Rico pt I

by Nichole Perkins, Los Angeles, CA, USA

Rico leaned against a building, ignoring the bricks’ burn onto his back. His blue sarong, eloquently knotted below his navel, brushed the heels of his feet, while waves of overly-long hair hid his face from view. Cars circled the block a few times before taking a short trip with an additional passenger.

He tapped a bare foot impatiently. It would be dark soon. He thought he’d be gone by now, preferably with someone looking to extend happy hour. If he didn’t catch one by nightfall, he’d have to go back to the dorm and the guardians would tease him again.

The thought of their taunts pushed him from the wall. He refused to listen to their scolding any more. He’d heard it too many times already. They’d tell him he used his pretty face as an excuse for laziness and that he had to work in order to get work. What he wanted was a protector, but he wasn’t going to find one on a corner in K-Town. Rico started to walk to the lockers to get his bag. He wanted to make a list of what he might need to do in order to improve the quality of his clientele. If he asked the guardians for help, they’d probably ask for a cut, and he was tired of giving them his money.

He’d only gone half a block when he felt a car pulled alongside him. The black exterior was nothing unusual but the wide whitewalls brought him up short. The Benz was quiet, its french fry scent of biodiesel faint, and that was more than enough to stretch a grin across Rico’s face. The passenger window eased down, and he was careful not to touch the finish as he leaned close and asked, “How can I perfect your evening?” He raked his hair back, uncovering the bronzed features of his mixed heritage, opening his face.

“Do you service women?” the whisper was not one of disguise or enticement. Rico’s smile stumbled before righting itself.

“How many and do I get breaks?” he quipped.

“You are too young.” The ruins of her voice cast shadows over Rico’s anticipation. He reached between his sarong and hip and pulled out a thin, laminated card. His employment license listed his current age as twenty and his most recent physical, three weeks ago, as clean. He let his smile fall and rested his forearms against the doorframe. She didn’t want silliness.

“I’m not too young to give you what you need, amante.” Promise, edged with desperation, filled his eyes.

“Get your things and hurry.”

Watching him lope back to the standard issue grey lockers, Asiya ran a hand over her throat, an old, useless habit.


…to be continued…