Page 27 of Hooked on Trouble

“Yeah.” He kicks at the loose gravel. “We had a nasty fight the night he left. I’d dropped by to find out he’d stolen money from our mother. I lost my shit. Called him fucked up and heartless and weak. He railed at me about how I’m not his father. Took off after screaming himself raw. He thought his punk friends were his real family.” He scans the decrepit building, the trash littering the ground. “Turns out his friends were more than happy to use him as target practice.”

I nod, too aware of how welcoming a band of thugs can be. Like Josh, before I met Shay and Lily in art class, I bonded with my fellow high school delinquents. Throwing bricks through windows and pulling fire alarms were all in a day’s work. With each stupid prank, my guilt over Rose would ease momentarily. The badass brigade would pound my back. They’d praise my aim. They’d tell me I was awesome. My parents told me I’d amount to nothing.

Now I have a man like Nico wanting to care for me.

His cheekbones are sharp, intensity in his eyes as he studies these ruins, relives his worst days. No longer able to maintain this slow pace I requested, I move to slip my hand into his, but he clasps his fingers behind his neck.

The avoidance stings, hits me straight in the chest, but this is painful, what he’s sharing. “Sounds like it was the wake-up call your brother needed. And he probably wouldn’t have made it out if it weren’t for you. I bet he knows how lucky he is, no matter how the trial goes.”

He tips his head back and studies the sky. “Maybe. Josh doesn’t know my leads have dried up. He still thinks I’ve got him covered. Can’t bring myself to tell him.”

I almost hear his heart cracking, and mine squeezes in response. That’s quite a burden for one man to carry. A burden I’d like to help shoulder. The more I’ve thought about him the past four days, the more I’ve realized I’m ready to let him in. Give this thing with us a shot. Seeing him with Tim showed me who he was at his core. I told him about Rose because he truly cared, and it just felt right. I’ve also relived our kiss numerous times, how he smelled like sweat and man and beach and tasted like a fresh start.

The grudge I’ve harbored has blurred like a photograph exposed to too much light. Too much Nico. He may hurt me, intentional or not. It’s a chance I’ll have to take.

For now I need to get his mind off things beyond his control. “I visited the Indian reservation where my grandmother grew up this past winter, took a ton of shots. I used to look for her, before she died. Would check homeless shelters, hoping to show her I’d made something of myself. Since I can’t do that, I started thinking of ways to make a difference. It’s why I went there and photograph places like this. If I get enough images, I’m hoping to put a show together, bring attention to the homeless community.”

He brightens. “Sounds cool. Bet it was a great trip.”

“It was. I’ll show you pictures sometime.” The offer is out before I realize the thought even existed. More secrets shared with Nico. More vulnerability unleashed.

He considers my proposition and lowers his voice. “I’d like that.”

I’m surprised how much I’d like that, too. “They’re nothing special. No swimsuit photos,” I say, remembering the Sports Illustrated magazine in his car. “Might not be your thing.”

He cracks a smile. “Were you wearing a bikini when taking the shots?”

“Nope. It was northern Ontario. Middle of winter. I would have lost a nipple.”

His gaze drops to my chest, and the nipple in question salutes him. Abruptly, he looks away. Still distant. Still barely flirting. The evening sun dips behind the rotting concrete, and a wolf-like dog darts in front of us. I focus on its matted fur—a welcome distraction from Nico’s confusing behavior.

He places his hand on my back, like that day on Hastings—his palm low, his fingers brushing lower. “We should head in. There are a few regulars who talk to me, one in particular who hangs with Josh’s old crew. I hit him up from time to time. The ring leader, Jericho, split, but I’m hoping someone knows something.”

I played poker in high school, for kicks and for cash. I usually read a bluff like nobody’s business. Except the time I lost my favorite Clash CD to Simon Wright. He played the entire hand like he was having a stroke, touching his nose and blinking and swallowing and generally acting like a douche to throw me off. His plan worked. But Nico isn’t trying to hide his turmoil. The rigid set of his lips and deep crease of his brows are telling. He’s grasping at straws.

We walk ahead. A couple of women wearing skirts the size of headbands sneer at us, smacking their gum as they slip into the shadows. Twenty or thirty men and women lounge around their makeshift homes and stare or look away. Rose could be here. She could have ended up like our grandmother, homeless and alone. Nico has been looking for her, but hasn’t offered an update. I haven’t asked; my nerves have turned me into an overworked painting, one muddied step from falling apart.

“Fucking hell. Which one of them punks stole my blanket?” A woman gestures wildly, her gray hair a ratty mess. Her loose shirt and trousers are covered in stains.

“That’s Betty Leroux,” Nico says. “She’s been here awhile. Doesn’t drink or use. When she lost her husband, things went downhill. You okay if I talk to her?” I nod, and he strides her way, familiarity in his easy smile. “What seems to be the problem, Betty?”

He towers over her, the contrast between the two almost comical, but I don’t laugh. Before, with him next to me, I didn’t worry about my safety, didn’t feel the need to keep alert. Now my senses heighten. Gravel shifts beside me, and I whip my head around. Just an oversized rat. I tighten my grip on my camera and focus on the reason I’m here: photographic journalism.

This place is my Mecca.

The hardships of life are emphasized by the half-demolished building. Deterioration. Destitution. Luck turned on its ass. Nico and Betty are a perfect example of the haves and have-nots, the juxtaposition of their size and positions in life impossible to ignore. I lift my lens.

Click. Nico’s huge hand on Betty’s shoulder.

Click. Betty’s arms flung in the air.

Click. Nico’s black boots facing her ripped sneakers.

There’s a chance I snap one of his ass.

Once Betty calms down, his attention drifts behind her, to two guys on milk crates. He looks over at me and holds up a finger to tell me he’ll be a minute. Absorbed in my craft, I return to my living canvas. I snap an image of the mangy wolf dog licking a McDonald’s wrapper, and several frames of two women spooning in their sleeping bag, the moment almost too intimate to shoot. I glance behind me once, my neck tingling with intuition, as though someone is watching me. Probably just the wind.

Through the remnants of a concrete wall, I spot the source of the air’s smoky haze. Flames lick from the inside of a garbage bin. A teenage boy and an older woman huddle close to the fire, and the poster behind it makes the scene a photographer’s wet dream: A mouthwatering burger is pictured, the caption reading, Grilled to Perfection.