Salvation Page 2

  Hunter tucked a strand of his shoulder-length blond hair behind his ear, grabbed a plate and started scooping a mountain of potato salad onto it as he said, “I’m back for seconds, this stuff is like crack. Oh, and this isn’t all for me. I’m sharing a plate with Brian.”

  “That’s actually my secret ingredient,” River said. “Crack. It’s what’s for dinner.”

  Hunter chuckled at that as he crammed a couple big sandwiches onto his plate. To me he said, “Are you working at Lunch with Love this week, Trevor?” We both volunteered at a charity that delivered meals to shut-ins.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there Wednesday.”

  “Cool, me too.”

  “Do you know what’s up with the Halloween-in-June thing?” River asked him, indicating one of Nana’s little old lady friends in a witch hat that had just breezed past us.

  “Right before the party, Nana brought a Wiccan soccer mom here to do some kind of cleansing ritual. She said she wanted to get rid of the ‘bad juju’ from when my apartment was broken into,” Hunter explained as he heaped some carrot sticks onto the plate.

  “So where’s your witch hat?” River asked with a grin.

  “I chose to conveniently misplace mine once the ritual was over,” Hunter told him with a smile as he arranged some sliced fruit on the already overflowing plate.

  “Gotta love Nana,” I said.

  “You really do,” Hunter agreed as he topped off his arrangement with a big handful of chips. He looked at the food pyramid he’d created and said, “Well damn, I got completely carried away. I probably should have gone with two plates. Let’s see if I actually make it across the apartment without spilling this all over myself.” He stuck a fork in his pocket, shot me a playful wink and gracefully weaved his way back through the crowd to his waiting boyfriend.

  River's phone rang, and he answered it by saying, “What is it, Skye?” After listening for a moment, he muttered, “Seriously?” Following another pause, he sighed dramatically and said, “Fine.” He recited the address of the party, then exclaimed, “Would you shut up already? You’re about to run over a minute!” With that, he quickly punched the off button and put the phone away.

  “What was that about?”

  “My brother needs his truck back. It’s going to be super interesting getting all our trays and equipment home on the bus.”

  “Your brother’s name is Skye?”

  “Yeah. And since you’re probably about to comment on the whole Skye and River thing, because everyone always does, let me just head you off by saying yes, our mother is a total hippie, and I was in fact raised in a commune.”

  “Wow. That’s—”

  “Kind of insane. But whatever.”

  “What was that thing about going over a minute?”

  “Skye and I can’t afford cellphone plans. He’s a starving student, and I’m just starving. So we got these cheap pay-as-you go phones with sixty minutes on them, and we’re trying to make the minutes last at least a month. That’d be easier if Skye wasn’t so damn chatty. Sometimes I just have to hang up on him, otherwise he’d burn the whole sixty minutes by talkin’ about some awesome piece of crap he found in a dumpster.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. He’s a sculptor. Or, you know, he will be if he ever finishes art school. He goes to Sutherlin on a full scholarship, because he won a national competition when he was seventeen. One of his classmates is Christopher, the guy who owns that art gallery. That’s how I got my first catering gig actually, because Skye put in a good word for me.”

  “So, he sculpts using stuff he finds in dumpsters?”

  “Not just dumpsters. He needs his truck back because he has to get to a junkyard in Oakland before they close. Apparently some guy who works there called him, because they had some rusty piece of crap come in that they knew Skye couldn’t live without.” River rolled his eyes and carried an empty tray to the sink.

  “That’s kind of cool, actually. I mean, that he’s an artist.”

  “You won’t think it’s cool once you see our apartment. Make sure you’re up on your tetanus shots before you come over, since it’s jam-packed with all sorts of rusty hunks of metal that he’s scavenged from all over the place. It gets old, lemme tell ya. I just hope this latest piece of crap is smaller than a refrigerator, otherwise I’m probably about to get bumped out into the hallway.”

  “Doesn’t he have a studio on campus where he can keep all that stuff?”

