grabbed his deposits bag off the seat to make room for Danny. He helped him up, both because the running board was high and the kid seemed unsteady. As he climbed in the driver’s side, he recalled the knife tucked into his belt and quickly stashed it under his seat.

  “I just need to swing by my bank for a minute, okay? Then we’ll eat.” Danny pulled his seat belt over his shoulder and Randy drove slowly away, keeping an eye out for the muggers. He wasn’t sure he’d even recognize them because things had happened so fast, but they might be looking for other homeless people to harass. He didn’t spot them again, though, before he pulled up at the curb by his bank.

  “Hold on a minute.” It crossed Randy’s mind to turn off the truck and take his keys. He glanced over at Danny; the boy stared back at him trustingly. After a moment, Randy left the engine running and climbed out.

  He walked to the night deposit drawer, keeping his eyes straight ahead but straining his ears for the sound of movement, or of the truck being put into gear. He was fast enough he might be able to reach the passenger side door before Danny could pull away.

  He made his deposit, tense and ready to launch into motion.

  The truck rumbled steadily at the curb.

  He withdrew some cash from the ATM before he walked slowly back to the truck and climbed in. “That’s done,” he said brightly, and Danny gave him a small, shy smile. “Burger next.”

  Shortly they pulled up in front of Del’s Diner, a standby for late-night food after the bars closed. Inside, the overhead lights cast a ghastly glow over the Formica tabletops and orange plastic seats, but the diner was clean and the food was good. Only a few tables were occupied, which was unsurprising for a Tuesday night.

  When they walked in, Del greeted Randy by name as he gestured from behind the cash register for them to take any seat. His head was as bald as Randy’s on top but fringed in white, and his yellow polyester shirt seemed to glow in the harsh light of the diner. Watery blue eyes lingered questioningly on Danny.

  Randy chose a booth by the front window and pointed Danny toward the men’s room at the back. “I’ll order. Burger, medium rare good for you? Okay, you go clean up. There’s still blood on your face.”

  “Mornin’, Randy,” his favorite waitress called. Her gray hair was pulled back tightly from her mahogany face, a
nd her sturdy-soled shoes squeaked on the linoleum as she shuffled over with two menus. “Coffee?”

  “Hey, Vonda. How’s your back?” She grunted but gave a pleased smile that he’d asked. “Yes to the coffee. Let’s get two cheeseburgers, medium rare, the works. And would you bring the kid something hot while we wait? Maybe tea and some soup?”

  “Sure thing, sugar.” She pointed her chin toward the restrooms. “You trying out somethin’ new, Randy?”

  He frowned. “You know me better ’n that. I’m just helping out.”

  “You can’t stop yourself, can you, sugar? Gotta take care of everyone.” Vonda cackled as she turned to walk away. Danny made his way back to the table, eyes on the floor. Randy would guess he’d been run off of places like this before, but Vonda just tapped Danny on the shoulder as he passed. “I’ll bring you some hot tea, hon. You like chicken noodle soup? Del’s is right tasty.” Danny nodded nervously and muttered thanks before slipping into the booth across from Randy.

  He’d washed off the blood, but his cheek was a ripening pink where he’d been hit. His chin was scraped raw too, and Randy had another rush of anger at the assholes who’d hurt him. Dark circles smudged under his large amber eyes, giving him a hollow appearance. But his hair was a lively auburn, with brighter copper strands standing out under the fluorescent lights of the diner. There was an androgynous quality to Danny—an unusually wide mouth, eyes almost too big, something Slavic in the planes of his face—that intrigued Randy. Danny reminded him of someone, maybe an actor he’d seen on TV or something. Or maybe he’d seen Danny around the neighborhood without really noticing a starved, homeless boy.

  The hunger he saw in Danny’s eyes was for more than food, though. It drew him in. He’d like to paint those distinctive features. It would take a light touch of the brush on canvas, and he thought about the pigments he would mix to find just the right shading for the porcelain skin.

  “You come here a lot?” Danny asked, interrupting his thoughts.

  “What? Oh, yeah. Sometimes after I close Mata Hari, maybe once or twice a week.”

  “I guess running a bar makes for strange hours.”

  Randy shrugged. “That’s true. I’m there usually from four until closing, so I have to sleep when other people are going about their days. And I eat at odd times.”

  “You must eat a lot.”

  “You saying I’m fat?” Randy asked, but with a smile.

  Danny’s eyes flashed alarm anyway. “No. I just mean you’re so big. You must have to eat a lot to stay that way.” He sounded panicked, like he was afraid Randy would get mad.

  “Easy, kid. You’re right, I do eat a lot.” Danny blinked at him and gnawed on his bottom lip. “You doing all right? Any headache or dizziness?”

  “I’m okay. A little sore where they kicked me, I guess, but that’s it.”

  Vonda returned with his coffee and Danny’s tea, plus a big bowl of chicken noodle soup and a handful of saltine crackers in plastic packets. She took a glance at Danny and returned shortly with a bag of ice. Randy smiled up at her in thanks as he doctored his coffee while Danny grabbed his spoon and shoveled in the soup.

  The barest moan reached Randy’s ears as Danny ate. After three or four big spoonfuls, he stopped long enough to tear open two packages and crumble crackers into the soup. The bowl was empty in less than a minute, and only then did Danny look up at him. He still seemed a little scared, but also defiant. Eyes intent on Randy’s, he took his paper napkin and wiped his mouth, careful to dab around the split lip and the scraped chin. The fear that had faded was replaced with something that suggested gratitude.

  Randy broke the gaze and sipped at his coffee while Danny pushed his empty bowl slightly to the side and opened another packet of saltines. “You want some more soup?” Randy asked, but Danny shook his head.

