Your black fate

[Patrick O'Connell]

Damn.

Pat rubbed a hand over his sore bum as he got out of the house with his money, after having counted each bill. Because yes, he was going to make damn sure that he got what he deserved after that boring, loveless, perfunctory pumping. Well, that was escort work for you--couldn't choose the client. If they paid well enough, Pat was game. The man was nice, at least, and let him have a quick shower before he left.

He was one of those older types who already had a life carved out for himself. Pat saw pictures of a wife and a daughter inside, so he supposed that the man was merely closeted and needed an outlet. He wasn't too rough but Lord almighty, it seemed to go on forever. Mid-way, Pat had to resort to texting Elia just to make the time go faster. And after Elia sent the picture, things went a lot better for Pat. Now, with the money in hand, he was ready to head on home.

Not that he needed the money. He had a place to stay with Elia and that was honestly all he needed. Even if he didn't, he could probably crash on Danny's couch--wherever Danny was. Last Pat heard, they were in California because Coco wanted to visit Disneyland. Pat could have gone with them, but he would be the outsider in their family vacation and somehow he became entangled with a temperamental artist and... well, being with Danny without being with him was always bittersweet for Pat.

As the cab drove into sight, Pat waved a hand to flag it down. He slid gingerly into the back seat and gave the driver Elia's address, and settled back with a sigh. Pat was going to go back anyway, even without Elia's 12 frantic calls and numerous texts. Sometimes the pressure of being his muse got to be too much for him. Elia was a fanatic about his art and Pat... he didn't have the patience to sit or stand there forever. Plus, Elia never seemed to be satisfied with his pieces, even if Pat thought that they were quite good. He would shred his paintings after he finished, claiming that he had failed to capture IT.

IT.

What was IT? Pat didn't even know that he had IT. He used to joke that IT was AIDS, but Elia didn't seem to like it and only grew more and more cross, the more Pat tried to make a joke to lighten the mood. Eventually, Pat learned to just shut his feckin mouth and let the man work. It wasn't a bad trade-off, really. Elia let him stay at his home, let him sleep in his bed, let him use his card. Pat didn't, though. Elia was a lover, not a client. A line had to be drawn.

Just sometimes, he had to get away. Pat never did well with restraint--in any sense of the word. He lived freely and he hated having to answer to anybody. Being checked up on every other day was oppressive and he disliked that needy side of Elia. And while he understood that time was short, he couldn't help the way he felt, either.

A little sadly, he replied to Elia's text. The brain thing. The tumor. Sometimes Pat swore it affected Elia's mood, sending him into a frenzy unprovoked. But there was no cure for it and why should Pat, of all people, tell him how to act or live his life? Too bad, though. Too bad that they met too late. Elia would be gone soon and Pat was already ruined for love. Maybe in the next life, if they should meet again... The thought brought a little smile to Pat's lips.

Just as he turned to look outside the window, the cab gave a great lurch and Pat was thrown backward hard. He heard a deafening CRUNCH. His head snapped against the headrest and a lancing pain shot all up and down his spine. Groaning, he put out a hand to steady himself as the driver shouted profanities out the window. When the driver got out, so did Pat.

"You idiot! Why didn't you watch where you're going?!"

The driver was walking up to the front of his cab, staring at the mess of mangled metal. Pat massaged his sore neck and watched the two drivers arguing for a bit before realizing that he still needed a way to get home. He waved down a passerby. "Oi, mate. How far am I from Beck Street?"

The man pointed him off in the right direction and Pat sighed. It was pretty far away, and he wasn't in any sort of shape to do that much walking. Pat turned back to look at the cab driver, who was still arguing with the other person. This was the second accident in a week that he'd been involved in! The last one, he nearly got flattened by a bus and only just got away with his life. In fact, after that strange fortune teller--or at least somebody who worked with the fortune teller--warned him about a black fate, Pat's luck seemed to have abandoned him.

So much for the luck of the Irish, he thought dryly.

In the end, Pat decided to wait for another cab. The driver had already phoned in for a replacement and Pat gingerly lowered himself onto the curb to wait.