  “He does, but it’s completely full, too. There’s barely enough room in the studio to do his welding. But does that stop him from accumulating more crap? Hell no. You should see him. He’ll find some bent-up hunk of iron and just go on and on about how beautiful it is, and ‘doesn’t it look just like a giraffe, or a perfect wave, or an enchanted pixie wand, River?’ Uh, no. It looks like a rusty piece of garbage!”

  I chuckled at that. “An enchanted pixie wand?”

  “Okay, I’m exaggerating about that part, but only slightly. That’s kind of Skye’s thing, though. He sees beauty in everything, including stuff that’s actually butt-ugly.”

  “He sounds sweet.”

  River frowned and said, “He is. He reminds me of a puppy, he gets so excited about things. But puppies are way less cute when you live with them and can barely make it to the bathroom without falling over their crap.” That made me laugh, and River asked, “What?”

  “Your analogy was kind of funny, a puppy with crap big enough to fall over. That’d be one colossal canine.”

  He grinned too. “Well, this one’s not exactly Clifford the Big Red Dog. Just Skye, the Small Blue Pain.”

  I had no idea how the word ‘blue’ entered into the picture until Skye arrived at the apartment a few minutes later. He was about my age and really cute, with big blue eyes, a pierced lip, and shaggy hair that he’d dyed a deep royal blue. It actually really suited him, somehow. His baggy t-shirt, jeans and sneakers were also blue. Apparently, he had a whole theme to go with his name.

  “Skye, this is Trevor, my business partner.”

  “Business partner?” his brother echoed with a teasing grin. “Is that a euphemism for something?”

  River shot him a look. “Yeah, it’s a euphemism for business partner.”

  “It’s nice to meet you, Trevor,” Skye said. “Is my brother driving you insane yet?”

  “Not yet. But then, I haven’t known him very long,” I replied with a smile.

  “Give it time.” Skye turned to his brother. “It doesn’t look like this party’s wrapping up any time soon, so how about if I pick you up on the way back from Oakland? I really don’t know how you’ll get your stuff home otherwise.”

  River grinned a little. “I’m surprised you’re actually thinking about anything beyond that rusty hunk of junk that’s waiting for you in the East Bay.” Skye rolled his eyes, then quickly stole an olive from a nearby bowl and popped it in his mouth. “Knock it off!” River exclaimed. “That food isn’t ours, it was paid for by my client.”

  “Dude, it’s one olive.”

  “It’s still really unprofessional for the caterer’s younger brother to show up and start eating stuff.”

  “Unprofessional. River, you’re wearing swim trunks,” Skye pointed out.

  “Well, it was that or going balls out. You know my jeans got stolen from the Laundromat. After this job though, I can afford a trip to the thrift store. Unless you get me fired before I get paid!” Skye had stolen a couple more olives while River was talking.

  “Okay, I’m going,” Skye said. “I need to make it to the junkyard in less than an hour, because they won’t hold this thing overnight. But there’s a problem.”

  River handed over a set of keys and raised an eyebrow. “Do I even want to hear this?”

  “Um, I’m a little short. They’re asking a hundred dollars for this piece, but I only have sixty-seven. I can probably haggle them down a bit, but do you think I could borrow a few bucks? I swear I’ll pay you back.”

&n
bsp; I was sure River would say no, since I knew he was broke. But instead, he sighed and pulled out his wallet. He took out all his cash and counted it, then handed it to his brother as he said, “I have nine bucks. You can have it, since I already put enough away to make rent this month.”

  Skye pocketed the money and grabbed his brother in a hug. “You’re the best, River.” When he let go of him, he added, “Actually, there’s one other problem, too.”

  “What now?”

  “Well, apparently this object is really heavy. Do you think you can skip out of here for a while and help me? I don’t think I can lift it on my own.”

  “Won’t the guy at the junkyard load it with you? I can help you get it out of the truck when we get home, but no way can I leave in the middle of a job.”

  “No. Elvis has a bad back, he refuses to help with loading and unloading.”

  “Elvis?” River asked. “Seriously?”

