The room felt like it was a hundred degrees. He was wearing shorts and a t-shirt in the middle of a frozen February. Tim Spencer had been sitting on the stool in the entryway for nearly twenty minutes and he felt nauseous. He could feel beads of sweat breaking on his forehead. He was wearing one of his racing suits underneath his shorts and the heat was making his balls sweat. Gross. He had another two hours before he was off. Then his Saturday belonged to him again.
Working the counter - taking admission fees, watching the regulars swipe their cards, and picking up the phone and reciting the hours of operation that never changed - was pretty boring. He'd rather be out on the deck watching the massive old ladies doing their aqua-jogging. The kids would probably start showing up in packs for rec swimming in half an hour. He'd get a lot of stares, then, if he were still sitting behind the counter. Since he'd shaved that morning, at least a couple of the parents would mistake him for a middle schooler. Tim was going to be seventeen in two months.
He turned his head and looked back toward the water. He'd rather be sitting in on the guard stands watching the water. He never got tired of it. Tim loved the water, always had. He wasn't a big guy, but he was fast in the water. Even when he wasn't in the water, he wanted to be near it. He'd worked in the pool long before he was exactly legal, according to the state's labor laws. He worked without pay until he was finally old enough to get a regular job there. He'd had his lifeguard certification for years. He took refreshers on CPR yearly and he loved the summer months when he taught dozens of kids the joys of flailing through the water.
Tim let his eyes flick back down to the computer monitor sunk underneath the counter. He'd been catching up with the news of the day in between helping customers. Tim liked to know about the world. In fact, it was important he did. A guy like him, small, he hadn't had a lot of weapons growing up, but he did have a fierce, aggressive sense of humor. So when he looked through the news, or read any books, he stocked up on the kinds of barbs he could lob into conversation. A guy who's busy laughing won't have time or the inclination to take your lunch money. Tim had figured that one out himself in second grade when a handful of fifth graders wouldn't let him alone.
Prong two, once he was old enough, was to get as strong as he could. Tim had wrestled in middle school and started lifting weights. He'd dropped the wrestling when he started high school, but he still kept up with the weights. And he swam for the high school team and the `Y'. Tim had to get in the water pretty much every day. He was five foot nothing, a hundred five pounds, and a generally tough little shit with a big smile.
The phone rang and Tim jumped off his stool and grabbed for it.
"Green Valley Pool. How can I help you?"
"Tim, is that you," the voice asked.
"Yup," Tim responded. "Who's this?"
"Roger."
Tim looked cross at hearing that name. "What's up?" He already expected what Roger would ask.
"Can I get you to cover my hours today, Tim? I have to go out of town unexpectedly."
Tim knew a lie when he heard one.
"Where you going," Tim asked. As the most vulnerable kid growing up, he'd honed his people analysis skills early on. As a tiny tot in kindergarten, he'd known who he could trust.
"Around, man, around."
Tim deciphered Roger's phrasing and realized that the sophomore at one of the region's colleges had a new girlfriend he wanted to entertain. Roger had worked for the pool for three years, off and on, and was famous for this shit. It was obvious that he wasn't dependable: three years into college and still a sophomore.
"This is the second bullet I'm taking for you," Tim said. Roger offered an embarrassed laugh. He probably new his luck was stretched when he heard Tim's voice on the other end of the telephone call. "What do I get out of it?"
"The hours, the cash, man."
"I already had plans." Tim's voice sounded dead. He hadn't spent a lot of time with Kyle, Sean, or Pat. All four of them were going to head out skiing after he finished his shift and got some food in him. He'd been in the water at six and then in his lifeguard role by eight. He was only supposed to have four hours today.
"I'll cover for you, man."
"I've heard that before, Roger. What hours do you have?"
"Noon to four." Shit. There went skiing with the guys. Sean and Kyle, in particular, would be pissed. But Tim needed a bit more cash. He was saving up. Tim had a crush on a blue Honda Civic. Right now, he was stuck begging his mother and older sister for their cars. Every so often, he still had Kyle or Pat for a ride to school or work. It sucked being without wheels.
Tim's dad was dead set against spoiling his kid. `Met too many rich spoiled bastards in college and this town.' Tim kind of agreed. One of the yobs - Tim's favorite word - on the football team had wheedled a Hummer out of his dad. There was money in Green Valley, but not in Tim's pocket.
"Fine. I'll do it. I'm a nice guy. Have fun going out of town. Catch a nice beaver down at the dam."
Tim slammed the phone down before Roger could say anything else. He'd try to defend his honor, bunch of bullshit.
Roger had dated extensively among the pool's female staffers. Tim knew exactly where Roger would be spending his day. He preferred the privacy of the outdoors and the lack of expense. His female companion for the afternoon would be treated to the beautiful view of the Sikorsky Dam, at least if Ellie's ribald comments about Roger were to be used.
Tim hated this. He was used to getting ragged on for his size. He was quick witted now, and strong, but he still had a kind heart. `A gullible sucker' was how Sean usually introduced Tim to new people. Sean was also a good reader of people.
Tim was small and too nice. His dad, a podiatrist, had even had Tim meet with an endocrinologist when he was fourteen to look into growth hormone treatments. When Tim found out how much it cost and what the likely results would be, maybe a half-inch to two inches on his body after a couple of years and tens of thousands of dollars, Tim said no. He could handle being small, although he wouldn't have objected to putting the offered couple inches on another of his appendages. Tim's father had also made him go to a psychologist. Jesus Christ, Tim thought, he was small, not a nut case. Everyone got picked on. Like today, everyone got taken advantage of from time to time.
Roger was an asshole and he didn't have to see a shrink. Maybe it would make him a better person.
