Chapter Text
Nick watched as the late summer sun dipped down behind the distant horizon, the last rays of light swallowed by the darkening sky speckled with stars—a crescent moon hanging high over the city below. He sat back against the hood of the borrowed Mercedes Benz and took one final drag of his cigarette, holding the smoke in for a bit before tipping his head back and blowing it out into the cool air. He coughed, flicking the white stick to the ground and smothering its embers with the sole of his shoe. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he rounded the car and ducked down to fix the flat cap perched atop his blonde hair.
He smirked, satisfied with his appearance, and yanked at the door’s handle. He slipped in and turned the key sitting in the ignition. The car’s engine roared to life, its headlights illuminating the secluded lookout in a warm glow. He took one last look at himself in the rear view mirror before sticking his hand into the breast pocket sewn inside his suit jacket and pulling out the folded piece of paper. Flipping it open, he read:
N. Taylor
Barbarella’s
2200
Nick sighed at the new name and tucked the note back into his breast pocket, dropping his hand to the gear stick and shifting the luxury sedan into reverse. He draped his arm over the back of the seat and looked over his shoulder, the gravel crunching beneath the car as he crept backwards, turned the wheel, and began his descent into Birmingham.
The blonde had had this gig for a few months now, and while the circumstances surrounding the position were questionable—the job listing handwritten and nearly illegible, stapled to the utility pole right outside the house he still lived in with his parents—he quite enjoyed it. It got him out of the house, occupied his sleepless nights, and appeased his mother who had relentlessly been berating him about getting a job or considering going back to school—the eighteen-year-old having dropped out two years ago. He didn’t mind the paychecks either. He often wondered, though, about how the opportunity seemed too good to be true, and how it had fallen into his of all laps.
After a quick fill-up on petrol, Nick arrived at the designated nightclub, pulling up to the curb and shifting the car into park. He skimmed the crowd lingering outside, trying to guess who his passenger would be tonight. Most of the clientele he’d catered to so far were older, exclusive members of the clubs his boss operated out of, but every now and then, he’d get a younger passenger—most often the older clients’ sons.
Tonight was one of those nights.
A young man split from a small group he’d been chatting with and started to approach the car, catching Nick’s attention in the side view mirror. The buzzing street lamps brought out the red in his auburn hair, and his long fringe hid his eyes as he strode towards his ride. He kept his head down, with one hand stuffed into the pockets of his crimson dress pants and the other holding a burning cigarette. His matching suit jacket—sleeves rolled up to his elbows—white button-down, black ribbon tie, and designer watch dangling from his wrist told you everything you needed to know about him. He couldn’t hide his arrogance even if he tried.
The blonde practically threw himself out of the car, having lost himself in the young man’s appearance before remembering what he was there for. He nearly tripped getting out, earning an amused laugh from the young man who stopped beside him.
“Well, you’re new,” he commented, taking a quick puff from his cigarette before offering it to Nick. “Just start?”
The eighteen-year-old swallowed the lump in his throat, his nervous eyes flickering between the white stick and the soft, inviting expression on his tall passenger’s face. “Uh,” he muttered, his throat suddenly dry and his hand finding its way to the back of his neck. “No, I—uh—I’ve been doing it for a few months now, actually.”
The young man smirked, bringing the cigarette back to his lips for another drag. “Are you usually this skittish, then?” he chaffed, wrapping his lips around the orange filter and breathing in—the embers burning in the ashy end.
“No, not usually.” An embarrassed and telling shade of pink blossomed in Nick’s cheeks, his feigned grin doing little to persuade his passenger otherwise. An awkward moment passed between the pair and would’ve seemingly gone on forever had it not been for the young man’s clearing of his throat and subtle nod towards the closed car door. “Right, yes,” Nick rattled off, reaching forward and grabbing the door handle. He pulled it open and ushered his passenger into the back seat.
The redhead took one last hit from the cigarette he’d been nursing and blew a steady stream of smoke to the side, dropping the short white stick to the pavement and snuffing it out with his white sneaker. He flashed the driver another charming grin before slipping inside. Nick closed the door behind him and took his seat up the front, his heightened nerves evident in his white knuckles and warm cheeks.
“You don’t mind, do you?” the young man blurted out, a new cigarette pinched between his lips and a flame dancing atop the lighter he held in his hand. The blonde caught the reflection of his anticipating gaze in the rear view mirror.
“N-No,” Nick stammered, shaking his head with his hands still tightly wrapped around the wheel. “Not at all.”
“Good.” He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply, smoke filling his chest that strained ever so slightly against his white shirt.
“So, uh,” the driver replied, his passenger relaxing into the leather seat as he exhaled slowly and rested an elbow on the padded ledge of the window. When his blue-eyed gaze met the brown-eyed one in the back, he returned his attention forward and drummed his fingers nervously against the wheel. “Where to, Mr. Taylor?”