  “I can go with him,” I chimed in. “You have the food under control, so you’ll really only need me when it’s time to clean up. We’ll be back by then.”

  “If you actually want to accompany my crazy brother to a junkyard in Oakland, knock yourself out. Just watch out for giant, disgustin’ rats, mice and other vermin. And for the love of gawd, make sure whatever you drag home isn’t infested with anything!”

  “That only happened one time,” Skye told him.

  “And I’m still havin’ nightmares!” River exclaimed.

  “We’ll be careful. Come on Trevor, we’d better get going. We might hit traffic.”

  I gave my friend a little wave goodbye and his brother and I turned to leave. But then River called after us, “Skye, have you actually eaten anything today besides those olives?” His brother turned toward him and shook his head no. River knit his brows at that, then asked, “What about you, Trev? You eaten anything?” I also shook my head.

  River sighed and picked up a paper grocery sack, then put two of the big sandwiches he’d made for the party inside it and rolled up the top of the bag. As he handed it to his brother he said, “I’ll tell Nana to dock my pay a few bucks to make up for that. You both gotta take better care of yourselves. Lord knows I can barely take care of myself, let alone y’all.”

  Chapter Two

  Skye’s truck was ancient and dented, but he’d taken spray paint to it in many shades of blue, turning it into a work of art reminiscent of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. “Hang on a sec,” he told me. “The passenger door doesn’t open from the outside.” He climbed in the cab and reached under the seat for a big wrench, which he used to twist a little broken nub on the inside of the door. Nothing happened.

  He frowned at that, then said, “Stand back.” Skye dropped the wrench, pivoted around on the seat, and kicked the inside of the door with both feet. It swung open with a loud groan. “There we go,” he said cheerfully. “It just sticks sometimes. Oh hang on, let me get this stuff out of your way.” The passenger side of the bench seat was covered with papers, junk mail, and miscellaneous detritus. His solution for that was to sweep everything onto the floor with his arm. “All set,” he said with a smile, then stuck the key in the ignition and fired up the engine. I was surprised it actually started.

  I climbed into the truck, heaved the door shut, and had just begun to reach for my seatbelt when Skye took off like a shot. “Holy crap,” I exclaimed as the truck lurched down the street. He’d stuck the sandwich bag on the dash and I caught it as it came flying at me. “You want to slow down just a bit there, Skye? My plans for today didn’t include getting splattered all over the inside of your windshield.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, easing off the accelerator slightly and grinding gears with the stick shift. “I just want to make sure we get to Oakland before that place closes, but I think we’ll have enough time.”

  I’d located the seatbelt, but it really didn’t want to latch. In an act of desperation, I tied it to a lap belt that spanned the center of the bench seat, double-knotting it and pulling the ends tight. Skye glanced at what I was doing, then grinned at me. “I hardly ever wreck. Don’t worry.”

  “Hardly ever? That’s not very reassuring.”

  “In the ten years I’ve been driving, I’ve only wrecked twice. Those are pretty good odds.”

  “Ten years? How old are you?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “But that would mean you were driving since you were eleven.”

  “Yup.”

  I absorbed that for a beat, then said, “I mean, I get that your mom is a free spirit and all. River told me about being raised in a commune. But letting an eleven-year-old drive? That’s pretty irresponsible.”

  “Actually, I didn’t grow up with my mom, or with River. He and I had different dads, as you can probably guess by the fact that he’s half-Latin and I’m Wonder Bread white. Anyway, my dad moved from Louisiana to Oregon when I was four and took me with him. He loved to go out drinking on Friday nights, and taught me to drive so I could get him home safely.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I think he made the right call. Responsible kid versus drunk adult? Put your money on the kid every time.”

  While I was preparing about fifty rebuttals to that, Skye reached for the sandwich bag that I’d set down between us. I pulled it away and exclaimed, “You’re barely staying in your own lane as it is, and now you want to add eating to the mix? We’re about to get on the bridge. Can you please hold off on lunch, at least until crashing through the retaining wall and plunging into the bay is no longer a possibility?”

