Page 31 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“Fucked up, isn’t it?” calls a male voice.

I glance up through the darkness, peering between thick shadows, seeing nothing.

Every other homeless dude I meet is either fucked in the head or a mood killer. Choosing between the two, deciding who you would rather hang out with, is like being stuck between a rock and a hard place, which is why I choose isolation every time. I enjoy my own company. Silence is better than listening to a fucked drug addict making zombie noises in your ear every two seconds. It’s either that or listening to depression. I choose to make my own way through this city, since there is not much of a community.

Loose stones scrape under someone’s shoe, piquing my attention.

I glance up, seeing a body appear through the shadows, joining me on the doorstep of the homeless shelter.

I glance at him as he sits down, much older than me, mid-fifties at a guess. His face is bland, miserable eyes staring vacantly out in front of him. The harsh lines indented into his face suggest he has endured many winters out on the streets. Everything about him is relatable, the clothes on his back ragged like mine, his cheeks hollow, but something shiny on his wrist captures my attention.

“A Rolex?” I sniff a laugh. “Who gave you a million bucks?”

“Oh, son, believe me, I have much more than that stored away in a safe.”

I glance at him sideways, frowning. “What business do you have outside of a homeless shelter?”

The man scoffs, shaking his head. “I came to see what a terrific job this government is doing for its people.” He watches me carefully, dropping his voice. “They keep letting us down, don’t they, kid? Some entitled bastard in the New York City council decided to close down this place.”

“Why would they do it?”

Amusement fills the man’s face. “Eyesore.”

“For who? The New York City council? They would never dream of paying this place a visit.”

“Ask yourself this—what impression do homeless shelters give to tourists when they walk down our streets?”

I shrug. “The city cares about its people?”

“Or that this place is ruined,” says the man, watching me closely. “More homeless shelters are in the process of being knocked down, turned into coffee shops, boutiques, like the city doesn't have enough of those already.” The man nets his hands, swinging them between his legs.

I glance at the watch, the gold plaited strap winking when it catches the distant streetlights.

“Your breath reeks,” he says.

“Dehydration and no toothpaste will do that for you.”

“Where’s your toothpaste?”

“Still in the store,” I scoff. “A guard booted me out.”

“And your water?”

I shrug my shoulders. “The Hudson might be my only hope.”

“Don’t make yourself ill by drinking dilute sewage,” says the man, turning to me. “Our own city is failing us, son. The people at the top of the food chain are phasing us out, and they’re not even doing it slowly.”

I glance at the Rolex again, wondering if this conversation will lead me to getting in another fight as another grown man sees me as meat.

I shuffle away, folding my arms over my chest, trying to hide how fucking cold I feel. I think my chattering teeth have already given me away as the man stares at me sidelong, a peculiar look written across his face.

“How old are you, boy?”

“Seventeen.”

“And the streets are more appealing to you than social services?”

“Anything is better than being treated like a number.”