The young man scoffed, shaking his head with a smile. “Oh, please. Mr. Taylor’s my father.” He sat forward and crossed his arms over the back of the front seat, resting his chin atop them and tipping his head to the side. Nick spotted this out of the corner of his eye, jumping slightly at the closeness they’d suddenly adopted and the hand that had been extended to him. “You can call me John.”
“John,” Nick repeated, earning an affirmative hum from the redhead. His brows furrowed in confusion, his hand diving back into his suit jacket and retrieving the piece of paper he’d been given. He unfolded it, reading again the name scribbled down.
“Is something wrong?” John inquired, pulling his hand back—the friendly gesture going unnoticed.
Nick kept quiet for a bit, gathering his puzzled thoughts before answering, “It says here I’m supposed to pick up someone whose name starts with N.”
“Is that so?” He reached forward and took the paper out of Nick’s grasp. His boldness surprised the driver, striking him silent. “Well I’ll be damned. It does,” he confirmed, handing the slip back. “But that’s me, all right, and so long as you’re Nick, we should be good.” He extracted his own note and offered it to the driver. “Because that’s the name I have on mine.”
The blonde reluctantly accepted the piece of paper, opening it to reveal in the same handwriting his assignment had been penned in:
Nick
DRN 580P
2200
“Well then,” he conceded, returning the assignment to John with reddening cheeks.
“John’s my middle name, Nick,” the redhead explained, the beaming smile that broke out across the passenger’s face unveiling the amusement he derived from their banter. “They’ve just got me down under my first name.”
Nick nodded in understanding, but John could tell the blonde was still perturbed by the discrepancy, facing forward and lifting his cap to run a nervous hand through his hair. With a fading smile, John cleared his throat and sat back. “Anyways, uh, to answer your question,” he muttered, bringing his cigarette to his lips, “University of Birmingham.”
The blonde looked back at him, having missed the first half of his remark. “What?”
“University of Birmingham,” he repeated, a casual, smoky sigh slipping past his pursed lips. “You asked me where to, and that’s where we’re going.”
“Right. You got it.”
“Do you?” the redhead teased, unable to suppress the smirk that tugged at the corner of his mouth.
He didn’t get it—why his client was taking him to a school instead of the usual hotel or bordello—but he knew better than to question it. That wasn’t what he was there for. So, with a small smile himself, Nick pulled away from the curb and drove off.
Though the university was less than ten minutes down the street—sometimes as little as five if you were lucky enough—it took almost three times that to arrive at their destination. An accident had caused a buildup in traffic, the gridlock essentially keeping everyone that unfortunately came its way at a dead stop. Brake lights flooded the cab’s interior in a deep crimson glow, and the cacophony of car horns bled right through its half-lowered windows.
“So, Nick, tell me,” John blurted out from the back seat, the nicotine in his system preventing him from growing antsy. “What’s your story?”
“That’s a bit of a loaded question, isn’t it?” he replied flatly, turning his head over his shoulder.
“Well, we’ve got the time, haven’t we?”
An incredulous but interested expression washed over the driver’s face.
In the few months he’d be doing this, he’d never had a passenger so insistent on maintaining a conversation with him. Most clients either preferred the silence or would request the radio to be turned on, trying to forget that the blonde was even there. Other times, they’d put him on trial, distrusting of someone so young and without any ties to their associates.
Nevertheless, Nick had security in his job. His boss—a man who went only by the name of Durand and never allowed anyone to contact him; he would contact you if the need were to arise—had taken an “unexplainable liking” to him, and whenever a client implored the business man to can the falsely perceived incompetent blonde, Durand would apologize, promise he’d speak with the boy, and remind Nick of the three rules he had for his drivers: be on time, do what they say, and keep to yourself otherwise.
That’s why John’s conviviality took the driver by surprise. Perhaps it was because he was younger that Nick’s age didn’t seem to bother him, and with his outgoing personality, it seemed unlikely that John would divert his attention out the window or down to his lap during the ride. The unfamiliar dynamic was exciting and frustrating for Nick all at the same time.
“Well, what do you want to know?” he asked.
John hummed, crossing his arms and taking a thoughtful drag from his cigarette. He held the smoke in for what felt like an eternity to the blonde before blowing it out the side, his lips curling into a beguiling grin. “Are you single?”
“Are you?” Nick shot back with a slight, instinctive chuckle.
“Ah!” the redhead exclaimed, tossing an accusatory index finger at the blonde. “Don’t get cheeky on me, now, Nick. I asked you first.”
At that moment, the driver behind them laid on their horn, stealing Nick’s attention. He then looked back, noticing a car’s length had opened up in front of them and some movement had returned to the congested street. He quickly resituated himself and moved the car forward, creeping along with everyone else as the backup cleared—the main culprit revealing itself to be the rubberneckers instead of the mild fender-bender itself.
With the university now in sight, John’s lips twitched in disappointment at the thought that his question might go unanswered. However, just as they turned into the drive that led to the center of the campus, Nick muttered a simple, “Yes.”
John smiled. “Me too.”