  He picked up the bag of ice and applied it to his face, closing his eyes. “Thank you…Randy,” he said shyly. “I’ll wait for the burger.”

  They sat quietly for a few minutes, and Randy refrained from filling the silence with questions. Danny would talk or not. Eventually Vonda returned with two plates, burgers piled high with lettuce and tomato plus heaping mounds of french fries.

  “Here you boys go,” she said as she lowered the plates. “Randy, no more fries for you this week after tonight. Else you’ll whine about the carbs to no end and who’s got time for that?” She retrieved Danny’s empty bowl and the torn plastic wrappers. “More tea, sugar?”

  “Yes please,” Danny answered.

  “Polite. I like that. Be right back.”

  Danny seemed to wait for a cue, so Randy scooped up his burger and ate a third of it in one bite. Danny snatched up his and started in, too fast. “Take it easy, Danny,” Randy murmured. “No one’s gonna take that away from you. Don’t make yourself sick.”

  Danny made a noise that sounded like a scoff, but he set his burger back down and chewed what was already in his mouth before he picked up a fry. When he bit down, he closed his eyes. “Oh, that’s good,” he moaned softly. Randy could imagine what the salt and grease tasted like to a hungry boy.

  “Del does great french fries. Hand cuts them every day,” Randy said as he picked up a few and dipped them in ketchup. Vonda returned with Danny’s tea and more coffee for Randy, and they ate in companionable quiet. Finally, though, the food was done, Randy declined another refill, and Danny turned his head to stare out the window of the diner.

  Eighteenth Street was dark, and most of the businesses that lined the road were shuttered. A single car rolled up as they watched, and backed into a parking space. A man climbed out and pulled his heavy coat tight around himself as he hurried away. Cold radiated from the glass, and Randy’s eyes trailed over Danny’s thin purple sweatshirt.

  “You sleep on the P Street Beach?” Randy asked quietly, picturing the shoals of Rock Creek, at the foot of a bridge that crossed from Dupont Circle into Georgetown. People froze to death there every winter. Danny didn’t turn away from the window, but he nodded. “Why not a shelter?”

  Danny’s reflection glanced at him in the glass. After a long moment, he said, “I can get away easier if I’m outside.”

  Of course. A small, pretty boy like Danny would be an easy target for some of the grizzled men who haunted the city-run shelters. That was exactly why Joe started Rainbow Space.

  “You got blankets, or a coat?” Randy asked. Danny shook his head again without meeting his eyes. When Randy tapped his fingers on the countertop, Vonda took that as a sign to bring him the check. He glanced at it and pulled some cash out of his pocket to cover the meal plus a generous tip. He pulled another hundred in bills out, and slid them toward Danny. “Buy a coat,” he said gruffly.

  Danny looked at the money, and then up at him. He didn’t reach to take it. He swallowed. “What do you want me to do for that?”

  Randy fixed him with a stare. “Nothing. I told you, no strings attached.” Danny held his eyes as his fingers crept to the table and he swept away the small stack of twenties. “Hide that carefully,” Randy warned, and Danny mouthed thanks before turning back toward the window.

  “Do you think they’d let me stay in here a while longer?” Danny asked quietly as he gazed intently at the street.

  “Del’s is open until four. Vonda won’t run you off earlier.”

  It was already three, and likely to get even colder. This part of town would be risky for Danny to sleep in, even if he found a covered spot or doorway. Randy could offer to drop him at the Beach, where Danny at least would have his routine down, but he cringed at the thought of Danny climbing out of his truck and walking down the slope of P Street Beach into the darkness.

  Randy was usually home and in bed by now, unless he needed to paint, in which case he was in his little studio. He was going to want to paint tonight, he thought. Or maybe sketch a scared young man with porcelain skin and wide, amber eyes.

  Before he knew what he was doing, Randy heard himself say, “I can give you a
safe place to sleep tonight. If you want.”

  Chapter Five

  Randy pulled his truck into the driveway. “C’mon. I’ll show you the bedroom and then I have some work I want to do.” Danny climbed down from the passenger side and trailed him to the wraparound porch of his bungalow, where Randy unlocked the kitchen door and ushered Danny inside, snagging his mail from the letterbox next to it as he followed.

  The kitchen flooded with light when he flipped the switch, and Danny looked around, blinking. It was a big space because Randy had combined the dining and living rooms with the formerly cramped galley kitchen into one great room that stretched the width of the house.

  A big mission-style island anchored the kitchen area, providing a chopping and prep surface within easy reach of the refrigerator, gas stove, and a farmhouse sink with a porcelain apron. Glass-fronted cabinets provided lots of storage. A long dining table, also in the mission style, sat in front of a set of French doors that opened to the fenced backyard. An overstuffed sectional sofa and two coordinating chairs flanked a brick-fronted fireplace, below a large flat-screen TV mounted on the chimney.

  Randy flicked quickly through his stack of mail and muttered to Danny, “Give me just a minute here.” He set aside two bills to pay before he threw the rest of the flyers and junk mail into the trash. “I’ll give you a tour later if you want, but I bet you could use a shower and bed.” He led the way up a staircase to the second floor and opened a door off the top of the landing.

  “You’ll sleep here. The john is right across the hall, and there are towels on the shelf, spare toothbrush and razor in the medicine cabinet.” He looked Danny up and down, and shook his head. “I don’t have any clothes your size, but I can get you one of my T-shirts if you want to sleep in that.”

  Danny bit his lip and looked nervously into the bedroom. “This is real nice.” He reached out a hand tentatively and rested it on Randy’s forearm. “You sure I can’t, uh, thank you?”