Page 74 of See My Words

Scott took a deep breath. “Start as you mean to go on.”

“Exactly.”

They left the apartment, walking down the concrete stairs toward the parking lot.

“You doing okay with rent and all that?” Scott asked. “That old landlady off your back?”

“Mrs. Popovic? Oh, yeah, no worries. Corey’s keeping me super busy at the club, and I actually picked up a freelance wedding client last weekend.”

“Really?”

“I didn’t tell you? This couple got engaged during one of Minh’s shows, and I took pictures of it and posted them on the club’s Instagram. They liked them so much they hired me to do their actual wedding.”

“That’s great, Ry,” Scott exclaimed. “Paying customers?”

Scott clicked his convertible open, and they pulled open their doors, the hot air trapped inside rolling out in an almost suffocating wave. Scott hurriedly turned the car on to get the AC going, and Rylan grabbed for his seat belt, squeaking as his fingers grazed the hot metal of the buckle.

“Yep, paying customers.” Rylan adjusted one of the air vents so it was blowing directly on him. “They said they’re delighted to give their business to a gay photographer rather than trying to find someone in the phone book who would ‘tolerate’ doing a same-sex wedding. Kind of like that wedding cake bullshit, you know? I don’t think there’s anyone specializing in LGBT weddings here in town yet, so—”

“So you have a chance to corner the market.” Scott’s voice was enthusiastic as he backed out of the space and headed for the exit to the complex. “Mahoney Photography.”

“I like the sound of that. Actually, what I should do is go into business with Minh, right?” He was joking, but Scott reached over and gripped Rylan’s leg.

“You should,” he exclaimed. “It’s perfect.”

“Maybe.” Rylan fiddled with the AC vent, but the air wasn’t cold enough yet to make much of a difference. “Fuck me, it’s so hot.”

Scott snorted. “July in Arizona, Ry? Welcome to hell.”

“Seriously.”

The sun was setting, but the asphalt outside still shimmered with heat waves. Rylan gazed out the window as they left his shabby neighborhood and headed south into the heart of the city. Gleaming skyscrapers towered over them, covered in tinted glass that bounced sunlight off them and into brilliant arcs that stabbed into the eyeballs. Commuters crammed into the meager shade of light-rail and bus-stop shelters, the oppressive desert heat almost tangible in the air.

They soon left the business district behind, and Rylan could see old houses with straggly, unkempt yards popping up here and there. Some had signs out front boasting of a law office or tarot reader or accountant. It was a strange mix of residential and commercial, with railroad tracks crisscrossing it all. Eventually Scott pulled to the curb in front of a squat building made of sun-faded brick and parked.

Rylan got out of the car. The glitzy sports arenas and trendy bars were just a few blocks away, but here the sidewalks were cracked and uneven, with scraggly weeds sprouting up everywhere. Dusty, vacant lots were covered in more weeds, and next to the dirty brick, some people were slumped in the worthless shade, their dented shopping carts next to them and filled with bits and pieces of other people’s lives scavenged from the trash.

Scott walked right up to the building and went inside. Rylan followed, noticing the neatly printed homemade sign taped to the door: Searchlight Ministries. When he entered, Scott was talking to a woman sitting behind a sort of reception counter. An old air conditioner mounted in the window labored away, but the room still felt sticky and smelled stale.

“Sister’s working at 2nd and 3rd Streets between Jefferson and Washington today,” the lady rumbled in a heavy smoker’s voice. “And hey, if you be headed that way, take more water witchu, baby.” Turning her head, she noticed Rylan hovering near the doorway and smiled. “May I help you?”

Scott answered before Rylan could. “He’s with me, Betty.”

She gave Rylan a cheery wave, and Scott bent down to kiss her cheek, making her blush, before walking over to a corner of the room where a small red wagon was. He loaded it up with a couple of small flats of water bottles.

Rylan lifted his hand in good-bye at Betty and followed Scott back out to the street, where the heat slammed into them again like a fist, almost stealing Rylan’s breath. Without hesitation, Scott started off down the sidewalk, the wagon clattering along behind him. They walked in silence for a few blocks until they came to a depressed little park with tired-looking trees and broken-down benches. Several people sprawled about in the shade, men and women, some with shopping carts or backpacks, some without.

“Hey, it’s Scotty A!”

Suddenly they were surrounded, and Scott spent time shaking hands, clapping backs and even giving some hugs. He handed out water bottles, and after a few minutes, casually said, “This is my friend Rylan, and he’s gonna take a few pictures around here, if that’s okay. If you say no, he won’t. Right, Rylan?”

Every head swiveled in Rylan’s direction. There wasn’t hostility so much on the faces staring at him right then, but more of a wariness, the look of people who had been tossed aside by society and knew they weren’t wanted.

Mutters went around the circle, “Yeah, fine, whatever,” and most of them turned back to Scott. One woman with matted brown hair and a face streaked with dirt and sweat said to Rylan, almost flirtatiously, “You be sure to get my good side, sugar. You hear? Imma want that modeling contract from Vogue.”

She struck a cheeky pose, and Rylan lifted his Nikon and took several shots, circling around her like a fashion photographer, much like he’d done with Teena that first night. He pulled the pictures up on the camera screen to show her afterward, and although the faded evening light wasn’t the best, she still seemed delighted with them, even more so when Rylan let her hold the camera and scroll through the shots herself. She finally handed it back to him, handling the camera as carefully as if it was a newborn baby.

“Wow, I do need a bath,” she said self-consciously, patting her hair, grimacing as she combed her fingers futilely through the mats in it.