The driver stole a quick glance at his passenger through the rear view mirror before rolling his eyes and returning his gaze to the road ahead. “So,” he said, “where exactly are we going now that we’re here?”
“The dorms.” John took another quick drag before explaining, “I’m picking up a friend.”
“Oh?”
This wasn’t the first time Nick had been asked to stop for additional passengers, but it was the first time he’d done so at a school. Before, he’d only been directed to pull over at random street corners, where their “friends” stood waiting beneath the street lamp, or to sit at the mouth of a back alley until their “friends” emerged from the shadows.
“Yeah, he’s right up there,” the redhead disclosed, sitting forward and pointing out the windshield at the figure splayed across the stone retaining wall separating the cracked and uneven pavement from the school’s meticulously upkept lawn—an arm and leg dangling over the short wall’s edge. At his feet was a ravaged six-pack of beer, the empty bottles littered about the lawn behind him. The sixth—containing a few last drops—was wrapped loosely in his hand, hanging limply from his dropped arm. He had his other hand pressed to his forehead, as if nursing a headache. Similar to John, he wore a suit, except his was black from head to toe—save the white undershirt—and his tie, thrown over his shoulder, was more traditional.
The cab rolled to a stop, the purr of its idling engine prying one of the friend’s closed eyes open.
“I thought you got those for both of us, Simon,” John called out to him, having rolled the window down completely and resting an elbow on the ledge, his head nodding at the empty packaging.
“It was,” he snapped, sitting up and swinging his other leg over the edge—the beer bottle slipping from his grasp and tipping over in the grass. With both feet planted on the ground, he stood, adjusting his suit jacket and straightening his tie before approaching the back passenger door that John had pushed open for him. “But then you took forever getting here, and friends who are late don’t get beer.”
“Just shut up and get in, you prick,” John chuckled, sliding across the seat to make room for his friend.
Simon scoffed and slipped inside the vehicle, immediately taking notice of Nick as he pulled the door shut. A passing hint of judgment washed over his face as he settled in and remarked, “New guy?”
“No, he’s been at it for a few months now, actually,” John corrected him, meeting his driver’s gaze in the rear view with a smirk.
“Well, I’ve never seen him.”
“Of course you’ve never seen him. It’s our first ride with him.”
“Ooh,” he cooed, extending his sarcasm into his raised hands and wiggling fingers. “How exciting.” Simon dropped his hands to his lap and leaned towards the center of the car, his shoulder brushing up against John’s as he used the same mirror John maintained Nick’s gaze in to fix his disheveled brown locks.
“So you’ve already asked him to spend the night with us, then?” the brunette wondered aloud, the casual nature of his question doing little to prevent the blonde from looking back with furrowed brows.
“No,” John whispered harshly, jabbing a sharp elbow into Simon’s side. His friend gasped, dropping his jaw in disbelief while his eyes doubled in size. John shook his head dismissively and turned his attention to Nick, saying, “I’m terribly sorry about him. He’s absolutely no manners and doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about.” He gritted his teeth at the last half of his sentence, glaring at Simon.
“You’ve no bloody fucking manners,” the brunette bit back, rubbing his dully aching flank with a frown. “And I do too know what the hell I’m talking about. We spoke about it on the phone, remember? And you said—”
“—nothing, Simon,” the redhead cut him off, his words almost as sharp as the invisible daggers shooting out of his eyes. “I said nothing.”
“So,” Nick interjected, clearing his throat and breaking the rising tension in the car. “Where did you say we’re going next?”
“He didn’t—"
“Hollywood.”
The two men spoke at the same time, engaging in a sudden, intense, narrow-eyed stare down. Though no winner was likely to come out of this wordless competition, John seemed to have surrendered by shifting his gaze to Nick and explaining with a strained grin, “We’re going back to my place in Hollywood. Why don’t you give me your slip of paper, and I’ll write down the address? It’s really not that hard to get to from here.”
“Sure,” the blonde drawled, extracting the note and offering it to the redhead. John expectantly held his free hand out to Simon who, without having to be told, pulled a pen from the inside of his suit coat and begrudgingly placed it in his friend’s hand.
John scribbled down the address on the back of the creased piece of paper and handed it back to the driver. Before the trade off, though, the redhead sat forward and whispered in a tone much gentler than the one he’d previously invoked, “I did mean it when I said he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
Nick only flashed him a small, accepting grin before facing forward and shifting the car into drive. As they drove off, John fell back beside Simon with a heavy sigh.
“Are we really not doing—” the brunette began to ask, his softly spoken inquiry silenced instantly by the rapid flick of his friend’s eyes in his direction.
“Obviously not,” he sneered under his breath.
“So, you lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie to you.”
Simon clicked his tongue. “Well, John, I’m not a fucking mind reader. You can’t tell me you’re ready and expect me to know you’re not. Even if I was, I’d never know what it is you actually want because you change your mind about this every damn day.” He crossed his arms and looked angrily to his left, away from John.
The frustrated and embarrassed redhead groaned, covering his face with his hands and sinking further down the seat.