  He smiled at that. “You’re pretty uptight. But I like you, Trevor.”

  “I’m not uptight. I just don’t want to die.”

  He patted my knee reassuringly. Then he said, “We all have to die sometime.”

  “What?”

  Skye burst out laughing and said, “Oh man.” He actually downshifted, slowing the truck to match the flow of traffic instead of weaving through it. “See? You are uptight. You’re cute though, so I’ll forgive you. Plus, you’re nice enough to let a total stranger drag you to a junkyard in Oakland. I don’t think many people would volunteer for something like that.”

  “What exactly are we picking up, anyway?”

  “A clock.”

  “You can’t lift a clock on your own?”

  “Apparently it’s a really big clock.”

  It actually turned out to be enormous. After surviving the drive across the bridge and cutting through a highly questionable part of the East Bay, we arrived at our destination. Skye murmured, “Oh wow, look at that,” as we pulled into a barbed wire-ringed yard and came to a stop beside the colossal timepiece.

  The thing was maybe eight feet across. Half of its metal numbers were missing, and its big brass hands dangled loosely. It was already unusual because of its size, but what made it truly bizarre was the fact that the plastic clock face had been painted to look like the Man in the Moon. It had huge green eyes, a creepy, leering grin, and painted-on craters that sort of made it look like it had a skin condition. All in all, it was fairly nightmarish.

  Skye cut the engine and was out of the truck almost before it stopped moving, dashing up to the clock and running his hands over the face. “This is the greatest thing ever,” he exclaimed as I climbed over the bench seat and got out through his door. “Please tell me it still has its gears,” he murmured, ducking down and looking behind it. “Oh wow, it does!”

  Meanwhile, a stooped African American man of about ninety had come out of a trailer to our right. He slowly made his way over to us, relying heavily on an ornate wooden cane that he clutched in a hand gnarled by arthritis. “Hey there, Skye.” His voice was gravelly. “I’m glad Elvis called you first. I told him you’d appreciate somethin’ like this.”

  “It’s amazing.” Skye was totally sincere, an expression of awe on his cute face.

  “You know, a lot of people want them clock gears and things,” the little old man said. “This here is a high-demand item.”


  “Elvis already told me I could have it for a hundred, Tommy,” Skye said with a grin. “It’s too late to jack up the price.”

  “A hundred! He’s givin’ it away! How am I supposed to make a livin’ with my grandson handin’ out deals like that?”

  “Repeat business! You know I’m a customer for life, Tommy.”

  “Yeah, you better remember ol’ Tommy once you’re a big shot artist!” The man’s smile was made up of more gold than teeth.

  Skye smiled too. “You know I will. You’re totally stuck with me.” He turned his attention back to the clock, taking hold of the hands and positioning them at ten and two. “Where’d it come from?”

  “An old toy store in Vallejo that’s gettin’ torn down to make room for some kinda fancy transit center. A few pickers including Elvis got to go in there first and do some salvage.”

  “It’s so great,” Skye murmured.

  “It’ll never fit in the truck,” I pointed out.

  “Sure it will,” Skye said. “We’ll make it fit. By the way, Tommy, this is my new friend Trevor. He works with my brother. Trevor, this is the legendary Tommy Dulane, greatest trumpet player to ever come out of the west coast swing scene, and now purveyor of fine architectural salvage.”

  That earned another big smile from Tommy. “Now you’re just butterin’ me up. How short on cash are ya?”

  “I’m not just saying that. You’re a legend, Tommy. It has nothing to do with the fact that I only have seventy-six dollars.”

  “You know we have a strict cash-on-the-barrelhead policy here, Skye.”

  “I know, but I have to have this! You know I’m good for the rest. Please, Tommy?” He actually hugged the huge clock to his slender body, his big blue eyes pleading.

  “Rules are rules, kid.”

  Skye let go of the clock and dashed back to his truck, where he began digging through the mess on the floor. A moment later, he waved a crumpled dollar bill. “Seventy-seven dollars!” He held up the brown paper bag. “And two sandwiches!”