Midnight Masqueraders

She saw the kid on a chilly Tuesday night as he rounded the corner and paused to gaze up at the street sign beneath the light. She thought, What the hell's he doin' here? Because this wasn't the stretch of road the rent-boys worked.

He stopped under the street light, a kid with shoulders he probably didn't yet understand, just starting to stretch the seams of his jacket, and wrists outgrowing the sleeves. She had three older brothers; she understood how boys grew into young men, and how those young men grew on into maturity.

He'll be big, she thought, with those shoulders. Not NBA- or NFL-sized, but bigger than average.

She'd spent a lifetime evaluating men. First, to gauge whether her father would smack her around; then, whether a brother would tell her to make a friend 'feel good;' then the boys she went with on her own. These days, it was men she wanted nothing to do with, but 'serviced' nonetheless.

Sure, there were shelters. They provided support for a lot of women. But she'd never been one for charity; and anyway, being a working girl could pay off. She knew of girls who'd ended up with apartments of their own, one guy, no need to freeze their asses off on a hard, wet sidewalk.

Her ass was done froze. But she thought his was, too.

Finally, as he walked yet another absent circle beneath the streetlight to keep himself warm, she talked to him. "Kid. Whatcha doin' here? You ain't cruisin' the right 'hood. Gonna get you run off."

He paused, hands stuck deep into jacket pockets. The light was high and she couldn't see all of his expression, but she could gauge the angles, the hollows, the eyes. Saw what he might be when the bones became all male.

He was pretty, right now. That wouldn't be true always. There was a strength that spoke of robustness waiting to be loosed. She'd seen it before.

But now that she checked him out, she decided he wasn't a rent-boy. He didn't have the look, the moves. Or else he's just new . . . and maybe desperate, starting the life now, looking for a way to keep food in his mouth, buy clothes that fit.

New at it. Yeah. And they'd be lining up for miles, once he found the right street.

God, he was a looker.

And it could get him killed.

"Hey kid," she blurted, and wished maybe she'd never said anything; she'd never welcomed advice from others.

He paused, hands still shoved into pockets, shoulders tilted forward, collar up, clearly chilled.

"Kid," she said, "there are shelters. You know? Get off the street, get warm, eat somethin.' Yeah, you'll have to listen to 'em spoutin' about Jesus, but hey. Maybe it sticks, maybe it don't . . . either way gets you warm and fed."

He came closer to her, and she saw the harmony implicit in the fit of cheekbones, nose, eyes and mouth.

Yeah, he was a kid, but if he lived up to that . . .

"I'm just waiting," he said, and there was nothing of knowledge in it, of shared intent. No I'm just the same as you in his tone or expression.

But no kid who looked like that, on this corner—even if it wasn't the right corner, for a boy—could possibly be innocent.

So she humored him, to see how he'd play it. "Waitin' for what?"

"My dad."

Yeah. Right. Sure you are.

But on second thought, she supposed it possible. Dad probably a pedophile, undoubtedly a pimp. Had a looker for a kid, trained him, put him on the street, planned to rake in the bucks while the boy paid the price. She'd seen a couple of mothers who sent their daughters out and took a cut. Why not a father?

"Your first night?" she asked, remembering her own.

His brows twitched together. "'First night?'"

She waved a hand. "Bein' out on the street. You know."

As he stared at her, brows still knitted, she thought maybe he didn't know after all.

Would a father send his pretty son into the the very meanest of streets without at least warning him? Without telling him how to act in order to hook the best fish?

Or maybe this was the game. Virginity and naivete was worth a great deal to the right man, and innocence would bring in the big payoff.

Maybe Dad was waiting around the street corner to swoop in and grab him before the boy's first man tried for more than a BJ.

"You new in town?" she asked.

"Yesterday." He turned his head one way, then the other, checking for something. Or someone. "It's just a stop-over for Dad's—business. We'll be gone in a few days."

So, Dad sends his kid to the street to grab a few bucks before moving on. Little money-maker. "How old are you?"

"Fourteen."

Younger than she'd thought. "You should move along." Find somewhere safe.

He shrugged. "He said to wait here."

"Do you know where you are?"

"Here. Here's where I am." And then he grinned.

Jesus Christ. He set the world alight.