Tim fished out his cellphone from under the counter and dialed Kyle, his best bud. He left a quick voicemail explaining the situation, apologizing, and releasing the other guys to head out skiing. Pat wanted to rent a snowboard this time. That kid was insane, but very, very funny.
A hand clamped down on his shoulder. "Personal call, Spencer." Tut, tut went her tongue.
"Screw off, Ellie. Roger just dumped his hours on me and I had to let my friends know."
"Guy's a royal cunt," she said.
Tim turned around with a shocked look on his face. He'd never said the c-word around a girl; he barely said it when he was with his buds. He'd never heard a girl say not.
"It's true," she said.
"I'll take your word for it," Tim said. A thousand funny, even vicious, things rang up in his mind, but he couldn't bring himself to say any of them. Ellie was a nice person, nice enough that she should never have gotten within ten feet of Roger. "Time to switch?"
"Yeah, you go watch the women who like their lunch."
Tim nodded. Calling them women who like their lunch was putting it charitably. Most of them could probably ground themselves on a beach and attract media attention. Sure they were trying to become more fit, but it was all a question of balance. They probably burned off an extra hundred calories doing their exercises and awarded themselves three hundred calories of ice cream as a treat.
He walked out on the deck and wished he could go skiing today. But, he accepted the extra hours and, after taxes, he'd be twenty-three dollars closer to his used Honda Civic.
Preston King, Trance to his closest friends, walked into the pool building and felt assaulted by the chlorine stench. The seals, also called kids, in the water twenty feet in front of him were barking and splashing. Preston would never want one of the bastards for his own. He had `bigger' things to take care of in his life.
Preston wrote. He was good. He'd won a small stack of writing awards. That had earned him a job researching for the local dreckmeister, bestselling author Herbert Randolph Tate, author of two dozen fairly successful murder mysteries. Preston's good looks and extracurricular talents earned him the occasional spot in Bert's bed. Lovers, but not lowly researchers, could call him Bert.
Today was Preston's last day working for Herbert Randolph Tate. The published writer didn't know that yet, but he would as of tomorrow when he came back to a trashed home. Preston was done. Bert had gotten him an agent and the agent had finagled a book deal with a small, but acceptable, advance. Preston was now self-sufficient and didn't need the old fag's advice.
He was going to throw one last party before getting out of Green Valley, one last bacchanal. He needed Roger to come and play shepherd for all the wayward souls who might get in trouble and drown their drunk, stoned asses in the pool. The thing was basically an orgy. Preston had organized them often when Herbert Tate was out of town. Preston, as the research assistant and sometime bed mate, rated a small cabin on Herbert's estate. He also had keys to the main house and the pool house.
Preston walked through the entryway and popped his head to look around the large pool. Roger Cassidy wasn't anywhere in sight. Preston popped back near the desk, saw the kid, and took a second look. The kid had some talent, but he looked about twelve.
"You a lifeguard," Preston asked.
The kid looked up and pivoted his head. Preston could make out the name of the pool on the kid's shirt.
He rolled his eyes and nodded. "What can I help you with?"
"You seen Roger Cassidy, he works here?"
The kid smiled for a second. "I guess I'm Roger right now," he said.
The kid was much hotter than Roger could ever hope to be. Roger preferred the straight trade, while Preston would take the best looking piece of whatever he could find. Preston loved to plug holes. He let his eyes scrape all over the boy. Whoever he claimed to be, he was hot.
"The Roger I know is a big bruiser. You take a pill or something."
"I picked up the phone, actually. He called in and I took his hours. Is there anything I can help you with?"
The kid looked bored. He also looked like the freshest piece of chicken Preston hadn't eaten in a while.
"Want to work tonight? Hundred bucks cash. The bastard Roger was supposed to help me with a pool party I'm throwing tonight." Roger also commanded a higher price for his discretion. He got two hundred bucks, whatever slags he could pin down at the end of the party long enough to fuck, and whatever pot Preston hadn't smoked by the end of the night. Roger was happy with leftovers of that kind.
The cute kid looked puzzled. He could tell that Preston wasn't looking at him with chaste eyes. He didn't seem to know whether to take the offer as genuine.
"What would I have to do," the kid asked.
"Stay sober and keep the idiots from drowning in the pool. You're small, kid, but you look strong."
He nodded. "When I got my certificate, I had to drag a 280 lb. guy out of the pool. I can handle pretty much anything in the water."
Cocky little shit. Preston was already hard.
"It starts at 8.00. Want to do it?"
"When's it end?"
"When everyone passes out. I hope you're not a prude, either, kid. We're pretty far beyond clothing optional at the party." It was more like condoms were optional. Preston could gather together a crop of college-age kiddies with a couple phone calls. Free booze and eats; lots of eye candy and a good chance for no-strings sex. The kiddies loved it.
"If I do this, I'm keeping my clothes on," the kid said.
Preston nodded. He was excited to see the kid getting excited.
"Where's the place?"
"I work for Herbert Tate. It's at his place while he's on an author tour."
"I met Mr. Tate once when he came to read to my school. He's a nice guy." The kid thought for a second. "Sure, I'll take your hundred bucks."
This kid is just what Bert would strap down to his bed and never let leave. He liked them young and thin, heroin waifs. Preston never touched the harder drugs, but he was naturally lean and ferociously horny.
"Got a ride?"
"No, don't even know where the guy's house is."
Tonight, my hunky piece of chicken-fried chicken, you'll find out and never forget.
"I'll give you a lift, then."
"Thanks," the kid said.
"Got a name, lifeguard?"
"Tim."
"Tim, call me Trance." Preston stuck out his hand to seal the deal and felt the smoothest skin melt into his being. He was going to be licking every molecule of salt off this kid's skin before the sun rose tomorrow. The kid would get the hundred bucks and a hell of a sore ass as a souvenir.