"Oh, kid," she murmured. Thought about telling him he had the wrong street for what his father wanted him to do.

Then she heard the rumble. From the darkness came a car equally as dark, though chrome glinted and glittered in the streetlight. She pushed off the building, straightened, set her clothing to rights, swung her hips as she moved out beneath the streetlight to the curb. Thigh-high, spike-heeled boots, short, tight skirt, faux fur coat, a tangle of red curls. Yeah, she knew damn well she was an aging caricature of Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, but no john had ever objected.

The car slid to the curb. She bent down, set her hands upon the edge of the open window, saw the man behind the wheel. Dark hair and beard, dark eyes, a leather coat. She offered him a smile, but as he looked at her his brows rose.

Then the kid eased her aside and slid in front of her.

"Hey!" she protested. Little shit's highjackin' my corner!

Then she rethought and looked again at the guy behind the wheel, who only had eyes for the boy. "Get in," he said, and he didn't mean her.

The kid opened the door, climbed in, swung it closed on a metallic grind.

She looked beyond him to the man once more, took his measure. "You're his dad."

The voice was deep. "Yeah."

"Do you know where you are? Do you know?"

Because if he did, that told her something. As would his eyes.

The man's mouth hooked into a brief, wry smile. "I didn't before," he said, "but, no offense, I think I do now."

No offense? Huh. And the eyes gave her ruefulness.

No, this was not after all a man who'd sent his kid out here to do anything except meet his father. They were strangers in town, and he'd made a mistake. He needed to know it, and he needed to understand the risk.

"If you've figured that out," she said, "then you know better than to repeat what you done tonight."

"What's that?"

"Treated your boy like choicest chum," she answered, "dropped into a school of sharks. Honey, you better take a hard look at what you got and have a talk with him about certain street corners. Because either the rent-boys'll beat him up, or their pimps will, or he's gonna get scooped off the street and taught a whole lotta things no decent boy should know."

He looked at his son, looked at him, and seemed to see something maybe he hadn't before. Then he met her eyes again. "Thanks, but—Dean can take care of himself."

And the kid looked at her with a smile that was ancient for his age, all casual confidence.

"Maybe he can, or maybe he can't, " she said. "Just be careful with him. They don't have to be pretty to catch the sharks, but it don't hurt. I'm thinkin' maybe he's lucky you told him to meet you on the 'wrong' street. On my street."

She waited for him to tell her to keep her nose out of his business. But he didn't. He seemed to appreciate a viewpoint that maybe had not occurred to him before. "I think I'll heed your warning. This is . . . not something that's come up before."

"Trust me, with this one it'll come up again." She glanced at the kid, then smiled at the father. She didn't think he'd be offended. "Once he's added a few years, and if you come back through town? You bring him around to me. Won't even charge him."

He looked again at the kid, then flashed her a dimpled, ironic grin. "I got a feelin' you won't be the only woman saying that."

"No, siree," she agreed, grinning back. "Now you go on. Git. You're interferin' with my business."

He gazed around, saw no other vehicles on the street. Started to reach into his coat.

"No," she said. "Take your kid some place warm, buy him a decent meal. That's payment enough for the wakeup call."

"I've got two," he told her. "The other's back at the motel. Sammy's younger than this one."

She pointed. "Baby brother pretty as him?"

The man smiled. "Don't know yet what he'll be, since he's only ten. But this one takes after his mother; the other looks more like me."

"Dangerous enough," she said, then tapped the top of the car. "You go on, now. This ain't no place for a kid to be."

The boy was staring at her out of those big eyes. "Maybe you should go, too."

She frowned at him. "Go where?"

"Some place warm. Some place to eat."

Now she smiled. "I'm workin' on that, kid." She tapped the car again. Git.

Dad nodded, wished her goodnight, told her to stay safe.

"Workin' on that, too," she agreed, and stepped back from the curb as the big car rumbled away.

Kid's too pretty for his own good. Dad better make damn sure he knows how to take care of himself.

And then she remembered the smile on the kid's face, that odd self-awareness, and thought maybe he could. That maybe he'd learned young.

~ end ~

A/N: My Muse, who is attempting to survive her first summer SPN hellatus, has apparently decided the only way to do so is to throw stories at me. (And now there is a sequel to this story, titled "Mean Streets At Midnight."